Sexually Frustrated Headcanons with Chuck Grant x Reader, George Luz x Reader, David Webster x Reader, and Don Malarkey x Reader
tw// mdni (18+), adult content, explicit sexual content
[PROMPT] The third part to the Sexually Frustrated Headcanons series. Part 1 is here.🔵 Part 2 is here. Part 4 is here. Part 5 is here. Part 6 is here. 😂
Chuck Grant x Reader
He was always known as the cheerful blondie from California, but quite honestly, he was feeling far from cheerful while staring at the wood of the top bunk. Another furlough, another night of stark realization that you and him couldn't be together.
He smoked a lot. The sticks kept him occupied when he salivated, when he tasted the air like he could taste your skin and your lips, like you were here smiling at him coyly as you pushed him down on a bed. He smoked and smoked and smoked, and through the hazy cloud, he could almost visualize the dips, angles, and curves of your body.
Liebgott told him he'd buy him some drinks, even some girls. "Why don't I treat my blondie buddy at the cathouse? I'll turn that frown upside-down" he'd amusedly state, but Chuck was barely holding onto his facade of a smile by gnashing his teeth. He was serious about what you and he had together; unlike Wild Bill, he wasn't one to sow a million oats everywhere when he had a promise.
Thus, the pictures. They were his greatest treasures. His hand would still tremble when he'd pull them out and look at you. He was touched by how you went to a professional photographer to get them taken for his pleasure. His fellow G.I.'s knew about your pretty self, with your enthusiastic smiles and neatly coiffed hair; for a bunch of tough sons of bitches, they sure loved to hem and haw over pictures of their sweethearts like gossiping old ladies.
They could cluck over your adorable poses and captions. What they couldn't entertain themselves with, however, were the pictures that nearly made him shoot off a bullet in surprise at the first glance.
These pictures were scandalous. Bold. The sheer sensuality and confidence behind each laminated paper had him stubbing out his cigarette to rush for the nearest semblance of privacy. He'd gone immediately stiff at your nude body presenting itself in ways that you knew he loved. Every single position was his favorite; and you knew that because what you and he had done together before he left for the field had left him an addict for your touch.
He'd trained himself like a damned mutt. Whenever he'd remember those secret photos tucked into his breastpocket, he'd sport wood. Laughable, really, and thank God for the thick overcoats everyone was given. And thank the clueless grunts besides mind-reading Liebgott from noticing how there was a lot more bite to his smiles, and how strained his eyes were when he'd grin at some joke that unfortunately was no longer that funny.
The men could get relief at bars and hotels with all of their skirt-chasing, but Chuck just needed his damned hand and those photos. The problem was, there was always someone milling about everywhere he went. Well, he could always rent a hotel room alone, but all the moans and groans coming from the walls were just not a good time. There was no way he wanted to hear what Heffron sounded like when he was getting off again. And Shifty had the pace of a goddamned rabbit—
He was frustrated. There was a permanent crick in his shoulders. The few times he was able to handle himself, they were always in some blown-out part of a building or some random hole he'd sneak away to. He'd have to rush himself, which he hated. God forbid someone like Don Malarkey found him and he'd be labelled the Beat-off Blondie Bandit for the rest of his life.
Could Charles Grant be spared one goddamned moment alone without anyone interrupting?
George Luz x Reader
Mr. Goofy was no longer Mr. Goofy. What happened for Luz of all people to tell Webster to can it? Even Randleman was shocked at how George chewed on his cigarette and stalked off into one of the rooms of the bombed out villa they secured. Looked like the jokes ran out in Belgium after the last battle they had.
Well, it wasn't so much of the battle that had George absentmindedly flicking his lighter on and off in silence. It wasn't the lack of Hershey's either. What had him sulking had nothing to do Lieutenant Speirs' sharp orders for the men to prepare for another bout of fire.
He was going to bust. Straight up. Blast off into space. He hadn't come for over three weeks, and he was fucking losing it. He swore he was going insane.
He swore he was going bonkers from not having your hand stroking him. Swore he'd tear a bastard a new one if he didn't have you saucily clamped around him. The hell was a man going to do without a mouth sucking the soul outta him?
But he listened. He kept his promise. Because he was a "good boy." You told him that, and there was no way he'd have you disappointed and not call him that again. You told him that he wasn't to get himself off the whole time he was gone. No edging, either. No looking at magazines or flirting with any skirts. If Georgie Boy behaved and was good, you'd give him the grandest of all rewards.
He'd been so curious, so full of confidence. Of course a man freshly awake from the craziest sex would agree to anything. You could've asked for the White House, and he'd lead a lone assault to capture the property completely sober. Yes, he'd be good. Yes, he'd listen. Of course he wouldn't touch his dick or toe the line when it came to propriety at the bars. He'd be the goodest boy ever.
Yeah, shit obviously didn't fly the way he wanted it to. He was constructing his pitiful eulogy everyday. Herein lies George Luz Sr. He died of a stroke due to a blood clot in his terminally hard cockadoodledoo. The pathetically loyal mutt could've wacked off in the john because who the fuck could've known, but he kept the cock ring on. He is preceded in death by his grandpa—
You said you'd be there at the next field hospital location; they'd nabbed you to go help set up the next one. Lip stated that since they'd wrapped up this current area, going to the next rally point was due soon, and Luz was over the fucking moon. Fucking finally. Holy shit, how the hell did monks do this? There was no way they weren't jerking their gherkin when no one was looking.
For all that was said, there was nothing about you exercising restraint, and knowing you, it was kept that way intentionally. You might give him a grand reward, but your sweet Georgie Boy hoped you could handle his grand punishment.
David Webster x Reader
He didn't get it. He didn't get why you didn't see eye-to-eye with him. To him, sex was just an itch he had to scratch; something purely physical he had to "take care of" before it got too burdensome and clouded his judgement. He still cared deeply for you, and you only. So what if he wrote down the prices of all of the ladies at the brothels he had? Was it so wrong for a man to do a cost basis or price analyses on his purchases?
So, no ladies offering themselves for free, either, you said. None of that going off, doing his thing, but sparing your reputation. Sex wasn't just physical for you. You wanted your relationship to be "real", and this was your "real."
"I'm not settling for anything less, Web. I...I want to love and be loved genuinely by a man who loves me deeply in return. I want—"
"But what's love got to do with it?" he idiotically asked, and you had to idiotically explain yourself that sex wasn't just a basal craving to take care of for you. But then again, in retrospect, this was no jest. This was no coy game of chess. He was "real", and you realized that whatever you and David Webster had, this was his first time with something you considered readily understood by the masses.
This was his first time agreeing to all of your conditions, and in a blown-out foxhole, he pondered over a dying cigarette. He could go without sex for a while, but every unmet aspect of his appetite was in full force. It had been a long while without your body eagerly taking him in, and the urge to kill the coil building up in his gut occupied his mind more so than the primal need to see dead bodies stacked at the other end of his barrel.
The way you clung to him, clawed desperately at his back, as he drove into you over and over again. The crescendo of your voice, how you called for "Web" over and over and over again. He could see the imprints of his hands on your skin and your glossy eyes. Over and over and over and over again. Again and again and again. Cigarettes. Coffee. Blood and guts and foxholes and dirt and day after day, night after night. Rutting into his own hand until he shot nothing but blanks but never satiating that grandiose hunger that kept him awake in the dark.
Liebgott sardonically told him that he'd buy him a lady; maybe that'd "get the stick outta his ass" the way he took the bit and was more prone to entertain a fistfight. "What's love got to do with it?" didn't fly, however. So he abstained. He abstained while the other joes went and got filthy with their own needs, and he sat in damp mud with a cheap bottle of booze and his own ass, his book of choice unread and ignored. To fuck his own hand or to not fuck his own hand? Aye, now that was the rub. Except, he couldn't bare to do anymore rubbing, and no fucking, and lacked mental fortitude to subdue the lust settling into the hard lines of his jaw.
So he wrote. If he couldn't read worth a damn, he'd write. So he wrote and wrote and wrote the most sinful things he'd ever written. Surprised him, really, the creative genius he apparently had; God help him if leadership or one of those German officers found out what debauchery he created on paper. Would he be burned at the stake or shot immediately? Who knew. What he did know was how ink told tales of how he took you, where he took you, how long he took you. How you pushed him down and took him, fast and hard, slow and deep, rocking into him while you carved your pretty nails down his heaving belly. Not a single drop of his spend going to waste.
He wrote and wrote and wrote, and he gave no fucks about sending his depravities back to you. He knew his officers read every single dirty thing he wanted to do to you in his letters; he didn't give a shit when Captain Winters kept on leveling uncomfortable gazes at him or the knowing stares from Captain Nixon. They knew what he wanted, and all he wanted was to fucking bust, but he couldn't have that reality here in this blown-up foxhole, could he? If he had to suffer, than everyone had to suffer.
Hope the brass enjoyed his Harvard education during mail inspection. Hope you enjoyed his last episode he penned you. The Kama Sutra was one of his favorite literary works, and he expressed in full detail which positions piqued his interest. Did you also know he liked to draw? And how creative he could be when it came to your body? Well, now you knew. Now, you knew.
Don Malarkey x Reader
"The Don! My man, you still pent up—"
"Bill, you open that goddamned mouth, you're not gonna be able to close your gob for two weeks straight."
"O-Okay, Man. Wow. Looks like nothing's changed. All right, Buddy. I'll keep you in my prayers. Relax."
Everyone knew to keep their traps shut, but Guarnere really never minded any warnings; he ran towards them, just like how he ran back to antagonize a very frustrated Donald George Malarkey, who was apparently more prone to eating his cigarette than smoking it from how aggressively he chewed on the stick. All Don wanted was to be left alone to nurse his shitty beer and smoke in peace.
All he wanted was to see you. All neatened up. Or shabby. He didn't give a shit. He wanted to see you, but you weren't here at the bar, and he was burning.
You weren't here to tease his ears with your voice, like you ghosted your fingertips across his cheek. You weren't here in town. You weren't there at the fountain. You weren't there shopping for groceries, a time where he could smoothly steal a kiss or two behind the baker's stall.
And then you were there to smile at him ever so sweetly. Play with his hair, the shiny pins on his uniform, milking the desperation out of his propriety when he asked you if he could buy you a drink. Of course, you'd say yes. Of course, you'd let him hold you close, swing you around on that merry dance floor when the boys were able to get time off. Grin at him. Call him your cute Donnie. Make that hushed, delicious purr that drove him crazy when he dipped you low.
And when the two of you were alone, and he was kissing you and devouring the column of your throat, you'd let him. Yes. You in his lap, on that couch, kissing and touching and your ass grinding down on him, grabbing onto the lapels of his army greens. Yes. Finally. Months on end, and you'd teased him like the Cheshire cat. But months on end was worth it for this particular now, and if you kept on gyrating on him like that, say your prayers for your clothes at how fast he was divesting them from you—
Save your prayers for him, because after one last definitive grind, you got up for no good reason, gave him a chaste kiss, and walked out the door like nothing happened. You had him dumbfounded at how he just sat there in shock before realizing that this game of cat and mouse was still in progress.
You weren't the villain if he was a most willing participant, however. He loved the chase as much as you did, no matter how frustrated the end result turned out to be. He loved the mischievous sparkle in your eyes as you accidentally ground up on him in the crowded bar and your masterful escape attempts and how he pursued hotly at your heels and the way you just knew how to play that hungry dog in him eager for the hunt and—
And, and, and! And was how he was sitting there hungrily alone that night, watching the partygoers sate their own needs while he waited for you with baited breath. Waiting and watching, always for the flitter of your hair and clothing. Waiting for his devious mouse to poke its head out for a cat that'd do anything to be devoured.
Based on these headcanons welcome to the story of Clegan and Webgott parent best friends!
•Taking place in sunny San Diego, John is splitting his time. Hes embraced being a stay at home dad when he’s not on base. He had done two and a half tours in Iraq, when he got back home he didn’t want to give it up. Hell, he himself had gone to Top Gun. Now he was just Naval aviation instructor at the base, teaching young pilots how to fly and in-formation, some basic dog fighting. Nothing special like Top Gun though, is what he always says, when people ask.
•Gale is the Navy wife, San Diego? Cheyanne? Manitowoc? He didn’t care where they were he just wanted to be with John. But they had made their home here now. He’s a library director at the county library, he bakes, and he’s a full time mom and Bucky wrangler.
•Lieb, similar to John, had a career in the military. He did two tours in the 101st, essentially coming to an end when he messed up his knee after a helicopter crash. He had lost part of his unit and had to pull his Major out of the wreckage. When he got back San Francisco just didn’t feel right. Nothing did, he couldn’t adjust and everything felt threatening. Bingers he went until he met Web at a bar. They hit it off and something in him flipped. The more he went on dates with this guy and spent time with him he could distract himself from the intense feelings. It then gave him a purpose to really seek out help. After he got sober and him and Web got serious. They decided maybe a change of scenery is what they needed.
•Perfect timing and a job opened up researching marine life at San Diego State uni. Web applied and interviewed the two of them holding their hands tight as Web awaited the news. They were really holding out for the news he got the job. They had found the perfect loft apartment and everything. Come Monday when he got the call he had gotten the job they started packing.
•John and Gale have been married since 2014. they have an adopted daughter named Louisa but they call her Lou. She’s their entire world, Johns got her convinced to become a pilot someday. When Lou gets to go to work Gale if he has a meeting, she’ll spend the entire time looking at books about planes. She knows where all of them in the library are located.
•Gales favorite mental image is of John and Lou sitting on the floor of the library. Book in John’s lap, Lou next to him peering over. John’s telling Lou about all the different kinds of military aviation devices there is.
•John, although thousands of miles from Americas dairyland. Will not forget his Wisconsin dad mannerisms. Him and Lieb stand in the driveway together and drink and talk multiple times a week. John’s usually grilling something, they have the garage fridge that’s stocked full of bud light and diet come. (And some juice pouches for the girls.). He still has his midwestern accent, “you tell ya folks I says hi.” “bAg.” “Go packers and fuck da bears.” Gale is cringing everytime the accent comes out and plays. Gale ALSO hates the Midwest goodbyes, John’s a life long pro at them.
• “John let’s go you’ve said bye four times now.”
• “Wait a minute! Chick is fetching me his mom’s bread recipe!”
•This is how John gets his call sign Badger.
•He tells them that his call sign should just be Bucky. But Curt and the other guys have other thoughts. So, they start calling him Badger, well like, Bucky Badger. The states mascot. So, it stuck.
•Curt was John’s wingman until during their third tour Curt crashed. He lost his leg, lost his other best friend and back seater Dicky. Curt lore to come later!
•Web and Lieb have their daughter, Thalia through surrogacy from one of Joes sisters. Thalia is a lot like Lieb, hot headed, doesn’t think before she does, and has that Liebgott sass. She’s gotten herself into trouble a few time, as we know now, using that attitude. But she does carry some Webster in her, other than her Carmel curls just like Webs, she also loved books, She really likes writing stories in her journal.
•When Thalia was younger Lieb broke out his old guitar and tuned it. He would play and sing for her all the time. It would calm her down and he would sing her to sleep sometimes. Although he’d never admit that he sings.
•Curt and Lieb go to the same veterans support group at the VA together. Curt’s quickly became Thalias uncle too. Everyone loves Uncle Curt and his cool stories.
•Web and Lieb are just so happy together :)) even when Lieb is being a little shit and poking fun at him. Or when Web goes out on that damn boat that he knows Lieb hates. At the end of the day Web lets Lieb wrestle him for kisses in bed.
Sexually Frustrated Headcanons with Joe Toye x Reader, Joe Liebgott x Reader, Frank Perconte x Reader, and Eugene Roe x Reader
tw// mdni, adult content, sexual content
[PROMPT] Whatever the reason for the sexual frustration, the men aren't going to be okay with having blue balls forever. 🔵 😂
UPDATE: Part 2 of this trope is here. Part 3 is here. Part 4 is here. Part 5 is here. Part 6 is here.
Joe Toye x Reader
He was a strained wire about to snap.
Bad mood all around. Wasn't afraid to shoot the messenger (poor Malark). The hell you mean Captain Winters wanted everyone back for sudden formation? He thought they had the fuckin' night off?
He was dragged away from you and the wicked things you were doing to him. It had been a while since he'd seen you, and as soon as you folded into his arms, apologies for your neat appearance, but he was going to ruin the hell out of it.
Don't worry, though. He'll pay for whatever and however you wanted to get yourself fixed back up. But first...
You were playing mad tricks on him. Pushing him back slowly onto the bed of the hotel; unusual, as he mostly took the lead, but he wasn't complaining. He'd obeyed you with a knowing smirk, divesting himself of his jacket and shirt, locking his eyes with you the whole time as he undressed himself. Belt: you took from him with a playful smile, earning a wolfish grin in response. Pants, underwear, socks and boots: Gone. He was as naked as day, standing with all the sure confidence in the world as he waited to see what you would do next.
You'd kissed all over him, rubbing up and down on his body with a purr, using his closed eyes as a time to fasten the belt around his wrists and headboard. He'd fixed you with a cautious look, snorting as he tipped his head towards you to do your worst. And you did, knowing that your Joseph wasn't the most patient man in the world, and you sure as hell did move slow. Slowly grinding down onto him from up top. Moving your body front to back, chastising him when he attempted to grind up into you.
"You wanna torture me all night, or what?" You lightly raked your nails down groin. "Oh, fuck, that shit's good—"
And then had come Malark's insistent pounding on the door, quickly alerting him that Captain Winters needed everyone as soon as possible. Bastard didn't stick around for an ass-kicking, but he sure got the Toye attitude by the time Joe had made it back to camp. This shit had better be important. He hand't seen you in weeks, and a starved man could only survive on prayers and magazines for so long.
"I wanted to call everyone here because Colonel Sink has graced us with a visit. What a great night for a team-building activity—"
That night, Joe had nearly murdered everyone at the mandatory night of "fun." He'd had a bastard laying on his back flat in less than a second when it came to wrestling. Tug-of-war? Give him a fuckin' break. All his bad attitude had the game ending quickly with some quick pulls where he put his whole body into it. And the race? Nobody realized Joe should've been a track athlete at the way he mad-sprinted to the finish line.
"OK, holy shit, man, just fuckin' go." Heffron had pushed him out, along with Tab, to get back to you. They'll come up with some bullshit excuse about how Sergeant Toye went too hard in the previous activities and got sick.
Well, he technically was sick. Sick in the balls the way he took off without a word and ran out of the camp. There was no cab running at this time with the curfews, but he didn't give a damn. His junior was going to go into arrest, and it was already making itself known as he recalled your soft skin and saucy smile. He ran like a crazed man all the way back to town, three miles up, three miles down. By the time he reached the door of your room, he was sporting a full that miraculously stayed despite his mad dash.
"Welcome back, Joe," you'd laughed as he swept your legs into his arms, gasping as he ground his sex into yours. "Welcome back."
Joe Liebgott x Reader
If he had to suffer, everyone was going to suffer.
"Holy fuck, man. Go fuckin' jerk off or some shit. You're mad unbearable." Guarnere shrugged off the fight and spat red, wiping blood off of his lip as he stalked off. Joe moved his jaw from side to side after the last nasty punch the other man gave him. Damn, that bastard always had a mean right hook. He'd probably have to have Doc Roe take a look at his shiner later on. He could already feel his right eye turning purple.
The joys of strained testosterone. Joe was antsy and tough to be around. Fights were easily started and had. He was quick to snap and tolerated absolutely zero bullshit, even making Webster shut up. And everyone knew the cause. Lieb, especially.
"Due to the recent civilian unrest, there will be no leaves granted. All leaves are suspended until further notice." Lieutenant Speirs' words were damning. All the men had voiced their complaints, but they could take that shit. Booze would be brought to the camp. Crates of Titter mags, too. And it wasn't like the ladies of the night ever kept away from the camps, anyway. The joes would be fine. Not as fun as hitting the bars in town, but they'll live.
Joe, however? No, he wouldn't. Couldn't. No leave. No seeing you. He'd just gotten a letter back from you stating that you were in France now and were waiting for him; how you missed him, how you dreamed of him every night and worried about him.
How you couldn't wait to have him do the things he said he would in his letters. Did he touch himself, too, the way you did? Did he really mean for you to be both to be trapped in bed, all day, and all night, acting out everything in your fantasies? Would he wait for you, knowing the type of man that he was?
Well he did. He fuckin' did. He may have been a piece of shit sleeze with his jock in the past, but he was serious about you. One and done wasn't a thing. Shit, he didn't even get off using any of the mags Guarnere kept punting in his face. Forget young, dumb, and full of cum. He was old, aggressive, and about to bust out a hose if his balls were to remain forever swollen.
"Buddy, I know what you're thinking, and I don't think going AWOL is the best move." Easy for Tab to say, with a leggy blonde chittering nonsense into his ear that night. Liebgott was going to goddamned run to France for the weekend on foot if this shit was going to last long enough for you to go back to England. Crawl through barbed wire. Weave through German lines. Whatever. Anything to see your face.
"I agree. I don't think that's a good idea, Joey."
That voice. Yours. At that tone, at that lovely, lovely fucking voice. He thought he died when he turned from running loose to see your shy smile. Must've hit his head too hard when you walked up to him, cupping his cheek while a smug Webster stood in the back saying some bullshit about Liebgott owing him a big one. He barely overcame his shock until you gently kissed him.
And then all the frustration, longing, hunger, and ravenous glee had him take charge of the kiss, pulling you flush against him while those who were in the know cheered and raised their mugs full of booze. He ran his fingers through your hair, spanning the width of your hips, feeling no embarrassment in cupping your rear. An exasperated exclamation of "showoff" came from Guarnere, but he paid it no mind. After all, when he finally gave you room to breathe, it was his hand holding yours, pulling you straight to much needed privacy.
Any joe with half a brain knew to keep out of the barracks until morning.
Frank Perconte x Reader
"You brush your teeth any harder, and you're not gonna have any fuckin' teeth left," Heffron stated, fixing him with a pointed look at the intense manner in which Perco was brushing his teeth. Frank couldn't give a shit. however. He was beyond giving shits. He was beyond dealing with all this fuckin' shit, really. Only thing that kept him sane right now was his rigid hygiene regimen, and he was barely getting through it unless he put extra zeal in it. So what if he brushed too hard or was insufferable because he spent extra time in the showers to scrub his body more than usual? Let a man live. Hell if he knew how long he was going to survive.
Hell if he knew how long until you were going to come back. And when you came back, would you continue where you left off? Or would you continue to let him burn, only to give him saucy looks that lingered too long? Play with his hair, sit too close to him, act all innocent even though you knew exactly what you were doing?
May the Father forgive him, because a man could only choke his chicken for so long. The thoughts he had were dangerous. Not like Frank Perconte. Not nice boy thoughts. No rosary would redeem his sorry ass.
You'd be at his will, at his mercy. All the times you teased him, pushed your ass into his crotch on accident. Yeah, accident, his ass. Well, you bet your ass was going to be pushed into his face, because he intended to be all up in it, tongue and all. Hold you down until you begged. Said sorry. But he wouldn't budge, not one bit. He'd take his time, working you up and over, over and over and over again, way past your supposed limit.
It was the worst idea for him to store all these fantasies in his head, for all the effects they had on his body, on his mind, on his damned prick that refused to have a rest. Even though he had the nastiest thoughts, he was a good boy, at heart. He waited obediently for your return. Maybe that meant he hogged all of the hot water, toothpaste, and soap (especially Guarnere's because he probably thought washing his ass often was too homosexual in nature), but he kept himself in check.
Barely, in check. Barely. He felt awful guilty when he recited prayers with the chaplain about keeping an immaculate heart. There was nothing immaculate about what was going on in his pants and his heart, and nothing immaculate about your return.
Because you did come back. The intelligence mission Captain Nixon sent you on was wrapped up and done, judging by how you sat at the bar that night, amusedly watching Randleman and Martin recalling some baseball matches. You sure did come back in the flesh when you backed him up into the corner of the supply tent hours later. Neither of you were drunk, both completely sober as you nipped and sucked along the expanse of his throat.
"Were you a good boy, Perky?" you breathed against the shell of his ear, working him intentionally with your hand as he gripped onto the ammo crates for dear life. "Did you behave?"
Forget all the things he was going to do to you. All the ways he was going to gain control of the situation and lay it down. He was a complete goner, giving himself over to you fully to do with as you pleased. You could tell him to bark and he'd fuckin' do it. Roll over on his damned stomach to beg for treats. Hell, he might as well wear a collar with your name on it. What the hell was the difference between him and an actual mutt.
If he listened like a good boy, would you finally let him come?
Eugene Roe x Reader
"H-Hey, Doc. Really appreciate your attention, but could you be...Oh, I dunno...a little more gentle?" Guarnere sardonically started, adding an extra touch of salaciousness to his tone to hide his wincing. "It ain't my first time, but it's been a while, you know what I mean—Ah, shit! Fuck, that hurts!"
Every man within earshot of Doc patching Bill up prayed to not cross his path unless it was truly necessary. A grownass man didn't need coddling when it came to a mend, and he sure as hell knew better than to start theatrics with a medic at three a.m.. If Heffron wasn't there to soften Eugene up, the latter would've shut the door when he was requested to play nurse to a drunken soldier's bar fights.
Lesson learned. No bothering Doc. Didn't matter if the person was an officer or enlisted. All except Spina, of course; but trying to stop Spina was like trying to stop the waves of the ocean, and for all his antics, he was a damned good medic. Behind all his clownery, he had a keen sense to not push and prod at whatever was bothering Eugene, so he was safe, in that sense.
No one knew what was bothering Doc Roe, and no one needed to know. He kept it all to himself. He took the mental beatings all to himself, too, when he finally realized how much of a couillon he was. A damned fool. Always too late to notice, too late to make a move.
How damned stupid was he to not realize that you wanted him, too? How much of a fool was he to brush off your gentle advances, only caring about his ego being potentially bruised if he dared to make a move on you, only to be met with rejection?
But what were the odds that you really did like him? Because you did. And he did, too, but he kept that knowledge to himself, thinking you thought of him as an awkward figure who couldn't help but to fix his eyes on you at all times; he was always thick in the head, as Maman said.
Thick in the head, but frail in the heart, especially when you suddenly confessed to him, that you were sorry about all of this, and you ran out of the med bay in mortification when he stood stock still in shock. He should've ran after you harder, told Captain Nixon to kick rocks instead of taking whatever order he was given. Instead, every night since you were reassigned to Fox company, he could only dream.
Dream about your face. Your hair and your expressive eyes, the quirk in your smile, the way you caught his attention from day one with a nifty pair of scissors. Your fortitude to take care of the grunts, your character, favorite foods and wine, how you laughed at his jokes that tasted of ash in his mouth from how nervously he chewed at his cigarette due to your presence.
How much he wanted to kiss you. Hold you. How his fingers ached at not feeling your skin. How, at night, he trembled, tried to suppress the filthy thoughts that generated a hunger most insatiable in his cock.
Would you hate him if he thought of you underneath him, clawing at his back as he drove into you? Would you forgive him if he fisted his dick in the dark, imagining how his mouth would lick and lathe at your chest, at the sinful sounds he'd milk out of you? God, don't tell him to stop loving you, having you, holding you, fucking you like only the two of you existed.
Don't tell him that it's just another morning. Another break of day where he awoke, panting like a bitch in heat, to dirt and broken rubble and the snores of tired men.
Don't tell the others to keep away at his acerbic disposition. They don't need to be told. Never. Don't. He was told Fox and Easy were to meet eventually at an appointed crossing, and if the others only knew how bad his gut twisted at that revelation, they'd never let him live it down.
Because this time, he wouldn't miss. There'd be no hesitation. This time, he'd do things right.
This time, he'd march right on over to you, officers and protocol be damned. There wouldn't need to be a pretense of medics convening at the field hospital. This time, he'd beg in broken French, in the broken English you loved so much, if he had to. This time, he'd be the one to spill his guts, to urge his words to come out, to not only offer his apologetic stares.
This time, he'd show who Eugene really was, not Doc Roe. He'd show you the man you pleaded to see, the man under the mask of militaristic efficiency. He only implored that this time, you could truly handle the nature of the starving man who you made hungry at first sight.
Fulfilling this ask (it's gonna be a multi-chapter fic, not a oneshot, if you don't mind 🫢):
"The little mouse sure has a way with words, I can say that," Lew amusedly stated, taking a drag of his cigarette with an all too apparent grin on his face. "'Are you taking care of your booty meat?' 'Sir, make sure you're eating those yams to protect your plump cheeks?' Fucking hell."
Dick stiffened as his friend laughed out loud, unable to prevent the crimson flush that rapidly escaped from the confines of his face down to the entirety of his body. 0300 had found him face-to-face with a familiar scrap of parchment greeting him in his foxhole, and whatever propriety he had as an officer had lost its reservations when it came to this drawn-out conundrum. The mysterious admirer had struck again. How they did it, he did not know.
But what he did know was that they enjoyed the same sordid humor as Lew, and drew two giant circles, being buttocks, on a smiling stick figure. Which, of course, represented him, Dick Winters. Then there was an arrow, pointing to another stick figure, which this time, was sad, and in place of the giant circles were two melting, drooping ovals.
"That's pretty true, Dick. Your ass has been looking pretty gaunt lately. Might want to ask some of those Belgian farmers if they have any sweet potatoes."
Barely keeping himself from bristling, he sat still as Lew chuckled again, even amidst the freezing cold. Even with the snow pelting and ice eating into his bones, the blush on his skin made its presence known, and his fingers lost their blue. This was the 37th letter he had received from this anonymous heckler, and the next stanza, he could not dare to reveal to his best friend.
He'd have to pry the letter out of his cold, dead body. Which, if this weather didn't stop, along with hot cups of watery coffee, he'd be a popsicle, soon enough. And then Lewis Nixon III can ignore his ice block of a body and read the forbidden words that would actually inspire him to read a book, for once:
But, anyway, this cold didn't STOP ME from looking. Sir, your body is fine as hell, and I rubbed one out AGAIN in tribute to your sexy asscheeks. These wool pants aren't stopping ANYTHING when it comes to your booty poking out. I STAY LOOKING EVERY DAY!!!!!! GOD BLESS your parents for what they created!!!!!
P.S. I notice you tend to eat less when things are tight. Please make sure you eat enough, and take care of yourself.
(And your beautiful booty meat.)
They...Who...Well, then. He supposed he should be livid, alert the company, and stomp this matter to the ground, but he did not. Call it obstinancy. Call it morbid curiosity. Call it anything, but he did not want to alert innocent men about such...behavior and add confusion to the fray.
He had a reputation to uphold, order and discipline, and they were getting closer and closer to the heart of the beast. Such matters would not be wise to bring up for public address. Such matters would not be pertinent to many, because this did not start in the freeze of Belgium, nor in the grass and dirt of France and Holland.
It started in the hot sun in North Carolina, amongst tangled parachutes and the hum and buzz of preparing for Europe. The first which would lead to many in his hands; observations and anecdotes, bawdy relays of what him merely breathing did to them, and strange notes of encouragement. Filthy yet hopeful. Heinous yet reassuring, especially after particular battles that left his soul drained of moving forward.
Somehow these explicit letters kept him putting one boot ahead of the other. Since the first, he'd been making inquiries, observing, determined to get to the bottom of this, but at the same time, there was a languid nature to his investigations.
(If only, on behest of his incorrigible ego, he would wait in silence for one more letter. One more. Another and another and another. Most improper of him, he knew, but it was undeniable that receiving yet another was...all right. Expected. Twisted and beyond reproach, he knew, yet...)
"What's wrong, Dick? Somehow this letter got you speechless, even though it wasn't as bad as the others" was what him break out of his reverie, and he sighed. He regarded Lew with a tired look of exasperation, grim lines setting the hardness of his jaw, and folded the letter deep into his chest pocket.
"Hope you don't mind me eating your share of the sweet potatoes, Lew," he curtly responded, and the other man snorted in incredulity at his unexpected cheek. "I'll need to maintain as much of my wasting 'booty meat', after all."
His friend rolled his eyes before he tossed him his flask, and he unscrewed the top off and took a long pull. Richard Davis Winters did not smoke, nor did he drink. Captain Dick Winters did not smoke, nor did he drink. Yet, he did here, and he did so only in front of Lewis Nixon III, who flashed him a mutinous set of teeth at his deep swigs of Vat 69.
Bullets and blood had made their marks, but not as much as the letters. The haunting shadow of his admirer was ironically what him survive to freeze out in a time and place he didn't think he'd experience. He settled his head back against the hard cold of the earth and closed his eyes.
He'd find out who they were, one way or another. If only to justify the amused grin he hid under the cover of his helmet, unable to vocalize the macabre enjoyment he had from the monotony of warfare.
Dear Sir,
I wonder if you're ever curious enough to find out who I am? Or do you ignore me? Either way, I hope you keep your beautiful body warm. I found out that some of your socks had holes in them, so I stitched them up. Wearing them would fill me with joy.
Could you please wave your foot out in the open so I can confirm? Also, that is a very impressive shoe size that you have. Nice toes.
Always watching,
Your faithful admirer
P.S. I hope you don't mind me taking a pair for myself. Don't worry. I promise to take good care of them. They will be my greatest treasures.
the Ron speirs head cannons just made me orgasm , we need some more twin for the people ovulating
Yesssssss 🥴 No fucks given. Straight up hands it to him in front of anyone around and they're like???? 😭😳💀💀💀 but also 🥵👀🔥? And stoically, like it's nothing, he accepts his naughty gift.
Because you're gonna get it later. You're gonna get it, and he's not gonna go easy.
Gonna expand on this, which also fulfills this ask, as well, albeit as Ron Speirs x Female Reader:
Previous Easy Company Sexually Frustrated Headcanons Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 5| 6. Yes, this part 4 is all about Ronnie. 😂
tw// mdni (18+), adult content, sexual content, freakiness with female reader's underwear
Sexually Frustrated Headcanons with Ron Speirs x Female Reader, Female Reader pushing it with her panties as a gift edition:
Yeah, you were insane. Completely insane the way you cheekily grinned as you strode up to Lieutenant Speirs. Stopped right in front of him, eagerly waiting with your hands behind your back and a persistent tapping of your foot on the wooden floor. There were no fucks given about what you were about to do in front of the crowd.
Captain Nixon and Winters had nodded at you before returning back to their conversation regarding the next battlefront. Lieutenant Welsh was already in good spirits, as always, chugging down some provisioned port. Lieutenant Compton was buried in some baseball magazine that he snuck in on the last supply run. There left the mad dog and his former first sergeant turned lieutenant, the two of them in hushed banter over schnapps like they always preferred to do when the officers were convened before the next company address.
It was Lieutenant Lipton who saw you first and said hello. You knew Ron could sense you miles away, and you knew that he already knew that some devious play was going to happen in the way he didn't immediately turn to see you. You nearly exploded up into the ceiling with excitement by the time he sighed and leveled you with a look. The look was stoic and calculating, just like the usual whenever your audacious grin came forth on a quiet afternoon.
"I have a gift for you, Ronnie" was the first thing out of your mouth. You were supposed to tell him to close his eyes and wait for it, but you had zero patience, so before he could respond, you whipped out the ridiculous gift.
"Do you like it?"
You nearly peed yourself from laughter at seeing everyone's reactions, especially poor Lieutenant Lipton's. Lieutenant Compton looked at you like he was tired of life, in general. Captain Nixon looked wholeheartedly amused, putting down his whisky glass to lean forward and see the drama unfold. Captain Winters turned beet red and was about to lay out his reproach, but Captain Nixon stopped him and mouthed for him to watch the show. Lieutenant Welsh was grinning even harder than you were. Lieutenant Lipton turned red, similarly to Captain Winters, and stared in mute silence with his wide eyes and parted mouth.
Your Ronnie quirked a single brow. You eagerly held out your gift even more. Obnoxious lacey panties, bright pink and clearly worn. It was a piece worn not by the average woman, and even, daresay, by many working ladies of the night. They were gaudy and extreme in this backdrop of green and black amongst wood, and utterly scandalous.
Too bad there was ultimately no show. Lieutenant Speirs flicked his gaze to the garment before looking at you with a neutral expression. And then he pocketed your gift without a word. Captain Winters looked like he was going to throw himself off of a bridge. Captain Nixon and Lieutenant Welsh snorted but couldn't help to grin provocatively. Lieutenant Compton still didn't look up from his magazine, except to glare at Captain Nixon for the hundredth time.
Poor Lieutenant Lipton. He stared in shock at his superior nabbing the lingerie like it was nothing. Fine jewelry, gold and silver, stolen weapons, he found no fault in. But cotton and lace from an enthusiastic giver? Well, that was another story. He looked adorable, really, gaping like a fish and furrowing his brow in confusion.
Thus, the reaction from your Ronnie should've been glorious. But it wasn't. It was as if you handed him another piece of paperwork to process. You frowned. Then again, he took it, so he wasn't complaining, was he? That was the thing, though: He could've at least complained or said something. You felt daringly bratty today, solidifying how you two were the unbearable "freaks" of Battalion HQ. But, alas, no cigar.
Irritated, you harrumphed and then sped outside. Looked like he was too busy entertaining his darling, little lieutenant. Whatever. You could always go bitch at his darling sergeant, Chuck Grant. The Californian blondie was always patient when it came to your drama, and thus, you made up your mind to waste your afternoon away by binge-eating chocolate stolen from Luz and rant. Too bad for Ronald Speirs, then. Idiot.
Too bad, indeed. Because you missed the dark intensity of his gaze, the flicker of his eyes resting on your retreating back in resolute hunger. A dog tracking every subtle movement of his prey making its flight. He looked. Calculated. Didn't bother to hide his intentions from Carwood, and by now, Lip should've already known what kind of man his own lieutenant was. The hunt was on, and heat rapidly rushed throughout his body at seeing intense resolution bracketing the lines of Ron Speirs' shoulders.
But that was a story for another time.
The hunt was on, and by the time you knew you had a target on your back, he was the one to fill you with absolute hunger. You could feel him, see him, stalk you, measuring your steps and having you turning to see him look at you. All day. All afternoon. He was there where you were.
He was there to level you with intent, dark eyes boring into you with testimonies of what exactly he planned to do to you when he got the opportunity to have you. Everywhere you went you saw scenario after scenario reflected in his gaze. Face down, ass up. His rough hand on your throat while he toyed with your clit. Legs wrapped around his waist as he rutted into you on top of Captain Winters' desk. Again and again and again and again until you were screeching for mercy and marking up his back. Uncaring of who saw or who heard what. The true freaks of the battalion, breaking the chains around each other's dog tags with every coupling.
He had your own fangs protruding, salivating by the time evening came. He had you groaning when Captain Nixon informed you that you were to be out on a mission to gather intel, and there'd be no way for you to sink your teeth into Ron's skin tonight. No way to sate that appetite in your womb that clenched at the last scene he left you with.
His hand on Lieutenant Lipton's shoulder from slightly behind, watching as you tried to pretend that he wasn't there as Captain Winters spoke about the upcoming move to the next location. They were slightly drumming on the solid surface. Lieutenant Lipton looked like he had his own pretending to do, attempting to mind his own business. The both of you were at his whim. The both of you nearly lost yourselves when he pulled your lacey panties out of his chest pocket and gave it a lengthy regard. And without any hesitation, he brought the garment up to his nose and took a deep sniff.
You almost blacked out when he rearranged it so that the gusset was on top and settled his mouth on its surface. He gave it an amused suck, and if it weren't for Lieutenant Welsh who suddenly appeared behind you, you would've launched yourself at him, bowled over poor Lip, and started ripping his uniform off so that the two of you could fuck like rabbits.
Oh, he loved it. He fucking loved it. The way his eyelids fluttered shut before he locked his vision on you, Lipton was your Welsh and the last bulwark from him pulling you flush against his body and taking you then and there out in the open. Like dogs. Like a man starved of his woman, and the only regret you had was not giving him those panties after wearing them for longer.
The only regret for Ron...Well, he had no regrets. He had plans. Time was on his side for far too long, and a hungry hound didn't mind gnawing at scraps until it had its full meal. Time meant him alone, the dim candle burning and paperwork abandoned. Pink cotton and lace on his calloused palm, displayed in all of its glory.
He hungered. The panties were an appetizer. They'd be good for now, but the raw need to bury his cock in you gnawed at him. The wait seemed far too long. He inhaled as much of your scent as he could, breathed in your musk until he salivated. Your personal freak of a dog Ronald Speirs, lathing and sucking out every drop of juice out of the lace. The smell and taste was intoxicating, and he'd gladly drown in your essence if he could.
He wondered if you were doing what he was doing. Did you starve as much as he did? You most likely did. He was astute enough to notice that one of his undershirts and boxers had gone missing. The undershirt you'd wear, something you found comforting when either of you had to part ways. The underwear taken, however, was a shame. All of his laundry had gone to the wash, and you'd taken a clean pair. You were his personal freak of a a dog, too, and you wouldn't have hesitated to have taken his most recently worn pair.
You wouldn't have hesitated to do what he was doing, using soaked undergarments to quell the roar of blood in his loins. Using spit and imagination like every other damned grunt. These pink panties he'd bought for you as part of contraband while stationed in France. You'd modeled them for him in some blown-out building, and he'd blown-out your back as soon as he saw the curve of your sex and ass in the fabric. Tore that poor thing right up. So he bought you another one. They were your favorite, too, so you said Ronnie no ripping. And Ronnie listened, bought you different cuts and colors of lace and satin and cotton, and ripped up and devoured a good deal of them, sparing the pink ones only because you'd sucked the living hell out of him whenever you wore them. You wouldn't have hesitated to model them for him again, and he wouldn't have hesitated to strip right down and model how he felt about you with his hands.
Just like how he was doing now. Thinking of you split wide open on his cock, screaming his name over and over while he worked that same cock in deliberate strokes. He wrapped the panties around his shaft, and he allowed depravity in his mind to reign supreme in helping him get off. You had a matching bra, as well, and there was no doubt that you were wearing it. Gorgeous bra cupping those gorgeous tits, and he wondered if you were doing what his hands would do when it came to your breasts.
He licked and lathed and pumped and finished all over his hand and your panties. Not once, not twice, but at least four times, and he still fisted at his cock that strained for attention. It strained for the real deal, perspiration sliding down his Adam's apple, and it ached for the real deal.
He could do nothing but wonder and attempt to dampen—Well, it was all futile, really. No use. Time was on his side for far too much and far too long, and waiting was adding fuel to the fire. Hands on his cock, eyes on your lace panties, 0300 fatigue settling into his bones, and yet, he couldn't sleep a wink.
Because his mind raced. Pink. Dogtags. Skin on skin. The scent and taste of an eager woman. Panties. In his bed or out where the sky was the ceiling. You and him and the both of you fucking like it was the end of the world. He thought of him laying into you and swallowing your moans with his eager mouth. He thought of how you'd clamp one leg around and push into his backside, and he'd roll around so that you were on top and riding him, using him for your own benefit. And you'd chant his name like a litany as you came, and Ron Speirs could imagine that blood didn't end up under his fingernails and he didn't know what it meant to take another man's life. Euphoria. Numbness flooding every last cell of his body, and he was somewhere back in genteel society and not war-torn Europe where only the most feral dogs could survive.
But until then, he burned. Until you walked through that door, he ached and strained and watched in a lull at your lace undergarments wrapped tightly around his dick. There was no reprieve. No quenching the heat radiating off of his body. He'd given you plenty of warnings through his eyes alone, and you'd given him looks that made him aware of your own hunger that roared to life.
Now tell him: Were you doing the same debauched things that he was doing? (And when you came back, would you do it again so he could watch?)
[PROMPT] A mysterious admirer is sending Dick Winters scandalous letters, while at the same time, he fights his affections for you (or not).
tw// mdni (18+), adult content, sexual content
Dear Sir,
How are you today? I noticed that you didn't eat three potatoes today. You ate two. You also drank three extra cups of coffee. I would ask if everything is okay, but this is war, after all.
Yesterday, when you went out for your run, and you did pull-ups at that tree you like to train with so much, I was glad I forced myself to wake up at 0300. I had my binoculars on the ready, zoomed in.
I wonder if that fiery hair up top is the same on the bottom? I'd like a reply back, if yes, but I'll be content with fantasizing that it's true. What would it feel like if I run my fingers through your hair? What would it be like to have my lips on those hairs around your cock?
A person can dream.
Always watching,
Your faithful admirer.
"You want my help."
"I don't want your help."
"You want it, Dick."
"...Lew, I do not need your help. No, thank you."
To dampen his bristling was to be met with amusement. Another letter, another lie that all was well, and another morning off from Colonel Sink after another victory against the Germans. There, his challenger lay, propped up on one arm, the other nursing a dram of whiskey, watching him in dry humor while he clamped down on the flush that threatened to spill over from his collar to his face.
He didn't need to flash the letter to Lew for the other to note that this wasn't some heartwarming letter from home to stick in some family-friendly museum as a wartime artifact. It was a scarlet letter delivered right on top of his pillow. How the perpetrator managed to infiltrate his quarters without a sliver of evidence was mind-blowing.
Besides the contents of the letter, of course.
"Oh, I don't know, Dick," his friend lazily responded, downing his shot of liquor before flopping down on his pillow. Lew wasn't even dressed properly, and wasted all day in his bed, the evening come upon them. "One might think you want this mascarade to continue for much longer."
Dick frowned. "Is that Italian?"
"French, Richard."
"Since when did you care about speaking French?"
'It helps that there were French ladies all around us. And our little vacation to Paris. If you actually took the time to entertain some of them, you'd pick up on more than a few words."
Well, he didn't care to, so he did not respond in turn. He hastily tucked the letter into the pocket of his jacket, and attempted to concentrate on the new op orders received. Word after word, page after page: All was naught but jumbled letters, invariably realigning to form those that haunted him.
They liked his hair. Fiery hair. They wanted to see if the top matched with the bottom, skin on skin, fingers touching him in places he dared not mention in polite company, much less to himself.
"You're thinking about it."
Damn it all to hell.
"I'm not thinking about it."
"You are."
"Lew, I'm not."
"You're thinking about it. So much so, in fact, that you didn't even deny what the it is."
"Lew."
The whisky was finished, decanter abandoned on the sheets, and his now adversary amusedly regarded him with all the time in the world. "Dick, my good man, lying was never your strong suit. Building a narrative, yes, but outright denial: God forbid if you ever went to an ivy college. You'd even fool me."
"I didn't."
"And that's precisely why you sit here, tucking the letter into your person, instead of burning it with the rest of said offending letters?"
Not a second later, he vacated the premise and hastened his stride towards the main villa that acted as a temporary base of operations. He'd rather drown himself in paperwork than play victim to his friend's interrogation, and when it came to Lewis Nixon III, he was always bound to be found guilty.
Because he knew that was the truth. He didn't discard a single one. He kept them all, and he must've lost all of his sanity to bring letters delivered on Georgian soil to Europe. The new addition would go into his ruck, just like all of the rest, and the neat calligraphy would invade his dreams, even in the cold and snow.
Just like your face.
"Sergeant?"
You were surprised, peeking up at him suddenly, interrupted in your conversation with Floyd Talbert, whose gaze seemed strange.
Just like an inkling that nurtured itself into its full form, even though it should never have been able to. An ugly feeling when he saw the other man at such close proximity. What were his words, his whispers? You didn't seem to mind when his body was positioned to nearly cocooning you in between one of the many shelves in the library. The two of you looked surprise, but there was not a shred of guilt.
Should there have been? And for what? He was the one guilty, unless the tiniest bit of suggestiveness was what little distance the two of you had with each other. Fraternization.
And what of the dirty letters? A collection derived from entertaining an admirer gone past the point of propriety. Such guilt was more incriminating than the hallucination he imposed on you both.
The madness and paranoia—the hunger—drove his mind to utter ruins, it seemed.
"S-Sir?" you hesitantly asked, and it was only then that Talbert's body angled itself sideways so you were in full view. "Did you need anything?"
He needed to blast these damned letters and blast these strange sentiments and blast the most dreadful feeling at seeing Floyd Talbert asserting himself in front of you.
And yet, he didn't seem to condemn whatever sensibilities he had of you.
Of himself in relation to you.
"Sir."
The war front could be the only explanation for his muddled sense of moral compass.
"No need for address. I see that..." He wished not to see. "The two of you are...busy."
What a coward. He hastened past the two of you to the other side of the room, obscuring himself in between the most droll of reading material and logistical reports. A fair distance away, where he was far away enough for the conversation to resume, albeit still hushed. He spent his time idling away, childishly attempting to eavesdrop on the quiet, broken banter, and not a shred of logic was spent filling out any paperwork.
"—and you could spend leave with Chuck and I. Promise Babe will not be there. Shortstack won't even see you get in the jeep, I swear."
"Oh, I dunno, Tabby. Captain Nixon might need me. I don't wanna go too far."
"C'mon, Cookie. It'll be fun. What's better than spending time with Blondie Boy and Bunny Duck?"
Such nicknames! Dick nearly choked on air, and he grit his teeth at shuffling the papers too loudly when the talk abruptly ceased. It was just that the entire ordeal was a surprise, and utter incredulity was the least of what he felt. At what exactly, was the premise, but he should currently get back to the monotonous sounds of boring administrative tasks.
Or, at least, try to be less obvious with his audience. More writing, more monotonous shuffling. Monotonous sitting.
Not ever monotonous listening.
He wasn't spying. He just happened to be there, and an officer was still an officer and had to extend a watchful eye over all persons of the company.
Right.
"—seems okay..."
His ears perked; he shouldn't be eavesdropping, but he did. Because when it came to you, eavesdropping unfortunately was the least he found himself doing. It was wrong. He knew. He shouldn't be thinking about your mindful manners, the pleasing tone of your voice, your face, your brevity when messages had to be delivered to the HHC under hellfire, your tactile observations that gave Lew an edge when it came to analyses.
An ugly ichor festering low in his gut when he remembered Floyd Talbert leaning towards you, and...what? Did he expect you to save your graces and straighten out when he came by? What business you had, especially when not on the clock, was none of his to mind. But, alas, his greed got the better of him, and had his ears itching.
"Chuck's the best driver around. We'll have fun. You'll see."
Dick swallowed. Ichor and jealousy. The letters and Floyd Talbert and his propensity to win over every woman. Paperwork. His reprieve in the library was no reprieve, at all. His mind was still a jumbled mess of thoughts, and seeing Lew's all too knowing smirk wasn't something he wanted to revisit right now. Nevertheless, he couldn't bear to stay here.
He left as soon as he came. The letters seemed to weigh heavier in his pocket than before.
Sexually Frustrated Headcanons with Dick Winters x Reader
[FANDOM] Band of Brothers
[PAIRING] Dick Winters x Reader
[PROMPT] Fulfilling a very special friend's request. 😁 (Consider this part 5 in the Sexually Frustrated Headcanons series. Previous parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4| 6)
tw// mdni (18+), adult content, sexual content, plays on Dick's religiosity, Dick's PoV, blurring the lines with some Lewis Nixon
A true warrior must reconcile with his nature and overcome his ravenous maw eager to fulfill its gluttony. Whether for food, wealth, power, or intimate relations, overindulgence and instant gratification can easily destroy a man with one careless slip. If all is too much, it is not foolish for a man who cannot actively rein in his desire to flee. Better for him to abandon temptation than it is to needlessly fight—
"I might need to buy you a box of pens for Christmas, my man," Lew languidly stated, and Dick knew those eyes watching him already knew what plagued him to snap his twelfth nib this very week. "Who knew you were so passionate about writing those reports Sink nags us about."
They weren't reports that Major Richard Davis Winters was writing. Captain Lewis Nixon knew that. Lieutenant Welsh did, as well, and he wouldn't put it past the hound in the shadows to know, either. He was writing for the sake of writing, writing to hone in his failing restraint, and he didn't know whether to thank or scrutinize the hound from accompanying you to Battalion HQ to present the newest reports.
He didn't doubt Captain Speirs did it unintentionally. But then again, you were doing things very intentionally. Very, very intentionally, and if that saucy grin you gave him before leaving indicated anything else, he would've tossed his restraints, marched right up to you, and whisked you away to his quarters to see just how intentional he could be.
If and when, if and when. It should've been more if than when, but when it came to you, he was more of a carnal man than the monastic monk he acclaimed to be. A hypocrite.
It was better to flee temptation, was his stoic wisdom, but why did it feel like utter hell when you were the one who fled his ravenous maw?
He'd run five miles, done a couple hundred squats, sit-ups, and push-ups, meditated, and prayed before he bathed. Before he was back to where he was mentally, and it did seem that the plague couldn't be rid of so easily, no matter how many verses he read out of the Bible.
Before he was back under your inspection. A major standing at attention for an impish member of the enlisted. Lew's favorite pet, and you weren't afraid of yielding that power. You were sporting that dastardly grin that made him forget morality as you circled around him like a shark out for blood. And when your hand settled on his abdomen, he couldn't help the quiver that ran through the length of him.
For a major had a major part of him standing at attention, and no about-face was going to spare him when you fingers toyed with the elastic of his boxers.
And then right over the part that betrayed him the most.
Words should've come out, but they didn't. His breath left him as much as his consternation, because you smoothed your fingers down the length of him, and damn it all to hell at how useless reading Meditations and Enchiridion was. There were no thoughts of discipline. No enforcement of warrior values or valor or mastering the mind of man. There was only the raw need to rut into your hand like a godless heathen, and you made it so that he could do nothing else.
But he didn't. His reaction would further extend whatever play on order and punishment you wanted to enact against him. Could he fault you entirely, however, on him participating? No. He couldn't.
He couldn't because he wanted this more than you did, and you had that power. You had that power by default.
Always have.
"Awww, Major Winters," you coyly sang aloud, giving a playful poke to his manhood nearly ripping out of his undergarments. "I told you to stand at attention; not Junior, over here.
"Do you think you deserve an 'at ease' right now?"
He was a man like any other, perhaps with more regiment. This was precisely why you liked to do the things that you did, and precisely why he laid there, unmoving. Barely breathing. Why he tried to steady the dangerous spike in his heart rate when you slid up the length of his body and fixated on his abdomen with your mouth. Doing things to him that had his muscles contracting against his will. Doing things that were most amusing to you, and it seemed as if tonight was another night that spared him no mercy at being subject to your fascination. There were many nights like this. And yet, he never complained about the next and the next and the next and the next—
Sir,
I'm feeling very, very lonely and sad. And very, very, very frustrated. You promised to warm me up for the entirety of this cold winter night, and you didn't. I'm here by myself and feeling oh so lonesome.
I'm so very vulnerable, alone and without clothing, and the door to my room seems to be broken. What will I do when a stranger stumbles upon me failing to reach satisfaction with my fingers?
There are so many lustful men around me, and I feel so afraid. Please come and rescue me.
Sincerely,
Your Little Fox
He'd bolted out of the drawing room without warning. Apologies to the higher ups for missing this evening's debriefing of cognac and cigars he never partook in anyway. Self-control was only seen in how he didn't crush the letter Sergeant Talbert clandestinely dropped off for him out of nowhere. After "accidentally" bumping your behind to his crotch multiple times today since dawn, and him reining in his incredulity, he cared not for maintaining a strict agenda that he expected his own men to maintain.
He'd question why you had his sergeant be the messenger when Lew was your Cheshire Cat. God, the both of you seemed to love antagonizing him beyond his wits, and was it considered bait if he wanted to be the one to catch?
How you got those explicit magazines snuck in, he didn't know. And he didn't want to know. What he did know was that you'd taken an interest in reenacting content that caught your eye, and he was your victim. Yes. He was a victim. Not an accomplice. How could he be an accomplice when you cooed at him to let you unbuckle the front of his pants, take his cock out, and do things under his desk that could get him thrown in Fort Leavenworth? He was a victim. He was a victim. He was a victim—
"Fuck—"
He was a victim when you came up off of him, and he groaned at the loss of contact that had him nearly spilling ink all over the paperwork.
"Major. That's not very nice language." was that saccharinely sweet retort. It dripped like honey into his senses, just like how you let your saliva pool down onto the tip of him before you gave him a slow pump.
How utterly weak he was to choke out another hoarse curse at your antics. Mouth on his balls and your teeth nipping at his groin ever so playfully. Lips smoothing up and down his manhood. And that wicked tongue tasting for its own pleasure rather than giving him the release that he craved.
He was the victim. There was accountability to be had, and you were to compensate for the damages done to his sanity. He was the victim, and he expected reimbursement to be given to him without further delay, but you were never allowed to be an interrogator due to ethics concerns, weren't you?
"Sir, we just got done with page two. For this scene, there are eight more pages—"
Whenever you had him seated, you inevitably did so so that you could use him as your personal seat. Ingenious of you, yes, and quite advantageous to have a living, breathing, custom settee that readjusted to your every move for your comfort. For him, the scenario was the temptation of Christ after the 40 day fast. How you squirmed and moved about and bounced in his lap, playing with his hair and reciting whatever thought you wanted to vocalize. While you amused yourself with his body or whatever random hobbies you had, you preferred for him to be your furniture.
He could say no. He could damn it all to hell and grab you and show you what he'd been thinking of doing to you on actual furniture. But he didn't. It wasn't for naught, was what he tried to tell himself: He could treat it as an exercise on restraint, but Jesus had the fortitude to rebuke Satan, while Richard Winters let a real imp test his flesh and have him fail miserably.
Miserably. He was to be miserable. Save for his body not being miserable, and turning utterly pliant to your sneaky hands and that backside that had him praying for forgiveness.
"I can handle it." wasn't a haphazard claim. He meant those words, and he'd had enough experience to have it be as part of his repertoire. And yet, you were strangely considerate when it came to this act, and daresay, shy. Instead of pushing him down to sit on his face with entitlement, you maintained this tentative, minute hover, attempting to hide from putting the entirety of your weight on him. How unlike you to deviate from deviousness, and perhaps that thoughtfulness was what had him at his wit's end.
So, perhaps he had to be the one to be inconsiderate; he'd be the brute. If that meant him hearing the most sinful sounds when his arms clamped around your thighs, pulling you flush on his waiting mouth, he'd be the villain to advance the plot. He'd be anything you wanted, just as long as he'd be there in the climax.
One of the biggest problems was that you were Lew's favorite amongst all of the officers and enlisted. A miracle, really, considering how, keeping his ego in check, his dear friend only tolerated him. Yet, you charmed Lewis Nixon III somehow, your personality a complete opposite of both Lew and himself, and—
You more than charmed him, as well. No introduction from Lew necessary. That mind was sharp. Speirs to him was a deadly hound on a hunt, but you were a fox. A fox in the battlefield, a fox standing before clandestine plans and dashed maps.
A fox in his bed.
Or was it him who was your prey in your den?
"Oh, no, I greatly enjoy what I'm witnessing, Dick. I think I'm all right sitting back and watching the show for free."
"Lew."
There was nothing but amusement in his friend's face as he leaned back in his seat and drank another serving of the Vat 69 that he worked hard to procure for Lew, but that token of friendship was clearly ignored in order to see the XO of Easy Company suffer. He sat there, straining in his seat, as he listened to the colonel drone on and on about perfecting formation and upholding soldiers to the highest military standards.
He was held hostage while you lewdly licked, laved, and sucked on a lollipop in the back right corner of the room. What a coincidence that it was a cylindrically shaped one at that, and you were apparently enamored with it. So much so that you were taking the near entirety of it down your throat at times, and God save his soul at seeing the others in your circle ignore what you were doing.
It was all on purpose. Everyone was out to get him, to see him fail, and blast that Lew was having his own blast at seeing him squirm for dear life. His ears were hearing about commendation medals and fixing the troops up for inspection from Patton, but his eyes were seeing plump lips wrapped around a very lucky object and cheeks hollowing with every up and down.
Up and down, up and down, up and down, and Richard swore that his manhood would forever be up and unable to come down when it came to you.
"Are you still wearing it, Major?" you whispered behind him, and he concentrated on maintaining his composure at feeling your hands slide down his back to grab at his buttocks. "Could I get an answer, please?"
His voice was not his own when it obeyed your words. He should've told you to not do this here, but there was no winning the already lost war acknowledged through the hands exploring his thighs. It was dangerous.
This was all dangerous. You both should be paying attention to the officers giving reports on updated M.O.'s and agendas, but all he could hear was the roar of blood in his ears and your touch migrating to the front of his pants.
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes. Yes, I'm still wearing it," he whispered back, and he didn't need to turn around to know that you were smiling at his participation. Why should he, when you cupped him suddenly and felt for the iron ring that held his manhood captive?
"Oh, Sir, you're so brave and obedient." He barely held in his cough at your devilry. "I know you're looking forward to your reward later. And I can't wait myself."
God help him if Colonel Sink gave him another strange look.
"Now, you keep on being good. For me, okay?"
God help him the way you put your knowledge into practice. Pavlov, potatoes, meat and dogs, and you'd turned your literary review into making him your experiment. There was nothing to be thought of when it came to dog tags. Nothing more for the identifiers that hung around every G.I.'s neck, yet now, he wore them and ensured that he did when you invited him between your legs and cooed at him to do your worst.
How you pulled and hung onto his markers as he thrust into you. Twirling the chain around his neck, treating him akin to a hound on a leash, and he could do nothing else but to heel and submit to your orders. How he craved it all: the clink of the metal. The pressure around his neck. The scramble of your hands to then claim his back and squeeze him where the both of you were joined.
"Oh, my god! Dick!"
He'd be leashed forever if he could.
If you'd let him.
Being frivolous with one's temperament never led to good outcomes, but denying a starving man of food right in front of him wasn't a safe decision, either. In this case, you were the meal, and you were being most ravenously devoured by a starving Major Richard Davis Winters from behind, and he was far from sating his appetite.
Additionally, in this case, there was a sudden knock at his door from Lieutenant Lipton to discuss frivolous things, which led to his frivolous temperament when his meal was taken away for frivolous reasons. This was not a good outcome for him, for his dumbfounded lieutenant, and least of all...for him again.
"The men were wondering if they should trim the grass down to three inches, and then trim the hedges—"
You liked giving him scandalous photographs of yourself right before you left for an order. Very scandalous photos. They were most improper, with you in various poses that had him hiding in the dark to be the only witness to your bravado. You liked giving them to him in person, liked to tease and grope at his buttocks, before you pranced away, and you knew what you were doing.
Surely the morally uptight Major Dick Winters wouldn't dare perform the act of masturbation, would he? He was a man of restraint, the monastic monk, the warrior who mastered both his body and mind. Restraint was like second nature to a stoic figure like him. Surely he wouldn't—
Surely an intelligent officer wouldn't let strategic resources go to waste, would he?
When you addressed him as Sir or Major...It did things to him. Things he couldn't say in front of polite company, especially when the both of you were in front of polite company. You did things to him. And the things he wanted to do to you, in turn, couldn't dare be done in front of any company, politeness be damned.
"This isn't proper, my dear Major" was what you would say, but you didn't say no when he caught your arm and hurried you behind the door to his office as you were passing. Didn't say no to his lips on yours, didn't say no to him being greedy with his hands, and you didn't say no when he tasted the space between your ear and jaw that had you purring just right. You called him "dear Major." Who else could get away with such brevity? No one else but you, and there truly was no one else who could halt his drive with a single finger on his lips.
"It's not even 0930," you cheekily stated, and he must've lost his damned mind at how his mouth moved on his own and took the tip of your finger in to have a taste.
"Oh. Richard. Davis. Winters. This is truly most improper of an officer of the U.S. Army."
He let the hunger in his eyes speak for his impatience.
"That's Major Richard Davis Winters to you, Sergeant."
And he filled his hands with your backside before launching you up to wrap your legs around his waist. He could hear your brattish contentment when your own hands held onto his forearms, feeling the flexing musculature when he hoisted your body. You may be hiding a devilish grin at his frustration, but this time, he was ready.
By the end of what he planned on doing to you, you were the one who was going suffer from frustration. And it would be far past 2130 before you even imagined a return to propriety.
