Chapter Text
You hear an emergency flare whizzing in the air, followed by a burst of sparks. Looking up through the grate above, you see a British soldier approach, crouching down to greet you. "Hello! I think I got the attention of that ship over there." He points toward the ship. "I can lower this platform and get us down there. Hold tight until I bring this platform back up," he instructs before moving to pull a small winch.
You nod, turning your gaze back down to the cannon below the grate. You move to operate the cannon and provide your teammates, who are starting to become overwhelmed by Runners, some covering fire. You hear the soldier turning the winch from above. Meanwhile, you load the cannon, stuffing a canister into the cannon with the swab. "Je charge une boîte à mitraille!" You call out to your distant teammates before firing on the quickly growing herd of infected.
"Bombardier!" You shout, alerting your comrades to retreat from an infected carrying a torch and a gunpowder barrel. Unholstering your brass pistol, you fire a shot, detonating the bomber before its blast radius can reach your men.
"Nice eyes, mate! That could've been a disaster," he compliments, continuing to turn the winch.
You look up at him through the grate and nod curtly before returning your focus to the battle. In the corner of your eye, you spot the platform rising close enough to get onto. As the platform reaches the height of the level you’re on, he stops moving the winch. "Get on the platform! Quick!" He shouts to you and your teammates.
You relay the command, shouting over the men on the frontlines slashing wildly at the herd of cannibals clawing at the barricades. "Allez, allez, allez! Montez sur la plateforme!"
The soldier watches nervously as your squad scrambles onto the platform. He begins lowering it immediately, muttering under his breath. "C'mon, c'mon..."
You notice a pair of Runners approaching him with his back turned, hurriedly turning the winch to lower your squad. You jump into action, refusing to let the selfless man come to harm. You leap off of the platform and make a mad dash to pull down the grate, climbing it to defend him, swinging your sabre and decapitating the Runners before they can tackle him.
Startling for a moment, then realizing who came to his defense, he grins slightly, muttering "Bloody hell..." to himself, watching you fight like a man possessed. He sees two more shamblers approaching you, growling and clawing aimlessly. When the platform with the rest of your squad is lowered fully, he stands and unsheathes his sabre before joining your side.
You notice the British soldier joining you in combat and nod affirmatively to him. You both hold the infected back as long as you can, desperately swinging your blades. "Écartez-vous!" You suddenly yell, noticing another bomber, its torch and barrel bobbing up and down through the crowd. He shoots it and you both back up into a wall, having cleared some distance between you and the surging crowd of infected with the explosion.
He wipes the gore from his face, panting. "We can't keep fighting like this..." He looks around, his eyes settling on a distant building, partially collapsed but still standing. "Quickly, help me up!" He urges, beginning to climb the wall you’re both backed against. You lift him up using your hands, and once he makes it up, he lifts you up and over by your arms. The infected claw and groan at both of you, their grey hands failing to reach the ledge. You dust yourself off and turn to him, going along with his plan.
Walking along the walls, you decide to give your men one last boost of morale. You turn to the beach and begin to shout in French to the men below, who hold their ground against the cannibals on the beach while the rescue boat approaches. "Soldates!" They briefly look up, some occupied in combat and some with creating barricades. "Vive la France!" You hold your sabre up in your fist, initiating a charge while gazing down at your squadron. They give a series of rejuvenated shouts and continue fending off the hordes with twice the amount of vigor in their swings. You turn to the Briton and continue to the building he spotted, hoping it's a safe zone where the infected cannot reach.
He leads you through the collapsed building, navigating the unstable floors and broken walls with practiced ease. He reaches a room that seems intact, a small office with a single window facing the street below. He carefully opens the window, checking for any signs of infected outside. "This is it," he says, letting out an exhausted sigh before crossing his arms and leaning against a wall, sunlight sparsely illuminating the room through the single window.
You lean against the wall opposite to him, letting out an exhausted groan and sliding down to the floor. "Do you think they’ll make it back to save us?" you ask in French-accented English.
The Briton raises an eyebrow, your accent making him grin slightly. "You speak English?" he asks in return. He then unbuttons his coat, revealing a blood-soaked shirt. You nod. "I learned." You rub your eyes, thinking. "My eyes yearn for sleep," you mutter. "How long will the supplies in this building last us?"
"Not long," he answers grimly, sitting down on the floor across from you. He pulls out a small pouch from his belt, inside containing a few pieces of hardtack and some dried jerky. "A week, maybe two if we ration strictly." After a pause, he finally answers your first question. "I reckon they’ll come back for us. Though, probably not for a few days, at least."
You let out an amused scoff. "We’re doomed." You pause, letting the silence settle for a moment.
"Well, that's a cheerful thought," he says with a hint of sarcasm, then offers a piece of hardtack from the food pouch to you. You shake your head, politely denying his offer. He nods, storing the food before leaning his head back against the wall. "Why didn’t you go with your men? Why come with me?" he asks, closing his eyes to conserve some energy.
You think for a moment, picking at the blood and grime under your filthy nails. "I figured if you were so selfless as to lower my men, knowing there would be no escape for you…" You trailed off, leaving him to guess.
He opens his eyes slightly, studying your face with conspicuous interest plastered on his own. "So, you stuck around to keep me from being eaten? Or..." He hesitates, then adds quietly, "...Maybe you thought one living breathing human was better than dying alone?"
You nod. "I’ve seen enough men die in this hell. I couldn’t bear losing one so willing to give up his life for a squadron he’s never met or owed anything to," you whisper, flicking away the dirt on your hands.
His expression softens slightly, a rare sight after spending so many waking hours fighting off herds of cannibals. He smiles, slightly overwhelmed by your reciprocation of selflessness. "Well...thanks," he says, rubbing the back of his neck, not knowing what else to say. "Not used to...people sacrificing their survival for me," he chuckles.
You shrug. "Don’t think too much of it." You observed his features now that you weren’t in the heat of battle. He looks back at you, studying your face in return. You notice the way his eyes linger on yours, a hint of something more behind the gratitude. "You're...pretty worn out, aren't you?" he asks quietly, his voice gentle in a way you haven’t heard for months even with your tightly knit squadron.
"Aren’t we all?" you mumble, taking off your shako and setting it to your side. You run a hand through your curly black hair, which you’ve grown out to your shoulders.
He watches the motion with a faint appreciation. Most military men keep their hair short, but there's something appealing about the slight rebelliousness of yours. "French, right?" he asks suddenly, probably just to change the topic from his obvious staring. "You've got that...je ne sais quoi..."
You give him an amused smile at his poor French pronunciation. "Your French is horrendous," you tease. "You like the hair? All my men would say it looks strange, that it would get me in trouble, and my rank stripped. A shame for them that the end of the world is more important than a French soldier’s hair length, eh?"
He chuckles softly, shaking his head. "Can't blame them for complaining. Must be odd having your superior officer looking like a damned pirate." He pauses, then grins wickedly. "Though I must say, it suits you. Adds a certain...unpredictable charm. The name’s Barry, by the way,” he adds.
You nod, taking in a deep breath and sighing. "Would you like to know a secret, Barry?" You look at him, a smile crinkling your eyes.
His grin widens slightly at the sound of his name on your lips. He nods, leaning forward a bit. "Lay it on me," he says, his British accent thickening slightly with his enthusiasm. "Unless, of course, it's something crazy like you're actually a woman in disguise."
You raise your eyebrows. "Hit the nail right on the head," you muse offhandedly with slightly disappointed surprise.
He just stares at you, eyes wide. Then throws his head back and laughs loudly. "Bloody hell," he chuckles, wiping at his eyes. "How did you manage that?" he asks, still chuckling in disbelief.
"I happened to grow up on a farm with my parents. They had one girl and no sons, so I learned to do the lifting. Got into the army without a question since I could fake the voice pretty easily." You grin at him, tilting your head. "Could you tell?"
He studies your body again—the broad shoulders, the muscled arms. "No," he answers truthfully. "You're built like a man. Wide shoulders, flat chest..." He trails off, then smiles sheepishly. "Can I ask something else?"
You nod. "What is it?"
He hesitates, then goes for it. "Do you...have courses?" he asks bluntly, his cheeks slightly pink. He hadn’t seen a woman in years due to the war, let alone one disguised as a man. "Sorry if that's too personal." He adds quickly.
You snort, amused at the absurd nature of his question. "Of course I do. Well, I did. When I first joined the French army, I would just use a rag every now and then. I had one of the more trustworthy men keep it from the higher-ups when I needed help hiding the blood." You could tell he had more questions by the look on his face. "Go ahead. Ask away."
He ponders for a moment before speaking. "What about...other things? Like...feminine urges?" he asks hesitantly, his face growing redder. "I'm not trying to be crude, just...curious." He adds quickly, looking away.
You raise an eyebrow at him. "You’re going to have to specify, mon ami," you tease, having a vague idea of what he means but not wanting to be presumptuous.
He gulps, then decides to just say it. "Like...do you ever get...needy or anything? Or...have trouble controlling yourself around men?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "Because, you know...with all these men around, it might be...difficult."
You let out another scoff. "Please, with those animals? It would have been the other way around." You pretend to cup your mouth as if preventing someone from eavesdropping, despite no other human being within listening distance. "I wouldn’t have touched their pricks if they washed them twice as often. They never wash," you whisper with a humorous shudder.
He throws his head back and laughs loudly again. He likes your crude humor. He gets up and moves closer, sitting beside you against the wall. "So, wait," he chuckles, wiping at his eyes again. "You're basically a man in every way? No...female urges?" he asks again, barely concealing his curiosity.
You shrug. "I just haven’t had a moment to have a conversation with anyone normal, let alone even think about having sex. Those urges just… don’t come up when you’re fighting off man-eating cannibals in the streets," you explain, referring to the infected you fought off with Barry just before. Though, now that you had some downtime and someone not half-bad looking… you almost wanted to say.
"Fair enough," he says thoughtfully, noticing something in your face. "You've got a...special kind of control over yourself, haven't you?" His voice carries genuine respect. "Must be bloody hard, though. Keeping all that...femininity bottled up inside, I mean."
You tilt your head at him, pushing away the thought. "Honestly? I don’t mind pretending to be a man. I’m taken seriously. It would be nice to be a woman and living a normal life, but this beats getting married off," you reply.
He nods slowly, understanding. "I get that," he says quietly. "But...don't you ever miss it? The dresses, the makeup, the...softness of being a woman?" His hand moves unconsciously to your hair, fingers brushing through the strands gently.
You divert your gaze to the floor, but you don’t shy away from his touch. "I suppose. I wouldn’t mind trading this uniform for a dress if it meant I could wear clothes without blood soaking them."
He watches you for a moment, noticing the soft expression on your face. He likes this moment of vulnerability from you. It's a valuable sight considering the situation in Europe. "Would you wear a dress for me?" he asks quietly, his hand lingering in your hair. "Like a real woman?"
You glance up at him. "Cheeky. I’d have to get to know you better. I hardly know your first name," you equivocate. You give him an amused huff. "But I think you’re a good man, Barry."
His heart skips a beat at the praise. He's not used to people calling him a 'good man'. Especially not someone as rough around the edges as you. "And you're a good soldier," he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "One of the best I've ever seen." He tilted his head slightly in thought, realizing something. "I never did catch your name, miss...?"
"Louise," you answer. "But when I joined the army, I told them I was Louis. No one suspected anything. I truly am a mastermind of disguise, hm?" you joke, nudging him with an elbow.
Barry chuckles, shaking his head in amazement. "Louise disguised as Louis. Clever girl," he says with a grin, his accent thickening playfully. "Mind if I stick to Louis? It's easier to shout across a battlefield."
"Of course I don’t mind. Can’t have them finding out about me, no?" You chuckle. He laughs with you and nods, leaning in closer conspiratorially to whisper something.
"Though, between you and me, I think half the camp would faint if they knew their scary officer was actually a lass."
"Eh... probably," you shrug. "I think a few would still find the audacity to hit on their officer," you mutter, shaking your head disapprovingly at the thought.
Barry snorts at your joke, shaking his head. "Well, they'd get an earful from me if they tried anything stupid with my officer," he says firmly, his arm slipping around your shoulders in a protective gesture. "You're under my protection now, Officer Louis."
"I could kick your ass in a fight," you taunt, closing one eye and looking at him playfully through the other, your arms crossed over your chest.
Barry laughs, pulling you into a playful headlock. "Yeah, yeah, I bet you could," he says mockingly, ruffling your hair. "But I'm bigger than you, so there's that." He stands up, pulling you with him.
"Hey!" You call out, face reddening as you pry at his large arms.
He releases you and stands with his hands on his hips, looking down at you with a wink. "I promise not to tell a soul that Officer Louis is actually a lass if you promise to let me see you in a dress sometime." He chuckles at his own suggestion. "Fair trade, eh?"
You glare at him, amused but slightly annoyed by his antics. "Deal, on one condition," you add.
He raises an eyebrow, grinning slightly. "What condition?" he asks warily, his hands dropping to his sides. "You're not gonna ask for something funny like 'No touching', are you? I’m not a brute," he scoffs.
You shake your head, but your thought from before resurfaces. "The condition is…" You pause for a moment before going through with your idea. "The condition is that you can’t laugh at what I’m going to tell you," you answer, turning away from him with your arms crossed, hoping he plays along.
His expression turns serious at your condition, and he nods solemnly. "I won't laugh, Officer. I promise," he says, his voice gentle and respectful. He moves closer to you, his steps filled with anticipation. "What is it that you want to tell me?"
"I wouldn’t mind the touching if it was you," you mumble softly. You don’t dare look at him.
He freezes for a moment, completely caught off guard by your confession. Then, slowly, he moves closer still until his chest is inches from your back. "Christ," he mutters under his breath, reaching out to gently touch your shoulder. "Are you actually flirting with me, Officer?" he asks, hardly concealing a laugh of disbelief.
You don’t reply, leaving him in silence. You can feel your heart pounding in your ears upon hearing him approach, his chest just inches from your back.
He waits for a few tense moments, his hand remaining on your shoulder. Then, with a soft sigh, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you back against his chest. "Fuck it," he murmurs into your ear, pressing a gentle kiss to your neck.
You let out a sigh. "You don’t know how long I’ve wanted something like this to happen," you whisper, relishing in his touch. You put your hands on his, his arms wrapped around your waist.
He kisses your neck again, his lips lingering on your skin. "Too long, I'm guessing," he murmurs back, his breath warm against your neck. He presses his hips slightly against your backside, letting you feel the growing hardness in his trousers.
"Fuck," you mutter, feeling your core grow warmer. "J'en ai besoin..." You whisper, letting Barry guess from your meaning by tone of voice.
He tenses slightly, understanding only some of your French. "You need...?" he asks softly, his voice low and hoarse. His hips press against you again, seeking an answer without words. He's already half hard from your confession and touch, God help him if you say what he thinks you might.
You pull his wrists forward, making his entire body press into you, his hips fully flush against your rear.
A groan escapes his lips as he feels your ass press firmly back against his now fully hardened cock. "Bloody hell, Louis..." he mutters, burying his face in your neck. His hands clutch at your waist, fingers digging in slightly as he fights the urge to grind against you.
"Don’t hold back," you whisper, closing your eyes as his hands grasp your waist.
He freezes for a second, then his hips snap forward involuntarily, rutting against your backside like an animal. "God," he groans softly, his grip tightening possessively on your waist. He undoes the buttons on the back of your uniform jacket, slightly pushing it off your upper half, his mouth finding your shoulder to kiss and bite softly.
You let out a soft moan upon feeling his teeth graze your skin. The coat of your uniform slides off into a pile of fabric at your boots, your undershirt following suit. All you had on your upper half was the bandages you used to bind your chest to appear more masculine.
His mouth leaves your shoulder to kiss up the side of your neck, his hands roaming over your exposed back. "Fuck, you're so small," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. He hooks his fingers under the bandages and gently tugs, asking silently if he can remove them.
You nod, feeling his fingers work at the knot you made on each side to secure the binding. They slide down to the floor with the other articles of clothing.
He inhales sharply when the bandages fall away, revealing soft hills he's been imagining in other, less insane scenarios for weeks. "Christ," he breathes, his hands immediately covering your small breasts, thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks. He kisses your neck and shoulder, worshiping your body with his hands and mouth. He moves towards the desk, bending you over it with one hand leaving the nipple it was pinching and the other on your back.
You are entirely at his mercy. You feel his hands working at the belt around your uniform pants, undoing the buckle. You can feel his hands fumbling with the pant buttons with impatience. "You want it that bad too, hm?" you tease, giggling softly.
He laughs, undoing the laces on your boots and removing them before pushing your pants and undergarments down past your ankles to join the rest of your removed clothing. "More than you can handle, love," he mutters, slapping your bare ass cheeks softly. He spreads your thighs wider with his knees, his trousers tenting dangerously. He realizes something and freezes.
He bites his lip, looking torn. "I don't have a safe," he admits reluctantly, his hands stilling on your hips. "I wasn't exactly planning this." He looks down at you with a mixture of desire and frustration, his hard-on straining against his garments. “What if I get you pregnant?”
"That’s alright. I’m infertile," you assure him. "I’ll explain later," you add, knowing he might wonder how you’re so sure.
He lets out a ragged breath, relief washing over his face. "Fuck it, where's that pretty French mouth of yours?" His voice is hoarse with desire. He reaches down with one hand and grabs your chin gently, tilting your head up. "I'm dying to kiss you properly," he mumbles hastily, chest pressed against your back. With his other hand, he undoes the buckle on his belt, sliding his trousers and underwear down, freeing his throbbing erection.
You close your eyes, feeling his hungry lips on yours. You moan into his lips, returning the kiss. You feel his erection press into your rear, beads of precum leaking onto your skin.
He groans softly into your mouth, hips bucking slightly. He pulls back to catch his breath, hitching your thighs higher on the desk. He spreads your ass cheeks apart softly, watching his precum glisten on your skin. He lines up to your cunt without warning, pushing just past the tip in to test. You choke out a groan, feeling him push in. You clench your fists, trying not to cry from the stretch.
He pauses immediately at the choked sound, realizing he was too eager. "Ah fuck, too fast," he murmurs, stroking your sides reassuringly. He slowly withdraws, leaving the head of his cock within the walls of your entrance, letting you adjust. "You alright?" His voice is laden with concern and restrained lust.
You nod, your curls covering your face. "Go slow," you whisper. "I haven’t, ah…" you trail off.
He gently parts your hair, pushing it out of your face so he can look at you. "You've never?" He swallows hard, realization dawning on his face. He slowly pushes in again, just an inch this time, watching your face for any signs of pain.
You let out a breath you were holding, trying to relax. You shake your head to answer his question.
He hums softly in acknowledgment, nodding at the confirmation. He leans over your back again, pressing gentle kisses to your spine and neck. "I'll go slow," he whispers hoarsely, his fingers digging into your hips as he fights the urge to thrust in too deep.
"Thank you, Barry," you mumble gratefully, appreciating his gentleness. "I’m lucky I chose to accompany such a gentleman," you compliment, breath hitching as he slowly inches deeper inside.
He chokes on a surprised laugh combined with a moan, rocking forward slowly. "Only for you, love," he whispers back, nipping at your ear lobe. His thrusts remain gentle but steady, each time pushing a little deeper. "Damn, you're tight," he groans.
You let out a whimper at the stimulation, still accommodating for his size. "Are most men this… filling?" you groan out in response to his remark.
He pauses, considering the question as he tucks the hair covering your face behind your ear. "Probably not as much as me," he admits quietly, feeling an unexpected sense of pride at being able to fill you so completely. "But you're so delicate, love. I'm not sure anyone else would fill you properly."
You nod, biting your lip to distract yourself from the ache of his size. "I wonder what my squadron would think of this," you hum, seeing some amusement in the situation.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through your back. "I highly doubt they'd approve," he answers dryly, his hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm. "But they're not here, and I am. So shut up and let me fuck you in peace."
You nod, pressing your cheek to the wood of the desk, moaning softly as he slowly slides in and out of you. He swallows hard, watching his length disappear inside you slowly. He spreads your legs wider with his hands, his inhibitions long gone. He realizes he's being too careful and tests your response by snapping his hips forward sharply, eliciting a yelp from you. "Too rough?"
You shake your head, feeling sparks from the sharp thrust fade. "Just like that," you whisper. He grins wickedly, pleased with your response. His thrusts become more forceful, less controlled. He hooks a hand under your thigh, lifting it onto the table to plunge deeper into you. His other hand grabs a fistful of your hair, using it to pull your head back as he pounds into you. Moans spill from your lips as Barry slams into you over and over. Just before you reach your peak, he slows and pulls out, leaving you breathless and unsatisfied.
"Wait, wha…" you breathe out, disappointed and confused. He pants heavily, glistening with sweat as he looks down at you bent over the desk, his release so close but denying himself. He runs his hands possessively over your rear, spreading your cheeks apart. "Turn over," he commands.
Hardly catching your breath, you comply, turning over on the desk to lie on your back. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you take in the sight of Barry standing between your legs, his face flushed and glistening with sweat and his cock throbbing. "Je n'oublierai jamais ça…" you whisper. "I’ll never forget this," you repeat softly in English.
His chest heaves as he looks down at you, his eyes half-lidded and unreadable. He steps closer, grabbing your ankles and throwing them over his shoulders. He looks down at where you're joined, his length pressing against you but not entering yet. "Look at me," he orders.
You lock eyes with him, waiting to hear what he has to say. "Yes, Barry?"
He swallows hard, his eyes searching yours intensely. "Say it," he demands, his voice gruff. He flexes his hips forward, teasing you with just the tip. "Say 'Barry' again." He needs to hear his name on your lips.
"Barry…" you groan softly, his name dancing on your lips. "Please, Barry," you continue, begging. The sound of his name on your lips seems to set something off inside of him. With a guttural groan, he slams into you hard, burying himself to the hilt. You let out a yelp at the sudden penetration. His hands grip your hips tightly as he begins to pound into you relentlessly, his face contorted with pleasure and exertion. A string of both French and English curses tumble from your lips, your breasts bouncing and the desk shaking with his thrusts.
Barry captures your lips in a fierce kiss, swallowing your delighted curses. His tongue delves into your mouth, dancing with yours as he continues his relentless thrusting. One hand releases your hip to squeeze your breast roughly, pinching the nipple between his fingers.
As soon as your lips part from his, his name is all you can mumble out. You throw your head back, your mouth agape and your eyes rolling into the back of your head.
The sight of you unraveling pushes him towards the edge. He leans down, capturing a nipple in his mouth while continuing his punishing pace. His fingers dig deep into your thighs as he fucks you hard enough to leave bruises, knowing they'll be a mark of this moment every time you move.
You swear you can almost see stars. Suddenly, you feel him slow to a stop again. You pant heavily, feeling desperate for release. You search his eyes for his intentions. He looks at you, his eyes becoming unfocused, yet his gaze remains intense. He reaches between your legs, rubbing your clit in slow circles as he stays buried inside you. "Come for me," he commands, his voice low and rough. "Now, love. I want to feel you tighten around me."
You moan as his fingers expertly work to stimulate your clit. His words push you closer to your edge. You bite your lower lip to conceal your moans and you squeeze your eyes shut. Your chest rises and falls in a staccato pattern, your breathing erratic.
He groans at the sight of you biting your lip to stifle your moans, finding it both cute and disappointing. He increases the pressure on your sensitive nub, curling his fingers inside you slightly to hit that spot that drives you wild. "Open your eyes," he orders. You obey, opening your eyes. "And don’t muffle yourself. I want to hear you," he adds. His sultry words, combined with the sight of his shaft still sheathed inside of you, and his fingers working their magic, meant you couldn’t hold on much longer. Soon enough, you were screaming in pleasure as your juices coated his fingers, your walls tightening around his cock. His name is torn from your lips as your orgasm hits, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. It's the trigger he needed, sending him over the edge. With a deep grunt, he buries himself inside you and holds still as he comes hard, painting your insides with his release.
Your throat is hoarse from your intense vocalizations of pleasure. You continue to pant heavily as you come down from your high, your chest rising and falling dramatically. "That was…" you mumble, astonished.
He leans forward, bracing himself on the desk with one hand while the other tenderly strokes your thigh. His semi-erect cock still resides inside you, as if reluctant to leave its new favorite place. A smile tugs at his lips as he drinks in the sight of your disheveled state. You notice him staring and give him an impressed smile. "Where did you learn to be so good at this?" you ask, curious.
He chuckles, his fingers tracing patterns on your thigh. "Practice," he answers cryptically, his smirk widening. He pulls out slightly before sliding back in, finding that you're still incredibly sensitive and that he's already starting to harden inside you again. "And reading," he admits.
You hum in acknowledgment. "If this is what British men are like, then my French comrades have some serious competition, don’t they?" you tease, winking at him. He throws his head back and laughs, snapping his hips forward sharply, making you moan. "You shouldn't talk about other men while you're full of British cock," he teases back, his voice dropping lower. He spreads your thighs wider apart, watching himself move in and out of you slowly. You moan softly, feeling him slide in and out much more easily with the natural lubrication of your arousal and his sperm. "Barry…" you whisper his name.
He leans forward, capturing your mouth in a gentle kiss as he continues his slow, deep thrusts. "What is it, love?" he asks against your lips, his voice soft and soothing. He reaches up to brush a strand of hair out of your face, his touch tender.
"Thank you…" you look up at him, gazing into his eyes. "…For allowing me to accompany you," you continue. He smiles softly, a genuine warmth spreading across his face at your gratitude. His thrusts slow to a lazy rhythm as he gazes back at you. "Are you mad? Having a woman like you tag along is hardly a chore," he murmurs, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. You lean into his touch, closing your eyes in contentment. He watches you for a moment, his heart swelling with affection for this strange, bold Frenchwoman who has somehow become so important to him. He decides to tell you the truth, to see how you react. "You know, I wasn't planning on letting you stay," he confesses.
At this, you open your eyes, tilting your head in confusion. "Why not? What made you reconsider?" you ask.
His slow thrusts continue, his fingers caressing your body idly. "You were too loud," he answers honestly, making you laugh. "And you have no filter," he adds, smiling. He pauses, his expression turning thoughtful. "Also, you shot two men without blinking."
You raise an eyebrow at him, surprised. "You saw that? They were too far gone in the infection and our chaplain was mauled to death. Those two men were going to eat us alive if I didn’t give them the mercy of death," you solemnly explain. You shake your head, not wanting to think about that. "But why did you reconsider?"
He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Because you were useful," he admits. "You speak multiple languages, you're a skilled shooter, and you have no qualms about getting your hands dirty. But most importantly..."
You maintain eye contact, waiting for him to continue, his languid thrusting providing subtle stimulation.
He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "...You have magnificent tits."
You furrow your brows at him. You go for a backhanded slap at his face, but he catches your wrist with a cheeky grin on his face. "You connard!" You shout, your face red, trying to wrangle your wrist from his grasp. You attempt to slap him with your other hand, but he catches that one as well and pins both wrists to the table. "Unhand me!" You demand, laughing. He holds your wrists securely, his grin unrepentant as he looks at you with affectionate amusement. "You're adorable when you're angry," he says, his voice tinged with mischief. He leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips before releasing your wrists.
"Connard," you mutter under your breath again in French, wrapping your hands around his shoulders, your fingers running through his orange hair as you kiss. He breaks the kiss with a playful nip to your bottom lip, laughing softly as he hears you call him an asshole again. "I know you're calling me names." His hips roll forward, driving his hardening cock deeper inside you. "But you're kissing me anyway, aren't you?"
You nod, groaning softly at the sensation. "Shut up," you mutter, locking your hands around his shoulders.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest as he starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward with more purpose now. He captures your lips again, swallowing your moans as he picks up the pace. One hand moves to grip your hip, holding you in place as he pounds into you. You wrap your legs around his waist as he ups his pace, eliciting another string of ecstatic mumblings and moans from you. "Don’t… don’t stop," you pant, chasing your release.
He grunts, his breath coming in short gasps as he buries himself inside you over and over. "Not gonna stop," he gasps out, his own release building rapidly. He reaches between your legs, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing it furiously in time with his thrusts. You cry out in pleasure, your walls tightening once more around him as your climax comes all at once. "Barry, Barry- merde!" you cry out, seeing stars. He feels your walls clench around him, and with a final, forceful thrust, he follows you over the edge. "Fuck!" he groans loudly, burying himself as deep as possible as he comes hard inside you, adding to the cum painting your walls white. His hips shudder, jerking erratically as he rides out his orgasm.
You lie there on the table, Barry’s body weight pressing down on you as you both catch your breath. You idly fidget with his ginger strands of hair, taking in his scent. After a few moments, he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and sated. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips before pulling out of you slowly, making you wince slightly. He stands up and offers you his hand.
You take his hand, allowing him to pull you up so that you may sit up on the edge of the desk. His fluids and yours drip out from between your legs. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you onto his lap as he sits on the chair by the desk. He nuzzles into your neck, inhaling your scent, which mingles with his release. "We should clean up," he murmurs, his fingers tracing patterns on your thigh.
"Yes," you agree, stretching your arms over your head, and letting out a groan. He watches you stretch with a contented smile, his eyes roaming over your curves appreciatively. He stands up with you still in his arms, carrying you into the bathroom attached to the office. He sets you down gently in the tub, finding a bucket and a rag to wash up with. "It’s all we have, but I’ll make it work," he affirms.
You nod, allowing Barry to wipe your body clean. "Thank you, Barry," you murmur. "Would you like help cleaning yourself up as well?" you offer, noticing his disheveled appearance. He looks down at himself, noticing the dried fluids on his stomach and chest. He hands you the rag, allowing you to clean him up as well. He watches you intently as you wipe him down, finding the simple act surprisingly intimate and soothing. You hum a tune the fifer would often play on the battlefield as you wipe his skin clean of any fluids and sweat. He listens to your humming, a soft smile on his face as he recalls the sound of the fife on the battlefield. The melody brings back memories of war and comrades, but with you here, he feels a sense of peace and belonging that he never thought he'd find.
"I’ll go get dressed," you softly tell him as you stand up from the tub, heading back to the office to retrieve your clothes and boots. He nods, watching you leave the bathroom before turning to look at himself in the mirror. He splashes some water on his face, trying to wash away the lingering thoughts of combat and death. He takes a deep breath before following you back into the office, finding you already dressed and putting on your boots.
You continue humming, lacing your boots intently. You become lost in thought momentarily. He watches you for a moment, noticing the sudden change in your demeanor. He hesitates briefly before walking over to you and kneeling down beside you. "Is everything alright, Louis?" he asks softly, his voice laced with concern.
You snap out of your thoughts, looking up at him. "Hm? Well... I was wondering…" you trail off.
He looks at you curiously, his brows rising slightly in anticipation for you to finish your thought. He gently reaches out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your skin. "Wondering what, Louis?" he asks, his voice soft and soothing.
You take a breath before continuing. "Once this is all over… Assuming it ever ends…"
His heart skips a beat as he realizes what you're implying. He pauses, his thumb gently caressing your cheek as he listens intently. "Louis, are you asking what my plans are for after the war ends?" he asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I would like to know if I could come to Britain with you once our responsibilities are taken care of." You search his eyes for a response.
He freezes for a moment, then pulls back slightly to look at you better. "You mean... you want to come to Britain? With me?" He swallows hard, trying to hide his sudden hope and excitement. He realizes that this could mean you want more than just a physical relationship.
You smile softly. "Yes. Only if you would like to," you add on.
His face splits into a wide smile, unguarded and genuine. He pulls you into his arms suddenly, making you laugh. "Of course, I would like that," he chuckles, wrapping his arms tighter around you. "More than you know," he murmurs softly.
You laugh softly, closing your eyes and resting your head on his chest. "Truly a fascinating chain of events that led to this moment, hm?"
He nods, his chin resting on top of your head as he holds you close. "Indeed, it was," he agrees sincerely, his heart swelling with affection and hope for the future. He never could have imagined that he would find someone like you in the midst of all the grueling battles for survival.
You let out a yawn, feeling your exhaustion creep into sleepiness, further induced by the comforting warmth of his chest. Barry picks you up with one arm carrying you by your knees, the other under your back, moving to sit down on a nearby couch with you in his lap.
"Let’s just… stay here for a while," you murmur before dozing off in his arms. He holds you close, feeling your weight and warmth in his arms. He listens to your soft breathing, feeling content and at peace. He knows that the apocalypse will pull you both apart soon, but for now, he just wants to savor this moment with you in his arms.