#nfs

Craving a sweet, obedient girl… buried between my thighs, her lips wrapped around my clit while she whimpers.

The bugle blows at five. You jolt awake, almost fall out of the bunk, and immediately regret every life decision.

“Move, move, move!” someone yells down the hall.

Around you, the guys are already up, pulling on boots, buttoning shirts, moving like they rehearsed it in their sleep. You try to follow, fumbling over your laces.

“You’re too slow,” Slovacek says as he passes, voice low, calm.

“I’m aware,” you mutter.

He smirks just slightly. “Thought I’d make sure.”

You line up behind the others outside. The air’s still cool and the ground damp. Your dad stands in front of the platoon, hands behind his back, his face straight and serious as always.

“Today, we see what you’re made of,” he says. “Teams of two. Endurance course. You’ll have to rely on each other. If one fails, you both fail.”

Pairs start forming. You scan the crowd, trying to spot Santos. He waves you over.

“Guess we’re teammates again,” he says.

“Lucky you,” you reply.

“Damn right.”

—

The course looks like something built to make people cry. Mud pits, ropes, wooden walls, barbed wire, and tunnels.

You start running. Santos sets the pace, steady and fast. You try desperately to keep up.

“Don’t slow down,” he says between breaths.

“I’m not slowing down, I’m just” Your foot hits a patch of mud. You nearly faceplant.

He grabs your arm, steadying you. “You were saying?”

“Testing gravity.”

He laughs, still running. “Gravity works. Confirmed.”

You hit the wall next. It’s taller than you expected. You wipe mud from your hands and look at Santos.

“You first,” he says.

“I weigh more than you think,” you warn.

“Then I’ll catch you,” he says, easy as breathing.

You climb halfway, slip, and feel his hands shove you up from below. You grab the top edge, haul yourself over, and look down at him.

“Not bad,” he yells over all the noise.

“You doubted me?”

“Only a little.”

He makes it over in one jump.

Show-off

By the end, you’re covered in mud, breathing hard, but laughing. The sun’s up now, glaring.

“Not bad for day two,” Santos says, offering a high five.

You slap his chest weakly. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

He grins, bright, easy, and it makes the morning feel a little less miserable.

—

Back in formation, the drill sergeants yell names and times. Slovacek’s team finishes first, obviously. He stands tall, arms crossed, and barely sweating.

When his eyes meet yours, he tilts his head just slightly. It’s not a smile, not quite a challenge either, just acknowledgment that I made it out.

Santos leans in, voice low. “That guy’s like a machine.”

“Yeah,” you say. “A rude one.”

He chuckles. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“I won’t,” you say, though you’re already watching Slovacek talk to one of the instructors, completely unreadable.

—

Breakfast is louder today. The nerves have burned off; people are actually talking. You sit with Santos. He’s halfway through his oatmeal when a guy across the table introduces himself, bright smile, light eyes, loud voice.

“Nash,” he says simply.

“Alvar,” you say.

He nods. “Saw you out there. You don’t quit easy.”

“Thanks,” you reply, surprised.

Next to him, another recruit cracks a grin. “She fell in the mud, though.”

“Only once,” you shoot back.

“I’m Ochoa,” he says, grinning wider.

“Resident comedian” Nash replies.

“Noted.”

Santos leans back. “Don’t encourage him, Nash. He’ll never stop.”

“Too late,” Ochoa says, smirking.

The banter is fast and familiar. It makes you feel less like the outsider.

Across the room, Slovacek sits with a few others, loud as usual. You catch him glancing over once before he looks away.

Santos follows your gaze. “You really trying to figure that guy out?”

“I’m not trying to figure anyone out.” I lie.

“Sure,” he says, smiling. “You just keep accidentally staring.”

You throw a piece of bread at him. “Eat your oatmeal.”

He laughs, dodging it. “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

—

By the afternoon, you’re assigned to cleaning duty. Santos and you get stuck scrubbing floors. He hums under his breath, some song you half-recognize.

“This is depressing,” you say.

“It’s building character.”

“Well, this character smells like bleach.”

He laughs. “You really hate it here, huh?”

“I don’t hate it,” you say. “I just… don’t know where I fit.”

“You’ll find it,” he says. “People like you usually do.”

“People like me?”

“Yeah. The ones who don’t quit. Besides, you fit in fine with me.”

You look at him, and he just shrugs, smiling like it’s obvious.

—

Later, during free time, you sit outside on the steps, notebook in hand. The sky’s going pink over the treeline.

“Writing a resignation letter?” a voice says behind you.

You look up. Slovacek stands there, arms crossed.

“Just notes,” you say.

He nods toward the notebook. “You do that a lot?”

“Yeah. Helps me remember things.”

He sits a few steps below, elbows on his knees. It’s the first time he hasn’t looked like he’s in a hurry to be anywhere else.

“Your partner did alright today,” he says.

“Santos?”

He nods.

“So did you,” you say. “You finished first.”

He glances back at you. “You noticed.”

“Kind of hard not to.”

He smirks faintly. “You’ll catch up.”

“That a challenge?”

“No,” he says. “It’s a fact.”

The way he says it isn’t arrogant, just sure.

You smile softly. “Guess we’ll see.”

He stands, brushing off his hands. “Don’t stay out too long. Tomorrow’s worse.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

He walks off without looking back.

Santos passes him on the way up the steps, nodding. “You good?” he asks you.

“Yeah.” You close your notebook. “Just trying to keep up.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”

You nod.

The night settles over the base, soft and quiet. For the first time, it doesn’t feel suffocating, just still

—

The next morning starts like every other. Too early and too loud.

“Up and out!” McKinnon’s voice echos down the hall. Boots hit the floor. You’re halfway through tying yours when Santos throws a towel at your head.

“You move like you’re underwater,” he says, laughing.

“I am underwater,” you mutter. “Just emotionally.”

He snorts. “Come on. You’ll wake up once they start yelling.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

You line up outside same as yesterday, the grass wet from rain the night before and the sky still pale. Your dad’s there, clipboard in hand.

“Today’s your first full competition drill,” he says.

“You’ll be divided into groups. Teamwork and quickness will count as points.”

A collective groan rolls through the ranks.

“Complaints already?” he asks, voice sharp. Silence follows.

“Didn’t think so, move.”

—

Your squad ends up being you, Santos, Slovacek, Cope, McAffey, and one of the Bowman twins, but the loud one. John. He’s already talking like you’ve been best friends for years.

“Alright, people, listen up,” John says, clapping his hands. “We’re gonna win this thing.”

“Relax,” McAffey says, steady and even. “It’s not a war.”

“Everything’s a war,” John replies, grinning.

Cope rolls his eyes and I follow right after. “You must be exhausting to share a bunk with.”

John grins wider. “Ask my brother.”

“Please don’t,” Santos murmurs.

Cope stifles a laugh. Slovacek doesn’t say anything, just adjusts his gloves and scans the field like he’s already strategizing.

Your team starts with the rope climb. It’s taller than it looked yesterday.

“Alright, who’s first?” Santos asks.

John cracks his knuckles. “Obviously me.”

He scales it fast, hits the bell at the top, and slides down like he’s auditioning for a movie. When he lands, he spreads his arms like he expects applause.

McAffey claps once and you speak. “Congratulations. You survived gravity.”

Cope snickers.

When it’s your turn, you hesitate for half a second. The rope feels rough and heavy. You grab on and start climbing. Halfway up, your arms start to shake.

“You’ve got it,” Santos calls from below.

You grit your teeth, push through, and slap the bell at the top. The cheer that goes up feels better than it should. When you slide down, Santos grins. “Not bad.”

Slovacek just nods once, quiet. “Efficient,” he says.

It sounds like a compliment, even if it’s delivered like a report.

—

The next station’s worse. Crawling through mud under barbed wire. John goes first again, obviously. Santos follows, smooth and fast. You’re halfway through when someone’s boot clips your arm.

“Watch it,” you hiss.

“Keep up, Alvar,” John says, not even turning around.

You grit your teeth, shove forward. The mud seeps through your uniform, cold and heavy. By the time you crawl out, you look like a swamp creature.

Cope helps you up, pulling you by the wrist. “You okay there?”

“Define okay.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “I’m with you there.”

Slovacek climbs out behind you, brushing off his sleeves. “Next time, stay closer to the line,” he says.

“I was in the line,” you shoot back.

“You drifted,” he says, raising his voice slightly. “Makes you a bigger target.”

“I’ll try not to get metaphorically shot next time.”

He doesn’t smile, but his eyes flick sideways, amused, maybe. It’s hard to tell.

—

The last course is a timed run. Everyone’s wiped. Mud, sweat, bruises. Your lungs feel like they’re on fire.

“Teams of two,” your dad calls. “You and your partner finish together or not at all.”

You look at Santos, ready to move, but John steps forward first. “I’ll take the lady.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Balance,” he says with a grin. “You’re light, I’m fast. We’ll crush it.”

Santos opens his mouth to argue, but Slovacek cuts in. “I’ll pair with you, Santos.”

John slaps your shoulder. “Try not to slow me down, hot stuff.”

“Oh, I’ll do my best,” you mutter.

—

The whistle blows. You take off. John’s faster than you, longer strides, all energy and noise. He shouts over his shoulder, “Come on, Alvar! Move!”

You push harder, matching his pace. Halfway through, he trips on a rock and goes down hard, muttering something that would probably earn him a couple extra push-up sets if your dad heard it.

“You okay?” you ask, stopping.

“Keep going,” he grunts.

“I’m not leaving you.”

He tries to stand, limping. “I’m fine.”

“You’re wasting time.” The frustration hits him fast. “This is your fault,” he snaps suddenly.

“My fault? You fell!”

“You hesitated earlier. You slowed me down.”

Before you can answer, Slovacek and Santos pass you both, silent and in sync. Neither of them look at you as they go by, but Santos’ jaw tightens.

By the time you and John finish, you’re dead last. He limps the final stretch, muttering curses under his breath.

Your dad blows the whistle again. “Squad six, last place.” His gaze lands on you. It’s angry and you can feel the disappointment right away.

John starts, “Sir, if she hadn’t”

“That’s enough,” Slovacek says from nearby, voice sharp. He steps forward just slightly, not looking at you. “It wasn’t her fault. He tripped.”

Your father raises a brow, then nods once. “Then maybe you all need to work on communication.” He turns away.

—

Later, when the others head to wash up, you linger near the field, trying to scrape the dried mud off your boots.

Santos jogs over, still catching his breath. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Fine.”

“John’s an ass sometimes,” he says easily. “He’ll get over it.”

“He can keep it,” you reply. “I didn’t ask him to trip.”

“Exactly,” Santos says, grinning. “And hey, you didn’t leave him. Most people would’ve.”

“Guess I’m a sucker for teamwork.”

“Or moral guilt.”

“Both.”

He laughs, heading back toward the platoon. “C’mon. Chow’s soon. You earned it.”

You stay behind a minute longer. The field’s quiet now.

Slovacek’s there, near the rope climb, cleaning his hands with a rag. He looks up once.

“Nice work,” he says.

You frown. “We came in last.”

“You didn’t quit,” he says simply.

You shrug. “Low bar.”

“Not around here.”

He tosses the rag over his shoulder, turns, and walks off.

For a guy who barely speaks to me, he sure says a lot.

You spend the rest of the day eating, writing, and sleeping.

—

McKinnon’s voice hits like a gunshot: “Rise and move!”

You roll out of bed, lights in your face, boots hitting the floor before your brain catches up. Same old, same old, except, Santos groans from a few bunks down.

“You ever think maybe he enjoys yelling that much?” he mutters.

“Absolutely,” you say, dragging on your jacket. “He probably practices in the mirror.”

Santos grins, eyes still half-shut. “Wouldn’t be surprised.”

Outside, the air’s cool and damp, the field lined with fog. You line up, trying to look alive. Dad’s at the front, clipboard in hand, angry expression as always.

“Today,” he starts, “we focus on endurance. Team pacing. Cooperation.”

Translation: you’re running until someone throws up.

—

You do laps until the sun’s high. John Bowman’s the first to complain.

“Sir, permission to”

“Denied.” He cuts him off.

Santos snickers. You bite back a smile.

By the last lap, your legs feel like cement. Slovacek passes you twice without breaking pace. He doesn’t look tired just focused and calm. When you finish, he’s already standing near the bleachers, barely breathing hard.

“Show-off,” you mutter.

He glances over, one brow slightly raised. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” you say, wiping sweat from your forehead.

He steps closer, that small smirk forming. “Didn’t sound like nothing.”

“Must’ve been the wind,” you shoot back.

He chuckles, low, short. “You’ve got spirit. I’ll give you that.”

“Is that drill-sergeant code for you’re slow but amusing?”

“Maybe.” He tilts his head slightly. “You keep up better than half the guys here.”

“Half isn’t good enough.”

“It’s a start.”

He walks off, and you can’t help but watch him go. There’s something steady about the way he moves. All control, no noise.

unlike me.

—

After drills, you’re assigned maintenance duty, again. The military version of detention. Mops, buckets, endless floors. Santos hands you a broom. “Ever cleaned a tile this shiny before?”

You ignore him.

Cope, mopping nearby, joking. “That’s the spirit.”

McAffey’s beside him, quietly efficient. The two of them work like it’s the most fun thing to do in the world.

Cope glances up. “So, Alvar, rumor says you and Bowman wiped out yesterday?”

You roll your eyes. “Rumor travels faster than common sense around here, n’plus you were there.”

McAffey grins. “He deserved it. Guy talks like a motivational poster with brain damage.”

Santos chokes on a laugh. “That’s accurate.”

You smirk. “You all really hate him that much?”

“No,” Cope says. “We just enjoy it when he loses.”

Fair enough.

You work in comfortable silence for a while. The sound of water sloshing and brushes scraping fills the hall.

—

After lunch, you get a rare hour off. Half the guys are writing letters or sleeping with their boots still on. You sit by the open window with your notebook. The breeze smells faintly like dust and metal.

You start jotting down whatever sticks in your head: Santos laughs like he doesn’t care who hears, but he’s nice and I appreciate how he talked to me on day one. Cope talks too fast but he usually says something funny. Slovacek’s hard to read… and I don’t like that. Nash is cute but too dirty for me. Ochoa…

You tap your pencil a few times thinking of what to say about Ochoa. You look over to where he is and find him helping Slovacek clean his boots, or rather being forced to.

No thoughts.

John is okay, loud, but tolerable. He brags too much, he probably just has daddy issues, though. His brother, Cody is funny and somewhat confident which I think takes some balls. Mcaffey is cool. I have a friend-crush on him. Hopefully I can talk to him more.

“Writing about us?”

You look up, Cope again, grinning.

“Maybe.”

“Put me down as ‘best personality,’” he says, tapping his chest.

“Sure,” you say, “right next to ‘most humble.’”

McAffey leans against the bedpost. “You writing letters?”

“Not yet.” You say knowing you have no one to write to.

“You should,” he says simply. “Keeps your head straight. Even if you don’t send them.”

he speaks so.. perfect.

That sits with you. “Yeah. Maybe I will.”

They head out after a bit, leaving you with your thoughts and the hum of the ceiling fan. I write down the dumb things Cope told me to write.

Cope talks too fast but he usually says something funny.

Cope has the best personality, and is the most humble. Uses body language a lot. … McAffey always seems to have the perfect words for everything.. definitely taking notes.

—

Later that day, weapons drills. The air smells like oil and dust. Everyone’s quiet, focused.

You’re field stripping a rifle, careful with each step, when a shadow falls over you.

“You missed a pin,” Slovacek says.

You glance up, pretending not to notice how close he’s standing. “I was getting to it.”

He crouches beside you, steady and calm. “Mind if I?”

“Be my guest.”

He takes the rifle, showing you how to angle the tool just right. His hands move with the kind of confidence that comes from doing something a thousand times over. He looks like he works with his hands, a lot.

“See?” he says. “Pressure here, not there.”

“Right. Pressure on the pin, not the trigger. I’ll try not to shoot myself.”

He laughs quietly, the sound short and genuine. “Good plan.”

When he hands the rifle back, your fingers brush. He doesn’t move away right away, just lets the moment hang.

“You learn fast,” he says.

“Trying to keep up with the experts.”

“You’re not far behind.”

You glance up at him. “Was that a compliment?”

He smirks. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

He leans back slightly, eyes scanning your face for a moment longer than necessary. Then, softer, “You’ll do fine here, Alvar.”

He says it like it’s fact. Not reassurance or pity. Just certainty, which you find comforting.

Before you can reply, he’s already on to the next station.

—

Dinner’s louder that night. The noise of trays clattering, laughter bouncing off metal walls. Santos tells some wild story about accidentally setting off a smoke grenade during training last year.

“Whole place looked like a barbecue,” he says.

Nash’s nearly crying from laughing. “You did not!”

“I did. McKinnon still brings it up.”

McAffey shakes his head. “You’re lucky you only got thrown out.”

Santos shrugs. “Charm gets you far.”

“Charm gets you punished,” Slovacek says, sliding onto the bench beside him.

You think about his words for a second longer than needed. Charm gets you punished.

“Not everyone’s allergic to fun, Slo,” Santos fires back.

Slovacek cracks half a grin. “Fun’s overrated.”

You tilt your head. “You sure about that?”

He looks at you, but this time a smirk is spread across his face. “Depends who you’re having it with.”

Santos whistles. “Whoa, he does have a sense of humor.”

“Barely,” you tease.

“Careful,” Slovacek says, faint smile still there. “Keep that up, and I might start talking more.”

“Promises, promises.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re trouble, Alvar.”

You grin. “Takes one to know one.”

The others exchange looks, smirking, but no one says a word.

—

By the time lights-out rolls around, the laughter’s still echoing faintly in your head. Santos mumbles sitting by your bunk. “You’re settling in.”

“Guess so.”

“You and Slovacek getting friendly, huh?”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “He’s just teaching me stuff.”

“Sure,” he says sleepily. “That’s what they all say before the notebook gets hearts in the margins.”

I smirk, thankful he can’t see it. “Go to sleep, Santos.”

“Already am.”

You laugh quietly to yourself, as he walks back to his bunk. Soon enough you’re staring at the ceiling until the dark hum of the room settles over everything.

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