I saved this Medic & You (included the author's notes too). If anyone has the other Medic & You story that floated around a bit I'd love to see it here. It had a medigun kink. _ Medic & You: A Prelude Anonymous 09/07/07(Tue)20:40 No. 1314 I'm going out on a limb here and posting something for the first time. If I'm stepping on the toes of the established "___ & You" writers, feel free to say something. A little background: My pediatrician for the larger part of my childhood was an old Austrian man with a very thick accent. He was a great doctor, but for a little kid, that strange tonality of speaking was always a bit intimidating. A lot of that feeling came back to me writing this. ___________________________________ You have just decided that musical accompanimunt for a routine medical examination is in fact a very bad idea. It's not that you aren't a music lover, your copy of Pet Sounds with grooves worn down close to non-existence attests to that. It's just that if you had the choice, you'd really prefer something other than the howl of german opera. But the immaculate gleam of the medical office is firmly the realm of the Medic, and judging from the scratch and hiss of the record, Der Ring des Nibelungen is on permanent rotation, and not likely to be displaced for anything short of Ragnarok itself. So you grit your teeth through another earsplitting aria and hope to get this over with as soon as possible. It's not that you don't appreciate the Doctor and what he does, oh far from it. He's saved skins more times than you can count. It's just he's a little... what's the word ... intense? Something about him makes it difficult for you to relax. Maybe it's that his accent is a little intimidating. Maybe it's the fact that his eyes are a shade of blue so deep that it doesn't seem entirely normal. Or it could be that just last week you saw him disembowel an enemy spy using nothing more than a repurposed bonesaw. Whatever the case, sitting on a cold steel exam table in your unmentionables sure isn't helping matters. In the meantime, the Medic seems unnaturally cheerful today. While he's certainly at home in a skirmish, this office is where he's most comfortable. From the crisp click of his immaculately shined boots on the laminate floor to the flawless white of his jacket (how the hell DOES he get those bloodstains out every time?), every inch of him exudes confidence and energy. You fight off a wave of goosebumps, cursing inwardly. He examines a clipboard, adjusting the round glasses on his nose, humming quietly. “Now, how are ve feeling today, hn?†“Well no extra holes as of late, so pretty good I'd wager!†Your weak smile wilts into a chewed lip under the ultramarine gaze. The levity shoots right by him. He scribbles briefly on the clipboard. “Yes, yes. Good. Now hop on the scale, bitte.†He starts putting you through the motions of the standard physical. Weight, height, visual observation, all that. Even with the melodramatic howling in the background, you think you're finally beginning to ease up. Then a rubber gloved finger artfully traces the alignment of your spine. Goddamnit, ANOTHER wave of goosebumps. You're praying he doesn't notice as you hop back up on the table, but oh goody here comes the stethescope. At least now you can blame it on the little cold metal pad. He places the stethescope pad onto your skin in the hollow of your chest, and you just manage not to startle when it makes contact, but before you can congratulate yourself on not looking like a complete idiot, you can see his brow furrowing. He pauses, makes a little doubtful noise in his throat. And just when he lifts the device away, and you think he's moved on, you realize he's just going over to turn down that stupid record player. In the silence of that examination room, the cacaphony of Wagner was never more missed than now. He returns and listens again to your pulse, and tells you what you're already painfully aware of. “Your heart rate is elevated.†Before you can respond, he's reached the pad around to your back, arm nearly curled around you. “Breathe deeplyâ€, he orders. He's focusing on you intently now, as you try your damnedest to inhale normally. A few gasps and rattles later, and his brow has dropped even lower. “You are very tense.†He announces as he returns to his clipboard. “Perhaps the conditions here are beginning to tax you.†He pauses as he finishes his scribbling. “Or, is there another reason, possibly, vhy you could be so nervous?†His expression indicates that he clearly suspects the latter. “I-I'm sorry... I guess I'm just not that good with... doctor's appointments.†You blather. The statement is ALMOST true. You'd probably be a lot more relaxed if you didn't have those eyes bearing down on you, like you were some sort of specimen to be dissected, opened up to have all your secrets revealed. He sucks his teeth in vague irritation, a soft sharp little noise that makes you check slightly. “Basic medical examination is intended to detect and diagnose problems BEFORE they become serious. There is no reason to be so high strung. But if you do not relax, I cannot check you properly.†You attempt to hide a pout as well as you can manage (not very), and try to focus on something else. Maybe if you can just get your mind off it, you can get it over with. And that's when your eyes land on a little black case in the corner of the office, almost hidden by another jacket on the rack. “Wait, you brought that to field operations?†“It alvays comes vith me.†He replies tersely, marking a few notes. “Huh, so I guess you play, right?†“Mmm.†He makes a noise in affirmative, and tries to get back to his poking and prodding of your flesh. “Then how come I've never heard you?†Now it's his turn to look uncomfortable. To be honest, it's a little unusual. You've never seen that kind of expression on his face. “It is not important. Now hold your arms out in front of you.†You follow his directions, but continue your interrogation. “Come on. If you love that thing enough to bring it with you into a war zone, then you must be really good at playing it.†“A true musician is never fully satisfied with his skills.†He partially mutters, slipping a pressure cuff around your arm. “That's not really an answer.†As the cuff tightens around your arm, it occurs to you suddenly. “Waiiiiit. You're embarassed about it, aren't you?†“I have NO idea vhat you're talking about.†He snatches the pressure cuff off, and sulks over to the jars of medical supplies on the shelf. It is eminently clear that your positions have been inverted. “It's not a big deal to be embarrased by something. I mean, look at me.†You try to be as pleasant as possible, but he marches back and jams a tongue depressor into your mouth. “Pah, nonsense. I have nothing to be embarassed about.†He growls as he shines a light onto your tonsils. “Ehn ay or eee.†You mumble around the mouthful of popsicle stick. “Vhat vas that?†He removes the popsicle stick from your mouth and you repeat yourself. “Then play for me.†He freezes, in mid notation. You can't help but smile a just a little. “Come on. Play something for me. Just me, nobody else. I promise I won't tell anyone else about it.†You can see the expressions on his face changing, as his train of thought gathers steam. Finally he glares at you. “I vill play for you, but not now. Later. Tonight. After Call to Quarters.†He snaps. It takes him a moment to comport himself. “Now can ve continue vith the YOUR examination, bitte?†“Yes I think so.†And your curiosity and anticipation does indeed make the rest of the appointment go much smoother. TBC!And now the conclusion! I'm thinking of calling this "Eine Kleine Nachtmusic", because I am THAT UNCREATIVE. Before we begin, a few notes and musical selections to aid your enjoyment... Greifswald: The University of Griefswald, Germany's oldest and most respected Medical University “Air on the G Stringâ€- JS Bach, from Orchestral Suite No. 3 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qOVwokQnV4M “Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungenâ€- Johannes Brahms, from Ein Deutsches Requiem http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Johannes_Brahms_-_Op.45_Ein_Deutsches_Requiem_-_(04)_Wie_lieblich_sind_deine_Wohnungen.ogg _________________________ You realize you've never seen the Medic out of uniform before. In these later hours of the evening, in the golden-lit comfort of his quarters, he has dispensed with the white overcoat and the constricting tie, leaving him in his shirtsleeves, rolled up to his elbows and collar opened. He's also, oddly enough, barefoot, a token of casualness that nearly takes you aback. But he seats you on his bed with that familiar air of definitive action. The violin case is set on a small table, along with the record player. In the corner of the room he rifles through a box full of records, and selects one. You can't make the title out from where you're sitting, and he notes your craning to see. He turns the sleeve over, and tsks quietly. “Now. You asked to hear me play, and you vill. But none of your prying beforehand. Just sit and listen.†He sets the vinyl onto the turntable and takes up the violin case. When he opens it, you catch the gleam of amber wood. But as he draws it out, the instrument appears clearly scarred: there are superficial scratches and burns, the blister of a patched bullet hole, and splattered haphazardly across the entire object, the maroon glare of what can only be dried blood. You make to ask a question, but catch yourself as he starts twiddling the pegs and checking the tune. He has that look on his face that tells you interruption is out of the question. When he's finally satisfied with the sound, he sets the needle on the record player. The record must be a recorded audio accompanimunt, and the track ticks rhythmically for a few beats, the sound of a metronome counting in the time signature. After one measure, it fades to silence, and the Medic draws the bow across his violin. The quiet, chill tone of piano on the record, is a distant contrast to the warm, rich voice of the instrument played before you in the here and now. His eyes close as he focuses entirely on the music, which is all the better for you, because you don't realize that your mouth is hanging slightly ajar until the piece is almost complete. There is a familiarity in his posture, his expression, that same intensity that made you pause before, but now, in the intimacy of his room, with his music, it draws you in like a moth to a flame. You raise your hands in quiet, heartfelt applause, and struggle for the right praise. After a moment or two you manage to settle on “That was AMAZING, what was it?†He turns his face away slightly, but not soon enough for you to miss the slight rosyness on his face. He clears his throat in a businesslike manner and mutters. “J.S. Bach, Air in G. It was adequate. My vibrato lacks clarity, however.†“Will you quit the modesty act? You're incredible! The best I ever heard!†He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, somewhat flustered by the praise, but he doesn't take it badly. “Thank you... but I feel I lack interpretive skill. Anyone can become passably proficient vith enough practice, but true art takes years of development.†“It's more than I could do, I doubt I could get one squeak out that didn't sound terrible.†You inch over to one side of the bed a little self consciously as he sits beside you. “Nonsense. Everyone loves music in some form. So everyone can be taught. In some form.†His voice is slipping into a softer register, and he is watching you intently again. Not the surgical, scruitinizing stare of earlier today, but something entirely different. It makes you shift slightly as you sit. He takes the inch you've given and presses closer by another half. “I don't know...†you start, but trail off. “It is not so difficult,†he murmurs. His arms bring the violin up towards you, and he tucks it gently under your chin. One broad hand takes yours and delicately presses your index finger down onto the fingerboard. His other arm brings the bow around and he draws out the note. “E. And now to G.†He moves your fingers again, and the calloused pads press one down into a new position. “A,†he breathes against your cheek, and draws again. This continues for a while, but soon your hands are laid gently aside as he takes up the melody, chin hooked gently over your shoulder. He is murmuring something softly, actually singing, right into your ear, something in german... <i>“Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen...â€</i> Your hands, now free, have slipped down by your sides, and one rests on his knee. You can't stop it from gripping slightly as his lips brush across your ear as he continues, <i>“Meine Seele verlanget und sehnet sich...â€</i> And then, he presses a kiss to it. Your gasp carries more voice than expected, but he laughs softly, and goes along with it. “Such a sound. Those who cannot play can always sing. I have played for you, vill you sing for me, Kleine?†His mouth, warm and insistent, inches its way down your cheek to settle in the hollow of your neck. You can only manage a soft moan, and you realize he's set the violin aside and enfolded you entirely in his arms. One hand reaches up to graze against your throat while the other presses low on your belly. “Vhere talent is lacking passion vill aid, for vithout passion, all is mere clockvork,†he rumbles against your neck. The lower hand dips under fabric, seeking skin. You burst out with another little sound of surprise, and you hear his amused hum. “The racing heartbeat again. Vas this the reason all along?†The thickening haze of arousal is momentarily cleared by the realization that he can actually mark your pulse from merely pressing his mouth against that swelling vein in your throat. He growls, as his hand dips lower, pushing clothes out of the way on the journey down inbetween your legs. “They vere leery of my 'passions' in Greifswald. But how can I deny them? <i>Mein Leib und Seele freuen sich,â€</i> he intones, and a cool even line of teeth graze against your skin. “Oh god,†you can't help but gasp out, as he finds you, deep down, and begins to stroke, deft surgeon's hands working with diabolical skill.You note helplessly that he has pulled you fully onto his lap by now, and his other hand is working to rid you of your shirt. “And it appears I am not alone,†he laughs gently, inbetween nibbles. When he has managed to pull the shirt off, he tilts your face towards his with his free hand, and kisses you fully. His lips are soft compared to the rough trace of stubble that lies as a shadow under his skin. The press of dark, wet velvet takes over your mouth, and leaves your moans muffled. He breaks the kiss, gradually, and fixes you with those eyes again, and they are dark, dark blue, almost black in this low light. “Now tell vhat you vant...†His fingers inside of you twist out another wave of pleasure and you're about to moan for him to hurry up and make love to you before you lose your senses but he presses a finger to your lips first. His smile is the like brief gleam of a concealed knife, and he purrs. “Ah ah... <i>in deutsche.â€</i> You flounder desperately, trying to remember any of the little snippets of german he has attempted to ingrain in you, but his warmth and his stare and the imperative hardness of him pressing into you makes it nearly impossible. You whimper plaintively the only thing you manage to hold onto even now <i>“...bitte.†</i> His smile softens in mercy, and he cups your chin. “Ah, schwach kleine. I should not be so cruel.†His thumb traces the line of your lower lip. “You vould say: <i>Eroberst mich.â€</i> <i>“Eroberst mich.â€</i> You repeat. “What does it mean?†“It means, 'take me.'†Your eyes widen, and his mouth falls over yours again, muting any further commentary. He keeps you on his lap somehow in the frenzy of movement and the tangle of limbs, while he strips the rest of your clothes, and bares his own skin as well, leaving only his white shirt open and flung haphazardly around his shoulders. His strength startles you as he lifts you up, one arm under your legs, and eases the blushed length of his erection into you with infinite care. Enthroned on his lap and full to the point of ecstacy, you claw fruitlessly behind you to get more of him in your grasp, and settle for looping your arms up and behind, to thread through his hair. He rocks forward and up, with a little moan, fingers on your chest grazing roughly across a nipple. The other snakes down your front again, more free without the constriction of clothes, to work its magic. You wish you knew german, because he is saying such terrible, wonderful things in your ear inbetween the nips and the licks, things that sound both elegant and profane at the same time in that guttural tongue. But you settle for the sound of his voice getting higher and louder as he presses into you again and again, and your near wordless moans are accompanimunt enough. You can feel the heat of him as his stomach and chest press up against your back, and one hand splays over your chest, a cage to catch your pounding heart. He nips at your earlobe and slides back into english just long enough to growl, “Sing, sing for me!†You can't help but oblige him as he presses in again, and his hand between your legs circles insistently, pulling an aching soprano cry out of your throat. He matches it with a wail of his own, before urgently bringing your face around to kiss you again. Under the hood of your half-lidded eyes, you can see his face, blushed with abandon, hair slightly askew, fine dark brows knitted in rapture. Even in this madness of pleasure, you take care to remember it, for he has never looked more beautiful. He gives a harsh little shout, and tightens, all around you, as he slips over the edge. Then, a shuddering moan slips out and he drapes himself over your shoulder, as you follow after him, breathless and dewed with perspiration. In his completion, he eases backwards onto the bed, taking you with him. Rolled onto your side, he curls around you, one arm flung haphazardly over your body. When the rattle of both your breathing has finally dwindled and he has slipped delicately out of you, you hear his soft, musical laughter on the back of your neck, as he presses a final kiss there. “A fine performance, don't you think?†He muses. You nuzzle back against him as he reaches over and sets his glasses down on the table. “I'd say a standing ovation is in order, but I don't think either of us can at the moment.†His short bark of laughter makes you smile as much as the fingers that flicker up your side. “Vell put, Kleine. Vell put.â€Okay, kids. Medic and You, part 2, is in process. However, it involves some stuff that I find a little challenging/nervewracking, so the going is slow. I'll give you what I've got so far, that feels worthy of presentation. It'll also give you the big fat surprise reveal that's been gnawing my ear off, and I'll be able to gauge from reactions whether to continue on or not. So on with the show, as it were. _________ Medic and You Part 2: Verboten It's been three weeks since your little private performance with the Medic. Since then, the doctor decided that it would be in the best interests of the both of you, if the dalliances were kept sub rosa. He is nothing, if not devoted to at least appearing professional. And as if to emphasize the fact, a sudden burst of particularly intense combat with the opposite team makes it nearly impossible to meet with him, even if the scandal of discovery meant nothing to the both of you. The frenzy of activity does nothing to distract you from your growing longing, however. You see him out in the field, in each skirmish. You watch him as he follows the surge of the attack, swift and sure, boosting his comrades in both strength and morale. You watch as he races back and forth, just inches from the line of fire, as you defend your base from a payload attack. You watch as he works to heal all the wounds, with the sternness of his clinical detachment, and yet with the unspoken tenderness of a dear friend. Your eyes meet across the battlefield, from time to time. And you can see the smile that curls ever so faintly across his lips. It seems that even he is not immune to longing, though. He begins to tease, as combat starts tapering off. His touch lingers, as you congratulate amongst yourselves after a successful sortie. He watches you, pointedly, through another of Soldier's blustering tactical dissertations. At one point he even catches you by surprise, in an empty hallway, coming up behind as stealthily as a Spy. His arms loop around your body briefly and his stubbled jaw skims against your cheek. “Soon, mein herz...†he rumbles into your ear, and before you can whirl around and grab a hold of him, he is already striding off, as cool and unflustered as ever. He is driving you mad. And then, mercifully, the fighting trickles to a halt. The opposing team driven back to lick its wounds and regroup, you find yourselves in a temporary cease fire. You are both barely even off the field and into the base when his gloved fingers creep over the back of your neck. He purrs softly, “2200, tonight,†before slipping away, leaving you to cling for dear life to the doorframe, lest your legs give out entirely. The rest of your teammates have settled in for the night, when you finally slip round the corner and down the stairs to his quarters. You have to stop to collect yourself so you don't knock too hard on his door, but your knuckles have barely tapped once before you hear him answer, “Come in, kleine.†You claw at the knob, barely keeping yourself from flinging the door open, you simply cannot wait any longer. You must have him again, have him pressed against you, or you're certain you'll lose your mind. What you see waiting in the room promptly erases all thoughts in your head from existence. The Medic is there, seated easily in his little swiveling chair, legs crossed saucily. He sets aside his journal and pen, as a smile of beatific innocence plays across his features. It is all in complete contrast to the black SS uniform he's wearing. Your mouth makes a few open and shut movements while the door squeaks closed behind you, shutting with a faint, yet ominous click.OH GOD, FINALLY DONE. I had all these excuses lined up, but then I just said "the hell with it." Presented without further comment and if it gets choppy, I blame it on my own personal hangups with forbidden uniforms. Enjoy! _________________________________ “Schätzchen, is somezing troubling you?†His tone is light and musical, and combined with that grin of his, it hits you like cold grease trickling down the back of your neck. You raise a hand and gesture vaguely at him, and mumble something about why or how or oh god you can't possibly be. He raises one eyebrow and then remarks airily, as if your reaction is a totally unexpected surprise to him. “Oh, zis uniform? You vish to know how I came to have it?†You can only swallow and nod slightly as he rises from his chair, and prowls toward you, chatting as conversationally as if he were at afternoon tea. “I recall, I had just returned to Greifswald University vhen it reopened in '46, and I vas not there even a veek before I got some strange mail. Some distant relative, a step-cousin or an uncle, tvice removed, something like zat, killed in action, and his personal effects had to be returned to zhe family. But he had no living direct kin, and so the package kept passing hands, until it arrived in mine. Inside vas zhis uniform.†He plucks idly at a shiny silver button. “I meant to dispose of the verdammten thing, no man vith sense in his head vould be caught vith a Waffen uniform on his hands vith the Red Army routing the local garrison for trial. But... I just could not. Somezhing about it compelled me to keep it. I heard rumors about its psychological impact on ozhers. To be entirely honest, I never believed something as simple as an item of clothing could elicit a .... vhat is the vord... visceral response. But I vas curious. And I remained curious, when I noted it vas almost nearly my own size.†As he draws close to you, you can see how it fits him, indeed almost his own size, but perhaps a little snug across the chest, and the line of the dress jacket sits a little high on his hips. But even so, it looks good on him. Far too good. The clean, crisp lines and the shining leather belt around his waist accentuate his already impressive physique, which is not quite yet softening into the effects of middle age. And then there's the color. Black just suits him, for some reason. Keeping the suit hidden has only kept it from fading; it is black as ink, crow feathers, midnight, black as charcoal. He lifts your chin with one appraising finger “I can see now zhere is some credence to zhe claims. You seem frightened, Liebeling. Tense.†A gloved thumb traces the line of your bottom lip. “You have shown such behavior once before. Vhen you vere in my office, under my examination.†He draws close enough to press you back against the door, looming over and pressing his forehead against yours. “Do fear because zhe uniform strikes it into your soul as zhey were touted to do? Or do you fear because you desire zhis?†Your jaw works a little, while your mind attempts to reboot, and come up with a valid excuse or protest, but he seals your lips with one finger. He has apparently been preparing for this little exercise for quite some time, and there is no stopping him now. You find yourself questioning whether you even want him to stop. “I have a theory,†he muses. “Zhe item itself is not zhe focus of desire, but zhe simple fact zhat it is verboten. Vhen one should not vant, one only vants it more.†He begins trailing a hand down his neck, and starts undoing buttons. “Zhe only vay I can think to properly treat such a condition is to indulge it.†He grasps one of your hands in his, and brings it up to his now bared chest, to flatten over the hollow where his heart lies. His pulse is strong under your fingertips, and a nipple rises to attention as your fingers graze past. “Ve shall desensitize you, until your guilt is gone.†He moves your hand inexorably downward, to rest at the waistband of the jodhpurs. “And to start, you must come face to face vith your anxiety.†A quirk of his eyebrow suggests exactly HOW you will be facing things. As you kneel between his legs, your mind races for an alibi. Just imagine you're sucking off a cop instead, something trite like that. Oh I had no idea I was going so fast, officer, do you think you could let me off with a warning? Cliche, tame enough, keep your eyes closed and you won't be able to tell the difference. But as he reaches down, and cups your chin upwards, you are forced to meet that glacial gaze, that carnivorous smile, and there's no excuse your mind can make. You're pleasuring a man who looks like the pride of the Party, and you realize with a guilty writhing in your stomach that you are enjoying it. You fiddle awkwardly with the buttons on the woolen pants. The suit smells like gunpowder, the mustiness of age and old cedar, which mixes with the Medic's usual bouquet of alcohol antiseptic and the distant chill of peppermint. You pull him out of the fly, and he's already hard. Maybe this whole uniform thing makes him as hot as it does you, but he's a lot less torn up about it. Hell, he looks like he's loving every minute of it. He paws gently through your hair, and curls fingers around the shell of your ears as you lean in and gently press your lips to his heated flesh. Although fully in control, he is gentle and patient, and lets you explore with your mouth at your leisure. He hums appreciatively as kisses turn into full-tongued licks, tracing his contours. “Sehr gut,†he murmurs, and you shiver slightly. He is apparently not even going to give you the mercy of his silence either. “Remember, kleine, it is just a uniform...†he comments amusedly above you, and the softness of his belly moves with his warm laughter. Well, if he's going to be all chatty about this little hangup, then you're going to make it difficult for him to speak, you decide. Eyebrows knit with concentration, you take him into your mouth as much as is comfortably possible. The pressure of your suction causes him to clutch tighter into your hair and reduces him to a shuddering moan. “Nnn! Mein Gott...†he sputters briefly, before lapsing into silence broken only by the rough panting of his breath. You continue in this way, hungrily lapping and suckling, edging further into arousal as you listen to his moans. You wonder how close he is to the edge when suddenly, he tenses, and abruptly pulls you away from him, both hands framing your jaw. He pulls you upwards, to assault you with a hungry kiss. The pressure, the warmth, the intensity of it is so arresting that you barely even notice that he's maneuvered you over to the bed, until your knees are folded underneath you by contact. Falling back on the covers with a startled gasp, he arches over you, open shirt like drooping black wings. A frenzy of tugged clothes and hurried kisses ensues, he kisses every part of you that becomes exposed, from throat to chest to belly, flicking at your nipples, dipping into the hollow of your navel, and even down between your legs, paying back your previous obedience in full. The sweet agony of his mouth is momentary, however, and you can see the hunger glittering in his eyes, as he just barely tugs the jodhpurs down his hips enough to be out of the way. A moment of profound silence as he stops, and drags gloved fingers down your body. “You vant I should leave the jack-boots on?†he muses, and the smirk that settles on his face would tempt a saint. Shame be damned, you grab him by the lapels of the uniform, knuckles white against fine black wool, and pull him down until chests meet and bodies rub together. “Shut up and just give it to me already,†you hiss into his ear. He enters you with a shudder and a smile of vicious indulgence, while one gloved hand reaches up to pin your wrists above your head. The other lingers down at the space between your hips, and he doubles your bliss with his skillful attentions. He grinds into you, smooth and firm, and it is exactly what you need. You are pinned down under his hands, under the control of a black-clothed conqueror, helpless to do anything but ride out his passions, and it is ecstasy. At some point in the fierce tangle, he releases your arms, and they immediately wrap around him again to hold on for dear life. He buries his face in the side of your neck to lave and suckle the tendons and the pulse of the vein there, while stubble frictions your cheek into sudden heat. Moving upwards, teeth are grazing across the curve of your ear. When he actually traces the curvature with his tongue, you gasp something incoherent, and your fingers claw bluntly along his back. He is pressing into you and on top of you, driven deep into the mattress by his weight, and you can feel his heat where you join, and it's all cluttering together in a mix of sensation and sound, and when he thrusts into you a final time, you can feel his release deep inside. As his expression melts from exquisite torment to satisfaction, you spill over the edge at that very moment, high and white and perfect. Sense returns, to find him still sprawled over your body, breathing slow and deep. You lay there, for a few moments, then comb idly through his hair with a free hand. It seems to rouse him from his stupor. He arches up and away, but not before favoring you with a tender kiss. He finally pulls the uniform off, and examines it, looking distastefully at the stains of sweat and human release. “A sorry state,†he muses, as he lays it carelessly on the chair. “We'll have to be more careful next time.†He turns towards you, and the look of wonder and faint curiosity on his face is almost as good as the look of his climax. “Next time?†he asks, gesturing to the clothes. All you answer him with is a smile.