Title: Assessing the Situation (Rules of Engagement 2/?)
Rating: NC-17 for language, handjobs and elaborate fantasies. Oh, and slash. Lots of slash.
Disclaimer: These characters are fictional composites and are in no way linked to the actual men upon which the book and movie (which belong to Mark Bowden and Scott Free, respectively) are based. The only thing this is intended to infringe upon are the bounds of decency.
Author's notes: Currently without a beta, my first attempt in this fandom, and my second fic ever. Concrit is welcome, and please slash responsively.
Sanderson is easily led by thoughts of damage, but he is destroyed utterly by tenderness. He rocks forward, and each thumbprint on the bones of his spine traces a ladder to heaven. The long slow slide of Hoot’s tongue on the nape of his neck and the iron grip of teeth in his shoulder that follows is as close to God as either of them will ever get, and the only Hell Sanderson can imagine is having to live without this.
He wonders what Mike Steele considers paradise. The image of those hot blue eyes glazed over with pleasure causes him to buck under Hoot’s teeth. It feels like betrayal, but he’s suddenly so hard he feels like might explode, the image in his head arcing like an electrical current into his cock. He tries to fight it, to think of Hoot. Hoot inside him, under him, beside him. He tries to think about how Hoot tosses his head back, how the muscles in his neck tense as he tries to delay his orgasm, but all he can picture are Steele’s achingly white teeth sharp on that expanse of desert tan. He’s guilty because he’s not jealous. But of whom would he be jealous? He imagines that magical tongue of Hoot’s sliding up Steele’s neck, behind his ear and tracing his way across that smooth scalp. He imagines being between them, all that hot, slick muscle on either side of him, dominating him.
A whine, desperate beyond comprehension, slips between his teeth and he tenses under Hoot, until his muscles feel like steel cables. A choked sob squeezes its way out of his throat. Those hands, callused enlisted-man hands that deal death to almost everyone but Sanderson, freeze, and then slip soothingly down over his shoulders, trace peace into his biceps. Those thumbs press calm into the bend of his elbows, the pads of those fingertips sketch serenity on his forearms. It makes Sanderson quake, makes him ache with remorse and viciously suppressed desire.
“Where are you?” The whisper slides over Sanderson’s ears. The fingers tighten, almost imperceptibly. Sanderson arches his back, needing touch, needing it desperately, and Hoot takes the invitation. He runs his hand down Sanderson’s spine, clasps his hip in one long-fingered hand, and curls his other arm around his trembling lover’s chest. He pulls him back slowly, until they’re both on their knees, and one long, glorious stretch of skin-on-skin, back to chest. He strokes the dip between Sanderson’s pectorals, feeling the hitches in his breathing start to slow.
“Are you ok?”
Sanderson nods hesitantly. ‘Ok’ isn’t the word he’d use. ‘Conflicted’ is close, and ‘unhinged’ is better still. He doesn’t know how to be with anyone but Hoot, make this symbiotic whatever-it-is work with anyone but the man whose body heat is seeping sanity into his bones.
But that doesn’t stop his body from howling for Steele, stop his mind imagining what those hands would feel like on his skin, the texture of that freshly shaven scalp under his fingers, under his tongue. He feels disconnected, adrift, and reaches up and behind to grasp Hoot’s neck in his palm, to anchor himself as he shudders.
The lips are against his ear this time.
“Where are you?” The hand slips down his damp chest, firm and demanding. It presses against his solar plexus, forcing his exhale, and Hoot exhales with him, the whoosh slipping past his ear like the sound of the ocean. As he inhales, the breath seems to flow from him into Hoot, curling around their lungs, and then releasing out again, perfectly synchronized.
“Come back to me, Jeff. Just breathe.” They breathe as they were taught to march, perfectly in time, for what seems like eons, but is more accurately measured by minutes. They breathe together until Sanderson sighs, his breathing under control. His emotions are still raging in his chest, and he fancies that Hoot can feel them vibrating through his rib-cage because his hand has moved lower, fingering the striations of his stomach.
“Is it Steele?”
Those three words punch through his sternum like a full-metal jacket at point-blank range. He’s shaking, and he knows Hoot can feel it. His fingers are digging into the nape of Hoot’s neck, and he knows Hoot can feel that too. But his saving grace is that his back to Hoot, so Hoot can’t feel how achingly hard he grows, in seconds, at the sound of that name.
But his relief turns to panic as that hand slides surely down, until it wraps around the straining, damning proof that he desires someone besides Hoot, a man besides Hoot, another soldier besides Hoot. He can barely fathom it, and he does not want to imagine what Hoot thinks. He is hyperventilating, as he nods slowly, painfully. There can be no dishonesty between them.
The hand curls and tightens, a slow flexion of the wrist that wrenches a groan from Sanderson as knee-buckling pleasure skitters its way up his spine. He’s grateful for the iron band of Hoot’s arm around his chest.
“I thought so.” The whisper is warm, and the silence that follows it is comfortable instead of crouching, laden with a promise that loosens the knot in Sanderson’s chest.
His breath is faster for a different reason now. That reason is Hoot, diamond hard against the small of his back, panting in his ear, as his right hand damns Sanderson with its tight, slick absolution.
“He’s a pretty one. But reserved.” Sanderson can’t believe his luck. They really are symbiotic.
“Some might even say…” Hoot strokes him very thoroughly, base to tip. “-stiff.”
Sanderson is openly panting now, each slide of Hoot’s hand unhinging him further.
“I wonder how he would sound if you did this-“ a quick twist of his wrist as he neared the top of his stroke “to him. Do you think the good captain moans?” Sanderson didn’t know how Steele would sound, but his resultant moan would have put a back-alley whore to shame on her best day, as his head crashes back into Hoot’s shoulder.
Hoot’s voice is rough, ragged around the edges, animalistic. “Do you think he would beg? Or would he command?” He punctuates the question with a slow, maddening stroke and Sanderson’s hips try to punch a hole in the air. Hoot chuckles.
“C-c-ommand. God, would he ever command.” Hoot’s hand tightens at the sound of Sanderson’s shaky voice. Sanderson bites back a groan.
“A commanding officer, yes he is that.” Sanderson wonders if he is imagining how heated Hoot’s voice is getting, if that growling undertone is in his head. He wonders, because if it isn’t, then it means that Hoot is aroused by the idea of Steele. Aroused by the idea of both him and Sanderson doing things to Steele, of them being commanded by Steele. Dominated. It had to be that, because Hoot did not submit to anyone, ever. Sanderson might fuck Hoot, but he never dominated him. Hoot had an old-fashioned, ingrained hatred of authority figures, and Steele was about as textbook authority figure as you could get. Unless…he clenches his teeth in an effort to keep from coming as he pictures Hoot on his knees in front of Steele.
“Can you imagine being on your knees in front of him? Those eyes, fuck! Those damn blue eyes looking down.” Sanderson whispers it directly into Hoot’s ear, punctuating it by closing his teeth around that tempting earlobe.
Hoot grunts, like someone punched him in the solar plexus, and Sanderson knows he has the right of it. He tries to find the breath to speak as Hoot’s teeth sink into his shoulder, a low-pitched whine in the back of his throat.
“Can you hear him telling you to suck his cock, in that angry, deliberate drawl?”
Hoot chokes, groaning, and his pace quickens, and he’s starting to thrust his hips, rubbing his cock over Sanderson’s ass in a desperate quest for friction. Sanderson’s close and he knows Hoot is going to need that extra little push. He lowers his voice, tenses his jaw to create teeth-gritted syllables, and adds more vowels to his words.
“That is a hot weapon, Sarn’t.”
Hoot stiffens, and the arm around Sanderson’s chest constricts, pushing all of the air out his lungs. There are Hoot’s hot, desperate pants in his ear, his barely vocalized moans, the cock sliding across his ass and Sanderson feels it coming, is ready for it, more so, he knows, than Hoot who comes first with the force of a freight train derailing. It is his muffled and desperate wail of Sanderson’s name that sends Sanderson over the edge, makes him come until his spine bows with it, screaming into Hoot’s palm.
The sparks that explode behind his eyelids, before he collapses pulling Hoot down on top of him, are the color of Steele’s eyes.