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Of Soap and Citrus (Repost)	By : BodaciousBannana Category: +A through F > Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Views: 1771 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare fandom. I do not make any money on this. MacTavish, Price and the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Activision, Infinity Ward et al.

Chapter List
- 1-Of Soap and Citrus
- 1
The shower had always been a place where Lara could temporarily escape her worries, but this time they’d cornered her in the tiny cubicle.
The entire episode with Price bothered her, perhaps more than it should have. His disdain for her and what she represented, a woman in a traditionally male role -- that wasn’t it. She chastised herself for wishing that, for once, her patient’s labs came back abnormal. The whole thing somehow didn’t feel right. Despite the unremarkable results she’d gotten back so far, along with John’s obvious desires, every instinct was screaming at her to not clear Price for duty.
Though his abdomen was covered with bruises from repeated trauma, he’d refused to verbalize the pain that he’d obviously felt when she’d examined him, and the ultrasound had been inconclusive. A CT scan would tell the whole story, but the ship’s scanner was down. Without any further evidence, she could let him go … or she could insist that he be medevaced out for further evaluation. She wasn’t looking forward to that conversation with MacTavish, especially the bit where’d she voice her concerns that Price harbored deeper psychological injuries. John had looked so vulnerable, so hopeful, hovering anxiously nearby like a mother hen. It had been just as well when Price had shooed him away.
She sighed, reminding herself to get busy, that the hot water wouldn’t last, and began to shampoo her hair, breathing in the sharp fresh scent of grapefruit.
Some might accuse her of merely being a bitch, of taking advantage of the circumstances to get back at Price, especially if the results came back negative. She had to chastise herself again, because she’d be lying if she’d said she didn’t get the tiniest bit of satisfaction at the thought. But from a medical standpoint it was the right thing to do.
She’d just worked up a good lather when she felt she was being watched. She spun around, hands flying up to cover her nudity, just as a male voice said her name.
It took her a moment to process his sudden presence in the tiny bathroom, the word a quiet gust of disbelief. “John?”
He reached out, drawing her hand away to gaze at her bare breasts heaving with surprise. Dust and grime still coated his face, flecked with carbon and streaked with cam cream, strands of his hair matted into the black grease. She briefly registered the sight of his boots and socks on the floor behind him, and his bare toes peeking out beneath the rumpled folds of his trouser legs, before the look in his eyes caught her. It was something primal. Raw need, a knowing hunger.
“John,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”
“Taking a shower,” he rumbled softly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His back arched like a cat’s as he pulled his t-shirt over his head, abdominals flexing, ribs flickering beneath taut skin. Dog tags jingled, a bright flash from the dark hair covering his broad chest. The waistband of his camouflaged trousers sagged invitingly around his hips before he unfastened them with a rustle and a quick zip, his hands obscuring her view of the shadowy trail leading down below his beltline. She stared, fascinated, then somewhat disappointed at the underwear beneath, though the sizeable bulge straining against the tight black fabric of his boxer briefs left little to the imagination. The hands slid beneath the elastic, and what had been hidden sprang free. Proud and ready.
She’d gotten over the surprise. Her breasts were heaving for an entirely different reason now.
She stood transfixed as he stepped under the shower with her, his tall muscular frame filling the already cramped stall. The spikes of his mohawk wilted beneath the spray, droplets beading up on the cam cream, his intense blue eyes not leaving hers until she had to shut them against the sudden flow of lather from the shampoo she’d forgotten about. She reached up but he was already attending to it, easing her head back. She sighed, not only at the tingle of his fingers massaging her scalp, but also at the flare of arousal between her legs. The suds tickled their way down her shoulders as he worked the rest of it through, squeezing out the excess water. A snap of a bottle being uncapped, and his hands were weaving through the long strands with surprising gentleness. Wiping her eyes, she snuck a look over her shoulder. His head was tilted in concentration on his task, his expression purposeful, while the grapefruit scent bit through the steam once more.
Wiping her brow, he swept the hair away from her face, gathering it all into a heavy wet curtain behind her back. A light breeze of fingertips on her face became a soft caress on her cheek. She leaned into his touch, into the warmth of his callused palm; a whisper of nails across her shoulder and down her arm sent a thrill through her, her pulse throbbing down below.
Strong arms wound around her as he reached for her breasts. She gasped, rolling her head back at the rough scrape of stubble on her neck and shoulder, the tender sucking at the join. Every fleeting contact with his hot skin in the tight space was electric, especially the burning touch of his manhood brushing against her hip and thigh, finally nestling in the cleft of her buttocks as he crowded her up against the shower enclosure. His thundering chest pressed up against her back until her hands met the wall and she craned her head sideways, now without enough room to face forward. His hands came out to cover hers, fingers interlacing, hot breath tickling her as his questing tongue traced the shell of her ear, soft lips pulling at her earlobe.
He was trembling as much as she was.
His hands withdrew, intent on other business. One returned to knead her breast. Her nipple hardened from a light stroke, then a firm pinch, as his other hand slowly made its way downward. The whisper of fingertips along her flank made her shudder, moving lightly over the curve of her hip, the flat plane of her belly, still lower. She was already coming undone. When he found what he was looking for, cupping her, a rough thumb stroking her sensitive nub, she had to bite back a whimper.
“Shh… “ A nip on her shoulder.
He parted the folds of tender flesh, dipping into her wetness. Sliding down and up, probing deeper, pushing a fingertip in. Slipping out again, the brush of slippery fingers over her center nearly sending her over the edge, a squeaky gasp escaping her. She ground her pelvis against his hand, panting, wanting more.
Meanwhile, he was rubbing himself between her cheeks. His flexing hips and the ragged breathing in her ear told her the feeling was mutual. His hand continued stroking her in front while the other reached behind her, his crown sliding over her damp skin in a blind search, demanding entrance. She pushed back against him, bending forward slightly, the enclosure cold against her the side of her face and her splayed hands. Her breath hitched at the vigorous wet rub in front and the hot, rock-hard poke from behind, spreading her apart, a tingling bordering on pain at his thickness. He pushed in steadily until she felt herself give way; her eyes slid closed, mouth falling open in a breathy sigh at his long, slow glide, filling her inch by inch.
She felt him lower his angle of approach; his next upward thrust pushed her up against the wall, each one that followed more insistent than before. She barely noticed the plastic surface grinding against her cheek, swept away by the combination of his fingers stimulating her on the outside and the new sensations inside; she’d never done this before. Yet she couldn’t get enough of him this way, not in this cramped stall, and he seemed to agree with that assessment.
The shower curtain billowed with the frantic efforts to get her turned around.
The back of her head bumped the wall. She dismissed his concern by clamping her hands over his taut, muscular buttocks and pulling him close, wrapping a leg around his waist. He smelled of sweat, burnt gunpowder and jet fuel. Yet combined with his own musky scent, it was intoxicating. She shivered at the sensation of her nipples brushing against the coarse hair of his heaving chest, her breasts flattening against him as she roughly grabbed the back of his head to take what was finally hers. Hungry mouths clashed in a breathless duel until she felt his heat at her opening. With dig of fingertips into her hip, he coiled beneath her and the cold wall thumped into her back, his mouth stifling her cry of pleasure as he buried himself to the hilt in a single thrust.
Mingled panting, his mouth next to hers; a slick retreat that left her wanting. His next deep plunge forced a moan from both of them, the firm hand on her bottom guiding her into it. The other hand cradling the back of her head became possessive, reeling in a handful of hair to steer her mouth into his for more frenzied, rough kisses. When she felt him ease back again, she braced her foot of her bent leg against the opposite wall, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth and slapping her hands forcefully over his arse, pulling him into her.
That was all the encouragement he needed. His hips reared back and snapped forward; she grunted at the deep jolt in her belly, every rigid inch of him suddenly snug inside her. His cheekbone rolled hard over hers; he moaned in her ear and began thrusting in rolling waves, an unstoppable tide, picking up speed. The friction of this new position was unexpected, every thrust a chaotic burst of sensation – in her walls, in her center, making her dizzy. They gasped in unison, in an increasing rhythm of slapping skin muted by the hissing water. His eyes were half-closed, a vein plump on his forehead. He bit his lip, his tightening face still streaked with black like some painted warrior of ancient legend.
Panting, he slowed his pace. “Mmm,” she purred, her head falling back. He fell onto her exposed throat — soft lips became a graze of teeth, a rasping tongue, firm sucking at the pulse point beneath her jaw. An icy zing from a dog tag against her nipple; she looked down at the chain twisting over them — plump pink buds, brushing against his flat, browner ones, covered with strands of her wet hair like black snakes winding down over her shoulders. With a greasy slide of his face against hers, he took possession of her bottom lip, his hot tongue filling her mouth again, until they they both had to come up for air. “Yesss,” she breathed, relishing the sensations, the taste of him, the ripple of powerful muscle surging beneath her hands. His gaze followed hers downward, and together they watched his glistening length sliding in and out, bending slightly as he changed the angle of his hips with each long stroke. Until, whatever he was doing, whatever he’d done … more. “Oh god… oh… yes…”
He responded by driving into her at that same angle, hitting all the right places. White, tingling energy crackled deep within her, arcing outward, her mouth hanging open in shaky gasps. He watched her, thrusting faster, determined. Her body began to twitch. “J-j-j-ohnnn,” she stuttered … the sudden rub of a wet finger on her center … it was too much. The world spun away and she threw her head back, whimpering desperately, eyes and mouth shut tight, clawing at him, as he slid both hands beneath her arse and heaved her up onto himself, the wall slamming into her back. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, bucking and moaning, still riding wave after explosive wave. The wet skin of her buttocks squealed up and down against the plastic, spreading her even wider for him as he pumped furiously, dog tags jingling. His face was red, his expression mirroring her own: mouth set, breath hissing through his teeth, neck veins bulging. “Mmph … fuck!” he ground out, barely managing the next strangled word. “Lara – “
Clamping his eyes shut, he stiffened, arching his back, rolling on the balls of his feet, his rhythmic cries reduced to hushed exhalations –
“Hah, hah, hah, hah…”
-- every deep hard thrust forcing her back against the wall as he spasmed hotly inside her.
“Hah … hah … ahhh… “
He let go of her with one hand; it landed on the plastic near her face with a wet slap, followed by the thump of his forehead, the creases of his brow relaxing, breathing hard. She sagged back down to Earth, easing her wobbly legs back beneath her, feeling him slip out of her.
They stood a moment in silence, their mingled breath slowing. He was leaning over her, water streaming off the shelter of his body. His eyes were still closed, head resting against the wall next to hers, both hands planted on either side of them. Her arms encircled his waist and finally the blue eyes reappeared from the black, searching her face. He brushed some stray hair out of her eyes and took her in his arms, tightening with an indrawn breath, sighing to rest his cheek against hers. She melted against him, wishing this moment could last forever.
He drew back to look at her, the swirl of emotions left unsaid hanging heavier than the steam in the air. His fingertips framed her jaw; what had been forceful and demanding was now tender once more, his soft lips pulling at hers, teasing them open until his tongue filled her mouth, gently exploring. When he finally withdrew, he tilted his head to look at her again, frowning.
“You’ve got something here,” he whispered, reaching for her long-forgotten washcloth. He dabbed at her face and showed her the cam cream on the wet terrycloth. “And here.” He wiped her neck, smiling. “I’ve made a bit of a mess, I’m afraid.”
She smiled back. “You’re a mess. Give us that.” She worked a dab of shampoo into his hair; he hummed with pleasure, evidently enjoying the scalp massage as much as she had, until the gleaming dark coils lay slicked to his head. She wrung the cloth out and put a little shower gel on it, squeezing it through. She wiped the grease and dirt from his face, revealing a red rectangular burn on his forehead – the mark of a bullet casing from the chopper. She stood on tiptoe to kiss it better. Tiny flecks of black rode the soapy white trail down his neck and over his chest, his body hair forming black twists from the serpentine rivulets of streaming water, and as he stood obligingly before her, head bowed, eyes closed, droplets clinging to the points of wet eyelashes, he suddenly looked more innocent somehow. It was as if the day’s battle — or the day’s sins — had just been washed away, the warrior now a fallen angel seeking absolution beneath the cascade, a sparkling halo of drops bouncing off his skin.
Maybe it was the way the lather had temporarily masked the scars.
More reality reared its head. “We’d better hurry up, the hot water could cut out at any second,” she said.
He lifted his eyebrows in agreement. “Too right.” He took a cursory sniff of the bottle before taking a quick squirt of shower gel into his hand. “This isn’t going to make me smell like flowers, is it?”
“No,” she laughed. “Or fruit.”
He gave her look of mock offense, lathering up his chest and belly in rapid circles, then under his arms. The hair on his chest was a dark smear in the coating of white suds flowing down the contours of his broad pectorals, up and over the ridges of firm abdominals, past the sculpted V of his hips, oozing further down to gather in the darker hair below. Lara had to remind herself not to slow down her own hurried washing to admire the view. “Here, turn ‘round,” she said. Not that the width of his strong back and his firm, round arse with its adornment of downy fuzz were any less distracting – she forced herself to stay on task as she soaped her way over his shoulders and down the narrowing taper of his back and waist, while he finished with quick swipes over and between his cheeks. She embraced him from behind, resting her head against him.
“What a shame, you know, about the hot water,” she said reaching down over his tight stomach, following the silky trail of hair past his navel to scoop him up, limp and spent, coated in suds. She lightly stroked him in the loose curve of her fingers, fondling his velvety softness.
“It is,” he sighed, closing his eyes and leaning his head back, his voice a deep buzz against her ear. She cupped his bollocks with her soapy hand, gently rolling and massaging, working a finger up past them into the crease. “Ooh – or maybe it’s a good thing,” he chuckled.
“Trust me – I’m a doctor,” she grinned into his shoulder.
He turned around again, taking her into his arms. “Come here.” He held her close, molding his cheek against hers. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? This?” She drew back to look at him, alarmed.
“That I couldn’t control myself” – a downward flick of his eyes, a sheepish quirk of his mouth that fell back into seriousness –- “and that I have to go.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t regret this at all, no matter what happens. Either one of us could die tomorrow, Lara, you know that.” His hug was sudden and fierce. He stroked her hair away from her forehead, planting his mouth there before nuzzling his way down to hers for another tender kiss. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.” He knelt before her to place a kiss between her breasts, then squeezed one, firmly suckling the other until her erect nipple popped out from between his lips. “Forgive me?”
She stroked his brow and over the top of his head, ruffling the wet Mohawk into unruly spikes. “No.”
Stubble dragged down her belly, making her gasp. A light kiss just below her navel. His ice-blue eyes stared up at her -- she felt like she could fall into them. “How about now?” he asked.
Her breathing was quickening again. “No.”
His head went lower still. “How about … now?” Light fingertips trailed over the curves of her bottom, down the backs of her legs, behind her knees. Another, different kiss, his mouth soft and hot and wet, enveloping and sucking delicately.
She sank back against the wall, her eyes rolling closed. “Bastard.”
He grinned up at her cheekily, then took her hands in his, kissing her knuckles. “You will.” He looked back down, his voice growing husky. “Maybe just a few more minutes … something to remember for next time… “ He leaned back in, making her quiver with anticipation. “ …when I can take my time. I’m going to – “
Both of them yelped, bug-eyed at the suddenly ice-cold water temperature. They both tumbled out of the stall with an explosion of plastic rings, landing in a tangled vinyl heap.
He pulled the curtain away from her face, his brow creased in a momentary severe expression before they both had their hands over the mouths, snickering, shaking as they fought to control their laughter. Her frustration faded quickly; it was worth it to see him laugh like this, rolling around naked on the floor, caught up in the moment, truly free.
He was wrapping a towel around her and drying her hair before she’d even realized she was covered in goosebumps. A glance at the clock showed that their time was over — for now. She averted her eyes from her bunk, not wanting to think about how cold and empty it would feel, or how badly she longed to snuggle up against him, his warm body fitted over hers. She also had to tamp down the vivid fantasy images of what ‘next time’ might entail, the mere suggestion bringing a throbbing ache between her legs.
He dressed himself with a speed that only military service can instill. One last stolen kiss and he was gone. She groaned inwardly; not only at his leaving and promises yet unfulfilled, but at his freshly-clean body back in his dirty clothes -- they stunk.
He, on the other hand, smelled a bit like grapefruit.

END
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Of Soap and Citrus (Repost)