Work Text:
“Can you really not stay quiet for more than twenty seconds at a time?”
None of her previous partners had wanted to do this for her. A few generals had been willing to ‘warm her up’, but it rarely went further than that. Donald had refused flat-out, saying it was disgusting. Even Frank – who had, despite all his flaws, been shockingly talented at lovemaking – hadn’t liked to use his mouth on her.
It’s so rare that when she’d found herself in her tent with Hawkeye Pierce, lips locked together and hands roaming further and further south, it hadn’t even been a thought in her mind. With most of their clothes discarded on the floor, Margaret had collapsed backward onto her own bed into a practiced ‘come-hither’ pose, legs splayed enough to be inviting but still coy, and shimmied her satin panties down until they hung around an ankle. She didn’t need to see Pierce’s shell-shocked expression or the bulge in his shorts to know what a picture she made.
She’d been so sure she knew what was coming, as Pierce shucked his own shorts and approached the bed with a filthy gleam in his eye, but everything Margaret thought she knew flew out of her mind when instead, he crawled between her legs, gripped her thighs in his big, strong hands, and dove in face-first.
And Pierce isn’t just tolerating it, isn’t making a perfunctory swipe with his tongue to moisten her before crawling back up her body and begging to stick it in. He’s… savoring her. Lapping and sucking at her swollen lips, barely breaching her opening with his tongue, using every trick in what is clearly a considerable lexicon to make her moan and whimper and writhe, fists gripping the sheets. He’s hardly touched her clit yet, hasn’t even used his fingers, and she’s still dripping. She thinks, deliriously, that she could come like this.
That is, if Pierce could shut up.
Being vocal isn’t the problem, far from it; every time he moans against her, the vibrations pull an answering sound from her. It’s the talking. “Margaret, you taste incredible.” “That’s it, just like that.” “Don’t be afraid to pull a little” (when she wound a hand into his hair). “Feels good, huh?”
It's not that she minds the appreciation, far from it, but every time he pulls away to deliver another rapturous compliment into her loins, it pulls her a little further away from climax, and a little closer to locking her legs behind his head and keeping him in place until she comes.
And so: “Can you really not stay quiet for more than twenty seconds at a time?”
Pierce pulls back, panting as he catches his breath and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, is my, hah, my technique not working for you?” he snips. “I’ve never had complaints before.”
“Your technique is fine,” Margaret retorts, “it’s that damn motor mouth.” Seeing a lewd grin forming on Pierce’s face, she hastily follows it up with, “The talking, Pierce. How are you unable to stop?”
Pierce’s grin grows wider, shark-like.
“You really want to shut me up?”
Pierce moves up her body. She expects him to pull in for a kiss, and even with his mouth so- so slick, she can’t say she’d mind it. Instead, the room swings as Pierce flips them over sideways, then drags her on top of him, tugging her up until she's straddling his collarbone. She lifts up on her haunches, afraid she's going to crush him.
“What are you–” she starts, before the look on Pierce’s face tells her she's being too loud and she brings it down to a hiss, “– doing?”
“Showing you how to shut me up,” he says, and licks his lips. It's deliberately, exaggeratedly lascivious, a clear attempt at provocation, but the tone of his voice is more telling than he likely means for it to be. A little too earnest.
She blushes, the position making her more keenly aware of how sweaty she is, how her pubic hair is nearly brushing the tip of his nose. “W-what do you mean?”
He rolls his eyes, seeming annoyed that she hasn’t caught on yet. “I mean, with you on top like this, you’re the one who runs the show. If you think I’m being too loud, you can just press down harder. Squeeze me with your thighs. Have you never done it this way before?”
Margaret skips over the implied question about her past sexual experiences - just like Pierce to ask too many questions - and gapes. “I’ve never– I’ll smother you!”
Pierce pulls a faux-beatific expression. “Oh, but what a way to die.”
Margaret gasps. “You're incorrigible!”
Pierce wiggles his eyebrows. “I’d rather be encouragable.”
“That isn’t even a word.”
“You're right. Someone really ought to put me in my place.”
Margaret thinks about getting up and ordering him out of her tent. Knowing that he’d go makes it easier to make her own decision about this. She takes a deep breath and tries to put away any concerns about her weight, about how her stomach and breasts might look from this angle. But she can’t figure out how.
Normally, Margaret is able to be very careful with her image during sex. She knows what sounds to make and what sounds to stifle, how to lie and arch her back, how to angle herself so that her waist looks small. She’s never been sure if it’s for herself, or for the men she’s with that she does this, but at some point it became a non-negotiable part of all of her sexual encounters. Perhaps it always was. She certainly didn’t get her reputation as a gorgeous firecracker by not focusing on her image. Men talk, and if she wants to have any control at all, she needs to make sure they’ve got nothing but good things to say about her.
This angle is all new, and so she doesn’t know… well, know her angles. She doesn’t know how her stomach will look, how her breasts will hang, if her thighs will look too large. But it’s… it’s appealing. The same way that she enjoys riding men, when they’ll let her; it makes her feel more in control, sexually powerful. Like her pleasure is the focus for once.
Looking down at Pierce, she sees her own desire reflected there, in his pleasure-dark eyes, in the eagerness becoming clearer and clearer on his face. A glance over her shoulder reveals the erection laying flush against his thigh, dark and slick at the head. She bites her lower lip before looking back.
“You’re really sure this won’t hurt you?” she asks, dubious.
Hawkeye seems to notice her hesitancy and shakes his head. “Scout’s honor. Worst that’ll happen is a crick in my neck, and that’s to be expected with my head bent over in surgery for hours anyway. I’d much prefer this reason for having a sore neck.”
His eyes crinkle when he smiles this time, and the effect is so genuine and charming that Margaret can’t help but believe him.
“You’ll tell me if it’s too much for you.” It isn’t quite a question. She gets a nod in response anyway.
Margaret takes a deep, deep breath.
Slowly, she lowers her weight onto him, still afraid that she'll crush him. She ends up in a low crouch, one that stretches her adductors and quadriceps almost painfully. She puts her hands up on the wall of the tent behind her bed, which helps her hold herself more comfortably. The cheap wood is rough against her palms, and Margaret wishes, not for the first time, that her bed had a proper headboard.
Pierce brings his hands up to her thighs again as she’s positioning herself, and rubs at her there, massaging the tense muscles. It’s an oddly sweet gesture, even if it makes her feel a bit like Sophie being gentled.
Another moment or so of shifting until Margaret is positioned more or less as she wants to be. Pierce still isn’t touching her there, his hands still rubbing her thighs, but the pose itself is arousing her. Her folds, already slick and hot from Pierce’s earlier ministrations, feel impossibly swollen, and her clitoris throbs stiff and sensitive. She can’t wait any longer.
She lifts up again, enough that she can see his face better, and nods at him once they make eye contact.
He licks his lips, and then… licks her lips.
Margaret’s hips drop, and she reflexively clamps her thighs around him harder. She starts to loosen then when she realizes she might be crushing him, but when she starts to let up, Hawkeye digs his nails deeper into her thighs and renews his assault on her most private area.
And oh, oh, it’s everything.
His moans vibrate through her, the sensation even more intense from this angle. Margaret finds herself gasping and moaning along with him, rocking her hips carefully as her arousal begins to build again. Pierce’s hands clutch at her thighs and buttocks, squeezing rough and desperate, and that proof of the intensity of his desire makes more wetness swell up within her, only to be licked away.
After either a moment or an eternity, Pierce lets go of her and swats at her thigh, and Margaret jolts up in a moment of panic – was she sitting too hard on him? Was he done with this after all? – but he doesn’t let her get far.
“Fuck my face, Margaret, fuck my face,” he gasps, his voice gravelly with arousal, and Margaret obeys his order for the only time in her life.
She sits back down hard, and is only worried for a split second before feeling Hawkeye moan into her again. Instead of bringing his hands back to her hips, he slips a hand up next to his face and begins petting at her entrance with the pad of a finger. When it dips inside, she wails.
The tent fills with the sloppy, wet sounds of their fucking. The raw, sweet-sour funk of arousal and sweat and precum hangs heavy in the air and makes Margaret’s mouth water. Her pubic hair is soaked with arousal and saliva in equal measure. Without Hawkeye’s hands to balance her, Margaret leans harder on the wall to better facilitate her grind against his face. Every time her clit brushes against his nose, she yelps, and he jerks up harder into her. She brings one hand down to clutch at his hair and gets a thrill from the muffled cry she gets in return. She quickly learns that tugging on his hair makes him moan longer and louder, a discovery she is more than happy to explore.
The earlier refinement of Hawkeye’s technique melts away more and more. The sounds he’s making are beyond vulgar, his movements frantic and obscene. Only one finger is inside of her, but the others stroke her labia, press at the sensitive tissue around her entrance, pinch the base of her clit, as his tongue laps over her flesh and his hand alike. He kisses and sucks and licks at her, and his hunger never abates. Margaret isn’t quite sure if it’s what he’s doing or the blatant, inescapable satisfaction he’s taking in doing it that’s arousing her more, the thoroughly unambiguous fact that the great womanizer Hawkeye Pierce loves eating her out.
As if he can hear her thoughts, Hawkeye sucks her clit into his mouth, shifting the hood back with his tongue as he presses his finger deeper inside her, and the intensity of the sensation knocks all of the air out of Margaret’s lungs.
“I’m– I’m–” she chokes out, legs quaking.
Hawkeye twists his head just far enough to the side that he can speak more audibly, deep voice vibrating in her bones. “Cum for me, Margaret, fuck, cum on my face, fucking drench me–”
“Ah–”
The finger inside her crooks, and Margaret goes to pieces.
Afterwards, when they’re both sweating and panting inelegantly, Margaret dismounts, careful not to knee Hawkeye in the jaw, and flops down back on the bed next to him.
He tucks her under his arm in a gesture that’s… sweeter than she expected, somehow. His clammy chest rises and falls under her ear, gratifyingly fast.
Once her aftershocks have passed, Margaret reaches down to return the favor, but is surprised to find his cock soft and sticky against his thigh. She looks at him, worried that she’s misread the situation, but Hawkeye’s smile is reassuring, albeit embarrassed. “I, ah, took matters into my own hands,” he says, a bit awkward as he holds up his free hand, shiny with his release. The one that hadn’t been inside of her.
Margaret swallows. The thought that he was so overcome by servicing her that he had to start touching himself sends another pulse through her clit, makes her clench around nothing.
She looks at his face, at his chin, glistening with her– with her.
Well, it’s only fair, she thinks, and takes his hand in hers. The first swipe of her tongue across his palm pulls a shocked, guttural noise from Hawkeye’s throat; when she looks into his eyes, his pupils have dilated. She laves her tongue across again and again, cleaning him up. The hand still on his groin feels his cock twitch, unable to get hard again so quickly.
“Margaret…” he grits out, voice low and ragged. She smiles coyly and swallows. She tries to hold it together, to keep the sultry look, but she can’t. She pulls a face, grimacing at the bitter, almost sour taste of him. At least she doesn’t stick her tongue out like a child. Hawkeye bursts into laughter.
“Don’t laugh at me!” she shrieks, but Hawkeye’s hyena cackle just gets louder. He rocks back and forth, howling harder when she grabs his shirt from the end of the bed and scrubs it across his saliva-damp palm, cleaning off the remaining residue.
“I’m sorry, Margaret,” he says finally, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I probably should have warned you about the taste. The slop they feed us in the mess tent does nothing for the, ah, flavor profile, so to speak.”
How would you know about that? she almost asks, but stops herself. She’s heard the jokes he makes about men and has long suspected that they aren’t entirely jokes. Better not disrupt the mood.
“Well, you seemed to… you were saying how much you liked the way I tasted, so it seemed fair,” she says, quieter. As the post-orgasm head rush ends, endorphins fading away, doubt creeps back in. She doesn’t think he was faking the whole thing – she just cleaned the proof of his enjoyment off his palm, after all – but it wouldn’t be out of character for him to embellish some things in the interest of good pillow talk. Wouldn’t even be unfair, really; everyone plays things up in bed, moans a little louder, coos about how strong and sexually virile the other person is regardless of the strict accuracy of the statement.
But she feels oddly sensitive about the idea. She thinks back to the men she’s been with in the past who turned their noses up at the idea of giving her pleasure like this despite being so eager to receive it for themselves, citing her… her scent, her taste. A cold worm wriggles its way into her stomach.
Hawkeye shifts around her and struggles to prop himself up on an elbow, leaving his other hand free to gesture. “Margaret, you’re some kind of medical anomaly. By all rights, given the kind of food we’re all eating, you shouldn’t taste good – which, for the record, still wouldn’t have stopped me – but you do. You really, really do.” He gives her a lazily seductive smile.
Margaret’s cheeks heat.
“I mean it! I’m getting all of my mail forwarded here now. I’m gonna pack my bags tonight and move in by noon tomorrow.” He reaches down and tickles his fingers through the hair on her mons pubis.
She swats at his chest with a squawk, feeling her blush deepen and spread. But she doesn’t mean it, and she knows he knows she doesn’t. Even the light embarrassment is soothing her moment of anxiety, reassuring her of something she already knew deep down.
“You’re terrible,” she sighs, relaxing back against him. He relaxes down in turn.
“I know,” comes the reply from above her head. She can hear him smiling.
The heartbeat below her ear steadily calms, the rise and fall of the chest slowing. Margaret, too, begins to slow down, her eyelids drooping. Her arm drapes across Hawkeye’s lower belly, and feeling the little pouch of fat warms her in a way that she wouldn’t have expected. He isn’t all sharp edges. He’s soft too.
As her eyes start to drift shut, a thought floats across Margaret’s mind. I didn’t think about how I looked when I was on top of him, after all. She’s faintly surprised. No matter how passionately she feels about a partner, how genuinely aroused, it’s always on her mind. She gets to be the perfect woman, and he – whoever he happens to be, on any given day or night – gets to sleep with the perfect woman. It’s obvious. All women must feel this way.
But she didn’t, not this time. Not with Pierce. … With Hawkeye. Even now, she isn’t thinking about whether or not he’s looking askance at her stretch marks, or if he can see her roots starting to grow in. She doesn’t feel compelled to tug up her blanket, patting it down just so in order to show off her curves while hiding any imperfections she’s too tired to remember.
Who cares if he can feel the stubble on my legs? she thinks sleepily. I just rode him through my mattress. If he’s got a problem with that, he can stuff it. The kiss placed on the crown of her head indicates the opposite.
Her throw pillows are half scattered on the floor. There’s a duty roster on her desk she needs to look over. Her bra is hanging off the arm of a chair and through the slit in her vision, she’s fairly sure her panties ended up on the lamp, somehow. The two of them are sticky with ejaculate and sweat and it isn’t going to get more pleasant to clean up.
Margaret knows that she ought to dampen a handkerchief for at least a perfunctory wipe-down before shooing Hawkeye out of bed to change the bedding. At least make him properly clean the hand that’s tracing feather-light loops on her upper arm.
“We should–” A jaw-cracking yawn interrupts Hawkeye’s words. “– get up. Get cleaned. Or something.” His hand doesn’t stop.
Margaret hums in vague agreement. “We probably should.”
“Or, if you really aren’t ready to get up yet… there’s always round two. You can’t expect to ward me off with just one taste. I’m insatiable. Just ask any of the nurses. Or Klinger. He’s my backup call for Sunday nights.” The low rumble of his voice soothes her as much now as it had aroused her… could it have been only minutes before?
“I’m ready whenever you are.” She gives a yawn of her own before snuggling back into his chest. “But no slacking this time. I want your very best.”
“Major! You know I’d be outraged if I wasn’t so exhausted. The minute I wake up from the – mh-h-h – remarkably luxurious nap I’m about to take, I’ll show you my best.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Really.” Yawn. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to handle it. I’m a… a dangerously skilled lover.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“It’s on my service record. Right next to ‘mild astigmatism’.”
Margaret breathes out a chuckle. “You really just can’t… stop… talking…”
She feels an answering laugh and a slow inhalation, but she’s asleep before she knows if he proves her right.