Today's morning bubbling emotions are about Margaret who is the only one wearing a piece of protective equipment here, but Trapper who still keeps a hand on her back the whole time they're running, then not only tries to keep her a little covered when they have to hit the deck, but also dips his head to say something in her ear once he sees they're safe for the moment. Extreme husband behavior.
Also yelling about Trapper whose first reaction to "We're trapped like sitting ducks in a supply shed while the whole camp is getting shelled and we might be next" is to suggest that maybe they go out fucking. Margaret, I think you have a type.
(prompts now closed)
I think a normal amount about them (lie)
"I don't have to stay," Margaret points out while she's still holding the door open behind her.
McIntyre looks at her over his shoulder with a crooked, toothy grin. "You sure don't."
It's not exactly what she needs to hear to knock down her final reservations. The last thing she expected to accompany her three-day pass to Seoul was a handsome, insufferable, skirt-chasing, charming, brilliant, rule-breaking, incredibly compassionate asshole. But this is how things go for her now, it seems. She'll make a plan. She'll be thrilled to bits about it. It'll be dashed into pieces on the ground. And then right when she's ready to throw in the towel and go sulk for a night, something will happen. Kind of like McIntyre letting her grit out all of her frustrations about Frank while he drove them the whole way, only interjecting from time to time to wind her up again with yet another thing Frank had done—how McIntyre knew that four months ago, Frank spilled an entire bottle of nail polish on her favorite pair of underwear, she'll never know.
Perhaps she should really be focusing on that. And not the way that McIntyre is watching her, his gaze full of the invitation that slipped off his tongue when they were only a mile out from Seoul. Just long enough to leave her stirred up, just short enough that she hasn't gotten her good sense back yet to remember why she can't have something that's left an undercurrent of hunger beneath a persistent blanket of irritation.
He stares her down for a long moment, both of them caught in the standoff, before he scoffs out a chuckle and shakes his head. While he loosens his tie, he drawls. "All right, let's lay it all out on the table, huh? You don't have to stay, that's right. And I don't need you to stay. There's a dozen gals at the bar next door who'll get in my bed for nothin' more than a wink. I ain't desperate." But as an ugly tightness locks her ribs shut in a vice, McIntyre turns to face her head on and speaks over her irritation. "Neither one of us needs you to be here. But that doesn't mean I want you to go either. Yeah, if you walk out that door, I'll have another girl flat on her back in ten minutes." He pauses. When his eyelashes flutter—a single twitch—it's the first moment that he's looked anything but unflappable. "But you're the one I'm gonna be thinkin' about when I'm inside her."
It's like she overturned a hot cup of tea. One moment, she's bristling and cold. The next, she's flushed from head to toe. Has he done that before with any of those hundreds of nurses he chases like a dog? When he's rocking against one, does he bury his face in her neck and imagine the hair tickling his cheek is blonde?
The image feeds the selfish sectors of her heart. He's an animal who'd take any scraps that a woman might offer him as long as he gets to have a taste. But as unpicky as he is about whoever ends up under him...he'll still pick her to be the one he's having all the same.
Margaret licks her lips, though she knows it might ruin their painted color. She's restless. Wanton. And as if McIntyre sees it, he saunters forward, his tie loose around his neck, his two top buttons open to expose the edge of his collarbone above his undershirt. She doesn't move a muscle. But she doesn't need to. He reaches above her without breaking the eye contact and pushes the door shut so she leans into it. After another thoughtful moment, he clicks the lock shut, then stays just like that. Looming. Watching. Starving.
"Kiss me," she commands in a throaty murmur, and he sinks his fingers into her hair as he darts downward.
As McIntyre coaxes her lips to part, to let his tongue slip between them, Margaret grabs fistfuls of his jacket, this fancy dress uniform that he has no right to wear. It's a parody of a costume on him. He's done nearly everything in the book to disgrace this outfit. And yet in some strange way, that ignites her further—that old spark of fledgling rebellion that overtook her in her first year of freedom at college. The desire for her father to be proud of her in everything she did versus the temptation to pierce her ears and flirt with twenty guys with fast cars all at the same time. Her father would despise John McIntyre, would practically revere Frank Burns in comparison. But McIntyre's the boy she would've let crawl in her dorm window and fuck her whether Lorraine, on the other side of the room, woke up or not.
His other hand finds her waist, and as it slips under her jacket, he tucks his fingers just beneath the waistband of her skirt, an act of easy possession. And all at once, she needs far, far more.
Margaret hums out a rush of frenetic sound as she pushes away from the door and McIntyre breaks the kiss with a laugh that he quickly swallows as he gets a good look at her face. She drives him backward step by step to the rhythm of her panting until she shoves him down on his futon, then shrugs off her dress uniform's jacket in one smooth motion. He follows her lead, yanking his own away so he's down to his shirtsleeves, and though Margaret intends to get a bit more comfortable, she's only toed off one high heel when she notices the thick swell down McIntyre's right pant leg. A hurricane overtakes her. One moment, she's standing tall, and the next she's straddling him, her other heel dangling helplessly from her foot before finally plummeting.
At first McIntyre goes for her shirt buttons, but Margaret grunts as she wiggles on her knees to push her tightly-fitted skirt up, and the moment he sees this, his eyes go as wide as saucers. "Touch me." Margaret intends for that to come out like an order but it's tinged with a breathy ache, and perhaps he hears this because he moves instantly into action.
She isn't sure if this is what he must have fantasized about however many times he palmed himself to thoughts of having her—maybe he thought it'd be a slow seduction, a loosening of her nervous limbs little by little—but she can't slow down, can't think twice, can't come to her senses when he's right here. No one's going to knock on the door. There aren't going to be choppers. And as McIntyre touches the back of his knuckles to her inner thigh, she feels them as potently as flames straight through her nylon stockings.
He drags them slowly upward as he locks her in place with his brown sugar gaze. She fumbles for stability. When she sinks her fingers into his shoulder, he trembles. The world's shrunk down to the two of them having the most unfathomably irresponsible encounter they could. The moment they're back in camp, this secret space will evaporate entirely, and they'll snark and bite at each other all over again. This is madness. They really shouldn't.
She is not going to stop him. Not for a second.
She holds her breath as he finds the first hint of bare skin, squeezes him tighter as he makes her wait. "McIntyre..." A gasp breaks from her when he moves inward. It comes in a one-two punch—the firm grind of his palm's heel down the length of her, then the sudden press of his thumb right against her clitoris. Even through the fabric and her swollen folds, he sparks a rush of adrenaline.
It's rare that Margaret is this clothed when a man fondles her. All of her father's old Army friends, they love when she's nude in their bed. She draws a sort of power from their smoldering lust as they take in a taut, youthful figure, softer skin than their wife's. For his part, Frank is restless once he has her undressed, his hands and body rolling over all of her curves like a summer storm. But this? It's filthy. She's soaking through her panties in a rush as McIntyre's thumb teases her.
A single barely audible whine croaks free. It charms a growl out of him in turn, and as he pulls her close so he can mouth at her neck, she shudders and slides her fingers through his tight curls.
"C'mon, honey, lemme hear it," he whispers hotly against her throat. It's already unfair that he has the most beautiful hands she's ever seen, but his drawl? That's sinful all on its own. "Give it to me, gimme those pretty sounds I know you've got, huh?"
But beneath his tone, there's something else. An edge of desperation. And that in and of itself is fascinating. She would've expected him to be far more confident, maybe even mocking her for finally breaking for him the second they're away from their colleagues. "You want it that badly?" Margaret's voice trembles as she murmurs the words.
McIntyre straightens up, and though it jostles her, he tightens his arm around her waist so she can arch her back and give his clever, rubbing thumb better access. "Oh, you know I do."
"Ask me nicely," she whispers, "and I'll consider it."
He lets out a groan that's so raw, she can feel her skin tingling in sympathy, almost pained. When he rests his lips on the swell of her breast, she begins to tighten her grip on his hair. "I need it, baby." Margaret tugs a fistful of curls and his words go raspy in its wake. "Lemme know how good I'm making it, I gotta hear."
Margaret smothers his face in her chest as she puts her mouth to his ear and releases a whisper-thin, quivering moan.
"Fuuuck..." He rocks under her, not finding any stimulation, just chasing the phantom desire to be inside of her, and it emboldens her further.
"I want you to feel how wet I am," she breathes.
He presses the edge of his teeth through her blouse, lets them dig into the top of her breast. "Uh-huh..." Though she expects him to unhook her garter belt so he can slide her panties down, he shoves them roughly aside like he can't wait another second, like he's going to fuck her right now, and Margaret throws her head back as he rubs his softly-calloused thumb along her slick labia. "Oh, fuck, honey, you're dripping for me."
She loses all sense of language for a few seconds, can only nod as he lights a chain of pleasure through her body. She's not only dripping, she's throbbing, every inch of her swollen and flush with hot blood until she thinks just a stiff breeze might make her moan.
"You're gonna tell me what you need, aincha?" he asks, a little stronger now.
"Mm—" Margaret squeezes her eyes shut. She wants everything, wants to shove him on his back and mount his face, wants him to roll her over and take her like an animal, wants to know if he could pick her up and bruise her by pounding her into the wall. "Ohh, I-I... Inside me?"
The last thing she wanted it to be is a question. It makes him chuckle—makes her want to slap his shoulder, really—but he slips two fingers close to her entrance, and when she shakes with a wave of anticipation, he appears to take note of it. There's a fine line between men who think that all she wants is to be fucked and men who understand that the nerves around and just barely inside of her hole are sometimes just as sensitive as her clitoris. And as McIntyre rubs a teasing, slow circle around her even as she's practically trying to suck him in, she knows to the depths of her that he's figuring it out much, much faster than anyone ever has.
"Please..." She shapes the word but doesn't quite say it.
"What's that, doll?" he growls.
"Please?" Again with the curve of her voice, the faint pathetic wobble.
He dips just the tip of his middle finger inside of her, then slips out again, drawing every ounce of her attention to that area as she gasps. "Say it."
"Bastard," she grits out, then whines when he takes his hand completely off of her. "No! No, I-I want... I want your fingers inside of me."
McIntyre hums as he covers her heat with his whole palm and rubs back and forth, vibrating faster than an idling jeep, torturing her with sparks through her veins like the remnants of fireworks. "Say it again. Make me sweat this time."
God, he's the most evil man alive. Sweat? Yes. Yeah, she can do that. Margaret arches her back once more as she looks down at him, watches his gaze slowly drag up from her breasts to her face. "Trapper," she murmurs, watching his pupils dilate further immediately and his cheeks flush. "Do you know what I need from you?"
"What?" he whispers.
"When you touch yourself while you think of me..." She pauses, immediately has those suspicions confirmed when his mouth falls open. "...when you think about how badly you want to fill me..." His fingers dig into her hip hard enough to bruise. "...I need to know what that feels like. I need you to fuck me with your fingers just like you're going to fuck me with your cock."
The groan that her words pull from him is filled with agony. "That I can do," he murmurs raspily just before he presses two fingers inside of her.
A shiver rolls up her spine. "Yes, yes, mmm—" Margaret squeezes her eyes shut as she rolls her hips, teases that extra sensation out around his knuckles as he works his digits deeper. He has a spooky way of picking up on the nuances of when her breath hitches, if her lips part, what makes her gasp out a shocked moan.
"Margaret, you are somethin' else." She can hear the smirk when he speaks. "Yeah, that's what you like. Nice, long strokes, huh?" She's not quite capable of speaking quite yet—is too fixated on the tiny shifts of his fingers like he's conducting the most thorough experiment of his career. "Remind me, honey, this is about how wide what Ferret Face's packing is, ain't it? A little under, maybe?"
The realization that McIntyre must have seen Frank when he's erect hits her like a lightning bolt, leaving strange bubbles in her gut and a squirming curiosity that turns her beet red as she looks down at him. "What?"
That boyish grin lights up his whole face with a particular satisfaction. "S'okay, you don't hafta say it. It's all over your face." But when he pushes a third finger inside of her with no warning, he hums at how she throws her whole body backward, only her grip on his shoulders keeping her stable. "Don't worry, doll. We'll get you up to taking my cock."
"Oh God, you're huge, aren't you?" She doesn't quite mean to say the words out loud, but even she can hear the sharp hunger that colors them.
McIntyre groans. "You'll see. You'll fuckin' see, all right. Hold tight for me, don't let go." She only gets that second of warning before he releases his hold on her waist and finds her clit with his free hand.
"Ohh!" Margaret can barely hold herself up now. How the hell are her muscles supposed to not turn into jelly? It's like he's been holding back until this very moment, compiling all his data and letting it loose to pound into her with his long, thick fingers while rubbing perfect circles over her clit. "Oh my God please don't stop—" All one quick breath.
"You're gonna come for me, Margaret," McIntyre murmurs with that cocky, sexy drawl of his. He's playing her like a fiddle. "You're gonna come so hard, you're gonna soak my fingers, 'cause you're thinking about every inch of my cock filling you up 'til you scream."
Bastard, bastard, he's right, he's put it all in her head now, a rainy midnight where he lets himself into her tent and locks the door, where he strips down and pulls the blanket off of her, where his slick body holds her down and his mouth swallows her moans and he gives it to her just like she needs, splitting her in two over and over again, "Yes, yes, yes, oh God, yes, don't stop don't stop—" She's quaking inside, melting down from a solid block of ice into a rippling puddle.
His voice comes from a great distance. "You're gonna ride my face, squeeze me with those soft thighs 'til I can't breathe anymore. Gonna leave my fingers sore from how greedy you are for me to make you come over and over again. Fuck, Margaret, I want you to wring me out. Tell me what you want. Let me give it to you."
"Just like that," she whimpers out, gasps, tries again, "just like that, McIntyre, fuck..."
"Come for me, please, sweetheart, fuck, lemme see it." His confidence twists with another taste of desperation that ignites her, and as his words turn into nothing but senseless noise, Margaret cries out and clenches around his digits, feels her whole body lurch when he growls and fucks her even harder through her release. Her mind fogs over with a blanket of tingling ecstasy that washes through her again, again, hovering right there at her peak until it burns, and only then does she shove at his shoulders.
He goes straight back like she slammed into him with the force of a car, taking her with him. He leaves her sensitive folds alone. Lets her shake it all out with another rough moan that feels as though it blooms from her very muscle fibers. When Margaret finds it within herself to open her eyes, he's gaping up at her like she's a goddess who came down from the skies to use him up until he breaks.
Oh yes. This is absolutely the worst idea she's ever had. She has set herself up for the most twisting, complicated pathway in camp—needing him to fuck her as often as possible, already knowing he's going to take full advantage of that the next time he and Pierce get a silly little notion in their skulls. But that sounds like a problem for Major Houlihan. Margaret is lushly content right now, her muscles still clenching like they're trying to milk him dry in the midst of her aftershocks.
"McIntyre?" she drawls out, husky as can be.
"Yeah?" He looks like he can barely breathe, much less speak.
Margaret tosses the hair out of her face and wiggles, getting the last of her body to relax, feeling the clothes sticking to her with sweat. She'll need to get all those off. Maybe a shower. Maybe a good fuck in the shower. "Mm...you all right?"
McIntyre nods wildly, his voice pained. "Oh, y'know."
He's probably about to burst through his trousers. Poor thing. She wonders if he has condoms in his suitcase, if she'll have to send him to buy some while he's visibly hard as nails. It gives her a little thrill to imagine that. She smirks lazily and draws a loose pattern on his chest with the tip of her finger. "I need a moment to breathe." She bites her bottom lip and watches his eyes follow the motion. "And then...I'll see what I'm going to do with you."
