((Once again; didn't write this.)) 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. “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 loves 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 presses 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 hang-up, 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.