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You don’t knock to be disruptive. You knock because silence makes you nervous. “Hi,” you say lightly, leaning into the doorway like you don’t already know he’s there. Price doesn’t look up from the paperwork spread across his desk. He hums, acknowledging. “Got something to say, say it. I haven’t got all day.” You grin to yourself, unfazed. “Just checking you’re there, Captain. Gotta get your attention somehow.”
That does it. He lifts his head slowly, blue eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat. “You’ve got my attention,” he says. “Now what is it? Don’t waste my time.”
You step further in, hands clasped behind your back, tone deliberately casual. “Come on now, don’t be so grim. We’re back at base, you can relax a bit.” Your gaze flicks over him despite yourself. The rigid set of his shoulders. The way tension seems to live permanently in his spine. “If you ever need a massage, Cap,” you add, teasing, “come find me.”
For a moment, nothing happens. Then Price exhales, a low, gravelly sound that vibrates in his chest as he turns fully to face you. His eyes drag over you, slow and assessing, lingering a beat longer than strictly professional. He pulls the cigar from his mouth and taps the ash into a tray.
“A massage?” he repeats, dry amusement threading through the skepticism. “Think you’ve got the hands for it?” He steps closer. One step. Measured. Heavy boots creaking against the floor. The room smells of smoke and sweat and long hours. He stops just short of you, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him. He lifts a hand, but not to touch you. Instead, he rolls his own shoulder, testing it, jaw tightening slightly. “Been carryin’ this gear, and this responsibility, for twenty-odd years,” he murmurs. “Don’t know a massage that can fix that.” Then he leans in, just enough that his voice drops, intimate despite itself. “But you’re right,” he says. “I’m tense.”
His gaze locks onto yours. Unflinching. Heavy with something that makes your breath catch. “Finish up whatever you’re doin’,” he orders quietly. “Then come see me again.” He straightens, already turning away, the decision made and sealed. “You wanted my attention?” he adds over his shoulder. “You’re about to get all of it.”
The dismissal is absolute. “Don’t be late.” You don’t move until he’s gone. Your body only unlocks once the door clicks shut, a shiver running through you as understanding catches up to bravado. You hadn’t expected him to take you up on it. Not really. And just a while later, walking toward his quarters, you’re acutely aware of the fact that you may have just stepped willingly into the lion’s den.
The door to Price’s quarters is ajar. You push it open and step inside, finding him there. He's shed his tac-vest, but is still in his combat trousers and a tight-fitting black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders. His back is to you. He's standing by the small, metal desk, slowly cleaning the sidearm, each movement precise and economical. The only light is a single, bare bulb overhead, casting long shadows. He doesn't turn around. He doesn't have to.
"Shut it," he commands, his voice flat, not even looking up from his work. The click of the door latch is the only reply he needs. He finishes wiping down the barrel, the soft scrape of the cloth the only sound for a moment. Then, he sets the weapon down with a quiet, final clatter. He turns, finally facing you, his blue eyes pinning you in place from across the room. He crosses his arms over his chest, the fabric of his shirt straining.
"You offered," he states, not a question. It's a fact. "You've been lookin' at me all day, thinkin' I didn't notice. Thinkin' I wouldn't take you up on it." He pushes off the desk and starts walking towards you, his boots heavy on the concrete floor. He stops just short of you, invading your space, forcing you to crane your neck to look up at him. The smell of gun oil, cigar smoke, and pure, unfiltered male presence is overwhelming.
"Well, I'm takin' you up on it. So get to it. Prove you're not all talk." His gaze drops from your eyes to your hands, then back up. "Let's see what those fingers can do."
You feel dwarfed by his presence, and without thinking, you signal him to sit back on his chair. “Can I sit on the desk? It would be easier to reach your shoulders from there if you turn around.”
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a rough, gravelly sound that's more mockery than amusement. He looks down at you, his eyes unreadable in the dim light. You're asking for permission. Asking for concessions. "You're a bold one, aren't you?" He takes another step, closing the last bit of space between you until you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. His gaze is hard, evaluating. "Giving the Captain orders now?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He turns on his heel and walks back to the desk chair, sinking into it with a heavy sigh. The metal groans under his weight. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, presenting the broad expanse of his back to you. The muscles in his shoulders are knots of tension, visible even through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"The desk," he grunts, his voice muffled slightly. "Go on. Just don't break anything. My gear's on it."
You move, the light rustle of your clothes, the faint scuff of your boots. There's a soft thud as you settle onto the edge of the metal desk, right beside his disassembled pistol. He can feel the shift in the air behind him, the warmth of your body. He doesn't move. He waits. The silence stretches, thick with expectation.
"Well?" he growls, his patience wearing thin. "Get on with it. Don't have all night."
You realize just how cold your hands are when you touch his back, feeling his warm body beneath your fingertips. At first, you just run your slim fingers across the expanse of his shoulders, you couldn’t help yourself.
He flinches, not from pain, but from the sheer shock of your icy fingers against his overheated skin. A sharp hiss escapes his teeth. "Christ, your hands are like ice," he mutters, his voice a low growl. But he doesn't pull away. He stays put, his body tensing for a moment before forcing itself to relax under your touch. Your slim fingers trace the lines of his shoulders, a light, almost delicate exploration. It's a stark contrast to the usual world of blunt force and heavy gear. He can feel the map of old scars and fresh bruises under your fingertips. For a moment, he lets you. He lets you explore. It's... different. But different isn't what he asked for.
"Stop teasin'," he commands, his voice sharp, cutting through the quiet. "You offered a massage. So fucking massage. Put some bloody weight into it. I'm not made of glass." His head is bowed, but his voice is a whip crack in the small room. He's giving you an order. He expects it to be followed. "Use your palms. Your thumbs. Dig in. I want to feel it."
He shifts slightly, widening his stance in the chair, bracing himself. "Show me you've got more in you than a gentle touch. Now."
You snap out of it and nod to yourself. “Uh yes, sorry Captain.” You get a hold of his broad shoulders as good as you can even though your hands look dwarfed compared to his back. You try to put pressure on, but you get the feeling you are not doing it as hard as he wants it. But you persist, eager to not just be all bark but no bite.
A low, frustrated groan rumbles deep in his chest. He can feel the effort, but it’s not enough. It’s like a fly trying to move a truck. “That it?” he grunts, his voice laced with condescension.
Without warning, he reaches back, his large hand clamping over one of yours on his shoulder. His grip is iron, engulfing your fingers completely. He holds it there for a second, a clear demonstration of the power difference, before he guides your other hand to the same spot. “Right here,” he commands, his voice dropping to a low, intense growl. “Feel that? That’s a knot the size of a bloody golf ball. Been there since Kandahar.” He presses your hand harder into the muscle, forcing you to feel the tension coiled there. “Now, you’re going to put your weight into it. I want you to lean over me. Use your body. I want you to press so hard I see stars.”
He releases your hand, letting you take over. He braces his forearms on his knees again, his entire body a rigid platform for you to work on. The air is thick with the smell of his sweat and the faint, lingering scent of cigar smoke. “Again,” he orders. “Don’t just pat at me like you’re afraid you’ll break me. You wanted this attention. Now earn it. Make it hurt so good. Or get the hell out and don’t waste my time again.”
You flinch, a little scared to disappoint, and get to work. You press as hard as you can on the tensed spot, doing your best to ease it out slowly. Looking at the captain like this, grunting and moaning lowly, back arched up for you to work at, made you blush ever so slightly, and you felt a warm heat in your lower stomach starting to form.
A deep, guttural groan tears itself from his throat as you finally put some bloody muscle into it. The pain is sharp, exquisite, exactly what he needed. His head bows lower, his chin nearly touching his chest as his back arches under the pressure, pushing the knotted muscle harder into your hands. The fabric of his shirt strains, the seams threatening to pop. "There it is..." he grunts, the words rough and breathy. "That's the spot. Don't you bloody stop."
His knuckles are white where he grips his own knees. Every time you dig in, a shudder runs through his entire frame. It's not just pain; it's a release. But he's not just a passive recipient. He's always watching. Always aware. He feels the shift in the air behind you. The way your breathing hitches. He can smell the subtle change in your scent as that warmth blooms in your core. He knows exactly what's happening to you. A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face, hidden from your view.
He lets out another low moan, this one a little louder, a little more performative. He rolls his shoulder, deliberately pressing the muscle back into your palm. "Harder," he commands, his voice a thick, husky rumble. "Use your thumbs. Work that knot out of me." He pauses, letting the silence hang for a beat before he drops the real bomb. "Enjoying yourself, are you?" he asks, his tone laced with dark amusement. "Can feel you getting all hot and bothered back there. This little massage... it's doing more for you than it is for me, isn't it?"
He doesn't give you a chance to answer. "Good. Keep going. Let's see how worked up I can get you."
You stop in your movements. ‘How did he know?’ you think to yourself, surprised at his perception, his observation. You slowly retreat your hands to yourself, completely embarrassed. “I- I apologise sir! It wasn’t my intention to act this way, I don’t know what came over me.”
The moment your hands leave his back, the cold air rushes in to replace their warmth. He feels the loss instantly, an annoyance that prickles at his nerves. He doesn't move for a long moment, letting the silence in the room stretch out, letting your apology hang in the air, pathetic and useless. Slowly, he pushes himself up straight in the chair. The metal groans in protest. He turns his head just enough to pin you with one eye, his gaze like a shard of ice.
"Apologise?" he repeats, his voice dangerously low. "You come in here, offer me a service, get me halfway to relaxed, and then you pull away because you got a little flustered?" He lets out a short, sharp, humourless laugh. "Did you think this was about you? Did you think this was a bloody spa day?"
He turns the rest of the way in the chair, his whole body now facing you. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his broad frame blocking out the dim light. He's a shadow looming over you. "I know because I'm a Captain," he states, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I know because my life depends on noticing the small details. The way a soldier's breathing changes before they break. The way their knuckles go white on their rifle. The way your heart rate picked up. The way your scent changed." He takes a slow, deliberate breath through his nose, as if sampling the air. "It's my job to know. To anticipate."
His eyes drop from your face, down your body, and back up, a slow, possessive sweep. "So you got a little turned on. So what? It's a natural reaction." His voice softens, but it's the deceptive calm before the storm. "It means you're alive. It means you're responding to me. There's nothing to apologise for."
He holds out his hand, palm up. It's a command, not an invitation. "Now. Put your hands back where they were. This time, you're not going to stop. You're not going to get embarrassed. You're going to finish what you started. And you," he pauses, letting the weight of his next words sink in, "are going to learn to control yourself, not let yourself control you." His eyes lock onto yours, intense and unwavering. "Understood?"
Your heart was racing, his attitude being the most attractive thing in the world, the only thing in the world right now. And before you knew it you had already said it, “If you feel stressed, sir, please allow me to help you in another way…”
The words hang in the air, fragile and audacious. For a moment, the only sound is the low hum of the single lightbulb overhead. He doesn't move. He doesn't even breathe. He just watches you, his blue eyes like chips of ice, dissecting your expression, your posture, the frantic pulse beating in your neck. Then, a slow smile spreads across his face. It's not a kind smile. It's the smile of a predator that's just cornered its prey. It's all teeth and dark promise.
"Another way," he repeats, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He pushes himself up from the chair, his full, imposing height towering over you. The metal chair scrapes loudly against the concrete floor. "You've got balls, I'll give you that. Offerin' your Captain... alternative stress relief."
He takes a single step forward, crowding you against the desk. He places one hand on the cold metal surface right beside your thigh, boxing you in. His other hand comes up, his calloused fingers wrapping gently but firmly around your throat. His thumb rests against your pulse point, feeling it hammer against his skin. He doesn't squeeze. Not yet. It's a gesture of absolute ownership.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that's far more intimidating than a shout. "You think this is a game? You think you can just offer me a piece of yourself and walk away unchanged?" His thumb strokes your skin, a deceptively tender gesture. "I've been under fire for weeks. I've got the lives of my men, my family, weighing on me every second of every day. The kind of stress I carry... it's not relieved with a gentle touch. It's not relieved with a quick shag in the dark."
He leans in closer, his face just inches from yours. The scent of cigar smoke and sweat is a palpable thing between us. "It's taken. It's conquered. It's fucked out of you until you can't remember your own name, let alone the mission. It's primal. It's dirty." His grip on your throat tightens, just enough to make your breathing hitch, to remind you who's in charge. "You offered," he states, his eyes burning into yours. "You walked into the lion's den, and now you're surprised the bloody lion is hungry."
He releases your throat, but only to grab your wrist, pulling you away from the desk. He turns you both, pushing you back against the cold concrete wall. His body presses into yours, a solid, immovable wall of muscle and intent. He pins your hands above your head with one of his, his grip like a manacle.
"Last chance, soldier," he growls, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his beard rough against your skin. "Say the word and you can walk out that door. We'll forget this ever happened." He pauses, letting the fear and anticipation wash over you. Then he bites down, hard, on the junction of your neck and shoulder. It's not a love bite; it's a claiming. A mark. "But if you stay..." He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his own pupils blown wide with lust. "You're mine. To do with as I please. You'll take what I give you, and you'll thank me for it. Is that what you want? Is this the 'other way' you had in mind?"
You feel your heart in your throat and you can't help but melt in the moment, the only thing holding you together being the firm grip your captain has on you. You open your mouth to try and speak but nothing comes out, all your body can muster being an eager nod.
A low, satisfied chuckle vibrates deep in his chest, a sound of pure, predatory triumph. The desperate, silent nod is all the answer he needs. It's an acceptance. A surrender.
"Good," he growls, the word a raw declaration of ownership. "That's what I like to see. Eager to please."
He releases your hands, but only to grab you by the waist and hoist you up. Your feet leave the floor with a gasp as he manhandles you, his strength effortless. He carries you the two short steps to his cot, a stark, military-issue frame with a thin mattress. He doesn't lay you down gently. He drops you onto it, the springs groaning in protest. The impact knocks the wind out of you. Before you can even process the movement, he's on you. He follows you down, covering your body with his own, his weight pinning you to the thin mattress. He's not holding himself up; he's letting you feel every solid, heavy pound of him. His knees force your legs apart, establishing his territory. His forearms bracket your head, caging you in.
He looks down at you, his eyes dark and wild in the dim light. His beard is close enough to tickle your cheek. The smell of him is everywhere, in your lungs, on your skin. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "All that bravado, and now you're trembling underneath me." His hips grind down into yours, a slow, deliberate, crushing pressure that lets you feel the hard, thick length of his cock straining against his combats. It's a promise of what's to come, a demonstration of the raw, primal need you've unleashed.
He doesn't wait. He doesn't tease. He lowers his head and claims your mouth. It's not a kiss. It's an invasion. His lips are demanding, forceful, and when his tongue pushes past your teeth, it's to conquer, to dominate. He tastes you, consumes you, stealing the air from your lungs. It's a filthy, breathless kiss, all teeth and tongue and absolute control. When he finally pulls back, you're gasping for air. A thin string of saliva connects you for a moment before he breaks it. He can see the dazed, lust-fogged look in your eyes.
"Get these clothes off," he commands, his voice thick with authority. He pushes himself up slightly, giving you just enough room to move, his eyes never leaving yours, watching your every shaky movement. "Don't make me tell you again."
Your body moves on its own, as if his command is bound by nature and you have to obey. You unbutton your vest and drop it to the floor, your own combats follow and you're left in your sports bra and panties, feeling so exposed in front of the fully dressed man. You try to cover up your chest with your arms and hands.
The moment your arms move to cover yourself, a low growl rumbles in his chest. It's a sound of pure, primal disapproval. He's still fully dressed, a looming, clothed figure of authority over your bare, vulnerable form. The contrast is exactly what he wanted.
"Ah, ah, ah," he tsk, shaking his head slowly. He reaches down, his large hands wrapping around your wrists. His grip is unyielding as he pulls your arms away, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your head. "None of that. You don't get to hide from me. Not in here. Not now."
He leans down, his face inches from yours, his body a heavy, suffocating blanket. "You offered," he reminds you, his voice a low, dangerous murmur against your lips. "You walked in here and offered yourself up. Did you think I'd let you get shy? Did you think I'd be gentle?"
His eyes roam over you, a slow, possessive inventory. They linger on the plain fabric of your sports bra, on the curve of your hips, on the way your chest rises and falls with your panicked, excited breaths. "No. You're not exposed. You're on display. For me. And you are fucking magnificent."
He releases one of your wrists, but only to bring his hand down to your chest. His calloused palm flattens against your sternum, right over your heart. He can feel it hammering against his skin, a frantic drumbeat of fear and arousal. "This is mine now," he states, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. His thumb hooks under the edge of your sports bra, tugging it down just enough to expose the swell of your breast. He doesn't touch you properly yet. He just lets the air cool your skin, his eyes feasting on the sight. "Every inch. Every shiver. Every gasp. It belongs to your Captain."
He shifts his weight, pressing his clothed erection harder against your core, a reminder of the raw, desperate need you've stoked in him. "Last chance to change your mind," he lies, knowing full well there's no going back. "Once I start, I won't stop until I'm satisfied. And I have a lot of stress to work off."
He doesn't wait for an answer. He lowers his head, his beard scraping against your tender skin as he bites down again, this time on the soft flesh of your other shoulder, leaving a matching purple mark. A brand. Then he moves, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your chest, his tongue tasting the salt of your sweat. His free hand hooks a finger into the waistband of your panties, pulling it taut before letting it snap back against your skin with a sharp sting.
"These," he grunts against your skin, "are next."
You whimper, and for the first time your own hands move. You look Price deep in the eyes and slowly your hand makes its way to the bulge in his pants. “I wanna taste it, sir.”
Your whimper is music to his ears. A beautiful, fragile sound in this hard, brutal world. But your words... your bold, reckless words... they make him stop dead. He pulls back slightly, looking down at you, his expression one of raw, unadulterated shock quickly morphing into dark, predatory approval. His breath hitches as your slim hand, so small and tentative, presses against the rigid length straining against his trousers.
"Christ alive," he breathes, the words a rough, reverent whisper. "You really are a greedy little thing, aren't you?" He doesn't move your hand. He lets you explore the shape of him through the thick fabric, let you feel the heat, the sheer, undeniable size of what you're asking for. His hips jerk involuntarily, pushing himself harder into your palm.
"You wanna taste it?" he repeats, his voice a low, dangerous purr. He reaches down, his larger hand covering yours, pressing it more firmly against his cock. "You think you've earned that? Think you can handle what I'm gonna give you?" He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his beard a rough, exciting scrape against your cheek. "I'll warn you now, love. It's not a bloody sweet treat. And when I let you have it, you're going to take it all. Every. Last. Inch."
He pulls back, his eyes burning into yours. He releases your hand and moves to the button of his combat trousers. The sound of the metal pop echoing in the quiet room is obscene. He slowly drags the zipper down, the hiss of the teeth a promise of what's to come. He reaches inside, freeing himself. His cock springs out, thick, heavy, and already leaking with need. It's flushed a dark, angry colour, the veins standing out starkly against the skin. He wraps his own hand around the base, giving it a slow, deliberate squeeze.
"There it is," he grunts, his voice thick with lust. "The source of all my fucking stress. And you think you can cure it." He shuffles up the cot, his knees bracketing your chest. He's not giving you a choice. He's presenting himself to you. He guides the slick, swollen head of his cock to your lips, smearing his pre-come over them like a brand.
"Open up," he commands, his voice rough with impatience and desire. "Let's see if that mouth is as good at taking orders as it is at giving them. Show me what you're made of, love."
You are caged underneath the captain’s frame, nowhere to run, no way to escape, and you loved it. Your head went foggy and you instinctively run your tongue along the base, open-mouthed and messy. You suckle the tip and let it go with a pop, your eyes went up to look at Price’s face.
A sharp, ragged hiss of air escapes his teeth the moment your tongue makes contact. The sight of you, so willingly messy, so instinctually eager, is a punch to the gut. It's better than he imagined. Filthier.
"Fuck..." he breathes, the word torn from his chest. He watches, utterly mesmerised, as you suckle on the tip, your cheeks hollowing. The obscene 'pop' as you release him echoes in the room, a sound of pure, unadulterated submission. Then you look up at him. And that's what breaks him. Seeing your eyes, wide and hazy with lust, looking up at him from between his legs while your mouth glistens with his pre-come... it's the most goddamn beautiful thing he's ever seen.
His control, already threadbare, snaps completely. "That's it," he growls, his voice a thick, possessive rumble. "That's the fucking look." His hand, which has been resting on his thigh, moves to the back of your head. His fingers tangle in your hair, his grip firm, undeniable. He's not forcing you yet, just holding you in place, establishing his ownership. "You look like you were made for this," he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours. "Made to be a submissive little whore for me. To take what I give you."
He can't wait any longer. The teasing is over. He tightens his grip in your hair and thrusts his hips forward, pushing his cock past your lips and into the wet, welcoming heat of your mouth. He doesn't go slow. He doesn't give you time to adjust. He feeds you half his length in one smooth, powerful stroke, watching your eyes widen as he fills you completely.
"Christ, that's a good girl," he grunts, his head falling back for a second as the sheer pleasure of it washes over him. Your mouth is perfect. Hot, tight, and willing. He looks back down at you, his gaze intense and commanding. "Breathe through your nose. Relax your throat. You're going to take more."
He begins to move, setting a slow, deep, punishing rhythm. Each thrust pushes a little deeper, testing your limits, claiming your mouth as his own. He watches your lips stretch around him, watch a single tear of exertion leak from the corner of your eye. "Look at me," he commands, his voice rough. "Don't you dare look away. I want to see those eyes while I fuck your face. I want to watch you swallow every drop of me."
You try your best to listen and look at him, your eyes flutter, your whole body too focused on accommodating the length and width of the captain's cock to look at anything. Your arms wrap around his toned thighs still covered by the combats, just open at the top to free his length, and you nestle into the position.
The feeling of your arms wrapping around his thighs, clinging to him, nestling into the position as if it's the only place you're meant to be, it's a primal confirmation. It's the surrender he was demanding, and you're giving it to him without a single word. His hips stutter for a second, a wave of raw, possessive pleasure washing over him so intensely it almost buckles his knees. Your submission is the most goddamn intoxicating thing he's ever felt.
"Christ... that's it," he groans, his voice thick and ragged. "Hold on. Just like that." His grip in your hair tightens, not to punish, but to ground himself, to anchor himself to the unbelievable pleasure you're giving him. He starts to move again, but the rhythm changes. It's no longer just a punishing fuck. It's deeper. More purposeful. He's chasing his release, and he's using your mouth to get there. Each thrust pushes a little deeper, testing the limits of your throat. He watches your face, the flush on your cheeks, the way your eyelids flutter as you struggle to accommodate him. A strand of saliva escapes the corner of your mouth, dripping down your cheek. It's messy. It's filthy. It's perfect.
"Look at the state of you," he grunts, a dark, proud amusement in his voice. "Taking me so well. Such a good fucking girl for your Captain." His pace quickens, the wet, obscene sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your mouth filling the small room, mingling with his ragged breaths and your muffled whimpers. The cot is creaking in time with his thrusts, a frantic, desperate rhythm. He can feel it building, the tight, hot coil of pleasure low in his gut. He's getting close.
"Tap my thigh if you can't breathe," he manages to grunt out, a sliver of responsibility cutting through the fog of lust. But he hopes you don't. He hopes you take everything he has to give. He pulls back slightly, just enough to watch your swollen, slick lips stretch around his glistening shaft before he pushes back in, deeper this time, burying himself to the hilt. He holds you there for a second, your nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base, your throat convulsing around him.
"Fuck... fuck..." he chants, his voice a raw, broken sound. "That's it. Take it. All of it." He pulls back, giving you a gasping breath of air before plunging back in. The sight of you, tear-streaked and blissed out, clinging to him for dear life as he uses your mouth for his pleasure, is the final straw. The coil snaps.
With a loud, guttural roar that seems to be torn from the very depths of his soul, he buries himself one last time. His whole body goes rigid, his thighs clamping around your head. He comes hard, pouring himself down your throat in thick, hot pulses. It's a violent, possessive release, weeks of tension and stress emptied into you. He doesn't pull out. He stays buried deep, his cock twitching as he empties himself completely.
For a long moment, the only sound is his harsh, panting breaths. He's slumped over you, his weight heavy, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm. Slowly, he regains his senses and pulls back, his softening cock sliding from your lips with a final, wet pop. He looks down at you, at the mess he's made of you, your face flushed and tear-streaked, your lips swollen and glistening, a drop of his come on your chin. It's the most beautiful fucking sight he's ever seen.
Your chest spasms slightly as you gulp down his load. It's salty, thick, and the taste of it makes your own core pulse with a residual aftershock. You drag in a heavy, gasping breath, the air burning in your lungs. You look up at the captain, feeling utterly broken, and your lips find his thumb, puckering around the calloused fingertip in a soft, wet kiss.
A deep, gratified hum rumbles in his chest as he watches you swallow every last drop of him like it's your goddamn salvation. The feeling of your lips around his thumb, so soft, so pliant, makes his cock twitch against his thigh despite the recent release. "Fuck," he murmurs, his voice rough with satisfaction. He slides his thumb deeper into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. "Look at you. Ruined. Perfect." His free hand tangles in your hair again, tilting your head back to expose the mess he's made of you. "Still hungry for more, love? Or have I broken you already?"
Your eyes are dilated as you look at the man in front of you. You prop yourself up on your elbows, your hands reaching for his shirt. You tug at the fabric. “Take it off, I wanna see you, John…” You look away as you say his name, not sure how he’ll react to a junior addressing their superior captain on a first-name basis.
His grin turns feral the moment his name leaves your lips, John, rough and breathless like a prayer. "Oh, you've got bloody nerve," he growls, but his hands are already tearing at his shirt buttons, popping them free with sharp, impatient tugs. The fabric parts to reveal scarred muscle beneath, a map of old battles and bad decisions. His chest heaves as he leans down, pressing you back into the cot with his weight, his bare skin scorching against yours. "There. Happy now, little mouse?" His beard scrapes your cheek as he nips at your earlobe. "Or do you need to see more?"
The previous blush returns to your cheeks at the nickname. Slowly, you raise a hand to trace your fingers along his battle scars, ever so lightly. They are proof of his long survival on the battlefield, an old bull in a world where men die young. You raise your head and give him a kiss, oh so lightly, on the cheek.
The kiss stops him dead. Not because it's unwanted, Christ knows he'd take anything you offered, but because of how soft it is. How gentle. His breath catches for half a second before he recovers, twisting his head to capture your lips with his in a rough, consuming kiss. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise as he drags you flush against him. "Don't you dare," he growls against your mouth, "be gentle with me, love. I'm not some fucking porcelain doll." He bites your lower lip sharply before pulling back, his chest heaving. "Not after what I've done to you."
You couldn't help it though; even through this primal encounter, your heart churned. “I apologise, Captain, it’s just…” you paused, looking around the simple room as if it would give you answers. “You seemed like you needed it.” Behind that dominant, tough face, you were almost sure he needed the same gentle care as everyone else, once in a while.
The silence stretches between you like a tripwire, taut and dangerous. His grip on your hips tightens reflexively, fingers digging into your soft flesh as your words hang in the air. For a second, he considers denying it, barking some crude joke about battlefield medicine being the only tenderness he needs. But the way you're looking at him, with those wide eyes that see too much... Christ. His jaw works silently before he finally exhales through his nose, the scent of gun oil and sex still thick in the air. "Twenty-three years in service," he murmurs unexpectedly, his rough voice quieter than usual, "and not one bastard's dared say that to my face." There's no anger in it. Just a strange, grudging respect. His thumb brushes absently over a fresh bruise forming on your hip, the one he just gave you, before he leans down to capture your mouth again, this time slower, deeper, almost... apologetic. Almost.
You understand him. It’s not necessarily taboo to want reassurance and care in the military, but it wasn’t exactly handed out either. You feel honoured to be the one to make him open up like that, and you allow yourself to embrace him as he kisses you. Savouring the moment, in between kisses, you whimper, “So when are you gonna fuck all that remaining stress into me, sir?”
The sudden shift from tenderness to filthy demand makes him bark out a sharp, startled laugh against your lips. His hands slide down to grip the back of your thighs, hauling you up against him with a rough jerk that makes the cot's springs protest violently. "Bloody hell, you're relentless," he growls, but there's no heat in it, just raw, hungry approval. His teeth graze your collarbone as he flips you without warning, pinning you beneath his bulk with one hand braced by your head, the other already tearing at your remaining clothes. "Now," he rasps, the word more threat than promise. "Right fucking now." The sound of fabric ripping fills the room as he makes quick work of barriers, his calloused palm dragging up your inner thigh with deliberate, bruising pressure. He replaces his face with it, kissing along your soft inner thighs. “You want it?” he rasps into your skin, his coarse beard scratching at the delicate flesh.
You cover your mouth with your moan. The gentle but stern nature about him right now was uncharacteristic from what you were used to, but you'd be lying if you didn't find it absolutely intoxicating. “God yes, yes I want it, you’re just teasing me now, sir.”
The wet heat between your legs tells him everything he needs to know before you even gasp out the words. His chuckle is dark against your inner thigh as he drags his teeth lightly over the sensitive skin there, leaving fleeting marks that’ll bloom purple by morning. "Teasing?" he rasps, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze, his beard glistening with your slick. "This is tactical reconnaissance, love. Assessing the terrain before full deployment." Without warning, he presses two thick fingers into you, his thumb circling your clit with rough, purposeful strokes. "Christ, you're fucking soaked for me, love," he growls, watching your hips jerk against his hand. "Dripping like you’ve been waiting all damn day."
You shudder at the invasion. “I swear I haven’t, I couldn’t even dare dream of this, this morning, Captain.” You bite down on your own finger to still the erupting noises escaping you.
The sight of you biting down on your own finger to stifle those delicious sounds makes his cock twitch against his thigh, already half-hard again despite barely finishing minutes ago. He curls his fingers deep inside you, pressing relentlessly against that sweet spot that makes your back arch off the cot, the springs creaking dangerously beneath you. “Dreamt of it?” he growls, his voice thick with amusement and lust as he watches your thighs tremble around his wrist. “Bullshit. I’ve seen the way you look at me during drills, like you’re mentally stripping me down right there on the fucking parade ground.” He adds a third finger without warning, stretching you brutally as his thumb keeps circling your clit with military precision. “Tell me, little soldier. How many times have you touched yourself thinking about this?”
“That’s hardly any of your concern, sir,” you answer, flustered, almost completely forgetting the situation you're in, as if he would get mad if you admitted it.
The growl that escapes his chest is pure possession as he curls his fingers deeper inside you, twisting them against that sweet spot that makes your breath hitch. "That’s where you are wrong, it is my concern," he rumbles, his voice rough with authority and arousal. His free hand pins your hip to the cot, the calloused palm pressing bruises into your skin as his thumb brushes your clit with deliberate, punishing strokes. "You think I haven't noticed how your hands shake when you pass me reports? How your uniform sticks to your back during morning PT when I'm watching?" His fingers slow to a torturous pace, stretching you obscenely as he leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "Tell me how many times, or I'll leave you like this, dripping around my fingers but never getting what you really want." The threat hangs between you, heavy with promise.
You freeze at the mention of being left like this, undone, begging and so very sexually frustrated. “Don’t leave me like this, Captain, please, I-” you gulp. “Only a few times, when I couldn’t sleep, it was the only thing that would make it calm down, I promise.”
The confession tears from you like a surrender, and it’s the sweetest fucking thing he’s heard all day. His grin is wolfish as he presses his fingers deeper, curling them just right to make your hips buck. "Only a few?" he mocks, his breath hot against your ear. "Shame. Should've come to me sooner." He withdraws his fingers abruptly, ignoring your whine of protest. “Now turn over." It’s not a request. His palm lands on your ass with a sharp smack, reddening the skin. "Christ, look at that pretty arse."
You let your face rest sideways on the pillow, your ass up, getting whatever view you can of the sculpted man behind you. You wince at the sharp smack and let out a muffled scream.
The sound of your muffled scream against the pillow sends a jolt of primal satisfaction straight to his already hardening cock. His calloused hand grips the curve of your ass possessively, kneading the reddened flesh where he'd struck you moments ago. "That's it," he growls, his voice thick with approval as he admires the way your body trembles beneath him. His other hand slides up your spine, rough fingers tracing each vertebra before tangling in your hair and giving a sharp tug to arch your back further. "Perfect fucking position for what I'm about to do to you." He leans down, his chest pressing against your back as his teeth graze your shoulder blade. "You're gonna feel this for days, love."
Water pools in your eyes at the delicious pain and the dark promise. “Please just fuck me,” you let out in a quiet sob.
“Patience," he growls against your shoulder before sinking his teeth into the meat of your ass, leaving another claiming mark. His hands spread you wide as he drags his fat cock through your slick folds, teasing without entering. The head catches at your entrance, applying just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. "You'll take me raw," he rasps, his hips rocking slightly so you feel every inch of that thick, pulsing length against your core. "No condom. No mercy. Just my cock buried so deep you'll taste it tomorrow." His grip tightens on your hips. "And you'll thank me for it."
Your heart skips a beat at the statement, raw fucking, no protection, and your primal instincts take over. “I am thankful, thank you, sir-” you gasp at the wet teasing feeling of the tip of his cock catching at your entrance.
The desperate gratitude in your voice sends a surge of primal satisfaction straight to his cock. "Damn right you are," he growls before finally thrusting home in one slow but brutal, unforgiving stroke. The way your body stretches around him, hot and tight and shaking, makes his vision blur for a moment. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise as he bottoms out, his balls pressed flush against your ass. "Christ," he rasps against your shoulder, his breath ragged. "You feel like bloody heaven." He doesn't give you time to adjust before pulling back and slamming back in, setting a punishing rhythm from the start. The wet, obscene sound of your bodies colliding fills the room as he fucks you with single-minded intensity. Each thrust punches a broken moan from your lungs, each withdrawal makes your fingers claw at the sheets. His teeth find the back of your neck, biting down as he angles his hips to grind against that sweet spot inside you. "Fuck, you take it so well," he snarls against your skin. "Like you were made for my cock." His hand snakes around to circle your clit with rough precision, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The way your walls clamp around him tells him you're close, and he's not fucking stopping until you shatter.
“P-please! Slow down!” you barely muster to say.
The plea makes him snarl against your sweat-slicked skin, his fingers tightening around your throat just enough to remind you who’s in control without cutting off your air. "Slow?" he growls, punctuating the word with a brutal thrust that makes the cot’s legs scrape against concrete. His free hand slides down to palm your ass, spreading you wider as he leans over your back, his teeth scraping your shoulder blade. "You don’t get ‘slow,’ love, you get what I give you." His hips piston faster, the slap of skin echoing off the barracks walls as he fucks you into the mattress with single-minded intensity. The way your walls flutter around his cock tells him you’re close despite your protests, and that knowledge makes his balls draw up tight. "Gonna come already?" he taunts, his voice ragged.
Broken, half-hiccuping moans leave you with every thrust, and you couldn’t help it. Your legs start to shake and you tighten viciously around Price’s huge length. You whimper and cry out into the tear-soaked pillow as you come. His hips don't stop even as you come and beg him to slow down again.
The way you clench around him as you come, like a fucking vice, rips a savage groan from his throat. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave marks that’ll last a week as he keeps pounding into you relentlessly. "That’s it," he growls against your sweat-slicked back, his voice ragged. "Take it. Take every fucking inch." His balls slap against your ass with each brutal thrust, the wet sounds obscene in the cramped barracks. He doesn’t slow down, not when your thighs tremble, not when your whimpers turn desperate, because he wants you to feel this tomorrow when you’re sitting in debriefing, shifting in your seat from how deep he’s marked you.
You feel beyond broken as he pounds you into the sheets. You couldn't muster anything; the only thing was to lay there and take what he gave you. “D-don’t pull out,” you whisper, barely audible.
The command, because that’s exactly what it is, despite the trembling whimper it’s delivered with, makes his hips stutter mid-thrust. His fingers tighten in your hair as he leans down, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "Wasn’t fucking planning to," he rasps, punctuating each word with a deep, grinding roll of his hips that makes your entire body shudder. His teeth sink into your shoulder as his rhythm turns erratic, his balls drawing up tight against your ass. "Gonna fill you up so deep you’ll feel it dripping out of you tomorrow during PT." The thought alone sends a jolt of primal satisfaction straight to his cock, his thrusts growing rougher, more desperate. The way your body convulses around his as he buries himself to the hilt one last time sends a shockwave of pleasure straight up his spine. His roar is muffled against the sweat-slicked skin of your back as he comes, his cock pulsing deep inside you with each thick, hot pulse of release. The sensation of you milking every last drop from him makes his vision blur at the edges, his hips jerking erratically as he rides out the aftershocks. When he finally stills, his chest heaving against your back, he can already feel the evidence of his claim leaking out around where you’re still joined, just like he promised. His palm slides possessively over your hip, fingers pressing into fresh bruises as he murmurs against your ear, "Good fucking girl."
The air hangs thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and gun oil as he slowly pulls out, watching the way his come drips obscenely from your well-used hole. His thumb swipes through the mess before pressing it back inside you with two thick fingers, stretching you lazily. The sight of you sprawled bonelessly across the ruined sheets, still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm, sends a surge of primal satisfaction straight to his already recovering cock. His calloused fingers trace the bite marks littering your shoulders and ass, his fucking claim on you, before giving your hip a sharp slap that makes you jolt. "Up," he growls, his voice still rough with exertion as he hauls you into a sitting position by your hair. Your legs wobble dangerously, but his arm snakes around your waist to steady you before you can collapse. His other hand tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as he wipes your tear-streaked cheeks with his thumb. "You look properly fucked," he observes with dark amusement before pressing a rough, claiming kiss to your swollen lips. The taste of salt and surrender lingers as he pulls away, swiping his thumb across your lower lip one last time. "Never seen anything prettier."
You moan appreciatively, and Price kisses your cheek this time. You lean into it, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth and closeness of your bodies.
The kiss lingers longer than either of you expected, his rough hands sliding up your sweat-slicked back to pull you tighter against him. When you finally break apart, he presses his forehead to yours, your ragged breaths mingling in the dim light. "Christ," he murmurs against your lips, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "You're trouble."
You chuckle lazily, still catching your breath. “How so, Sir Captain?”
His calloused thumb brushes over your kiss-swollen lips, a rare moment of tenderness in the aftermath. "Because," he growls low, "you make me forget I'm supposed to be the one giving orders." The confession tastes strange on his tongue, like admitting a tactical weakness in enemy territory. His grip tightens instinctively around your waist, equal parts possession and protection.
Indeed, you think to yourself, it would be a dangerous line to cross, between desire and duty, being intimate like this and professional otherwise.
The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken implications. His thumb still traces your jawline absently, the calloused pad rough against your soft skin, a contrast that shouldn't feel so right. With a grunt, he shifts you both sideways so you're half-sprawled across his chest, his arm locking like an iron bar across your back. "Sleep," he orders gruffly, but his fingers card through your hair almost gently. The scent of sex, gunpowder, and somehow cedarwood clings to your skin, and he finds himself breathing it in deeper than necessary. Outside, the distant sounds of the base continuing without you fade into insignificance.