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Fucking mud, John thinks, as he slogs towards his tent. He could be in a warm, dry hospital right now, but for some ridiculous fucking reason, he’s on a fucking moor, surrounded by idiots, in a goddamn downpour.
He unzips the tent flap, takes his muddy boots off, steps in.
Then he falls flat.
“Fucking hell!” Is there a body in his tent? There’s a body in his tent. He grabs at it, but suddenly there are hands on his wrists and he’s flat on his back.
“I heard you had a bad day," says the soft voice in the dark.
“Bainbridge, you arsehole.”
“I wouldn’t call me that if I were you.” Bainbridge’s elegant hands are already working at the button on John’s combats.
“This is trouble.”
“You love trouble,” Bainbridge’s voice is muffled because it’s buried in John’s pants. He flips them down unceremoniously and takes John in his mouth. John wants to protest; he’s sweaty and dirty and needs to see the CO, but Bainbridge’s tongue flutters on his frenulum, and the words die in his throat. Bainbridge takes the whole glans in his mouth now, sucking messily; his hand grips the shaft and strokes. John groans, his adrenaline surge converted to blinding lust. The pressure is merciless and he’s coming already, crying out, helpless under Bainbridge’s body.