Finding Winry in his apartment was no longer a surprise for Jean Havoc—although it was still a pleasant nonsurprise. Her outfit, though, was. He was used to seeing her in her country dresses (their modest, three-steps-behind-Central-fashion charms familiar from his own rural youth), or in her work clothes, or neat trousers and buttoned shirts, or in the blessed, blessed tube top she wore around the house.
The military uniform was new, though.
She grinned at him and saluted smartly, her ponytail swinging a brisk cadence behind her shoulders.
The military uniform was very new, he thought, his mouth going dry. And, because Winry didn't know the meaning of 'leave well enough alone,' it looked like it had been . . . modified. At least, he didn't remember the uniform skirt being that short, and he knew the top didn't normally cinch that tight and close around a woman's curves.
"Cadet Rockbell reporting for duty," she said, and he could see the way she tried to bring her face impassive, and the way her mouth twitched at the corners with a smile she couldn't quite repress. That was Winry all over: irrepressable.
"Uh," he said, mind racing to try to figure out what had brought this on. And because his memory was very good for certain things, it didn't take him long to remember: an evening in bed, Winry propped up on the pillows looking very pleased with herself, Jean draped over her and feeling like he'd been hit upside the head with a sledgehammer, but in a good way. She'd been playing with his hair and they'd been talking, in a dazed, rambling, post-orgasmic way, and she'd asked him why he'd joined the military.
He'd given her the usual answers: no real future in his hometown back east, best way to see the world and make something of himself, good with his hands—she'd smirked appreciatively at that—and then he'd said, "Plus, I never could resist a woman in uniform."
She'd gone quiet, and he'd mentally smacked himself, because women could be . . . well, you could never tell when someone would take something the wrong way. He'd once been dumped so fast he'd left skidmarks after an ill-considered comment about how much he liked redheads to a girlfriend who wasn't one, and —
But Winry had just said, "Hm," and played with his hair some more, and changed the subject.
So maybe that explained that.
Except—Winry hated the military; it had been hard for her to accept that he was in it from the start, and so where had this come from?
Winry was still standing at attention and looking at him expectantly.
"At ease, cadet," he said, and she—for someone who hated the military she must have been paying attention—kicked her feet a little bit apart and folded her hands at the small of her back. The position made her breasts in their modified uniform jacket look even more prominent. She had great breasts, he'd noticed them (how could you not?) even back years ago when he'd thought she was far too young for him and, anyway, Ed's girl —
"I was told you were going to show me the ropes," Winry said, looking at him from under her bangs. Her ponytail swished. "Sir," she added, coquettishly, and then just—waited, which for Winry was unusual.
She was letting him take the lead, he realized, his mouth going dry. Which meant . . . .
He didn't do basic training, but he did work with the rank and file often enough to know exactly the attitude to take, pacing around her in a circle and taking the opportunity to check her out at his leisure. She had such a nice body he wondered sometimes how he had gotten so lucky, strong and lean but curvy in all the right places, and the modified uniform was showing it off perfectly: her soft round breasts and hips, her long, muscular legs. He thought about the options. He could put her through the paces, watch her run through calisthenics, work up a sweat for both of them. But . . . no. He had a better idea.
(A very small and overly-picky part of his mind pointed out that taking advantage of a cadet like this would be totally inappropriate. A much larger and hornier part of his mind pointed out that he needed to shut up and enjoy it.)
He crossed the apartment and took down a rifle off the wall. He hadn't used it in years: it was a sentimental piece, the gun he'd learned to shoot with, intended for scaring the occasional pack of wild dogs away from the herds when they got aggressive. Still, it would work. "Have you fired a gun before, Cadet Rockbell?"
Winry's eyes trained on the gun, and she wet her lips. He wondered if she'd break character. Winry liked guns even less than she liked the military; he wouldn't blame her if she'd decided this was too far. But she straightened her back and met his gaze and said, "No, sir."
He handed it to her, and then stepped smoothly behind her. "Then I'll show you how to hold it," he said, hearing the ringing confidence in his voice that he always had with the enlisted men, the confidence that always seemed to flee when he was with a woman. But now it was back, and he wondered if Winry had known what this would do to him (do for him), if she'd intended this. He put the rifle in her hands, put his hands over hers and guided them into the proper position.
It was a cliche, it was such a cliche, standing behind her with his arms around her to show her how to hold the rifle—but it was a cliche for a good goddamn reason. The erection that had been building since the moment he walked in the door tightened up further as he felt her shoulders tuck against his chest—she was a lot smaller than him, a fact he always forgot unless they were standing close like this. Her long fair ponytail tickled beneath his chin. Her hands beneath his were calloused and confident but she let him guide her fingers into position.
The gun was unloaded, of course, and a good thing, too, because he was growing more distracted with every passing moment.
He slid his hands away from hers, down her arms. "The most important thing, cadet," he breathed in her ear, "is the grip. Not too tight, not too loose." His hands wandered from her forearms across her breasts, drawing a gasp out of her as he kneaded gently through two layers of cloth and her bra. "Not too tight, or your hands will shake and you won't have the reaction time you want." Firm touches down her belly to her hips; he drew her back against him, finally allowing himself to grind against her firm, rounded ass. "Not too loose, or you won't have the control you need." His hands wandered lower, over her thighs to the hem of her skirt. "A nice, confident touch."
"Uh-huh," Winry said, but the rifle was hanging limply from her grip.
"I don't think you're paying attention, cadet," he murmured in her ear, and she drew a ragged gasp and renewed her grip on the rifle.
"Better," he said, and began working her short skirt up. She was wearing nothing under it: no stockings and, he realized as he pulled it up around her hips, no panties. Her stiff blonde curls were already wet.
Jean wanted to bury his face in her neck and whine. He didn't. He hung onto the semblance of control, the moment, the role she'd asked him to play and that he was so thrilled to play for her—and said, "When you're sure of your grip, you can ease your finger onto the trigger."
It was such a cliche, but oh, it was such a good cliche. He slipped his finger between her folds and searched out and found her clitoris. "And . . . ease back on the trigger." He stroked, slow and firm, drawing a shaky whine from her. "Don't jerk, don't hesitate, just one smooth motion." Another slow stroke. Winry whimpered, swallowed, and did as he said. It was heady, this mixture of his persona with the enlistees and his persona with a lover, two things that didn't usually meld well, and god, he could kiss Winry for this idea except to do that he'd have to break character and that was the last thing he wanted —
The rifle clicked on an empty chamber. "Good, cadet," he purred. "That's enough."
She put the rifle down on the kitchen table an armslength away with a relieved clatter and rubbed back against his erection. He hummed in her ear and kept stroking. "Some things to remember," he murmured in her ear. She began to squirm against him as he kept rubbing her, slow and careful, using her moisture to keep from chafing. "Be sure to breathe—" she panted against him "—keep your eye on the target—" she arched and rubbed against his hand "—follow through—" she arched up on her toes, bearing down into his touch. "And one more thing."
She keened with frustration.
"Be prepared for the kick," he said, and slipped two fingers into her, rubbing her clitoris with the heel of his hand. She cried out with her orgasm, rode his fingers, pulsed and pulsed, slick and swollen, until she was done and sagged against his hands.
"Good," he husked into her ear. "Very good, cadet."
She panted and swallowed and panted, and then wriggled into a looser grip and turned around against him. Her skirt was still well-hiked up, and she looked up at him with bright, bright, impossibly blue eyes.
Then she slid artlessly down to her knees, and he almost lost it.
"Let me see if I've learned the lesson well enough," she said, her voice rough, and palmed him through his pants before pulling down the zip to free his erection.
"God," he said shakily, unable to maintain his poise. Her breath washed over him, and then her tongue on his tip, and looking down at her—her tongue on him, her golden lashes heavy on her cheeks—he had to clench his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms to keep some semblance of control. They'd done this before but this particular position was new . . . .
She drew him in deep, and his hands landed on her shoulders for a grip.
It was so good and he was so turned on from holding her, touching her, watching her come that he could have come happily in her mouth. Happily, and quickly. But—but no, he wanted to hang onto this moment, this role, this brief beautiful feeling of power, like he wasn't just here at the sufferance of a beautiful woman but that he was in control.
He wanted to come inside her.
He nudged her shoulders back until he slid out of her mouth, and she looked up at him with a moment of confusion. He couldn't think of a way to explain while staying in character, so he just reached down to pull her to her feet, and then reached down further to cup her ass and lift her. She had so much presence, she filled up a room so much, that it always surprised him how light she was. Two steps back and he had her sitting on the edge of the table, her skirt still hiked up. And oh god he wanted to be inside her, but if he went for it right now he'd lose control immediately and that wasn't what he wanted.
So he unbuttoned her jacket and then her shirt—left them on, heavy blue wool jacket and snowy-white blouse, but open to the waist—and unhooked her bra and nudged it up over her breasts to expose her nipples to him. Lowered his mouth to nuzzle and suck at her, the smooth undercurve of her breast and then the tight, hard nub of her nipple.
She made a noise in the back of her throat and wound her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, wrapping her calves around his thighs to pull him closer there, too, until he felt the electric contact between her dampened inner thigh and the head of his cock. He bucked against her without meaning to, and she reached into the pocket of her open wool jacket and pulled out a wrapped condom.
They got it onto him in a rush of fingers. He tilted her hips up, positioned himself, thrust into her in one smooth, hard movement. ("Steady pressure and follow-through," he thought, and panted a laugh against her hair.) She tightened, fast and reflexive, around him, and wound her legs tighter around his waist even as she let go of him with her hands so she could brace her palms on the kitchen table for counterbalance against his thrusts. Because he was thrusting, hard and steady and deep into her—he couldn't hold back but more to the point he didn't want to hold back. And it didn't look like Winry was protesting, raising her hips to meet him, spreading her thighs wider, eyes bright, flushed from her cheeks down to her hardened nipples. God, yes, he wanted —
He realized he was talking, a more commanding voice than he'd ever used for sex before: "Yes. Like that. Winry." She shuddered; her ponytail swished arrhythmically against her shoulders. "Come again. Come for me again."
"You can. You can. Come," he said, and a handful of thrusts later she did, flexing and tensing against him, so good he growled into her shoulder and covered her hands on the table with his own, thrust up high and fast and ragged until the tension finally unwound through him and he came until he saw spots.
He didn't move for a while. Neither did Winry, except to remove one of her hands from the tabletop and use it to hang onto Jean. After a minute, she croaked, "Wow."
"You can say that again," Jean said, and heard his voice returning to normal, losing the edge of discipline. "What brought that on?" He pulled back to look at her, slipped out of her.
"I thought you'd like it," she said. "I didn't realize how much."
"You're going to keep the uniform," he said hopefully into her breasts. "Right?"
"Oh yes," Winry said. "Oh, very much yes."