Sorry, Doublepost but reposting a rather lovely Solly/You from the kink meme that I found and saved. Author Anon. -------------------------------- The song on the radio is old, one your parents sang around you when you were younger; and he catches your quick smile of nostalgia, because somehow despite that helmet he never misses /anything/, and he asks you if you know how to dance. You don't know. He stands up, poker-straight, and holds out his elbow and you have no choice but to take it, really, kicking a chair out of the way as you go. It's just the two of you alone in the break room with a radio and one of the cats that infest the complex sleeping on the counter next to the coffee machine. It's dark outside, sunset maybe, you're not quite sure - anyway, the only lightsources are the bare flourescent bulb overhead and a lamp by the ratty couch illuminating the end table with it stacks of ratty magazines (gun catalogues and Reader's Digest, which nobody reads). You wrap your arms around his neck, shyly, because you're not sure about touching a man you've watched decapitate people with a spade, but he chuckles and rests his hands around your waist. He leads (of course). You think it's a waltz, but aren't sure, so you have to watch him to figure out where to go at first. It's a slower song and you begin to sway despite yourself. He grins at your obvious inexperience (he has a lot of teeth and they are very white). You apologize, it's been a while, and he tells you that it's like riding a bike, you never forget. You say, "Apparently I did." He says, "It'll come back." You say, "I hope so." He laughs to himself, inside his mouth, hmm-hmm, and you wonder where he learned to dance because he's /good/ and you weren't expecting that at all. His movements are practiced and controlled and oddly fluid but he's giving you room to watch and follow. You dimly remember years back, doing this with - someone else, not really paying attention. You wish you had, now. It'd be nice to be able to challenge. "See, you're getting the hang of it." "Dancing's not really my thing." "/That/ sounds like an /excuse/, private." You smile, then, "Maybe." He dips you and you squeak which is not very dignified and he knows because he's grinning like a fucking cat that's found the cream. When you right yourself, puffing a little /only/ because you were surprised, you find yourself being held a little bit closer. Odd. He's in a curious mood this evening. He's not as scary at times like this, off-duty, off the battlefield where bloodlust seizes him and makes him spastic and schizophrenic; he's actually being, could it be, nice. Well - nice for him, which means, at least, not as abrasive as usual. He's humming along with the radio. You try to catch his eye under the helmet and resort to tipping it back (which coincidentally forces you to pull closer to him, against his jacket, up close where you can smell aftershave and paper and paint). He frowns, briefly - it's his personal space and you didn't ask permission - then raises an eyebrow. "What?" "What do you do under there all the time?" "My own business." "Hmm." "Eh, it's nothing you have to worry about." "I hope not, but I can't always tell." He laughs again. You tuck your head underneath his chin and hear his breath hitch for /just/ a second. Hah. Bet he didn't see that one coming. The song dies down, replaced by the low velvety murmer of the station's announcer, and the two of you are left there swaying gently, silent. He buries his nose in your hair and makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. You think for a moment, held there with your ear to his heartbeat, but it doesn't take much deliberation. You press your lips against his throat, a pulse underneath the stubble, and when you pull back he traces his nose down your cheek, and you hang for a moment, sudden doubt, uncertainty. You feel him smile an inch from your mouth, and fuck it. He's not breathing when you kiss him and he doesn't seem to remember that he needs to. He pulls you up, a hand above your waist, a hand below it, giving you a better angle. You pull the helmet off, a quick glance over to make sure it lands on the couch - too much noise might alert the rest of the base - well who cares, you're being kissed. It started off gentle, sort of bumping mouths, but gentle isn't his style and you know it and make him fight. His tongue is in your mouth, warm and solid, you're not sure if your feet are touching the floor. They're not; he's scooping you up, and you lose contact for a few seconds, both of you breathing heavy, you grab the lapels of his jacket as he tosses you back onto the couch and you drag him down with you and start all over again. Jacket's off, he can't get out of it fast enough, and then you grab his dogtags, reach around his back to untuck his wifebeater and undo his belt, tug his pants down and then grip his back again. (There's muscle moving under your fingers, sleek and taut, it's so good to handle a man after so long-) He's exploring up your thigh, tugging your underwear down but leaving your nylon stockings intact. You move a hand down to his ass and pull him forward, you can feel it, his forehead is pressed against yours, eyes on yours, and he's breathing heavily. You nip a kiss to the side of his mouth and whisper into his cheek bone, "come on, come on do it" He kisses you again, growls gently against your lips - "is that an order?" - and you say "mhmm" and push his shoulder around till he's sprawled on the couch, wide-legged. You straddle his lap as you unbutton the front of your dress, meeting his half-lidded eyes and unable to stop yourself smirking in triumph at the reversal of roles. You wiggle a little, just for emphasis, and he makes an exasperated noise and pulls you into him with a hand at the back of your neck, kissing hard. His free hand moves inside your dress, into your bra, cupping your breast; you grind against him, frustrated now, and bite his lip a little to make your point. He just grins, and presses your head into the crook of his neck so he can free a hand to push your skirt up over your hips. "Patience," he murmers. "God - d - just-" You shake your head, feverishly. "Do it." "Do it, what?" There's something velvety and dangerous in his voice now. "Please!" He chuckles. "Please, sir," you're begging. "Mmm." A thumb moves across your nipple and you gasp. "Well, /iiin/ that case..." You moan against his mouth, so wet already, grabbing his hips (brushing your fingers along his inguinal ligament) as he pulls his boxers down. His fingers are at your entrance, sliding inside once and then out and tracing, teasing you, and you make some kind of undignified noise that makes him kiss your neck. You rock forward on your hips to allow yourself some space, some breathing room. A brief glance down to make sure you're in the right place, and then you spread your legs a little wider and then you sink down and he draws a deep breath, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. It takes you a few seconds to adjust and you brace yourself against the back of the sofa for balance. But you need this, and he's licking his lips as though they're suddenly dry, so you begin to move. He's so warm and thick and slick inside you and there's so much of him, more than enough, and you wonder why you waited so long to get to this part when it's so good. You're panting into the hollow of his neck, riding him for all you're worth, and his grip on you suggests his appreciation. His hips are trying to help out but you bite his shoulder, lightly, just enough to get the message through. You're on top here, /dammit/, but he's getting the message, you see his wicked grin in the corner of your eye. It figures that a man like him would like it rough. You bite again, savage him a little, careful with your teeth, dig your nails into the sofa and try to leave a mark. Your dress has slipped down your shoulders and your hair is a mess, you're absolutely certain of that. You find yourself not really caring. He's rubbing against that place inside you that's turning your legs to jelly and your head to something else altogether and his hands are warm, calloused, one at your waist and one ghosting up your back. You can't stop the sounds you're making, you can't, and you shift your arms to circle around his neck, grabbing his dogtags, watching his muscles move under his thin cotton undershirt as he arches up into you. Your nails leave bright half-moons on his skin. There's beads of sweat on his forehead, on the exposed parts of his arms and chest, probably on yours as well - he's getting red-faced which means he's probably close, a thought solidified by the urgent way he curls an arm under your shoulder. His breath is hot against your ear and you can feel his thighs bunching beneath yours and it smells like sex. You step up the pace now and he blasphemes against the Lord. Your nerves are on fire, you're losing focus; you just want /more/, you're pretty sure he does too and you're both going to get what you want. But there's something else- "What's your name?" He blinks, meets your eyes (so blue, here in the dimness), unable to keep his voice level. "Hah, h- P-pardon?" You bend closer. "Tell me what I'm gonna scream." He pulls your ear next to his mouth and tells you. He's throbbing inside you now, buried to the hilt, so close. The world is slowly fading away and you're moving as one, rocking back and forth vaguely in time with the radio still on in the background. Your mouth is on his and he's got a hand tangled in your hair and you tighten around him, pushing it, let's see how long you can last /now/ and he grunts and grips you closer. Your limbs are tangled in or around his and that's fine, that's teamwork. And then he's coming, straining up into you with a strangled cry. You ride it out, the fluids making your movements more slippery but it's so good and you're right there, you're /right there/ and you repeat his name like a mantra and he's stroking your swollen lips around the place where your bodies meet murmuring encouragement under his breath and you /can't/ You regain use of your senses and you've collapsed into him, your arms around his neck, your chest heaving against his. He pulls you off his dick, carefully, so you're sitting sideways on his lap. He lifts his hips briefly to tug his boxers back up, and then his pants. And then he nuzzles your hair and holds you, safe and securely his, and hums along with whatever song that is. There's nothing inside your head, no problems, no ideas, nothing in the world you want. And you're perfectly fine with that. You curl up into his chest and all you can think is how you had no idea Soldier could dance.