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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.

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