Heart of Slash Fic

I gots a snowlfake cookie!!!

2009-12-09T16:05:35Z

From beadslut. And I needed a cookie soooooo bad. Nom nom nom.

Total snoggles, baby!

Grimes, Mcknight, Stubble, Scars, and Ideas...

2009-11-22T01:16:20Z

Title: John Grimes and the Shaving Experiment, Part One – The Idea of the Thing
Fandom: post Black Hawk Down, Army of Two/The Long Haul
Pairing: McKnight/Grimes
Rating: There is SEX. Make no mistake about it.
Warning: sub/Dom, kink, scarlicking, shaving
Disclaimer: So far removed from the source material it makes me laugh. Ha.
Summary: McKnight doesn't like one of his scars. Grimes is eager to please. That doesn't sound like much of a start, but with these two "the sun went down" is enough to induce wild kinkathons of perverted love-making, so the fact that they are interacting is enough to start things off...
Dedication: A very happy, sexy, satisfying, slutty (and belated) birthday present for salixbabylon.

The Idea of the Thing

McKnight stared into the mirror at the rough, still-red scar on the lower part of his chin. Grimes affectionately called it his “road rash”, as it was the result of McKnight face hitting the road after the explosion. Grimes didn’t seem to mind it. He licked it with the same dedication and intensity as he did all of McKnight’s other scars, old and new. It certainly did not detract, if Grimes’ sex drive was an indication of attraction/detraction.

But it bugged McKnight. It looked out of place. He didn’t mind scars from shrapnel or bullets or the jagged edge of a piece of jeep, but a scrape from the road seemed undignified. And there was a weird, random symmetricality to it. It looked like something a Hollywood makeup artist would put on someone’s face to make it look as if they’d been in an explosion. It was only on one side of his face, but the top edge was too even, and the sides were almost mirror images of each other. His other newly acquired scars were all over the place, ragged and unpredictable. Somehow they were more... manly.

“Would you like me to shave that stubble off you, sir?” Grimes’ face popped up in the mirror, too perky, too eager to please. McKnight had not even noticed him entering the room; he’d been so engrossed in his contemplation of the scar that did not look right. Usually he sensed Grimes’ approach, like a wolf senses his... no, not his prey. Grimes wasn’t prey... like an animal senses the approach of its mate.

Yeah, an animal.

McKnight studied the gray, almost silver stubble Grimes thought he was looking at. Actually, some of it was still fairly dark, but the silver stood out more. If he let it grow in, it would hide the road rash nicely, darkish brown with grey and sliver streaks. It would take a couple of weeks, but by then he’d have enough of a beard to mask it, and to make him look... like a bear.

But so what? He was out of the army. He had no need to look any particular way. Grimes might even like it. Hell, no – he would love it. Such an overt sign of masculinity would automatically be taken as added evidence of dominance. Sure, there would be a few awkward moments, a week or so when McKnight would have to be more than careful, might even have to curtail certain activities, to avoid injuring Grimes. But Grimes’ skin, soft though it was in places, was not so fragile that it could not stand up to a little new beard.

“Get the shaving gear out,” McKnight ordered.

Because at that very moment, McKnight decided that he wanted Grimes to shave his balls.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

Grimes was sure he’d misheard. Or misunderstood.

“I said I want you to shave my balls.”

Nope, he had not misheard. Or misunderstood.

“Why?”

The cardinal rule of serving is that you don’t question your commanding officer. Unless he orders you to do something dangerous. Or absurd.

McKnight shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve heard about it. It’s supposed to feel good. Don’t you think it’ll feel good? On your mouth?”

Grimes thought about licking the top of McKnight’s thighs, then sliding his tongue over and nuzzling warm, somewhat furry balls. Inhaling the masculine scent and mouthing the textured surface. Then he imagined unfurry balls. Smooth smooth smooth. Maybe the scent would be a little more subtle. Instead of nuzzling and feeling the coarse hair rub against his cheek, the slight scratch against his upper lip, the roughness on his tongue, he would feel...

“Smooth,” Grimes said aloud.

McKnight grinned. “I knew you’d warm to the idea.”

“But…” There were so many variables. So many ways it could go wrong. How was he going to shave them? to start with. How could he possibly do a perfect job of shaving balls? He’d never done that before. What would he use to shave them? How would get McKnight to stay still while Grimes was handling his balls like that? Pushing his cock out of the way. And that’s a lot of cock to push out of the way.

And McKnight was always going on about how much he liked Grimes’ balls, which were big and kind of hairy and not at all shaved. Okay, fine, maybe he wanted his balls to be as unlike Grimes’ as possible. Grimes could see that. But ball-shaving did not seem like a very manly sort of activity.

Ah, that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? McKnight was all man, and Grimes didn’t want anything about McKnight to seem less manly than that thing was about Grimes. But the logic didn’t hold. How would hairless balls detract form McKnight’s manliness? They certainly would not seem girly. After all, they were balls. Balls are distinctly male. And manly. Especially when connected to a cock like that.

Ah.

Shaved balls would look silly with a full bush. Grimes would have to trim McKnight above as well. Not shave above, but trim him. Nicely trimmed, neat, minimal hair would make McKnight’s cock look even... bigger. Less beercan cock, more tree trunk.

Grimes got a little weak in the knees. McKnight encouraged that by pushing down on his shoulder until Grimes knelt on the floor with his face pressed against a very full, quite bulging denim crotch.

“Of course, we’ll have to take a long shower. We want the hair as soft as possible...” McKnight mused.

Grimes nodded, which made his faced rub over the denim.

“And then you’ll want to make me come good and hard, so my cock won’t get in the way when you’re shaving me.”

Grimes was so lucky. McKnight always thought of everything.

McKnight looked down at the top of Grimes’ head. Hair streamed down almost to his shoulders. If Grimes tilted his head back, it fanned out across his shoulders and stuck to his back. Grimes had just tilted his head back, so McKnight knew how that looked. Now Grimes’ head was not tilted back. It was just about level, and McKnight let his fingers slide over the silky hair.

Silky was such a clichéd way to describe hair. There had to be some other way to express the feel of it gliding over McKnight’s fingers and down to Grimes’ shoulders, more liquid than the water of the shower.

Nope, silky was the only adjective McKnight could think of. Granted, he was distracted.

The water of the shower was actually starting to cool down, not because McKnight had grown inured to the heat but because the shower had lasted so long the water tank had run out of pristinely hot water and was trying desperately to keep up with demand. McKnight could almost hear it trying too hard, even though the water heater was, for the most part, silent. He reached over and turned off the water.

Grimes did not seem to notice at first. Of course, you wouldn’t notice that sort of thing right away if you were concentrating so diligently, so very thoroughly, on the fat cock in your mouth.

“Motherfucker, you’re a good boy,” McKnight groaned when Grimes opened up his throat. If he kept the shower door closed, the ambient temperature might just stay comfortably warm long enough for him to come in Grimes’ mouth. Fuck, yeah. It wouldn’t be much longer.

Grimes had not, in fact, been blowing him for very long. McKnight didn’t want to come because of the blow job. Well, the blow job was a significant contributing factor, but he’d endured the oral skills of John Grimes for much longer periods. And he’d gone on to fuck Grimes for considerable lengths of time after extended fellatio.

But this was different because it had been almost three days since the last fuck, due to frustrating things like schedules, and a rush of work at D-Tech, and Grimes falling asleep on the couch, in the middle of the first period of the hockey game, without even so much as blowing a kiss McKnight’s way. When a man is that tired, you don’t trouble him with your petty sexual needs. Not until they become considerable needs, which they almost had the next night, last night, when Grimes was up until midnight working on some bookkeeping issue that had nothing to do with him at all. As far as McKnight could tell, Hoot had somehow confused expense reports and personal expenditures to such an extent that it required a whole night of Grimes NOT sitting on McKnight lap even once.

“Ah, fuck.” McKnight pushed all the extra work out of his mind, because he’s almost cursed, ‘fucking Hoot!’, and that would certainly break the mood. He didn’t want to be wasting any time explaining how he was cussing out Hoot for taking McKnight’s time with Grimes away, not thinking about how great it would be to fuck Hoot, which it wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be great at all because Hoot was big and rough and fairly dominant himself.

Sure it would be fun to fuck someone that fit, but even when McKnight fucked Grimes he wasn’t just fucking him. And he wasn’t just dominating him either. He was…

“I fucking own you,” McKnight grunted, and his cock slipped and lodged itself in Grimes’ cheek and that probably looked really good, but McKnight wasn’t looking. He had his eyes shut tight.

Then the unthinkable happened. Grimes slid his lips off McKnight's cock. “Sir, you did want me to make you come good and hard, didn’t you?”

Maybe it had been a stupid question. Maybe – no, probably – it had been the wrong time to ask a question. Something made McKnight’s eyes go dark, all fury and frustration, and his jaw set in a hard line bristling with dark and silver hairs that Grimes was hoping he’d get to feel on his thighs at some point, and he looked like he was about to explode, which he probably was, because Grimes had been giving it all he had, and while Grimes wasn’t one to brag, he was highly skilled and knowledgeable when it came to McKnight’s cock and what it took to make him come good and hard.

McKnight wound his fingers into Grimes’ hair. “Do I have to fuck your face?” he asked, almost snarled. It would have frightened Grimes if it didn’t make his cock throb so much.

“That would be excellent, sir,” Grimes answered in all honesty.

God, yes, McKnight was finally letting go. He held Grime’s head firmly, but not cruelly, never cruelly, and shoved his cock back into Grimes’ open mouth. Grimes held onto McKnight’s sturdy thighs for support, hoped his knees would not be too bruised by the tile, and tried to keep his teeth out of the way. Ah, fuck, yes, the blunt head of McKnight's cock rammed into the back of his throat. Grimes purposefully denied it entry, just so McKnight would push a little harder on the next thrust.

It was so much easier to breather through his nostrils and let the cock take over his throat with the water turned off.

His eyes watered a little as his throat opened up and McKnight's fingers pressed into his scalp. It hurt, only slightly, to keep his mouth open that wide for so long, but it was a delicious kind of ache. His mouth, or the small portion of it not filled with cock, filled with saliva, as if that would help ease the passage of this huge entity, as if the purely physical part of his body had decided okay, so this giant cock wants into our throat, and we’re going to suffocate if we can’t get rid of it, and it’s obviously not going to go out, since it keeps on coming back in, over and over and over, so maybe we can open up enough so it will go all the way through, because how would the purely physical part of Grimes’ body know that the cock, big as it was, was only the smallest appendage of a very large body that was looming over Grimes in the suddenly very small shower stall and he knew the different parts of your body don’t actually talk to each other like that, but he had to think something or else he might fucking die.

Grimes let go of McKnight’s thigh, only with one hand, his right hand, and grabbed his own cock. Maybe if he jerked himself off really really hard, with an intensity matching the cock pushing into his throat, maybe then he wouldn’t die. Because now he felt like he was going to explode, and he had to come and make some space for McKnight’s come, or he would pop like an overinflated balloon.

McKnight pulled his cock out, away, gone, with Grimes’ mouth gaping open in what had to be an obscene fashion, like something from a porn movie, but Grimes didn’t want to close it just in case McKnight wanted to push in again.

Grimes looked up at McKnight, and McKnight stared back down at him and nudged his shoulder with a knee, so Grimes tilted back. Grimes had to grip the thigh hard to keep from toppling back. He barely registered the tightening of the hamstring under his hand, so distracted was he by the sight of McKnight wrapping his hand around his own cock. It was a big hand and the cock still looked fat and a little monstrous, but part of that was the angle Grimes was viewing it from – underneath.

“Harder,” McKnight grunted through gritted teeth.

Grimes really did want McKnight to explode, what with his mouth hanging open and the way he was jerking off so fervently and the way he leaned back like that, thighs straining and stomach taut, and the muscles of his shoulders standing out from tension and stress and need. And wet. Gloriously wet. Shining. Slick.

McKnight yanked on his cock with brutal efficiency, the ultimately finishing stroke, with an extra tug at the top and a twist at the bottom and pressure, pressure, building to the finish. Not quite, though. He needed to see Grimes come first. He needed the sight of Grimes coming to push him over the edge. He tried to voice his encouragement, but it came out mostly in grunts, half recognizable words, things like ‘fuck’ and ‘motherfuck’ and ‘fucking fuck’. There was no articulateness available when things were like this, so perfect, so fucking good. A few ‘yes, yes’s made it through. He was proud of that. But either time had slowed to a ridiculous crawl or neither of them would survive.

It was a standoff. A deadlock. The word ‘logjam’ floated past McKnight’s barely functioning faculties. He quickly rejected it as too euphemistic. And childish. But the fact remained. They were at an impasse.

Grimes needed the same thing McKnight needed.

The only way to end this thing was for one of them to give in first. Since Grimes was on his fucking knees in a shower stall – and McKnight refused to think about what that might do to his knees because if the raging hard on and need to come didn’t kill him, the guilt would – with his mouth open, clearly giving more than McKnight was giving, then McKnight should be the one to make the grand gesture.

But he couldn’t.

Because he really really wanted to see Grimes come first.

But then control of the situation was wrenched from what little grip he’d had of it.

Because Grimes spoke.

“Oh, sir, please, fuck,” Grimes spoke, almost as incoherently as McKnight had been speaking. But the next word was loud and clear.

“Danny!”

The rarity of Grimes speaking McKnight’s name aloud had regained all of its cachet in the weeks since they’d resumed their usual sexual activities. Sure, when McKnight had been depressed and despondent about his situation, Grimes had called him by his first name all the time. It hadn’t been all that special.

Now it was special.

Now it was spoken with all the… the everything Grimes had built up inside him over the course of McKnight’s recovery, and Grimes realized that this was the first time since resumption of activity that he was really, honestly being submissive, being the bottom, on the bottom. It was as if they’d been playing, playing games, playing catch up, playing at having their usual sort of sex. Building up to the real thing.

This was the real thing. McKnight let loose a roar and also let loose with a jet of fucking beautiful, warm, wet, beautiful fucking come, which hit Grimes dead in the center of his mouth, at first, and then on his cheek, and then on his cock. On his cock. How the hell had McKnight managed that? Just one more thing that made Grimes ache to come. His hand slid with less friction, and even though the friction was what had brought him to the edge of orgasm, the slide was what pushed him.

“Sir, sir,” he gasped as his come hit McKnight somewhere around the kneecaps. His thighs ached from tensing for so long, his knees ached from kneeling so long, and his cock, it went limp alarmingly fast. Empty as a balloon after it’s been popped. He thought it might be a good idea to curl up on the floor of the shower stall for a bit, but then he remembered what this had all been about in the first place.

McKnight fumbled around for the grab bar. He had not come that good and hard in a long time.

Well, maybe he had that first time, that time in the D-Tech office, which had not been a first time but rather the first time in a long time, but he liked to think of as a new first time, even though they’d done everything they’d done in the D-Tech office a million times before, but this… this felt like another new first time. His heart pounded as if in battle, and his legs were a little shaky. He thought about just curling up on the floor with Grimes, but that would get cold and uncomfortable way too fast, and he wanted a longer, sustained cuddle.

Cuddle? What the fuck kind of word was cuddle after doing that? He wasn’t going to cuddle Grimes. He might hug him. Hug him hard. Harder than a hug. Embrace? Too formal. Bear hug, that was it. Bear hug him all night long.

Then Grimes popped up in his field of vision, hair awry from McKnight’s grip, one dollop of come slowly oozing down his cheek, but alarmingly bright-eyed and eager.

“Ready for that shave, sir?”

TBC

No, I'm not dead. Here's a doubledrabble.

2009-10-08T16:25:25Z

Title: McKnight's First Day of Retirement
Author: heartofslash
Fandom/Pairing: Post Black Hawk Down, Grimes/McKnight
Rating: ADULT
Warning: The usual kink of these two. Nothing extreme. sub/Dom
Disclaimer: Really has nothing to do with the movie. I'm kind of writing original stuff here but using the names...
Length: 200 words.

Mcknight, as you may recall, decided not to risk the operation that had a 50/50 chance of restoring his hearing. He took retirement instead. And now he's exploring his limitations. Or maybe he's exploring Grimes limits.

Whatever. He's got Grimes exactly where he wants him. On his lap. Naked.

McKnight's First Day of Retirement

He was not, technically retired. Not yet. He had another 18 days of vacation and sick leave. But he'd emptied his desk, his storage locker. The pension checks would come in the mail.

He twisted his fingers. Grimes' moan went up a notch.

"Not bad," McKnight said. "That's the clearest yet. What note you think that is?"

Grimes made a strangled cry in the exact same note.

"You're right. I don't know either. Do you think you can remember it?"

Grimes gave a short yelp of confirmation, same note.

"Motherfucker, I could hear that one if I was standing up and you were all the way on the floor…"

Grimes gasped the note again as McKnight's fingers went a tiny bit deeper, a tiny bit wider.

"…licking your come off the floor like a good boy."

Grimes jolted, fucking himself hard on the fingers, twisting in McKnight's arms so his lips pressed against the old neck scar. He licked.

"You think that's going to make me let you come? Hell, we have a whole lot more notes to try out. Come on, a little higher…"

Grimes let out a pathetic wail. "Please, sir, please…"

This could go on all day.

END

Happens right after A Day Like Today 1, And A Day Like Today 2 and Hoot's Revenge, and maybe Summer Job. Around the same time as Summer Job...

Summer Job - Hoot and Sanderson go camping.

2009-08-06T21:27:00Z

Title: Summer Job
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: The Long Haul – post Black Hawk Down fuckery
Pairing: Hoot/Sanderson, Sanderson/Hulk
Warning: That was not a typo – I really meant 'Sanderson/Hulk'
Rating: Adult, for sex and recreational drug use.
Summary: Hoot and Sanderson go for a little camping trip and there is story-telling around the campfire. Sanderson gets very verbal when he smokes up. Hoot gets very mellow. Sex ensues.

Dedication: A Happy Belated Birthday to redjacket, who was away for her birthday, but she's back now. This is late but hey, I got Sanderson into the sack with a different incarnation of Eric Bana, so that makes up for it.
Inspired by: Eric Bana talked about the danger of Hulk's naughty bits flopping around if they didn't keep him in the purple pants. And Bill Fichtner makes everything better. So Hulk's naughty bits + Bill bust be good, right?

Summer Job

"It was a stupid summer job, the kind of thing only Malloy would think of. Well, Malloy and Jack Kerouac. An entire summer spent totally alone on the side of a mountain with only a shortwave radio and a logbook to keep me company. Six times a day I made and recorded formal observations of the prevailing weather conditions and any visible signs of fire activity. I called in the reports every morning and afternoon.

My visual range varied according to cloud cover, but I could, on a clear day and with binoculars, see the mountain where Malloy was doing the same thing as me, but he was on the other side, so I couldn’t contact him on the radio. It wasn't like now, with satellite and cell towers and instant global communication. I could only call what was in my direct line of vision – home base of the Western District. Malloy reported to Northern District. My only contact was my daily formal report, which was minimal, because the guy running Western District Forest Rangers was, to put it diplomatically, a dick. So I was, for all intents and purposes, on my own for four months.

That was four months that would pay for the next year's tuition, books and food.

In total isolation.

Not a bad summer job, now that I think about it.

I got into a routine pretty quick. Every morning, after reports and first radio contact, I did my katas – I'd been studying karate for a few years at that point, hoping for some kind of Zen realization that would satisfy the hole left in me after my older step-brother was murdered – I told you about that before – and after my katas I would run up from the plateau where my station stood to the highest accessible point, the upper lookout, where I had the best binoculars stashed in a weather- and bear-proof box. I would record mid-morning observations, then run back down, make a quick radio contact, and pick up my laundry.

I had to do laundry every day because I didn't have very many clothes with me, and I liked to have dry, clean spare clothes available always, in case of emergency. I hadn't brought quite enough because I'd filled my pack mostly with books. I'd started the summer with the idea that all that isolation would afford me the time and inclination to give myself a classical education – Plato, Aristotle, Sophocles and the literary canon – Pilgrim's Progress, Don Quixote, Tristram Shandy, Paradise Lost. Not like I found the time. I couldn’t concentrate on reading. The world was too alive around me. I spent the first week in a perma-buzz with no drugs required. Have you ever been on a mountain totally alone like that for weeks on end? Of course you have. You told me about Nepal. But at least you had a mission. My only job was to look out for forest fires.

It wasn't like now. Sure, there were fires, but they weren't such a huge annual occurrence like now. Not as devastating. Forest fire watching now would be like the End of Days every day. No, it was quiet back then. Peaceful.

I worried I might go a little screwy on my own like that. Some guys can't hack it. Remember that guy on that training course out of Pendleton? One hour in the isolation tank and he was going apeshit. He said he was claustrophobic. Not me. Not in the tank. My mind is a big place, as big as the High Sierras, and I wasn't afraid of it, either.

Right, I should get to the point. I had my routine. I went down to the stream to wash my clothes. The thing I could never stand about hippies was the uncleanliness. And the going commando in the uncleanliness. I like a clean pair of shorts, you know? Of course, you know.

So mid June or so, I'm washing socks and underwear and a shirt, and I look across the stream. Honest to shit, I see the biggest footprint you ever saw. Bigger than two of my feet. Hell, bigger than both of YOUR feet together. I'm thinking this is some kind of fluke, because it looks human, and I'm the only human for miles around. Malloy canNOT be playing a practical joke, because there's no way he can get this far by foot – there are too many miles, a dozen streams, a full-on river and a twenty-two foot wide, practically bottomless gorge between us – and still get back in time to make his next scheduled radio contact, which he has to do because the only guy who's a bigger, more anal retentive, by-the-books dick than the Western District Forest Rangers coordinator is the Northern District Forest Rangers coordinator.

It's time to go back for lunch, though. I pass it off as a weird mixture of a few animal tracks and the rain the night before, and I go on my way. I don't think of it again until zero one hundred or so when I wake up and hear trees rustling. Trees, not leaves. Not from one animal. The noise is too big for that. It would have to be more than one, three or four bears maybe. And they'd have to be up in the trees, and moving in perfect unison. It's the only logical way a noise like that could be made. It's far off enough that I'm not shitting myself – yet – but I don't sleep again. Not that night, or the next.

Something is out there.

I keep up my routine, but I don't go anywhere without the tranquilizer gun. When they gave it to me, I swore I'd never use it, but I'd never heard anything rustle an entire trees before. I don't know what I was thinking, carrying it around with me like that. I couldn't shoot worth shit back then, but I guess I had no way of knowing that.

Then, on the third night, the rain starts in earnest. Freakishly cold and windy. It's fucking summer in California and it feels like winter in Buffalo. I hunker down, wait it out in the cabin, until… it was like a sob. Or maybe a whine. Really piteous. I wasn't stupid – I brought the gun, and a knife, and a can of bear repellent – but something about the sound of it got to me. I had to help.

It took me an hour to track the sound down. The wind was playing tricks on me. The rain finally died off enough for the sound to get clear. I crossed the stream and some boulders – slippery as all get out. I'm surprised I didn't fall in and drown in two feet of water with a concussion. Then I rounded a bend, and there he was."

"Who?"

"Him."

"Who was he?"

"I had no idea."

"Well, what did he look like?"

"Big."

"How big?"

"Big enough to leave a footprint twice the size of yours."

"That's big."

"And green."

"Socks or shoes?"

"His feet."

"Like he walked-through-the-sodden-vegetation green?"

"No, like he would have had to roll naked in the sodden vegetation for quite some time. He was green all over."

"You're shitting me."

"Nope. Green everywhere. And buck naked, too."

Hoot leaned forward and threw another log on the campfire. He sighed, and rubbed his nose. His hand left a streak of soot on his cheek. Sanderson didn't mention it, because Hoot had been growing his hair in, and with his hair a bit long and curly, and that careless streak of soot on his cheek, and the firelight softening his features, and his eyes big and round from what they'd just smoked, Hoot looked so young Sanderson could almost imagine him as a 16-year old virgin.

Although, knowing Hoot, he'd never actually been a 16-year old virgin.

Hoot turned to him, eyes intense, accent turned on full blast. "You're telling me you met a giant green man?" he drawled. "On the side of a mountain?"

"He was soaking wet and miserable," Sanderson added. "It was making him angry."

"Right." Hoot reached for Sanderson's flask. "What the heck did you put in here?" he asked, sniffing suspiciously.

Sanderson grabbed the flask back. "Hoot, I'm not drunk."

"Not strictly drunk," Hoot corrected him, gesturing at the forceps holding the tiny roach lying on a rock beside the fire. Forceps made a great roach clip, and they were useful in case of medical emergency, too, although not terribly hygienic after being used as a roach clip. But that wasn't why Sanderson was telling the story, either.

"I'm not wasted either," Sanderson said.

"Oh, no?" Hoot asked with a smirk.

Okay, maybe a little wasted.

"You always talk shit when you're wasted."

"I'm not talking shit. He was there, and I was there, and he was fifteen feet tall."

"You said this was going to be a SEX story," Hoot pouted.

That fucking pout! It got Sanderson every damn time. "If you would just be patient…"

Patient was something Hoot rarely was after a long day of hiking and enough beer and pot to coax a sex story out of Sanderson. And Sanderson could never be patient when Hoot was pouting like that, because Hoot's lips, when the were pouting, made Sanderson want to shove his cock between them.

"All right," Hoot said.

It may have been the weed or it may have been the liquor, and it may have been the way Hoot said it, or maybe it was the way Sanderson heard it, but it sounded like "Awl riot." The cause was up for debate.

Sanderson took a long drink from the water canteen. He blinked at the fire.

Sanderson was fine. Totally in control.

Sanderson wasn't listening funny. Hoot had totally bogarted that joint. He was so stoned he was talking funny.

He had a story to finish. "Like I was saying, he was fifteen feet tall, green all over, and very angry…"

Fucking Sanderson. He talked and talked when he got stoned. He'd hogged the joint and forgot the sex story he was trying to tell in the middle of telling it, so now he was making shit up about a green giant.

Hoot didn't mind. It was so great to be here, alone in the woods with Sanderson, mellow and carefree on a clear fall evening. Who needed to fly across the planet for a vacation when they could hike to this? Hoot stretched out on the ground in front of the fire and stirred the embers. If Sanderson wanted to make up a story about a green giant, who was Hoot to complain? He plain liked the sound of his voice, anyway.

"I approached him cautiously," Sanderson was saying.

Hoot hoped so. You wouldn't want to just charge up to a green giant. There was no telling what he might do.

"… and when I reached out he actually flinched like he was afraid of me..."

Hoot reminded himself to ask Mr. Midnight where the fuck he'd got the grass from, because this was some seriously chronic shit.

"… convinced him to follow me back up the trail to a hollow closer to the stream…"

Sanderson was such a mother hen, taking care of all the creatures of the forest. Hoot closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the fire penetrate his skin, right into his bones. He hoped he wouldn't melt.

"… rigged up my spare tarps to make him a shelter…"

Survival skills. They rock. Hoot turned over to warm his backside too.

"… and once he was dry he wasn't so angry, so he started to shrink a bit."

Hoot worried about his t-shirt shrinking from the heat of the fire. It was already a little tight. He suspected it wasn't even his t-shirt, but Sanderson's. It crept up his back and there was a strip of skin above his pants exposed directly to the heat of the fire.

"Are you listening to me?"

Hoot rolled back again to face Sanderson. "Uh…" What was the question?

"I said, he changed colour from green to Caucasian."

Hoot giggled.

Sanderson frowned. "Did you just giggle?" he asked, accusingly.

"I think I did," Hoot said. Jesus H Christ, what was in that joint?

"You are so fucking stoned."

"I am not. I'm relaxed."

"You're fried."

"A little baked."

"You see!"

"By the fire. I'm too close to it."

"Well, move back."

Hoot hadn't thought of that. It was a good idea. Sanderson was always so practical, even when he was telling ridiculous stories. Hoot shuffled backward until his skin no longer sizzled. "Green guy turned white," he said. See, he was listening! "What did he look like?"

"Well, he was still kind of big, even after he shrank down. About six four, with dark wavy hair and deep, dark eyes and a pretty massive chest."

"Nice ass?" Hey, if you're going to make up stories about big green men turning into brawny not-green men, at least they should have a nice ass.

"Great ass… not that I knew that much about male asses at the time. I wasn't very experienced."

Hoot flat out refused to believe that. How could Sanderson ever have been inexperienced? He was the epitome of experienced, all the time. He hadn't done a whole lot of assfucking at the time he first got together with Hoot, but he must have always known how to give a hand job, because he was really that good at it, and his blow job skills were sensational. Either he'd had years of training, or he was a natural.

But then, this forest ranger expedition was before Sanderson joined the army. The army was where Hoot had become experienced. Maybe it had been the same for Sanderson. They'd never really discussed it. All Hoot knew about Sanderson's sex life pre-Hoot was that Sanderson had given Malloy a mercy blow job in the hospital, he'd been married to a red-head, and he liked to grope Captain Steele. No, wait, he hadn't technically had the opportunity to grope Steele until after he'd fucked Hoot.

So maybe Sanderson had been a virgin.

Hoot's head spun. "Were you a virgin?" he asked.

"I'd never even kissed a fifteen foot green man before, if that's what you're asking."

"I thought he turned Caucasian."

"He did. And he was… Hoot, open your eyes."

Hoot opened his eyes.

"Turn your head this way."

Hoot's head lolled.

"You haven't had your hair this long in years," Sanderson mused. "I never noticed before."

"Never noticed what?"

"Try to make yourself look… I don't know. Nerdy," Sanderson said.

"Nerdy?" Hoot snorted.

Hoot Gibson was a lot of things, but 'nerdy' was not one of them.

"You look like him." Sanderson sounded distinctly awed.

"Who?"

"The green guy."

"What the fuck did you smoke?"

"After he turned white. Why did I never notice that before?"

"Because it never happened. You're making up a sex story for me, and you came up with some ridiculous shit about a green giant, and now you have to make him shrink for the story, because you know it's physically impossible to fuck someone more than twice your size, so you're making him look like me, because I'm the guy you really like to fuck."

Hoot was pleased with his logic.

Sanderson shook his head. "No, no, it happened, and you really do look a lot like him. But, you know, more…" Sanderson crept around the fire and reached for Hoot's chest. "You're bigger."

"I'm not fifteen feet tall."

"When he was shrunk. He was big, but he wasn't big like this." Sanderson squeezed a pectoral.

Hoot flexed that same pectoral.

"Yeah, that's what I'm talking about," Sanderson said, almost to himself.

"I don't know what you're talking about, but if you keep feeling up my chest, I promise not to care."

Sanderson tugged on Hoot's t-shirt, and Hoot wriggled out of it. It was a mild night, but not quite warm enough to be naked. Hoot shivered.

"I'll keep you warm," Sanderson said, and he moved behind Hoot, plastered himself across Hoot's back. He was wearing an old plaid shirt, and the soft flannel felt good on Hoot's naked back. Hoot didn't even mind the buttons. The fire warmed his front. If Sanderson kept his clothes on… and he could do that, because his cock was plenty big enough to fuck Hoot while sticking out of his open fly…

"God, your ass is even better than his. So fucking firm. You been doing a lot of squats lately?"

Hoot popped his fly open. Squats, lunges, running… he'd been doing it all. For the last week, ever since Grimes and McKnight had go over whatever bee was in their collective bonnet and resumed their usual schedule of regular sex, Grimes had been coming in every morning looking thoroughly fucked. It was driving Hoot crazy. He'd doubled his exercise routine, just to burn off some extra energy. Sanderson had been out of town for the last four nights, doing a thing in New York, and Hoot was going to give himself carpal tunnel syndrome.

He could have gone out and found someone to fuck. It wouldn't have been difficult. But something stopped him. That night, on the couch, after he jerked off on Sanderson, something had happened to him. He sat there, feeling the warm leather against his ass, watching the cum drip down Sanderson's skin, watching Sanderson watch him, then he'd untied Sanderson and licked him all over and bent him over the couch and licked him some more… Maybe monogamy was contagious or something, but he didn't want anyone else anymore.

Oh, well, if Steele showed up on the doorstep, Hoot wouldn’t kick him out. And if Eugene Rowe ever got tired of his army doctor and wanted to come and play, Hoot would gladly do whatever Sanderson and Eugene asked of him, but the idea of going out and finding a stranger, without Sanderson… it seemed wrong. Even the idea of someone he already knew, he'd already fucked, having someone he knew without Sanderson there seemed wrong.

Last night, when Sanderson got in at midnight, truly exhausted, there had not been the time for sex. There had been time for little more than a quick grope and some necking. Especially not since Sanderson said he wanted to get out of the house at dawn and come up here. Hoot was all for the camping trip. They always had such great sex when they were camping.

And they were about to have more now.

Except Sanderson was still rambling on about the big green guy, and how Hoot reminded him of him, and how he'd learned how to get the green guy to shrink to human size, or at least Hoot size, by enticing him with sex.

"You got fucked by the jolly green giant?" Hoot asked hazily, pushing his cock into Sanderson's hand.

"No, but when he got upset, when he got angry, he's start to grow again, and if I could get my hand around his cock… when he was big like that it took two hands, actually…"

Hoot tried to picture a cock big enough that it required two of Sanderson's hands to go around it. Sanderson had nice big hands. That would have to be a massive cock. You could not get fucked by a cock like that. No way. Not without permanent damage.

Sanderson must have fucked the jolly green giant.

"Never anything more than a hand job, and he was always shrunk down to your size by the time he came."

But what were the physics of that? If he got hard when he was 15 feet tall, and he had a cock that needed two of Sanderson's hands, then his balls had to be enormous. If he shrank down, as a side effect of sexual stimulation, then his balls would shrink too, but what about the come? Those giant balls would create huge amounts of semen. Where did the semen go? Did it shrink along with the body or did the guy come absolute buckets?

That's the problem with these sorts of nature-defying scenarios. Like time travel. If you go back and change something, then how do you end up at the point where you go back again? And if the future is changed enough that you don't go back, then the change didn't happen and you'd end up in the first past. Or present. Or future.

"He must have come buckets," Hoot groaned as Sanderson's fist tightened on his cock.

"You can't imagine," Sanderson murmured against Hoot's hair. "More than I could swallow."

Hoot didn't like the idea of Sanderson doing that. He didn't like the idea of Sanderson swallowing anyone's come, except his own. This story wasn't fun any more.

"He loved touching my cock," Sanderson whispered.

Hoot didn't like that either.

"He loved licking my cock. He didn't suck it, though. He just tasted it a little. Licked it."

Hoot could lick Sanderson's cock. He'd love to taste it. But more than that. "I'd suck it. If it was me, I wouldn't stop at licking. I'd take it inside my mouth and suck."

"I know," Sanderson acknowledged.

"I'd deepthroat you."

"I know," Sanderson agreed.

"I'd be better than him."

"Hoot, that was decades ago. You're not jealous of someone from decades ago, are you?"

"You're still talking about him all this time later," Hoot pointed out.

"I'll stop," Sanderson promised.

And he did. Because you can't talk about green giants from decades ago when you're being kissed half to death by Hoot Gibson, while Hoot jerks the two of you off together, and you've got your hands on his beautiful ass.

Sanderson never did get to tell the whole story. Which was just as well, since he couldn't remember what had happened all those years ago any more. Fucking Mr. Midnight. What the hell had he put in that joint?

The End

[This story takes place after Hoot's Revenge, which took place after A Day Like Today 1 and 2. Which are in the long line of The Long Haul stories.]

Under Cover - final part

2009-07-14T01:05:12Z

Title: Under Cover (Part 3 of 3)
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Eastern Promises, sequel to Deep Cover.
Pairings: Nikolai/OFC(Lydia), Nikolai/Kirill mentioned
Rating: NC-17 overall, for explicit het sex, problematic power issues and seething resentment, and generally nasty people.
Warning: Will make no sense at all if you have not seen Eastern Promises (which I highly recommend, although be warned that it contains violence, gore, brutality and very nasty people with some very offensive ideas and habits) and read Deep Cover.
Disclaimer: Not meant to infringe on any copyright, only to expand a story I invented that was a continuation of a story I enjoyed. I own nothing. Only the writing that follows is mine.
Summary: On her own, taking a little break from life, Agent Lydia Constant has been minding her own business, thinking back on the encounter with Nikolai Luzhin that put her back in the syping game, only to discover that Nikolai has found her. At last...

Dedication: This fic is for sundew, who was my beta for Deep Cover and shares my thing for Nikolai, and who made me realize that I wasn't done making Nikolai have hetsex. Not by a long shot.

Part One was here. Part Two was here.

Under Cover Part 3

The Inspector is waiting for Crawford when he arrives for work, hovering like a hawk. A vulture. It's starting to get inexcusably unproductive for them to be at odds like this all the time, and frankly, Crawford is getting tired of the monthly visits. This rivalry between agencies is doing them no good at all. They need to cooperate.

"Tell me why you want him so bad, and maybe I'll be able to help," Crawford offers.

#

I was hoping for second time to be right away, but my dick does not cooperate. I think is possible to wait so long, want so long for something that when it finally happens, is overwhelming.

Is not a problem. She does not need it again immediately. She comes hard, and almost right away, like she's been wanting it as bad as me, and she seems in no big hurry after that, so she must believe me that I am did not find her for any nefarious reason. As if I have been searching the world for her for years only because I wanted this.

And maybe I have. I don't really know why I've been looking for her so hard, but this is a good enough reason.

She had leg hooked around me and she not so much thrust and pressed against me while I moved on top of her as she rubbed against me, the way I know she likes to, and I pushed my tongue into her mouth because to scream would show weakness. I am happy she keeps nails short because her fingertips dug into my back. I tried not to do same to her. I don't really want to hurt her, but my hand tangled in her hair and I pulled it until she made a noise. I felt it with my tongue before I heard it, and my hand under her back moved under her ass to press her up against me even more.

The wetness when she came made me groan. And I came too, with another groan that was more from the gut, because that's where it came from, everything, from deep inside. It was not enough to satisfy forever. I still want more. But it was enough to drain me.

We actually fall asleep for a while. Imagine that.

But I get up and piss and wash and try to fix my hair and think about how bad this could end, and when I open door she is standing there, naked and sleepy. She looks younger with her hair messy and her lips a little bit swollen. I kiss her, not hard, and she tilts her head and opens her mouth to me, and fuck, her tongue is hot.

I let her go past me into loo, so I sit down and I light a cigarette and listen to her pee, and am not ashamed that I enjoy something so intimate. The water runs for a while, and then she comes out, still naked, and stretches out on the bed again, takes the cigarette from me, does not bother to try to hide her face with her hair. We are past that.

"You've been well?" she asks.

I nod. I have not been unwell.

"The girls like you?" she asks.

The girls are not allowed to like me. That is strict rule of mine. I honestly do not touch them. I do not want anyone to know who I am, and some of those strippers are Russian. They would know, if they saw. They suspect, from my hands, but they don't know it all. Would not be difficult for girl with loose tongue to describe my tattoos to someone who knew what they meant, who knew enough to know they were mine. I want to be lost not only to MI6 and Scotland Yard Russian Desk, but to the entire world.

These marks were put here so I could not deny who and what I am, and the only way to hide them is to deny who and what I am. Except with this one woman.

"I do not sleep with the girls," I tell her.

"I bet they wish you did."

She is so matter of fact. Is infuriating. But she's right. They do wish I did. So I shrug.

"Did you come back to London and kill those two vor ?" she asks, blunt as a sledgehammer.

So fucking matter of fact.

"No. But I heard about it." Is true. I did not kill them. Why would I kill them? My place now is on the fringe. I am comfortable on fringe. Going back to settle old scores would only make life more difficult. "Are they watching you?"

She rolls the cigarette filter between her fingers. "They like to think they are."

I consider cutting my losses. If I leave now, while it is still dark, maybe I can sneak out of hotel unseen. Let her deal with the fallout from this highly unauthorized meeting. It would be prudent thing to do.

Lydia rolls on her back and bends one knee. Her belly goes flat. She trails one hand up her inner thigh.

Fuck prudent.

I spend a long time just brushing my fingertips over her skin, the warm spot between her breasts, over her belly, just touching her hair that is as soft as I remember it. She flinches when I touch the rough patch on her thigh.

"This is eyepatch?" I ask.

She nods.

I once knew man who was electrocuted on fence outside transformer station. He had similar rough patch on stomach, from where they took skin to cover his burnt elbow. I wonder why they did not take skin from her stomach, and just as fast I am grateful they did not, because when I lick across her belly the skin is taut and smooth, and it makes her moan when I suck at the peak of her hip bone. Then I lick the rough patch. Is not so very rough. Looks worse than it feels.

Then I lick down between her legs and there is a trace of the condom but mostly it is her as I remember her, and I know this is real because I cannot imagine anything like that.

#

Lydia wondered if Nikolai was given some kind of secret spy training in cunnilingus. He was just too good at that for it to be random. He was a sexy enough bastard to get unsuspecting girls to fall for him, or at least bad girls like her, but the oral skills were the clincher. If a female agent ever suspected him, he need only get her into bed to erase suspicions. Doubts tend to dissolve in the face of multiple orgasms.

He really knew how to fuck, too, but that's just as often a natural inclination. The cunt licking had to be a learned behaviour.

Her hands flailed out until one found the headboard and the other found the edge of the pillow. Nikolai shoved the bunched-up blanket under her hips and the change in angle made it possible for him to lick her clit and down inside her without any strain. She gasped when he wriggled his tongue inside and she gave herself up. He could pretty much do whatever he wanted at that point. She would not have been able to protest, nor did she have any need.

Nikolai lapped at her diligently. The taste was the same as before, but there was more of it, because this time he was really taking his time. The shapes, the texture, the way she moaned when he tugged at her clit with his lips, the way she pressed her thigh against the side of his head when he circled with his tongue, and the shaking, shaking when he slid a finger inside and licked as he thrust and moaned against her slick skin. Familiar from only that one time. She was drenching his face and he was swallowing, slurping, sucking the tender skin, urging her to come again, come more, give him more. He slid a finger inside her, then another, and twisted his hand. Her other thigh came up and that was perfect, like she was holding him there, forcing him to lick her, like she was rubbing herself against him instead of him doing the act, and he found he did not dislike being held to the task at all.

She hoped her thighs against his ears might block out some of the noises she was making, because they were embarrassing in a way, but not as embarrassing at how tightly she was gripping him, desperate to keep him there. Greedy was what she felt, after the third time she tightened up and released, greedy that she wanted more and more and more.

He didn't particularly want to stop. He wanted to give her so much that she didn't need any more at all. That would mean ultimate satisfaction. She would never forget that. How to do such a thing?

Every time she came she at first got tight around his fingers, and then there was another rush of that delicious fluid and even as the muscles pulsed around him and everything got slicker she would start to tighten again, as long as he kept his tongue moving and his fingers pressing on that spot inside that made her thighs squeeze him. She jerked beneath him and cried out, and the only reason he wanted her to move her legs was so he could hear her better, but he could hear well enough, especially when she said his name, and then she was writhing, but still holding his face against her, and he slid a third finger in and twisted once more, letting his thumb slide down to the other hole, which was pulsing in time with her pussy.

She dug her heel into his back and pressed against his fingers, his thumb, his lips. He pressed his thumb against the tight, hot hole and rubbed his face against her while sucking her clit, and then the fluid came with a gush and she grabbed his hair and tugged hard. Too much. Over stimulated. The fluid had flowed down, so his thumb slipped against her and pressed inside. He nipped at her clit and the clench around his thumb was instant. She twisted away from his mouth and down onto his thumb and rode it out, inner thighs damp from rubbing against his face. He watched her body settle back down, counted the pulses around his thumb and fingers, observed the slick contractions of her whole pussy, inside and out. Her hand, still in his hair, loosened its grip, but did not let go entirely. She stroked his scalp with shaking fingertips.

#

"Oh my God, Nikki," she sighs.

I reach down to the floor for towel where she dropped it, but her hand clenches in my hair and hauls me up the bed. "Don't you fucking dare," she warns.

I forgot she likes taste of herself. Stupid me. I do not make further effort to wipe face. She pulls me close and I let her attack me with tongue and lips. She licks my face like a cat, and I close my eyes and imagine we do this every night. I could get used to this but I would never get tired of it. She sticks her tongue in my mouth and we kiss for long time, kiss like it's something we do all the time. She has great tongue. Not shy at all.

Meanwhile, my hand is still inside her, in wet hole and in tight, very hot hole. She is still coming, the squeezes slowing down, getting weaker, but still coming. I can't decide if I want to fuck her right away to catch the last few beats, or wait until she is ready to go again, and if I should want to fuck first hole or second. Some women like both, I know, and she is type who would be tough enough to handle anything, but her pussy is so warm, so wet; I want to be inside where it is so wet.

She is licking my cheek, panting against it and smiling. Maybe she is not only one who was afraid she made it all up in her head?

#

What I want to do is tell him he's incredible. That he's the best lover I've ever had, and that includes Ilya Berev, who could, I'll have you know, lick his own chin. But mentioning Ilya Berev would be a bad idea. I should keep things in a strictly sex state of mind. Mention of work would be distracting.

I want to tell him about coming when he fucked me, the first time we were together, and how he's done it again. Actually, he's made me do something I've never done before, because back in London I came while fucking after lots of licking and coming under his tongue, so it was a climax, but not like this. This time there was no licking first, just that one little flick of his tongue and suddenly cock, and I've never wanted a cock in me so bad before and never been so right about wanting something, because as soon as he was inside me I was on the edge of coming and it didn't take all that much, just his hand on my ass pressing me close and the friction of my clit on his hard belly and his cock inside me, just right, tongue in my mouth, surrounded and swallowing and breathing into me like fire.

But this. I'm speechless from it. All I can do is pant and hope my body will stop spasming at some point so my lungs can fill up again. I lick the taste of myself off his cheek. The scar is raised under my tongue. I lick down to his chin and feel the cleft there, then I lick his lips and he nips at my tongue with gentle teeth, and then we kiss again.

He's hard against my thigh but he's not pushing into me, which is good, partly because I'm already full with his fingers, and partly because I don't think I could take his cock inside me just yet. He moves his fingers and his thumb and, yeah, he might want to fuck me there but I'm not going to let him because I want to come again with his cock inside me, and I know it'll happen if he fucks my cunt, but if he fucks me anywhere else I might come from it, but I can't be sure of it. I need to be sure. I'm sure we don't have enough time to experiment. Stick with what works.

But then, Nikolai seems to be able to make me come better than I can make myself come. He could probably make me come from tonguefucking my ear.

As if he's read my mind, his mouth wanders up the side of my face, lips brushing the edge of the scar and moving to the side, where he nibbles at my ear lobe. "Are you empty?" he asks.

Hardly. I squeeze his fingers and his thumb.

"I mean, do you have anything else left for me?" He whispers this, and it makes me shiver, like he's going to find every last bit of me and drag it out, piece by piece, so he can devour it. And I want him to.

I need a rest. I tell him so. He starts to slide his fingers out of me and I whine. Not that kind of rest. He makes a low, dirty laugh. "Does MI6 know what a greedy girl they hired?" he asks.

I reach down and pull his fingers out of me, and then I drag them up and stick them in my mouth and suck.

Nikolai groans.

He likes greedy, evidently.

#

"You really think Luzhin would jeopardize his cover by coming back to London to kill a couple of low-level gangsters?" Crawford asked.

The Inspector crossed his legs and studied Crawford over the desk. Pathetic, desk-bound, utterly out of touch with the world. Those would have been his first guesses. But he could not be that dim. He'd been running Lydia Constant beautifully, by all accounts.

Then again, an agent like that doesn’t need a good handler. She just needs to be let loose on the world.

"No," the Inspector admitted. "I don't. But I think he'll know who did. And I would like to know that very much."

Crawford stared at him with beady eyes. "You lost him. Twice. First you lost him in the field. We had to send Constant to get him back for you. And then, for some reason I cannot fathom, you cut a deal with him, a deal we were forced to cooperate with. I don't suppose you'd like to enlighten me as to the rationale behind that, would you?"

The Inspector shrugged. "Politics. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. I've told you why I want him. Now you tell me. Where is Constant?"

"New York City."

"That thing with the plastic explosives?"

"Quite."

"Unrelated to Luzhin?"

"We don't put her within a mile of a Russian these days. Fortunately, there are plenty of other nasty people in the world. I warn you, for the sake of your pet vor , that she is entirely ruthless. If he ever does approach her, there will be hell to pay."

"I got the impression she would not mind being approached by him at all. I believe you agent was somewhat smitten with our Nikolai."

Crawford chortled. "If by 'smitten' you mean 'neutral', perhaps. We've run a full battery of psych tests. She came away from the whole thing with nothing more than a vague sense of needing a shower."

"Yet she went to see him in his cell, of her own free will."

"We wanted the information. We told her that if she could get it out of him, it was her duty to do so. There's no conspiracy here. No romance. Just a cold-hearted agent doing her job."

"But she got the information. Now, how do you suppose that was? He talked only after seeing her. All my debriefings and your interrogations yielded nothing more than a look of contempt and a few, choice Russian insults toward English motherhood."

"Was that what he was blathering about? I knew it was something puerile." Crawford straightened his laptop on the desk. "Look. This Luzhin is not as important as you think he is, of that I'm sure. He's got some dirt in high places, but that sort of thing can be covered up easily enough. As far as I'm concerned, he doesn't know anything worth letting him out for in the first place. I'm sure the higher ups have their reasons."

"You haven't considered that he may have had dirt on the higher ups?"

Crawford took that as an insult. So he answered with an insult. "We're not so corruptible as your average policeman."

That was rich. Luzhin had spoken on condition that he speak only to the Inspector. He didn't trust the spies, only the police. Besides, the Inspector knew precisely what dirt lay where, even if he was not at liberty to divulge. He knew full well that MI6 had nothing to brag about in an incorruptibility contest. He tried a new tack. "Why are you so worried about me losing him if his information was so unimportant?"

"Because now I've got you in my office every bloody month pestering me. Why did you cut him loose if you want him so badly? You want him back, even though you cut him loose. You traded his freedom for his information, but now you think he didn't tell you everything. Lydia Constant thinks absolutely nothing of him, but you're sure he only spilled because she went to see him. Your Luzhin appears to be a contradiction magnet."

The Inspector sighed. "I've got two dead vor and I know he knows something about it."

"I know about them, so I know they've only been dead for a week, whereas you've been in here every month for over a year. Why have you wanted him back all this time?"

"Has she been in contact with him?" The Inspector demanded.

"What do you want from him?" Crawford countered.

The truth was, Luzhin's information concerning MI6 had been dead on, and there was no reason to assume his information about Scotland Yard had been just as accurate, not to mention what he claimed to know about certain members of the royal family. But where Scotland Yard Russian Desk matters was concerned, Nikolai had been less than forthcoming. Luzhin knew far more than he let on. At first, the Inspector had assumed that he'd had merely obfuscated enough to leave himself an undetectable escape route from the UK. Let out what he knew about MI6 to make them afraid of him, hinted at Scotland Yard corruption so the Inspector would back off long enough for him to disappear. On the surface, he was an undercover agent who wanted out of the business, and was willing to threaten whomever he had to.

But these last two dead vor had a connection to Luzhin, and developments in Russia were troubling. Either Luzhin had been covering up for someone else, or he was still very much in the game.

"Where is Constant now?"

Crawford twitched. This was like a bloody tennis match. And to top it all off, he didn't know.

#

Nikolai squeezed Lydia's ass and pulled her tight against him. She had her legs wrapped around his waist, and the weight of her body made his cock go so deep inside. She gripped his hair with one hand, after panting something about how she liked it this way so much better, and then proceeded to make it a mess, but he didn't care if he looked like a scarecrow at the end of all this. Her other hand was pressed between them, over one of the stars on his chest, and it made his heart beat fiercely. Her mouth was open, so that when she said his name it was a breath, not a word. She was saying it over and over, as if it would help somehow, as he lifted her up and down, she lifted herself up and down.

Then she let out one long moan and came. He kept moving but her body was limp from effort and from letting go. It was Nikolai's turn to say her name, and when he did he started to come inside her, and she melted against him, and then it was over, but it kept going in gentle, slow tremors and murmurs. They sat in the middle of the bed like that for a long time, until she had to unfold her limbs or risk never moving again.

They stretched out side by side and slept, forehead to forehead.

#

"Kirill is missing, sir."

"I know that."

"He's probably dead."

"One can only hope."

"But they've not found a body."

"I know!"

"Sir, I don't mean to pry, but was this Crawford bloke of any help at all?"

"He doesn't even know where she is."

"Isn't he supposed to know, sir? He is supposed to be her handler, isn't he? That's what a handler does, isn't it? He keeps track of his agent…"

"Would you give me a moment of peace, damn it!"

"Sorry, sir."

The Inspector slammed his fist on his subordinate's desk. "For the love of God, why doesn't anyone know where this bloody woman is? Well?"

"You want me to speak now, sir?"

"Only if you're going to tell me where Lydia Constant is at this very moment!"

"Sorry, sir. And if it's any help, I really don't think she knows where Luzhin is anyway."

"Don't give me that. She knows. I know she knows. I can feel it in my bones. The two of them are in league. They're a couple of rogues, that's what they are. I never should have let her into that cell with him. Thick as thieves, they are."

"Sir, no offence, but even if they are working together, I doubt Agent Constant would do anything to help free Kirill. She doesn't like him, she doesn't want him, and he'd only be competition for Luzhin's attentions anyway. What would be in it for her?"

Sometimes the Inspector's subordinate was maddeningly insightful.

#

When she sleeps in my arms, I feel safe. Stupid, is it not? Being with her is the least safe thing I could possibly do. But to feel her breath on my chest, to feel her back rise, her lungs fill with air, it makes me feel a peace I did not believe possible.

I have lived all my life the hard way. I have never had what most people consider a normal relationship. So it does not bother me that the most dangerous woman in Northern Hemisphere gives me such peace.

For me, this is what is normal.

#

I wake up with a warm hand curled around my hip. The black ink shows in the faint light from the bathroom. At some point, he turned the main light off. He must have done it. It wasn't me.

How long have we slept? God, it feels good to sleep with someone. He's warm, and he likes to pet my hair and stroke my back. He puts his leg over mine and we are like one person lying on the bed. We are damp, smelling of sex and sweat, but it's clean sex and sweat, with a little hint of smoke. The whiskey is long gone.

We'll have to eat at some point. I'm not sure what we'll do then. We can't go out together. We can't be seen together, not by anyone. This is insane.

He makes a noise. In his sleep? He sounds content. He shifts over and his cock, half hard, nudges me between the legs. I want him. Again. Not because I'm not satisfied. I want him because it feels right to have him. He pulls my hips forward, and his cock starts to get harder against my clit. I make a noise without meaning to, and he gives one of his low laughs.

"Mmm, I love my greedy girl," his voice rumbles at me and it hits me in the pit of my stomach. Part of me wants to tell him I don't need him, I don't even want him. The other part of me makes me wriggle my hips.

There is one condom left, and I want him to use it.

#

Nikolai pushed Lydia over and nestled against her back. Face-to-face fucking is what distinguishes us from most animals, but he wanted to fuck her from behind and the way she thrust he ass back at him told him she wanted it too. As his cock hardened he slid it up and down the crack of her ass, and he reached around her to hold a breast in his hand. He squeezed and flicked the nipple with his thumb. She slipped one leg up and back, over his thigh, inviting his hand lower. He stroked down her body and touched her clit. She hummed, low and urgent.

"I cannot get enough of you."

"There isn't enough of me," she said.

"Get on your hands and knees for me?" he asked, hoping she would comply.

When she did, he almost lost it. He grabbed the condom quickly, and hoped it would slow him down. The sun was trying to burst through the curtains, it had to be late afternoon, and so he'd theoretically had enough time to recover and was on a new day. He hoped he wasn't too weak from the lack of food, but getting food would have required leaving the room, and leaving the room was something he could afford to do only once.

He knelt behind her and touched her, watched his finger sink into her, bent down and flicked his tongue out to taste her.

"Nikki, I don't need that."

He pushed her legs wide and pressed his face to her, lapping at the folds of skin. She groaned and pleaded with him to hurry up and fuck her. He liked hearing that, so he licked some more. She stopped pleading for fucking, and instead reached between her spread legs and touched her clit. He licked her fingers and she rubbed faster. He spat on her fingers and they flew over her clit. He paid attention, knowing he could never touch her that roughly and make it feel as good as she could, but eager to know everything she liked. He urged her on with soft whispers and gentle nibbles. He fucked her with his tongue and then swept his tongue up across the other hole. She groaned and pushed back and he licked some more until her ass started to quiver.

"That's it," he said, as he rose up and guided his cock inside her wet pussy. Her fingers brushed across his cock and he squeezed her ass with both hands. She tightened around his cock. Every time he drove into her body, it got tighter and hotter. Her whole body moved with his thrusts. He experimented with leaning over her, with kneeling up straight, with nudging her knees further apart, with holding her hips so he could slam into her, and then switching to slow and gentle. She responded to everything.

"So close," he finally whispered. "You are so, so close." Right on the edge. He brushed a thumb over her exposed hole. She yelped and squeezed him and then she was coming, which was what he'd been hoping for all along, because to fuck a woman from behind while she was coming was his favourite thing, after making her come in the first place.

Lydia rocked back into him, accepting every new sensation as it came.

Nikolai slid his hands under her to stroke her belly and cup her breasts and slide through the sweat. He wondered how long he could stay inside her like that, buried inside her, hot and hard and wet and soft and then her legs collapsed and the rolled sideways so they lay as they had before, only he was inside her and she had just come, so she was pliant and let him control everything. Just going along for the ride.

He didn't ever want to come.

#

The shower is hot but the water pressure is not strong enough to hurt. We're out of condoms now, and starving, so we're going to have to end this thing. I've never been fucked for so long in my life. Never come so many times in such a short period of time. I think my clit is sprained. I feel heavy and swollen, and there is a dull ache like you get when deep tissue is healing and the painkillers are wearing off. I can't believe how good that feels. I can't believe how good his hands feel on my back, sliding over me. The shower gel smells like papaya. He nips at my earlobe and rumbles in my ear. "Dirty girl," he rumbles.

I laugh.

#

"I found her!" Stanford cries triumphantly.

"She's back?" The Inspector asks.

"No, she's in Canada. We've got a man in Toronto. He's coordinating with the local authorities. They're heading for her hotel now. If we don't catch here there, we can get her at the airport. She's using a pseudonym we're pretty sure she'd used before. She's got a ticket for a flight leaving in two hours."

"Tell them to nab her right away. I want to interrogate her myself, or at least get one of our men to do it. Who do we have in Toronto?"

"Clemens."

"Good, good. Can we work out some agreement with the locals?"

"They'll let our agent be present, but they need cause if they're going to keep her for more than 24 hours."

"Find something. Make something up, if you have to. I know she's been in contact with Luzhin. She's our only way to get to him."

"But, sir, if he wouldn't talk until he saw her, then how are you going to get her to talk without him?"

#

Long meal in a quiet corner of a basement café. The candles are burnt down. The man, all angles and shadows, looks at the woman, half hidden behind a scarf. He speaks in low tones, she barely answers. He leans over the table and takes her hand in his. In this low light, the back of his hand looks dirty, smeared with something dark. She bends down and kisses it, nuzzles it. He slides it up to her hair, under the scarf. She rests her cheek in his palm and says something that makes him nod sadly.

The waitress wonders if it would be okay to leave the cheque on the table yet. It's the end of a long shift and she wants to go home, but there's something about these two that makes her think of poking a nest of rattlesnakes. They'll be fiercely protective of their privacy. If she waits them out a moment longer, she'll get a big tip. She can smell it in the air.

And she's not wrong. The tip is worth half the bill. American money, too.

#

The Canadian officer is adamant. The British agent cannot approach anyone in the line at the check-in counter, no matter what his rank is. But his orders are clear. He cannot let this woman board the plane. He steps forward and taps the woman on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, ma'am, could you step out of the line, please."

The woman turns to look at him through a pair of huge, dark glasses, even though it's after dark. "I beg your pardon?"

"We'd like to speak to you in the office, ma'am. Right this way."

She tosses her dark hair and makes a sound like you'd expect from a movie star who's been asked to pay for her own drinks. She goes with him to the office where Clemens waits, muttering about calling her lawyer, but she hands over her passport.

"You are Ms. Hayley Broadbent?"

"I am." She sounds utterly Canadian.

"You're travelling to London, England?"

"Yes, I am. Since when was that a crime?"

"No crime, ma'am. It's just that your passport has been flagged as an alternate identity for a citizen of the United Kingdom."

The British agent looks at the passport. "It's illegal to travel under a false passport."

"Who the hell are you?" she asks indignantly.

"I'm a friend of the Inspector's," Clemens says, "and you're no longer free to travel wherever you wish. We want you to tell us where Nikolai Luzhin is."

"I've never heard of such a person."

Clemens sighs. "Ma'am, this is really quite simple. I'm going to have to ask you to take off your sunglasses for a positive identification."

"This is preposterous!" She slides the glasses off her face and stares at him.

With two, flashing, outraged green eyes.

#

"Be careful on train. There are pickpockets."

Such a stupid thing to say to her. She can take care of herself. But I need to say something.

She gives me funny look. With the bandage back on her, and her hair dried and neat, she could almost disappear in crowd. There is a bite on her neck, though. And I know I put it there. It marks her. I could spot it from a thousand yards. A thousand miles.

"You're driving back tonight?" she asks. As if I would tell anyone such a thing.

"I have not yet decided route. Maybe I will cross in Buffalo, maybe I will go to Sarnia. Where do you think they are most likely to look?"

"If they follow the information I planted, they're at the airport right about now, accosting an ex-model who runs a talent agency. I've never met her, but she looks like a real bitch from her Facebook page, so I don't care how inconvenient it is for her." She gives a mean little laugh that makes me want to hate her, but I can't anymore.

"You are very dangerous woman," I say. I want to leave her with a compliment. Is only polite.

"Thank you, Nikki." She starts up the steps to street level. She will walk up to the main road and follow it to the train station and get on a train for somewhere else, and then she'll take a plane from there and eventually she'll get back to London, where her handler will wonder where she has been.

By then the mark will have faded, but at least part of her will still be mine.

#

Home is the safest place, and I will cross the borders and slip through whatever cracks are necessary to get there, but my days in the undiscovered country are over for now. There is such a thing as too much risk, no matter what the payoff.

When I get back, I think I'll pay a visit to Scotland Yard Russian Desk. I understand the Inspector there has been eager to talk with me, and I do feel rude for having brushed him off so many times. It's just that his questions bore me.

Where is Nikolai Luzhin? When did I last see him? Do I have plans to meet with him? I don't know. I haven't seen him since he was locked up in the basement of the building I'm not even supposed to know exists. I have no such plans.

Terribly boring.

Except now, the answers are different. So his questions will be more of a challenge, even if I'll be giving the same old replies, over and over again.

After all, there's no reason for him to need to know where Nikolai Luzhin is. That is a closed book.

#

I watch a very beautiful, very angry ex-model leave the security office at the airport. She rants about missing her flight, about being kept in custody for so many hours, about calling her lawyer and suing pants off airline. Lydia is right. She looks like a bitch.

Besides, this gives her great story to tell at cocktail parties. Did I tell you about time I was mistaken for international terrorist suspect?

I check my hair, pull light gloves on, open my trench coat so I look like average businessman. Lydia is not the only one with multiple identities. I had been planning on flying back, but I am not confident that I can get myself on airplane without detection. Security is not so tight at car rental desk. I will drive rental back to States, take my place in the dark corner of the strip club, intimidate the customers, reassure the dancers, deliver the money to the owner. I will bide my time.

I reach into my pocket and feel the warm, smooth plastic of my worry beads.

I have what I want. For now.

The End

Hoot gets his revenge in a Hootlike manner

2009-07-13T21:31:07Z

Title: Hoot's Revenge
Author: heartofslash
Fandom/Pairing: postBHD, The Long Haul. Hoot/Sanderson, McKnight/Grimes
Rating: NC-17
Warning: kink, bondage, taunting, confused power dynamics and sexual frustration and as close to dubcon as I'll ever get.
Disclaimer: Not real people, not even really the characters they're based on.
Summary: Sanderson kinda used Hoot in his plan to get McKnight and Grimes back together again by getting McKnight jealous of the attention Grimes might be getting from Hoot. As it turns out, Hoot doesn't like the idea of being used, so he decides demonstrate his displeasure.

This was written in response to mlyn's response to the last fic in this series, inspired by her porny imagination and her love of soldiers, and lovingly crafted for her bunk-ridden edification.

Hoot's Revenge

Sanderson flexed his wrist in a vain attempt to loosen the knots. No luck. He may have been well trained at getting out of restraints, but he was just as well trained at tying other people up, and Hoot had gone through the exact same training courses as him, and got higher marks, because while Sanderson had taken every single part of his training very seriously, the tying up people part had not appealed to him on the same visceral level as it had appealed to Hoot.

Face it. Hoot had taken to rope play the same way he'd taken to wrestling - with augmented motivation.

"This is fucking stupid," Sanderson said.

"And you just earned yourself another twenty minutes in the chair," Hoot drawled.

Fuck!

"Look, Hoot, there's no need for this."

Hoot's eyes went dark. "Jeff, I got you naked, tied to a chair with your own neckties. You're not feeling the need? Because I gotta tell you, I'm feeling need."

"I mean there's no reason to punish me like this."

"Some people likej to be tied up, you know. It's not punishment. It's enhancement of the experience."

Only if they were doing something they wanted to be doing at the same time. Sanderson was not doing anything worth being enhanced. He was sitting in a chair, and it wasn't even a comfortable chair. It was a plain, wooden chair. He was sitting on one side of the room while Hoot sat on the other.

No, Hoot was not sitting. He was sprawling. Naked and sprawling and displaying miles of muscle and skin and a little bit of sweat and a sprinkling of dark body hair and a cock that would be comically large if it wasn't so painfully beautiful with Hoot's big hand wrapped around it.

No enhancement about it. This was punishment. This was torture.

"My intent was not to harm you," Sanderson said for the tenth time. "My only focus was to fix what was wrong between Mr. Grimes and Colonel McKnight. I didn't mean to... I wasn't using you for my own purposes. It was for their purposes, and it wasn't really using. You were playing a role."

"A role I was not aware of."

"A role you were amply suited for."

"A role you tricked me into playing."

"There was no trickery. I just happened to know what would happen." Which was true.

As soon as Sanderson figured out that Grimes wasn't getting laid, he'd known he had to do something. The awkward interrogation of Grimes had given him all he needed to know. Full disclosure was not required. What was required was a shock. McKnight needed to be jolted out of his self-pitying depression, and Grimes needed to be jolted out of his self-sacrificing martyrdom. Knowing what he knew of the nature of the relationship, Sanderson had come to the inevitable conclusion that jealousy and possessiveness would do the trick for all involved, and that Hoot was the only man for the job.

No one but Hoot could inspire the degree of jealousy required. He was big and gorgeous and a known slut.

No one but Hoot would cause McKnight to jump to the sort of conclusion he had to jump to in order to initiate the possessiveness required. Again, that was due to the known slut factor.

And no one but Hoot would be compassionate enough to disregard the danger of getting so close to Grimes in order to comfort him. Hoot was a big, beautiful, compassionate guy. He would have had no choice but to comfort Grimes.

And once that close, Hoot would be unable to resist getting that inch closer than technically necessary.

Sanderson's timing had been impeccable. That part of it had been sheer luck. He figured the plan would have worked even if Hoot had stayed ten feet away from Grimes. Just the idea of Hoot alone with Grimes had been enough to get McKnight off his ass. If they'd got to the D-Tech office and Grimes had been innocently working at his computer and Hoot had been sitting in the other room, the shock of McKnight showing up like that would have at least elicited a heartfelt 'sir' from Grimes, and then things would have moved on to a natural conclusion in time.

As it was, the progression had been instantaneous, and Sanderson had been lucky to get Hoot and Schmid clear of the building before the explosion. He'd seen McKnight yank the curtains closed, and he'd seen Grimes as the curtains were shutting, already sinking to his knees. All the way over in the truck, McKnight had been getting more and more agitated, and the bulge in his pants had been getting bigger and bigger. Poor Grimes was going to have one hell of a case of dislocated jaw by morning.

Sanderson could understand Hoot being a little upset at being left out of the planning stages, but there hadn't been time for full disclosure, and they'd always operated on a need to know basis anyway.

What was most infuriating was that everything had operated exactly according to plan until this.

All the way to McKnight and Grimes' place and back, Sanderson had been looking forward to Hoot showing him all the places the two of them had had sex, and then to having sex in all those places with Hoot. Instead, Hoot had been lying on the couch when Sanderson got back, completely naked, slowly stroking his cock, and Sanderson had been lulled into a false sense of security.

How the fuck had Hoot got him naked and tied to this chair so fast?

Granted, Sanderson had not been at his best. After ten minutes in the truck with Grimes next to him, sitting gingerly and smelling like raw sex with a side helping of the pretty, Sanderson was on edge. That's not even counting the effect of McKnight, all puffed up and self-satisfied, with one hand under Grimes' ass the whole way home, and twirling Grimes' hair around the fingers of his other hand. McKnight kept breathing in Grimes' scent and nuzzling his ear and it had been infuriating, especially when he whispered something Sanderson didn't catch and Grimes had taken in a sharp breath and wriggled his ass and McKnight had chuckled and Sanderson would have told them both to grow up or get a room but he'd been turning into the driveway by that point and everyone in the truck knew damn well this whole thing had been Sanderson's idea in the first place. He had no right to complain.

So, yeah, by the time he got back to D-Tech his cock was pretty well big enough to drive the truck on its own.

But to be tied up like this with his own fucking neck ties... nice symbolism. "You like being the boss, don't you?" Hoot had cooed to him, and Sanderson had stupidly thought that meant he was going to fuck Hoot, because that's the sort of conclusion you jump to when your dick is doing the thinking.

Sanderson didn't even want to be the boss. He didn't. He wanted to be partners. Equal partners. He didn't want to be in charge of anything. They should each do what they were good at, and sometimes that would put Sanderson in a position to lead, and sometimes that would put Hoot on top. That was what it meant to be partners.

"Hoot, I don't want to be the boss," Sanderson said earnestly.

"Well, that's good, Jeff, because you don't look like a boss to me, all tied up with that big, aching dick sticking up like that." Hoot squeezed his own cock tightly and hissed.

Now, that was taking things to unfair extremes! Hoot knew how much Sanderson liked to handle his cock rough like that.

Hoot rolled over and tightened his ass, pushing his cock into the leather of the couch. "They fucked right here," Hoot sighed. "Mr. Grimes was right here, I'm sure of it."

Of course, Grimes would not have stretched out to cover the whole length of the couch. If Grimes' cock had been where Hoot's cock was, his head would not have been hanging off the end of the couch. He probably could have tucked his chin and pressed the top of his head against the armrest – and he probably would have needed to, given the size of the cock pressing into his asshole.

"Ah, fuck, Hoot," Sanderson groaned.

"He woulda been right here," Hoot said, and he reached under himself to adjust his cock. "Right here is where the smell of the leather cleaner is strongest. It's a damn shame I can't smell Mr. Grimes on this leather. I bet he smells good. Does Mr. Grimes smell good, Jeff?"

"How would I know?"

Hoot turned his head and gave Sanderson a look of pure heat. "I believe you had him next to you in the truck," he said slowly.

Sanderson had two choices. He could play this cool, play innocent. Or he could break down, admit that Grimes smelled fucking delicious and not only that, but his lips had actually been swollen and at some point he'd swallowed come because Sanderson had even smelled it on his breath, and if it weren't for the cleaning products the leather couch would be smothered in the musky, dusky, cock-rousing scent of John Grimes' come, which had to, as far as Sanderson could tell, smell a little bit like you would imagine an orgasm to smell, independent of any other body odors.

"He smells like sex," Sanderson said helplessly. "He smells so fucking good I wanted to throw McKnight out the door. It is completely unfair that McKnight is the only one who will ever get to have him, and I wish I could go back in time so I could have him, somehow, anyhow. I don't blame you at all for a single thought that went through your head when you were alone with him, Hoot."

Hoot laughed and pushed his upper body off the couch so his back arched and his ass tensed even more so two perfect globes stood out. "Give it up, Jeff. You never had a chance."

"He brought me coffee," Sanderson said. In the middle of a fucking battle, Grimes had offered Sanderson coffee. And after the battle, Sanderson had brought Grimes a cup of tea. And Grimes had looked grateful.

"You're not his type." Hoot wriggled his hips and ground his cock into the leather. "You're not an officer."

Sanderson groaned.

"He likes someone bigger than him."

"I'm bigger than him," Sanderson said, mesmerized by Hoot's ass.

Hoot lifted his cock off the leather and drew his hips back. "He likes them burly." He drove his hips forward, his cock skidding across the leather, as if there was someone beneath him, and he was fucking him from above. "McKnight must have been fucking him like this." And Hoot jerked his hips and grunted.

Sanderson's vision wavered. Every muscle on Hoot's body, his arms, his back, his legs, his ass, every single muscle and tendon worked in unison to simulate fucking John Grimes from behind. When Hoot pushed his cock forward he clenched all over and tucked his hips and Sanderson could feel his own asshole pressing against the wooden seat of the chair.

"That's a good boy," Hoot groaned.

Sanderson's whole body jerked as he tried to escape the knots. The chair tipped sideways and Sanderson was powerless to stop it. He was relieved, actually. He wouldn't be able to see as much from the floor.

Except he was wrong.

Lying on his side, tied to the chair, he looked up and saw Hoot's cock from below. It was hard and bouncing against his taut abs as it thrust midair into an imaginary asshole.

Oh, fuck, this was not cool at all. To start with, Sanderson's right wrist was tied to the side of the chair that was under him, and was being crushed by his body weight. Also, he was drooling. Definitely not cool. And his cock, tied at the base with Hoot's necktie, was about as pathetic as he could imagine, rock hard and vibrating and leaking like someone had punctured his pride with a spear.

"Hoot…" Sanderson pleaded.

Hoot looked over through glazed eyes. He got off the couch, and walked across the room. He grabbed the back of the chair and hauled it back to an upright position, which put his cock at roughly mouth level. Sanderson lunged for it, but he only had a few inches of leeway before the ties stopped him. Hoot took a giant step back.

"You set me up, Jeff."

"Hoot, we went over this already."

"You took advantage of me."

"No, I didn't. It was all for the best."

"You think I'm a slut."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"Okay, I do. But you know I love that about you."

"You don't think I have any control." Hoot took half a step forward and his cock in his hand again.

"You do have control. I know you do. Admirable control." Sanderson watched the hand on the cock avidly.

"You think I'm a slut," Hoot repeated. He stroked his cock.

"You are a slut," Sanderson said.

"You think I only think about sex."

"Not only."

"You think I need sex all the time."

"Not all the time," Sanderson said desperately. "But right now. Right now you need it, and I do to, so let me give it to you."

Hoot smiled. He let go of his cock. He turned and walked back to the couch. "You're right," he said. "I need it. I need it bad. Just the way Grimes needed it, and he was sitting right here." He sat down, facing Sanderson, with his legs spread wide and his hand back on his cock. "Just think about how hot the leather got with Grimes cock rubbing against it."

Sanderson couldn't think about that. He'd die if he thought about that.

"I know it was him, because there's a condom in the garbage can, and it's not mine. It's not yours. It's been inside somebody, and I'd be willing to bet almost anything that it wasn't Grimes fucking McKnight. That condom was inside Grimes, so the come on the couch was Grimes'…"

Sanderson made a noise. He couldn't help it. It was a small noise, unplanned, and it was the sort of noise that, when articulated, means something along the lines of 'duh'.

Hoot laughed. "That's what you don't understand, Jeff. You see, I talked to Grimes. Or he talked to me. And all this time, ever since McKnight got wounded, what he's been worried about isn't that McKnight isn't going to be the same as he was before he got wounded. He's been worried because the last time they had sex, it was Grimes who did the fucking."

Sanderson felt his stomach flip. "He... he told you that?"

"On his knees. Wearing a uniform."

Sanderson tried to picture that. Grimes fucking McKnight. From behind. In a uniform. Grimes in a uniform...

"Wearing eyeliner," Hoot groaned and started jerking off in earnest.

Grimes in eyeliner? Sanderson did not believe it.

Hoot gasped. "Lipstick!" Hoot lunged to his feet and staggered across the room, cock in hand. "You fucker," he grunted. "How dare you let me wait this long!"

Sanderson opened his mouth to protest. How could he have known what Grimes had told Hoot? If he'd know, he would have driven Schmid home and blown Hoot in the truck. Without delay.

"That's it," Hoot growled. He straddled Sanderson's knees and planted one hand on the back of the chair behind Sanderson's left ear. "Open your fucking mouth."

Sanderson obeyed, and almost instantly got a mouthful of come. He tried to swallow it, but then the second shot hit his lips, and the third his chin, and pretty soon his face was dripping and Hoot was slumped over him, still stroking his cock and breathing heavy.

And Sanderson still could not move. He swallowed whatever he could and had to let the rest slide down his chin and his neck.

Hoot reached down and gave his cock a hard tug.

"Yes!" Sanderson hollered, and it wasn't long before Hoot's hand was dripping as well.

Hoot wiped it on Sanderson's chest. He staggered back to the couch and sat down heavily. His eyes were bleary as he looked at Sanderson. "Now who's the slut?" he asked.

Sanderson had no choice at all. "I am," he said.

This story follows A Fucking Order, Operation Under the Radar and A Day Like Today and A Day Like Today 2.

The Long Haul - A Day Like Today Part 2

2009-07-03T16:29:36Z

Title: A Day Like Today – Part 2
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: post BHD, The Long Haul
Pairings: Grimes/McKnight, Hoot/Sanderson
Rating: this part NC-17 for sexsexsex
Warnings: sub/Dom, resolution of relationship crisis, utter disrespect for the sanctity of the D-Tech office.
Disclaimer: Has nothing to do with people, real or fictional, except for inspiration.

Happens right after A Day Like Today Part 1

A Day Like Today Part 2

Sanderson grabbed Hoot by the arm and dragged him out of the office, down the hall, and out the back door. The two of them barreled into Kurt Schmid, who was sitting on the back steps fiddling with a cell phone tracking device that would transmit directly to the computer in the workroom.

"Can we take you out for dinner?" Sanderson asked a little breathlessly.

"What?" Schmid backed away, like he was afraid of them.

"He saw us last night," Hoot explained. "Together."

"Really?" Sanderson was baffled. How had Kurt seen them?

"It was when… Hoot was on… you were facing away from the door," Kurt said, stuttering only slightly on the 'f' and the 'd'.

"Oh, shit. I'm sorry, Kurt. That was very unprofessional of us. Let us make it up to you. We'll take you out for steak. Our treat. We promise we won't be unprofessional."

"Well, I…" Kurt looked doubtful.

"I can't promise that," Hoot said. "You don't know what Mr. Grimes just said to me."

"I don't want to know what Mr. Grimes just said to you. I don't need to know. What I do know is that I want to get as far away from this house as possible while the Colonel and Mr. Grimes… discuss whatever they need to discuss."

"My jacket is inside," Schmid said.

"I'll buy you a new jacket," Sanderson said. "Trust me. If you were upset about what you saw last night, you do not want to go back in that building!"

Grimes was having a minor amount of trouble breathing, but he didn't mind that at all. The problem was that he'd forgotten how to breathe around all that cock, but it was no big deal. Muscle memory. He would pick it up again real fast.

McKnight groaned loud enough that even he heard it, with both ears. Motherfucker. How had he survived so long without the feel of Grimes' mouth on him? He slid his fingers through soft hair and ran his thumb along Grimes' open jawline, and looked down into wide, gray eyes.

"You've been such a good boy," he said.

McKnight wanted to add that he, himself, had been a stupid prick. He wanted to say that he should never have let Grimes leave his bed, no matter how badly it hurt when Grimes accidentally bumped into his arm, because it hadn't really hurt all that much more than his arm had already been hurting, in the grand scheme of things, but he'd not been thinking about the big picture. He'd been too busy being petty and enjoying every individual misery as if it was his only joy.

He wanted to say that he should have stopped Grimes from leaving the bed as soon as he figured out he wouldn't be coming back. He should have ordered Grimes back and showed him that how much he still wanted him, but then he'd have to admit that he'd been afraid that Grimes wouldn't want him any more, because he was broken.

Things had just escalated since then, with them growing further and further apart, and McKnight not knowing how to stop the slide, because while Grimes was being respectful and helpful and dutiful, he was not being talkative. He'd never been all that talkative. In fact, he had sometimes, in moments of extreme relaxation and unguardedness, teased McKnight about wanting to "talk about the relationship" all the time.

Grimes never wanted to talk about it. He only wanted to serve.

It was too awkward for McKnight to ask Grimes to serve him when he was all fucked up. Too selfish. His hands didn't work right and he had all these tender scars and he didn't think he could open his mouth wide enough to do anything substantial with it, so how could he reciprocate? Grimes had jerked him off a few times and they'd felt enough like pity hand jobs for McKnight to go into a deeper state of self-pity, because McKnight had honestly not thought Grimes would want him like this. Broken. And he could not talk about it.

Because Grimes would not want to hear him say he was broken.

Because Grimes didn't think he was broken. Grimes didn't care if he had a few more scars. Grimes didn't care if his hands were still healing. Grimes didn't care if he couldn't hear that great. The painkillers must have fucked up McKnight's thought processes, because the truth was obvious, now that Grimes was kneeling on the floor with McKnight's cock in his mouth.

Grimes didn't mind scars at all. He never had. He even liked then.

And Grimes would want to think of a dozen ways to help McKnight's hands heal, and those things would include exercises and slippery lotions and god know what else, but McKnight would be sure to enjoy every second of them.

And McKnight remembered now that he didn't have to hear well – he could always read Grimes' lips, and staring at Grimes' lips would make Grimes want to use his lips. And fuck, could Grimes use his lips!

What a waste of two months at home, goddamn it.

Grimes flinched slightly when McKnight's thumb skated too close to his eye.

"I'm sorry," McKnight said. The skin was still rough all over his hands. The fresh skin grew in smooth enough, but it didn't seem to connect with the existing skin, so it was like a patchwork, mismatched and rough-edged, with a misshapen lump beneath his right thumb where they'd had to reconnect some tendons, and a vivid, jagged tear across the back, raised up enough to make it look like a giant vein ready to pop. Everything had been battered and torn, and he didn't have the same control over them that he once had, but he would get it back again. He would do whatever it took to get back control. He would get his hands in perfect working order again.

And in the meantime, he would find ways to use them for which their current state would be ideal.

He bent down and rubbed his hand down the back of Grimes neck. He could tell it scratched, just a bit. Enough to make Grimes purr around his cock.

"I think my hand might be a bit too rough to use on your cock," McKnight said.

Grimes whimpered loud enough for McKnight to hear it. And feel it.

"That's okay." McKnight patted his head and pushed his cock just a little deeper into Grimes' throat. "I promise I'll kiss it better."

Grimes shimmied on the floor. Ah, fuck, he needed to get his cock out of his pants, but then he wouldn't be able to concentrate on the taste and the feel and the sound. He didn't want to miss any word of this. He'd waited too long.

After McKnight had kicked Hoot out of the office, he'd yanked the curtains shut and ordered Grimes on his knees. Grimes had been stunned at first, but as soon as he saw the state of McKnight's erection, he understood what he wanted. What they both wanted.

He'd been waiting a fuck of a long time for this, for McKnight to finally get over his self-consciousness, to realize that Grimes had been waiting for him. He'd started to fear it wasn't going to happen.

Grimes did not know what Sanderson had said to McKnight. He didn't want to know. Sanderson seemed to understand far too much about him and McKnight, and there was no end to the embarrassing things he might have said to get McKnight to come over here…

… to find Grimes here, with Hoot, and Hoot comforting Grimes.

How had that looked to McKnight?

Grimes would never, ever make, or even think disparaging remarks about Sanderson being a devious know-it-all, or about Hoot being a slut, because it was the combination of whatever Sanderson had said to McKnight, and the mind-exploding jealous rage that seeing Hoot on the couch with Grimes had created in McKnight that had put Grimes right here, where he wanted to be.

It did not, in the long run, matter what had prompted this turn of events. It would not have mattered if it had been orchestrated by Sanderson or if it had just happened naturally. It would not have mattered if Grimes had swallowed his pride and begged, or if McKnight's therapist, whom he fully resented, had suggested to him that he do something entirely selfish in order to convince himself of his self-worth – not that McKnight's therapist would ever tell him to order Grimes on his knees, because he was an Army-provided therapist, and as far as he knew, from what McKnight had told him, the therapist thought McKnight shared a house with his sister's boyfriend, and had an on-again-off-again relationship with a teacher who lived out of town.

All that required deception was why therapy had not done one bit of good. Grimes was convinced of that. Therapy only works if you are brutally honest. That's why Grimes would never, ever go into therapy. He could never admit the pure truth to a stranger, especially not a doctor. He'd only ever been able to admit the entire truth to McKnight.

They'd assigned McKnight a therapist because of the extent of his injuries, and the severity of his supposed disabilities. Grimes thought that was ridiculous. McKnight was healthy. He was healing beautifully. His hearing wasn't great, but it had never been all that great, and he still had enough of it to be able to have a conversation, as long as the TV or radio wasn't on. He needed more therapy for his hands, but they were progressing well. The skin was too rough, but only because he had not been comfortable with Grimes rubbing cream into it, because it still hurt a lot when he first got home, and then after McKnight got off the painkillers he still couldn’t massage his hands because bourbon didn't kill pain nearly as much as McKnight claimed it did.

Grimes knew that because a couple of nights, when McKnight was particularly grumpy, he'd tried a few shots to see if they would ease the pain in his heart, and all it ever did was make it worse.

But there was no pain in his heart now. His heart was singing. He felt perfect.

And McKnight's hands were in his hair. God, how he'd been wanting to feel them. He'd yearned, every night, to feel McKnight's hands on him again. Every day they healed more, and McKnight did his exercises, stretching them and strengthening them, and every day the scars faded, and sure, they were really rough, but they were whole again. When they ran down his neck, the roughness was like the tongue of a cat, and Grimes wanted it everywhere.

And he was finally going to get it. Whatever had happened had happened, and his Colonel was back!

There had been a lot of muttering at first, about Hoot never being allowed in a room alone with Grimes again, and "What did you say to him?" and no one, do you understand? NO ONE could ever be as perfect or as good or as fucking sexy as Grimes was. The combination of the jealousy and the adoration was almost too good to be true.

"I am your commanding officer, damn it, and you will sleep in my bed with me every fucking night from now on. Naked!"

Grimes' brain ate all this up like candy while his body focused on easing that huge cock as deep inside his throat as possible. Then came the part about McKnight roughing up his cock with his big, beautiful, scarred hands, and then kissing it better. Grimes tried to convey his pleasure. It came out as a moan.

"I heard that," McKnight said, low and growling just like he used to. "I didn't only feel that."

Grimes moaned again, louder, and sucked as hard as he could, too.

"Motherfuck, that's good. I have to hear you moan. I need to hear you call me sir again."

Grimes honestly wanted to call him sir again, but he couldn't with all that cock in his mouth. He'd relearned how to breathe, but he'd never been able to talk while doing that.

"I'm not doing it. I'm not getting that operation. Not even going to the appointment today. Fuck that. I'm not good enough for the army? Fine. I'll do something else."

Grimes didn't like that. He didn't want McKnight to give up his career just so he could hear Grimes moan. That seemed excessive.

McKnight pulled his cock out of Grimes' mouth and sank down on his knees. He held Grimes' face between his hands and rubbed a rough thumb on Grimes' cheekbone. "This is me, John. This is what there is. If the army doesn't want me, fuck the army. I don't need the army. I need you."

And Grimes needed McKnight, but not if it was going to cost him his career. "Sir, it's what you do. You're an officer."

McKnight shook his head. "I don't need the army to be a commanding officer."

No, he did not.

The realization made Grimes shiver.

"And John, if I leave the army, take early retirement, I can look for work doing something else."

"But you get the operation you could get almost all of your hearing back, sir."

"And then I'd have to stay in the army. Do a tour. But if I don't get it, I take a pension and I can live with you. All the time. Openly. No more pretending."

Grimes knew it wouldn’t be all that open. McKnight would never be openly gay. They wouldn't act like the couples he used to see, obviously together, holding hands on the street, kissing in public… no. McKnight wouldn't do that. Couldn't. Not as long as they lived in this town. Maybe never.

But then, he remembered that one time, when McKnight had been playing the part to make it look like he was straight, when he'd bent Roz backwards over the hood of a car and kissed the breath out of her. McKnight was disciplined, but he was not entirely above public displays of affection.

They would have to go on a vacation somewhere, somewhere where that sort of thing wouldn't be remarkable.

Even if they couldn’t really live openly, McKnight could stop being quite so tense. They wouldn't have to be quite so careful about closing curtains and locking doors. They would not have to be quite so meticulous about sight lines and hedges and staying in the shadows.

Not that McKnight would ever do anything sexual when other people could see clearly. He would be too wary of letting anyone see Grimes naked. He was particular about that. He wanted Grimes in the loosest t-shirt and sweats possible for yoga class, and made sure Grimes didn't wear his tightest jeans out of the house. In fact, Grimes had never worn his tightest jeans for longer than an hour, two at most… they wouldn't be as tight as they used to be now.

Grimes would gain the weight back now, now that things were going to be back to normal, and now that they wouldn't have to be so circumspect about every little detail. They could be almost normal.

Grimes did not know what to say to that.

He'd never considered it before.

"And," McKnight said with a smile, "you are never kissing my sister on the mouth, ever again."

Grimes had not seen him smile since before.

He hadn't smiled once when Grimes visited him with Linda, pretending to be there to support Linda, kissing her every once in a while to keep up the charade. McKnight had shown no indication of being jealous during those visits, but then, some of the muscles of his face had been stiff from the bruising, and he'd been in a lot of pain. Jealousy might not show up under those conditions. From the way he was gripping Grimes' head, it sure felt like he didn't want Grimes to have to kiss Linda ever again.

McKnight couldn’t be jealous of Linda, could he? His own sister? He had to know that was pure façade.

But he could be jealous of Hoot.

"Hoot was just trying to make me feel better," Grimes said.

Grimes' head thudded a little on the floor when McKnight pushed him down, but it didn't hurt at all. It felt great to have his pants ripped open, and it was reassuring to know that McKnight's hands were healed and strong enough to shred a pair of underwear.

Oh, god, McKnight's hands were rough on his cock. Sharp points of skin nicked him, scraped him, and then, as promised, a hot, wet tongue swept over him. Soft lips. More hot tongue. But the stubble was much more painful than the jagged skin.

"Sir! You need a shave," Grimes gasped.

McKnight crawled up his body. "Will you shave me?" he rumbled in Grimes ear. A tongue followed, and then stubble rasped against Grimes throat.

"God, yes. But later, sir," Grimes yelped. Much later. There was a huge cock crushing his balls.

McKnight cursed his poor planning. He should have brought lube. Why hadn't he brought lube? Fuck it, he didn't need lube. There was no need to fuck Grimes, not here, not now. He didn't want to fuck Grimes, not on the floor of the D-Tech office. Not all desperate and rushed. He wanted to fuck Grimes carefully, slowly, gently.

He would have to come at least once, maybe twice before he could slow down enough to do that. They were both shaking and needed to come as fast as possible. He grabbed Grimes' cock and Grimes grabbed his cock, and that in and of itself was better than any of the pathetic jerking off he'd been done since he got home. He didn't know why he'd ever thought he could live without this.

Grimes seemed to understand exactly what he needed. Grimes always did. McKnight pushed his face against Grimes neck and let Grimes push his hand away. One at a time. It would have been fun to come together, but it had been too long. He was too desperate. Fucked up as his hands were, he'd likely crush Grimes' cock in his frenzy without even realizing it, and it was so good to give it up, let Grimes jerk him off with hard, sure strokes. Maybe he couldn't hear everything, but he knew Grimes was panting, and words weren't always needed.

McKnight had to get that t-shirt off Grimes. It was beautiful, and soft, but he wanted skin. Grimes wouldn't let go of his cock, so McKnight had to be content with pushing it up and touching taut skin and wiry hair. "More," he said.

"You have to come first, sir. You know that, sir."

McKnight didn't know anything anymore. He turned to pure instinct, a little frantic, as he pushed his cock into Grimes' hand and listened to Grimes call him sir.

Almost two weeks since Grimes had called him sir. He'd noticed. He'd even got used to it. Grimes calling him by his name had sunk him deeper into depression or whatever, but that was over now, because Grimes was not only calling him sir, he was fucking babbling it, and jerking him off, and squirming against him, so his name was no longer the norm. Sir was the norm again, and his name was the exception, so when Grimes wriggled and got his lips right up against McKnight's good ear and pleaded, "Please, Danny, please!", McKnight completely lost it, so fast that Grimes missed the first shot.

But Grimes was nimble, and he scrambled down to get his mouth on McKnight's cock in time to catch the rest of it, and McKnight had to grab the leg of the couch to keep from flying off the floor, it was that fucking good.

Grimes tried to move his legs, but McKnight was too heavy, draped over Grimes' lower half, breathing hard against Grimes' left hip. His lips slid across Grimes' hipbone, slick with Grimes' come.

Oh, fuck, that had been mind blowing. Grimes hadn't come like that, so fast, so hard, so fully, for so long. Maybe he never had. Fuck. McKnight was so fucking good at that. The wounds to his face had not diminished the effectiveness of his mouth one bit. Predictably, Grimes had gone off like a teenager. It had been such a long time since his cock had been inside anything other than his own half-hearted fist. McKnight had not seemed to mind at all.

Rough fingers skittered over his hipbone after the lips.

"You've lost so much weight," McKnight said.

Please, don't worry about that. Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it…

"I haven't been taking proper care of you," McKnight said.

That wasn't his job, dammit.

"I'm sorry."

McKnight had to shut up. Right away. Grimes had to shut him up. He did not want this, not now. This talk had to happen, but not now. Besides, McKnight had lost weight too. They'd both been under a whole lot of stress. It was to be expected.

But the apology had been heartfelt, and it made Grimes feel very special inside. Deep inside. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach. No, lower…

"Sir, you can make it up to me by fucking me," Grimes said.

Maybe McKnight hadn't heard him.

"Sir, I said, maybe you should fuck me."

McKnight breathed hard against his hip. "I heard you the first time."

Grimes did not think McKnight's hearing was nearly as poor as McKnight, or the army, thought it was.

McKnight crawled up Grimes' body and spread his weight, less than before but still substantial. "I miss a lot of the highs and lows, but your voice…" McKnight nuzzled Grimes jaw. "Your voice is the perfect pitch."

Wow.

McKnight rolled over, bringing Grimes with him, so Grimes lay on top, and McKnight spread his hands over Grimes' bare ass. "And no matter what weight you're at, you'll always be my ideal weight."

Grimes wriggled his ass into McKnight's hands. The rough skin scratched him, but it wouldn’t cause any permanent damage. No worse than McKnight's stubble would, were he to rub his face across Grimes' ass. Which Grimes wanted, naturally. But he wasn't going to ask for it, because he was spread out on top of McKnight and weight loss or now weight loss, McKnight was still a fucking mattress.

"God help me, John, I want to fuck you so bad."

"Yes, sir," Grimes purred and licked up the new scar on McKnight's cheek, the one that ran from his jaw almost all the way up to his eye. It was a tiny, faint line, flaring pink in the middle for about half an inch. Grimes moved up to the thicker scar above McKnight's eye. So close. He had been so relieved when the swelling went down and McKnight's other eye had been staring out at him, just as blue as ever, 20/20 vision. No damage to the eye. A miracle.

The one that used to be McKnight's bad ear was now the good one. Maybe not good. Better. Better than the other one, which was, for all intents and purposes, deaf. Grimes brushed his lips over the good ear. "I know where there's lube," he whispered.

The hands tightened on his ass.

'I can't,' McKnight thought.

First off, on the most normal day for the past several years, the mere idea of being inside Grimes was enough to make McKnight grit his teeth. But Grimes had not had McKnight in him for a long time. That would make Grimes…

"Virgin tight," McKnight growled in Grimes' ear.

Grimes performed a very satisfying shimmy that brought as much of him as possible in full contact with McKnight.

Maybe he didn't catch everything Grimes said. Maybe he'd have to rely on lip reading and extrapolation. Maybe he'd have to guess at the full meaning sometimes. It wasn't that hard, in this situation. The first part had been a bit garbled, but the word 'lube' had come through okay.

So McKnight couldn't hear every little detail. Big deal. He didn't need to hear every single detail. He sure as hell could still talk.

"I don't know if I can fuck you," he said, trying to sound casual. How the hell he was supposed to sound causal with mostly naked Grimes lying on top of him was moot. He gave it his best shot. "I mean, after all this time. You might be too tight. Have you had anything in your ass?"

Grimes shook his head.

"You sure?"

Grimes nodded his head.

"I'm going to have to spend a lot of time getting you ready." He needed the extra time to get it up again, anyway. They'd been lying there for a while, and after he'd finished blowing Grimes he'd spent some time just licking him, his slender hips, his flat stomach, his soft cock. But he hadn't spent enough time. Not yet. He spread his fingers on Grimes' beautiful ass and cringed at the scrape of them on tender skin. "John… it'll be too rough." He felt bad about that. He really, really wanted to feel the inside of Grimes' asshole, but his fingers… he'd tear it to shreds.

"There are gloves," Grimes said, loud and clear.

Of course. These sneaky fuckers probably spent as much time doing B and Es as they did legit security work. There would be gloves. But lube?

"They fuck on the couch in the other room, sir," Grimes read his mind. "I know where the lube is stashed. And condoms."

Condoms? Why the hell would he want a condom?

It would kept he mess to a minimum. And maybe… he slid his index finger, his smoothest fingertip, down and brushed it across Grimes' opening.

"You're going to be so hot, and so fucking tight, I'm going to need that condom to keep me from coming right away."

It was a relief that Grimes reacted as predictably as ever to the dirty talk. He pushed his asshole back against McKnight's finger and huffed hot air over his face and licked the scar over his eye again. "Oh, yes, sir. Please, sir."

The sirs sounded louder than all the other words. Selective hearing?

"Get up, and go get me lube and gloves and a condom," McKnight ordered.

Grimes got up. First he slithered off McKnight. Then he stood and stretched. He pulled his t-shirt all the way off, and kicked off the leg of his pants that was still twisted around his foot, and then he fucking sauntered across the room. McKnight propped his head up and watched. Grimes left the door to the other office open, so McKnight could see him bend over to retrieve the bottle of lube from behind the couch. That looked good. He had to bend way over to get the condoms. That looked extra good. Fucking excellent, in fact. Then the gloves.

Motherfucker. The gloves were on a shelf behind Grimes' desk. High up. Grimes had to get a stool to stand on to reach them. He was standing, naked, on a stool, retrieving a box of nonlatex disposable gloves, and he looked like a model or something, so lean and so confident.

He wasn't really that confident. McKnight could tell. He was putting on a brave face, acting casual for McKnight's benefit. In reality, he was probably worried, like he always was, about being perfect enough.

McKnight got up. "Stay there," he said. He approached cautiously, afraid to scare Grimes. "Hand me the gloves, then face the wall."

Grimes did as he was told. McKnight stood next to him and licked his spine, about halfway up. "God, you're beautiful," McKnight said. He put his hands on Grimes' ass and squeezed. "You are so fucking beautiful." He pulled his hands apart. Grimes' knees buckled, but he recovered and reached forward to put his hands on the top of the file cabinet.

"That's a good boy. Bend over."

Grimes bent right over, so his chest rested on top of the cabinet.

McKnight sat on the edge of the desk. That put him at the exact right height. Fucking perfect.

The metal file cabinet was cold against Grimes' stomach and chest. Deep breaths. Calm, deep breaths. Not an easy thing to do when teeth and stubble were scraping over the underside of his ass. "Sir, I don't think I can take that," he said. But he said it too quietly for McKnight to hear him. Hot tongue slid over his asshole. "Oh, sir!" That was, he was sure, loud enough for McKnight to hear.

He knew McKnight wished he could hear better, wanted to hear more. Grimes wasn't entirely sure what he should say. He could beg McKnight to lick him, but that would be superfluous. McKnight was already licking him. Licking him softly, gently, maddeningly gently.

Grimes heard the snap of a disposable glove.

This was going to make him beg. No doubt about it. The clinical distance provided by the glove, the slickness of the lube, the thickness of the finger inside him, would all conspire to make him beg in the most shameful fashion. In the office. Behind his desk. Where he had to work every day. How would he ever work again? He inched his feet to the very edges of the stool, wishing he could spread them wider, wider, wider, until he was totally open.

McKnight slid his finger in and out with infuriating calmness. Clinical. Detached. "I don't think I can fit my cock into this little hole," he said.

Fuck, it drove Grimes crazy when he said shit like that. And McKnight knew it. This was all on purpose. What the fuck had Sanderson said to him?

Oh, right, it had been Hoot… Grimes could use that. He could say something about Hoot. That would up the intensity. No, he'd save Hoot for a special occasion. It was special enough to be here, standing on a stool, bent over his file cabinet with McKnight's gloved, lubed finger sliding into him. Two gloved lubed fingers. After licking him. Ah, Jesus, he needed cock.

"Please, sir."

McKnight chuckled. With good reason. Grimes was being utterly predictable. If only he could think of something to do that wasn't so obvious.

Grimes bent his knees and thrust back onto McKnight's hand. Hell, if you're going to be predictable, go all the way.

McKnight twisted his hand and caressed Grimes' thigh and started talking again. "Okay, so it's not such a little hole any more. You liked being stretched open, don't you?"

"Yes, sir!"

"I can't believe I've neglected this pretty little hole for so long. I'm going to have to do something to make it up to you, aren't I?"

"This is fine, sir!"

"No, no, it isn't. I'm going to have to give you a very special fucking. You say your bosses like to fuck on that couch in there?"

Oh, God, no. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

Would he?

McKnight knew Grimes had mentioned Hoot on purpose earlier. Trying to take advantage of McKnight's jealousy and possessiveness. McKnight had responded as anticipated, by laying claim to Grimes' body. But two could play that game. By fucking Grimes on the same couch where Hoot did his thing with Sanderson and others, McKnight would imprint the memory on Grimes mind – he'd never be able to look at that couch again without feeling McKnight's cock up his ass.

McKnight was not ordinarily so caveman. Or maybe he was, but he was ordinarily a touch more subtle. Fuck it, this was who he was. He didn't just like Grimes. They weren't just boyfriends or lovers. This was a matter of control, of tenure, if you will. Something like ownership, except Grimes owned him too, so it wasn't creepy. At least, McKnight hoped it wasn't creepy.

He was just trying to re-establish command. That's all.

The leather was cool, but it warmed up in no time at all. Grimes tried not to think about Hoot and Sanderson on the couch. He tried not to remember Steele on the couch. He tried to block out the smell of other men and the scent of the leather cleaner. He shifted his bare ass on the leather. It was nice leather. Well-worn. Supple. Supple as the skin on McKnight's cock, which was brushing across Grimes' lips.

"Open up," McKnight said in his quiet ordering voice.

Grimes obeyed. He opened his mouth and slid his lips over the thick head. McKnight was half-standing, half-kneeling on the couch, heavy cock hanging into Grimes' mouth, not all the way hard but a mouthful. Thank God the condoms were large. He'd never fit a regular condom on that cock. There was no way they could fuck without a condom now. If they were to spew body fluids all over the couch, Hoot and Sanderson would know for sure.

Or maybe that was McKnight's intention after all… McKnight trailed his cock down Grimes' throat.

"Sir, I don't know if this is a good idea."

"What's the matter? Don't want your boss to walk in on you getting fucked on his couch? It didn't bother you to have me walk in on you."

"We weren't fucking, sir!"

"I know, but he was thinking about it."

"No, he wasn't, sir. I told you, he was just comforting me."

"And what do you need to be comforted about?"

"Nothing now, sir!" Grimes dropped one foot to the floor and spread his legs. "Do you want to fuck me from the front or the back, sir?" Get him thinking about the fucking and he'd forget all about Hoot.

"Well, now…" McKnight rubbed the head of his cock in a circle around Grimes' nipple. "Seems to me I owe you a fucking from behind."

Grimes knew it! He had been thinking about that. Obsessing about it. Resenting it.

"But I don't think I could fuck you nearly as well as you fucked me," McKnight said.

Wrong, wrong, wrong. "Sir, honestly, I didn't set out to fuck you. That was not my intention."

"You seemed to enjoy it."

"I did. I mean, oh, fuck, sir. You're teasing me, and it's not fair! You said you were going to fuck me on the couch. Are you going to do it or not?"

McKnight looked like he was thinking about it.

Grimes rolled over on his stomach and bent his outside leg forward so his knee was almost on the ground. That ought to get the correct response.

Two hands on his ass, spreading it further, and two thumbs teasing his asshole.

Not that bad.

He arched his back and stuck his ass up in the air some more, straightening his leg and using his toes to lift his hips up off the leather.

Finally, McKnight settled behind him, between his legs. "I'm going to open this now," McKnight said. There was the tear of a condom package. "I'm putting the condom on. Oh, fuck, that's tight."

Yeah, well, on McKnight, even large condoms would be tight.

"Not as tight as your ass," McKnight added.

Probably not. It had been months, and McKnight had stretched him with only two fingers. Lots of lube, though, so he'd be okay.

Or not.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought. "Ah, ah, ah," he gasped. And he fucking flailed. His leg skittered on the floor, seeking purchase. His hands floundered against the leather. He pressed the top of his head against the arm of the couch, hoping that would keep him from flopping forward.

McKnight hissed as he pushed in, half an agonizing inch at a time. Grimes burned and his toes cramped and his cock went soft between his belly and the leather. "Sir, I… you can't, sir… sir, it's too…"

"It is not," McKnight growled. "I'm fucking you because you need it, not because it's easy."

Grimes agreed wholeheartedly. He stopped struggling and let everything go as limp and loose as possible. McKnight slid home with a graceless but sincere grunt, followed by a choked motherfuck!

McKnight breathed heavily against his shoulder. He wasn't moving. He was just there. Grimes wondered how long they could stay like that. McKnight had to move sooner or later. Grimes sure as hell couldn't. He was pinned to the couch by McKnight's weight and by McKnight's cock. Pierced. Skewered. Happier than he'd felt in months.

"I will never fuck anyone else," McKnight said.

"Sir?"

"For the rest of my life, I will only fuck you."

Jesus, fuck, it felt good to say that. He'd always wanted to say it, ever since the first time he fucked Grimes, but he never had, because it had never seemed the correct moment. But it seemed to McKnight that a better moment might never come along, and he needed to say it.

There were no guarantees in life. Things could go wrong. They'd gone pretty fucking wrong over the last few months. If they ever went all the way wrong, McKnight wouldn't recover. He knew that for sure. And he was going to do everything in his power, from that second forth, to keep things from going wrong again. But it seemed kind of girly and inadequate to promise he'd try harder, so instead he said what he said, because it was equally true.

So, to make his point, without words required, McKnight slid his cock out about halfway, and then slammed it back in again.

Grimes was saying something. McKnight couldn't hear what it was. Grimes had his face pressed against the leather, and there was a lot of yelping going on. But Grimes' ass was rising up to meet every thrust, and he was flailing enough to make McKnight have to hold onto the edge of the couch. There were definitely yes, sirs involved.

Was it possible to be fucked into unconsciousness?

Grimes knew he'd sort of passed out, or at least lost clear conscious thought, from coming before, but not from the actual fucking part. He didn't even know if he was going to come from this, nor did he care. He half-wished the fucking could go on all night, because not only was he being stretched and filled, he was being electrified. Stroked from the inside out. It was everything he'd grown to love about McKnight and sex and fucking and life, all rolled into one mindblowing…

"Fuck! Sir!"

Jesus, he was coming. How the hell… and McKnight was coming. They were both coming. Grimes couldn’t even feel it. He was numb. Overstimulated. Raw. Complete.

He slid in his come as McKnight thrust inside him one last time…

His come.

On the couch.

Oh. No.

McKnight shuddered. He'd never come that fast on the second time before. That had been a bit of a shock. Not that he minded. There was nothing wrong with it at all.

"Sir," he heard clearly, and then something mumbled.

McKnight turned his head and asked Grimes to repeat that.

"There's a wet spot, sir."

"You'll live."

"Yes, but it's on Hoot's couch."

McKnight thought about that for a minute. He'd forgotten to put a condom on Grimes. Damn. Now the couch would smell like Grimes. And that fucking slut Gibson would know it. So would Sanderson, the sneaky bastard.

Actually, there wasn't anything so wrong with that, was there?

"That's okay. It'll give them something to get horny about."

"Sir! I have to work here!"

Oh, that was right. They probably leered at Grimes enough as it was.

Oddly enough, McKnight wasn't feeling jealous about that at all, not at the moment. At some point the orgasm hormones would wear off, and McKnight would think about it and get hot around his forehead and want to rip the penises off Hoot and Sanderson and nail them to a wall, but at this moment…

The moment was over.

McKnight pulled out of Grimes. Slowly. Carefully. He slithered onto the floor, weak in every limb. Grimes rolled against the back of the couch, peeling himself off the sticky leather. If they'd been at home, McKnight would have ordered Grimes to lick it clean, but not this couch. There was not telling what had happened on that particular patch of leather.

"There's cleaner?" McKnight asked.

Grimes nodded. "In a minute, sir. I think I need to rest a bit."

"Are you okay?"

Grimes laughed. "I don't think I've ever been more okay in my life, sir. I just need to rest." Grimes slumped back, and now McKnight could see how much weight he'd really lost. Fuck.

It was Grimes' job to stay healthy so he could take care of McKnight, but he hadn't been able to do it because McKnight had refused to let Grimes take care of him. How fucked up was that?

"Never again," McKnight said.

"Never what. Sir?"

"Never going to let you out of my bed."

"Okay, sir."

"Never going to let you forget that you're mine."

"I didn't forget, sir."

"I forgot."

"No, sir, you were distracted."

"Never going to let you come on this couch again."

"Actually, sir, it's kind of exciting."

McKnight growled. The growl he only growled when he was jealous. Grimes didn't want to make him suffer. He hadn't done it to be mean. It was kind of exciting to have sex on this couch that had seen so much sex but none of it involving him. It was kind of exciting to know that he'd been fucked by his commanding officer, and that this couch would forever be a couch upon which he'd been fucked by his commanding officer.

"Oh, my God, I'm becoming as much of a slut as they are," Grimes realized.

"No, you're not," McKnight said, pulling Grimes off the couch, which wasn't helping matters because it only smeared the come over more of the leather and got Grimes sticky on his hip as well as his stomach. "You're mine. You're no slut. You're… you're… MY slut."

Of course he was. That had been a given since the very first time Grimes had got on his knees for McKnight.

And McKnight would never fuck anyone else ever again.

"I'll get the leather cleaner," Grimes said.

McKnight looked thoughtful. "Okay, but stay naked while you clean it up."

Fuck, yes! His commanding officer was back on duty!

Sanderson peered through the binoculars at the house. "We have movement," he said quietly.

"Finally," Hoot grumbled. "I thought they'd never leave."

They watched McKnight come out the front door of the house. Grimes followed, walking a little gingerly but with a huge grin on his face.

"How long does it take for make-up sex, anyway?" Hoot groused.

"Sometimes you have the patience of a 4 year old," Sanderson said dryly.

"What? I sat through dinner, I let you drive Schmid home, I've been sitting here for a fucking hour waiting for these two to decide it was time to clear out. I think I've been plenty patient, especially since I'm the one who had to listen to Grimes blathering about fucking the-"

"Shh! I told you I do not want to hear that. Now, you're going to go inside, and I'm going to drive the Colonel and Mr. Grimes home."

"No way. I need it now."

Sanderson sighed. "I drove the Colonel here, Hoot. What's he supposed to do – ride home on the handlebars of Mr. Grimes' bicycle?"

"This sucks. I'm suffering here, Jeff. I'm in fucking NEED. And you decide to grow moral objections to having sex in the truck. I do not understand this." Hoot was pouting, and it was so hot Sanderson was close to letting McKnight walk home, but he had a plan. He had to stick to it.

"Hoot, I want you to get out of the truck, go inside, and find all the places they had sex."

Hoot stopped pouting.

"I'll be back as soon as possible," Sanderson said. "Warm up the couch for me."

The End

Under Cover - Part 2 of 3

2009-07-03T15:54:41Z

Title: Under Cover (Part 2 of 3)
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Eastern Promises, sequel to Deep Cover..
Pairings: Nikolai/OFC(Lydia), Nikolai/Kirill mentioned
Rating: NC-17 overall, for explicit het sex, problematic power issues and seething resentment, and generally nasty people.
Warning: Eroticization of body modification. Back away if you have a tattoo squick.
Other Warning: Will make no sense at all if you have not seen Eastern Promises (which I highly recommend, although be warned that it contains violence, gore, brutality and very nasty people with some very offensive ideas and habits) and Deep Cover.
Disclaimer: Not meant to infringe on any copyright, only to expand a story I invented that was a continuation of a story I enjoyed. I own nothing. Only the writing that follows is mine.
Summary: On her own, taking a little break from life, Agent Lydia Constant has been minding her own business, thinking back on the encounter with Nikolai Luzhin that put her back in the syping game, on to discover that Nikolai has found her. At last.

Part One was here.

Under Cover Part 2

Okay, so maybe it is unfair that I approach right in her blind spot, in dark bar from her right side, but did she not exploit my blind spot all those months ago? Years ago. It has been years, by now.

Superfluous of me to use stealth. She would not have run if she'd seen me first; she is no coward. But the stiffening of her back when she hears my voice is like a reward to me.

Unfortunately, it makes me stiffen too.

I don't think it is a bad thing to be a little stiff. I think it is helpful, in some situations, to heighten senses. Of course, too stiff is not good - it becomes a distraction, weakens the body, slows reflexes - but to be alert, aware, interested, these are all good things. If necessary, one can always turn that part of self off and use the hormones for something more useful, like survival. It has always been a response I can control to some degree.

The problem is this woman. She is not first woman to make me stiff when I do not plan to be stiff, but she is only woman I get stiff for without even warning. Even when she is a continent away, let alone right in front of me. And for her, I cannot get unstiff. Not with my mind alone, anyway. I have tried many tricks to overcome her, but she does this to me every time I think certain things about her.

She does not have to know that. Good thing it threatens to rain this evening. Trench coats are so useful for hiding certain weaknesses.

I move to her left just as she turns the to right. She swivels her head back and her eye meets mine.

She is pissed off.

No one else could tell. Her face does not change its expression, which is one of tired interest, like you would expect from female traveller in hotel bar so close to airport you can feel air move when the planes take off. Maybe she might be interested, if you buy her drink and approach her right way, but not eager enough to have no standards at all.

Obviously, that is an act. If she were really innocent traveller and I were really propositioning her, she would react. She would scowl, or she would smile. Or, more likely, she would call for help.

I am still a scary man, after all.

She just looks at me without speaking.

"Two more of what she is drinking," I say to the bartender, who is deciding if he should rescue the damsel in distress from the big bad wolf.

#

The bartender put the two Canadian Clubs with ice on the counter. The woman was in her thirties, maybe forties, pretty except for the bandage over her eye. She'd combed her hair over that side of her face and it wasn't all that noticeable, but it was his job to notice things. She had nice dark hair, kind of wavy. She'd sat down, looked around the place, looked interested but her prospects had not been great. It was a slow night and even though she wasn't dressed provocatively or aggressively, there was something intimidating about her. When she walked in the door, he bet none of the guys in the room would have the guts to approach her.

Of course, this guy had not been in the room at that time.

The man was stark, with hard eyes and a harder mouth, and a scar on his cheek that could not have happened by accident. It was impossible to miss the tats on the backs of his hands. Almost blond hair falling forward over his eyes, just messy enough. Takes time to get it like that. That, and the trench coat, screamed "on the make", but the eyes were too hard for that. Too cruel. Tough to figure him out.

Two American bills lay on the counter, folded lengthwise several times over. The bartender had seen bills folded like that before. This guy was too old and too scarred to be working the stage at ladies night down at the Lion's Den, but he'd seen this type before; the bills must have been kickbacks from the girls at some club where he worked security. Lots of lonely guys tip in American currency this close to the airport. A lot of clubs hire tough looking guys like him to keep the dancers safe.

The woman didn't look disturbed at all. She didn't look particularly interested, either, but some of them don't. They want to get laid, just like the men, and they aren't too particular. But a guy like this was the sort who would get more of a response from most women. She just looked at him.

The bartender recited the exchange rate.

The man flicked another bill on the counter. "Two more after these," he said. He leaned over the bar. "And I like privacy."

The edge of the woman's mouth curved up enough for the bartender to back away. The tinge of cruelty in her smile convinced him that she could more than take care of herself, and the tip was big enough to keep him at the other end of the bar for the rest of the night, if that was what they wanted.

#

Lydia tilted her head back and let her second drink burn its way into the pit of her stomach. There was no need to rush, but the sudden warmth would help her slow down and take things easy. Easier. Maybe.

Crap.

How the hell had he found her?

He had not have walked in there by accident. Theoretically, it could be a complete coincidence, but the odds against it were astronomical. She could have laughed, but it would have sounded too much like crying.

The beads dug into her thigh, hot and sharp.

"Well," she said. She honestly could not think of anything else she could say that would not sound like some cliché from a movie. 'Of all the fucking gin joints.' Something like that.

Nikolai sat on the stool next to her. His sleeve brushed her sleeve. He sniffed the drink suspiciously, made a face as if it smelled like it was drugged, as if she had a habit of drugging her men, then he laughed. "Joke," he said quietly, before taking a large swallow. Then he made another face. "My god, Lydia, you are trying to poison me. What is this crap?"

"People remember when you order Glenfidditch. Always drink what the natives drink," she explained, pleased that she sounded so nonchalant. "Blend into the crowd."

Nikolai shrugged took a second sip. "Well, is better than American beer, I can tell you that for free."

#

That gets response. Eye narrows. Little line across forehead.

That is right, Agent Lydia Constant. You think about that. You think about how I've been in America, and I just told you I've been in America, and you are up here in Canada, and here I am sitting beside you in hotel bar, and you never fucking saw me coming.

"Was it difficult to find me?" she asks. Voice bland. Line across forehead gone. Thinks fast, reacts faster. She is good. So very good.

"Not really," I lie.

This is fun, to play this game. I keep my hands steady, keep my voice low, I beat down that thing inside me, that thing that is angry, that hates how good she is, that wants to punish her. I also ignore that other thing inside me, the one that is pushing its way out of me, the one that is making me breathe through my nose in hopes that she still smells the same, but no, she does not. No lemon on her hair. That was all part of the disguise. She is not delicate woman who needs protection and uses lemon cologne. She will not put anything on that will give her a scent a man like me can track.

She shifts on the barstool and I imagine, I want to believe, that her scent, the scent of her, not of something she put on herself to make herself seem more dainty and harmless, but the scent of the real her rises, but all I can smell is the rain on my coat and the whiskey.

I will not tell her how hard it was to find her, the kind of favours it took to track her down. The kind of favours that required me to do some very nasty things, but I do not regret it because she has something I want, and when I want something I get it.

"You use same identification every time you go off the books," I say.

"Not every time," she corrects me.

I suspected. I only know about three of these little vacations of hers. Of course, there have been more. One after every assignment, I would guess.

She looks good. Healthy and strong. Freedom will do that for a person.

"You have been active," I compliment her.

She nods.

"I am pleased they finally understand your worth." I do not lie. She is worth a lot, more than a dozen ordinary agents. Ah, the things she and I could have done together… could do if we were to work together. There would not be a secret on the planet that would be safe from us.

"How do you know about my missions?" she asks calmly.

Like I would tell her. As if she needs to know about my friend in IT for Heathrow Airport, who likes to bet on horses that he cannot afford. As if I would tell her about my 'friend' in United States Customs office, about whom the less said the better. As if she needs to know about my contact in London who is still very grateful for certain matters being cleared up with Scotland Yard who will never, ever reveal that he even met me because then it would be revealed where he met me, and that would involve too much scandal for his family, especially his daughter, who is a little wild but not evil, and really should be left alone to live her life free from the past. Or the nice lady, a little older, so upright and proper, who works for the hotel chain, and who has kept her eye open for a number of names on a list that I add to whenever I gain knowledge of another alias, and who asks very little payment for her services, at least not payment that is difficult for me to give, because as I have said, that is a part of me I have always had control over.

Getting unstiff, getting stiff, it is all part of the game. If this nice lady likes it good and hard from a bad bad man, and is willing to pay with information that is trifling to her and very valuable for me, so be it.

"That is inconsequential. What only matters is that one woman shows up somewhere near the end of every mission you are on, and she goes somewhere for a few days or a few weeks, and very soon after that Lydia Constant, who is agent but pretends to be librarian in government archive, returns to London, England."

She grabs the unfinished drink from my hand and gulps it down.

That is what? Her third?

#

The fucker. If he's got it figured, then it won't be long before someone else does. I'm no longer in the undiscovered country. I'm back in the badlands.

"They don't know where you are," he reassures me. "Only I know."

That is possible. It's possible they don't know, and Nikolai is a step of everyone else. But how could he find me, unaffiliated, and in the States as an illegal? How could he possibly find me in the undiscovered country without help?

"Oh, crap, Nikolai - who did you kill?"

He puts his hands up. The international gesture of surrender. He likes to do that with me. "I kill no one. I pull in favours."

I know what kind of favours men like him pull in. They do unspeakable things, or make other people do unspeakable things and then hold those things over them like a sword.

But then, I do that too, sometimes. When it's necessary.

"Now what?" I ask.

He gives me one of those predatory grins.

I take stock of my situation. There is a wallet in my pocket with an ID - not the one I used to buy my ticket home, but I can get another ticket. I have no weapon on me, but he won't use a weapon out here, out in the open. Besides, Nikolai does not need a weapon to overpower me. He has me at the disadvantage. I was not expecting him. I have to level the field. Make him remember that he owes me.

"Keep in mind," I say as lightly as I can, "I gave you your life back."

"Thank you so much for that. I do love to be on run," he says with a trace of bitterness.

On the run. Yeah, right. I saw those bills. He probably owns his own strip club by now, has a couple dozen women working for him, is busy blackmailing half the elected officials of whatever state he's living in. How difficult is that? Would he honestly prefer to be back playing sycophant to Kirill in return for piddling drabs of information about lowlife gangsters? Would he really prefer to be locked in a prison somewhere in Russia?

Or would he prefer to be in a Russian prison somewhere taking care of Kirill?

"Miss your old friend Kirill, do you, Kolya?" I ask. It's unnecessarily cruel, but some men need to be handled that way, if only so that I can gain the upper hand.

#

Nikolai drank another rye, distasteful as he found the task, but it was necessary to appear unruffled. He rubbed his lips together to get some feeling back into them. He'd wasted a lot of energy hating this bitch, and even more missing her. He'd gone to a lot of trouble to find her, and now she was doing everything she could to make him go back to hating her.

Did he miss Kirill? No, he did not miss him. He'd thought about him. Wondered about him. Prayed for forgiveness for betraying him. But miss him?

Maybe. Maybe a few times late at night, after the club was shut down and he'd seen all the girls off safely, after he'd reported on the night's earnings to the boss. Maybe when he sat at the empty bar and stared into the clear liquid in his glass, maybe once or twice he thought about a rough hand on him and a hard thigh pressed between his legs.

But more often, he thought about her softness.

"How do you know this is not my job?" he asked, and that made her pay attention even more. That put the fear into her. A man like him, with his information and contacts, was worth a lot of money on the open market. He could be working for almost anyone. And she, a woman with her knowledge and experience, would be worth a lot of ransom.

Her mouth pulled to one side, an involuntary tic. Her eye shot to one exit, then the other. It felt good to scare her like that, but on the other hand, if she ran he might not catch her. He might not ever find her again. He thought better of his tactics.

"I am not on job," he admitted. "I have spent past three months providing security for strip club in Chicago. Before that was Vegas. And New York. Before that was somewhere else, it does not matter. I am free agent, thanks to you. And you are back in field doing some very naughty things I am sure, Agent Constant, thanks to me. But I have no idea what because I am not interested in what you do for work, only in what you do for vacation."

It was a toss up as to who was more surprised by this speech - her, because he'd never given her so much information at one time before, or him, because he was telling the truth.

"Was it difficult for you?" he asked, honestly wanting to know. "Your debriefing…"

"No more difficult than yours," she shrugged.

"They did not lock you in a cell," he pointed out.

"No, not a cell, but I couldn’t breathe for six months without fogging up someone's surveillance lens. You were wise to wait to contact me."

Her honesty was contagious. "To be truthful, it was not so easy to find you. It took some time to, what do they call it? Marshal my resources." He gave her a broad smile, one that made her smile too.

"Your Inspector visits me every month, to see if you've contacted me."

"I know."

"I keep telling him no. I wouldn’t tell him if you did."

"I know that, too. He wants be back very badly."

"So, why take this risk?"

Nikolai looked around the room, dim lights on the small tables, bar top spotted with watermarks, bartender eyeing the two of them from a safe distance. "You are finally somewhere close enough for me to meet, and safe enough for us not to be seen. Is like…" he gropes for the words, some way to describe this delicious anonymity. "Is like undiscovered country," he said finally.

She planted her hands on the bar abruptly. "I see," she said. She pushed herself up to standing, getting off the stool on the other side, so her sleeve did not brush against his again. Her thigh did not bump against his. There had not been any direct contact between them at all. "I appreciate the effort," she said, "and I would suggest you keep your head down. Go out the back door, cross the parking lot and go to the corner store. Buy a pack of cigarettes, look around, make sure no one is watching you."

He bristled. He knew how to go unnoticed. It was disrespectful of her to lecture him on basic tradecraft.

She leaned forward, not close enough to touch, but close enough to hurt. "There is nowhere safe, not even in the undiscovered country," she said.

She walked across the bar, one hand waving him off, the classic brush off.

The bartender smirked from the far end of the counter.

Nikolai looked down at her palm print on the smooth bartop, the number 103 etched into it, misty and fading fast.

At the centre of it, the keycard to a hotel room.

#

The keycard works. Caution is called for. I should turn around, run, never should have come. There is no telling what is behind that door. But I slide the card down and the light flashes green. I push the door open a crack. Could be trap.

The air has the feel of steam about it, and I can hear a shower running. She might be in shower. She might not be in shower. It could be trap. Trap, my mind shouts at me. Run!

Beside the door there is pair of boots, black leather, lace-up boots, nine holes, with substantial soles. They look too small for that kind of boot, like someone took boots of big, burly man and shrank them down. She is not wearing them so wherever she is, she is barefoot. I glide inside the door and reach down. The leather is still warm.

I close the door. I am in for it now.

The door to loo is ajar, and someone is moving in the shower. I choose to assume it is her. I want it to be her. Not sure if I'm believing what I want to believe, or am assessing the situation correctly. Part of me needs it to be her.

#

There was a green bag on the closest bed. Nikolai sidled over to it and held the top open. Clothing. He took a chance and plunged his hand inside. More clothing. Smooth t-shirt. A bra. Denim. Something silky.

He pulled out a pair of panties. Not cotton. Not white. His fingers slipped across the fabric, cool and sleek. He tried to picture her in them, black silk stretched across her ass. He remembered the shape of her ass in scrupulous detail, the bottom curve, the firmness, the softness, the warmth. He remembered her gasping when he dug his fingers in and shifted her up so the front of her pressed against his belly. His fingers started to heat up the thin panties. He shoved them back in the bag.

The side pocket contained a bottle of headache pills, and a pack of bandages, skin-toned, big enough to cover an eye, or where an eye used to be. There was a standard black eye patch. Sunglasses lay on the desk across from the bed, reflecting the bedside light. Disguises for all occasions. Her leather jacket hung off the back of the chair. The wallet in it held her real ID. He opened the end pocket of the green bag. There was her travelling ID.

He wondered why she had trusted him. It made him suspicious.

He realized he had not checked the room. He looked under the beds, behind the drawn curtains, the underside of the telephone, the closet. The bathroom. Jeans and sweater pooled on the floor, beside a pair of functional looking work socks. Very practical for this damp weather. A white undershirt on the counter, almost within reach of the door. He could, if he wanted to, reach out, grab the shirt, hold it to his face, breathe in her scent, find out if anything he remembered was real, if he'd ever really had this woman, because sometimes he thought it might have been a dream, the kind of dream where you wake up smelling whatever had been in the dream. They'd given him lots of drugs during his debriefing. Drugs will do that to memories. Drugs and time.

On the counter, next to the undershirt, lay a bandage, curling at the edges.

Nikolai backed away and sat in the chair next to the bed closest to the exit. There was an ashtray, on the a table bolted to the wall between the beds, but it would not be polite to smoke without asking permission. He tamped down his resentment at having to ask for permission to do anything. He had to keep his emotions out of this, keep his mind clear, or he would never be able to figure out what game she was playing.

#

It's a dangerous game I play, but then, all games must carry some risk, otherwise they'd be no fun at all.

He's here. He did not make any noise when he came in, but the air cooled when he opened the door. He's keeping very quiet, but then he's probably got loads of experience searching rooms without making a sound. By now he's seen the IDs, knows I'm trusting him. If that's enough to get him to trust me, then we can move on, past this frustrating cat and mouse stage, and get to the real deal.

I don’t normally take showers this long. My skin is going to prune in another minute or so. I should get out, but some part of me, in the pit of my stomach, is nervous. Scared to go out there. Scared of this going too far, or of it not going far enough. What if it goes nowhere? That would be worse. That would be… awkward.

Fuck it. Someone has to move things forward. And, hell, he made the first move; he's here. It's only fair that I make the next. Thing is, I'm not quite sure if it's still my move.

#

She is naked but for a towel around her waist. Most women would wrap it around chest, but this is not expensive hotel. The towel would be big enough to cover her, but not big enough to stay reliably fastened. Around her waist, the end tucks in enough to allow her to move freely without danger of it slipping.

I admire that she values security over modesty. And there is nothing to be modest about. Nothing I have not seen before. Her breasts are as I remembered, full and pale, quite beautiful with dark nipples I can still feel between my fingers and under my tongue and between my lips. Is funny that the feel of a person can linger so long after such a brief acquaintance. I look without hiding it. Her nipples are stiff. I did not realize they were so dark. The lights were not on before.

Wet hair falls over the right side of her face but it does not really hide anything. She has to turn to look at me. Must be a bitch to have no vision on one side. She probably gets stiff neck from it all the time. And then, on top of the functional issue, to look like that.

"You have me at a disadvantage," she says.

"You want me to turn out lights?" It is reasonable offer. It would even things up.

"No. I want you to take off your clothes."

#

Shock. No, not shock. Surprise. Surprise that I am so bold. Surprise that I am so forward.

No, not surprise…

Excitement.

#

She did not have to ask twice. Nikolai made his decision quickly and according to the principles of self-interest. If this was a trap, it was a trap. It was too late to get away now. If the building were be surrounded by an assault team, there was nothing he could do about it. They would take him wherever they wanted to take him, and he still controlled enough information to keep himself alive and out of Russia. He might try to run, but if there were enough of them, they would catch him. Too late to do anything about it.

Besides, to pass up such an opportunity would be foolish.

Because now he could smell it on her. The hot water of the shower may have washed away the last few days of the badlands, but it could not wash away her desire. Desire for him.

So, yes, a dozen armed men could burst through the door at any moment, but she would not give them the signal to do so until after she got what she wanted.

He was not about to give that up.

#

She will be seeing me clearer than before. The light is on and her eye is not obstructed by contact lens. But there must be pictures of me, and my distinguishing marks. She would have looked at them. Studied them, studied my tattoos. Maybe kept copy for herself. She does not look surprised. She looks like she is looking at something familiar.

She is looking hungrily, avidly, as I put my coat on the back of the chair, take off my jacket, loosen my tie.

I curse that she felt need for such disguise before. How I would love to have seen that green eye looking at me like that before I knew who she was. It is worth all the effort to find her just to have her watch me so closely. I would have found a way to approach her earlier if I'd known she would look at me like that.

Maybe she is remembering something else, not me. Maybe, in her mind, I look different. Almost three years has not made much difference in how I look, but it could make a lot of difference in how she remembers me.

"Did you get those cigarettes?" she asks, and sits on the edge of bed, beside the green bag.

I pull the packet out of my shirt pocket and toss it to her. "You are confiscating them?" I ask, and tug the knot of my tie until the silk falls loose.

No, she puts one between her lips.

I pull the lighter out of my trouser pocket and lean over to light it for her. She closes her eye when she inhales. She is not used to smoking, but she is hardly novice either. She knows what she is doing.

She opens her lips and blows smoke between us. "Take it off, Nikki."

There is something wrong with buttons on my shirt. I cannot get them to open fast enough. When my chest is bare, she opens her eye again and sighs critically. Have I disappointed her?

She licks her lips. "Different brand," she says.

Yes. The cigarettes are not what I used to smoke in London. "When in America…" I say.

Does she really want me to take off all my clothes in front of her like this?

She has towel on, so I drop trousers but leave shorts on. That seems to satisfy her. She is leaning on her elbow across the bottom of the bed, staring at me. I sit and light cigarette too. If she can have one, there is not need for me to be deprived. It is my first since before I went into the bar, but that is no excuse for the way it makes my head spin. Did she plant doctored cigarettes at the store?

Would not put it past her. Would not put anything past her. I reach across the bed and get the ashtray to put in front of her and she jabs her cigarette into it, and gets up. Her hand goes to her waist, and the towel falls to floor as she walks to the other bed, the bed with nothing on it.

I find I do not need cigarette after all.

#

He was at her side in an instant, still not touching. He was leaning, though. Leaning close and his hands were hovering around her hips. He stared down at her lower back. "What is it?" he asked.

She arched her back, displaying the tattoo. It had not been there before.

He slid down to his knees and looked closely at the fine black lines crisscrossing the base of her spine. A geometric pattern, a spiral that spiralled back on itself, like something you would see in a modern art book or a psych test. Maybe if he thought it was beautiful it meant he was a sociopath. Or maybe it just meant that he thought she was beautiful.

He pressed his lips to it, brought one hand up to cup her ass, the other nudged her legs apart. She faltered, turned around, told him to wait, but it was too late. He nuzzled between her legs and licked the top of her thigh. She fell back on the bed. "Nikki, wait!"

He didn't want to. But he respected her wishes. He licked only once more, flattening his tongue against her hard clit. She grabbed his hair and tugged him up the bed. He wished he'd taken his shorts off. She pulled him up. He caught her nipple on the way up, held it between his lips and flicked the tip with his tongue.

"Jesus!" she hissed.

He hauled himself up on his elbows, "If you want to change mind, if you want to call for reinforcements, now would be time," he said. Taunting. Licking up the side of her neck.

Lydia slid her calf up the back of his leg. The heat between her thighs penetrated his shorts immediately. She tightened her fingers in his hair. "There's no trap," she said. "No one knows I'm here. I had no idea you would be here."

"Good. I can take my time," he suggested.

"If that's what you like," she said calmly. Almost detached. "But I'm not opposed to the first time being hard and fast."

Nikolai dropped his head down and buried it in her damp hair. "Fuck," he said. "Fuck fuck fuck."

She twisted under him, pressed her hips up into him.

"Fucking games," Nikolai swore.

"No, no games." She tugged his hair hard so he was forced to raise his head. Her voice wasn't calm any more. "No games, but I need you to look at me."

He opened his eyes.

#

That's the real test, isn't it? He looks. He doesn't seem any more perturbed by my unsightly marks than I am by his. He looks at my face and into my eye and leans in to kiss me. His hand slides under the small of my back and down, spreading fingers across the tattoo. It heats up.

He must know. He can tell just from touching. He's probably picturing me sitting backwards, straddling the chair at the tattoo parlour. It was a hot summer day, so I was sweating. The tattooist had to wipe my back with alcohol to keep the sweat from dripping down, distorting her view. The sting of the gun, the vibrations deep inside. A spiral within a spiral, my life. Take the diagram of the danger zones and twist it inside out. The utmost danger and the greatest comfort exist side by side, closer than any other two zones. Intermingled. Her hands were remarkably steady as she manoeuvred the gun, injected the ink below the surface. Black, I'd told her. Isn't that the only colour for tattoos?

"Did you get that for me, Lydia?" he asks me, lips brushing against mine, fingers pressing up into my spine.

I arch up into him. Yes, it must have been for you, I think. It had to have been for you because you have everything to do with the part of me that let the pain soak in and sink down, past my spine, to where my clit was pressed against the warm vinyl chair, the part that let the heat build up and throb throughout me, that let it spread and pulse and radiate until the tattooist got to the very bottom part of the design, when I let go. I shuddered and she pulled her hand back and stretched her neck so her words flowed across my shoulder blade. "Don't worry," she whispered beneath the harmless electric buzz of the tattoo gun in the air. "Let it pass. Let it go. That happens sometimes." And then she asked, in a low, low voice, "Did you know you could come from pain?"

But it wasn’t the pain that did it to me. It was the ink being pushed under my skin, into me, forever a part of me. It was the slide of my tongue over the black lines of his body that made my clit swell. It was the thought of his eyes, lids half open, absorbing the same pain into his body as the ink flowed into his back and chest and arms and legs. It was the thought of his eyes closing when he sank into me for the first time. He'd seemed almost pained, it happened so quickly for him. I'd been opening up under his tongue for so long it felt like a proper completion when he finally slid into me. But for him, untouched, barely even caressed, to be plunged inside like that had been a shock. He'd hissed at it, like a hiss of pain, like the hiss I made when the needle struck, or when his tongue buzzed against my erect nipple, or swiped across my clit and made me wet from the inside out.

"Was that for me?" he asks again, rocking his hips and pushing his cock against me.

#

Her wetness soaks through my shorts to my cock. She wants me to look at her. She wants me to make her talk. She wants me to fill her up and give her something to scream about.

For me, for me, she marked herself. She does not want to say it out loud, but I can tell. I feel the hotness around my forehead that comes from the rush of adrenaline the tattoo needle brings. I feel that pain that you have to relax into so you don't move when the ink is flowing, so you don't ruin the design. I wish I could have been there, seen her face, seen her skin go red from the invasion, seen her eyelid drop, her lips open, the sweat break out across her face, between her breasts. I would have licked it up. I would have watched her legs spread as she sat backward on the chair. That's the only way to sit still when you are getting tattoo put on back. I know.

I would have taken her home right after and had her sit like that on my lap. Soothed that pain from the inside out.

I cannot wait.

"Lydia, please, I need."

She nods and reaches above her head to open drawer of the table between the beds. Three condom packets atop the Gideon Bible. The plastic crackles between her fingers. She bites the corner to open it, and I can taste the lubricant on her lips when I kiss her. She opens her mouth to me and spreads her legs at the same time. I push shorts down and condom on in one move. I am impressed by my dexterity, but not as impressed as I am by the way she curls her hips up and gets the tip of my cock inside her with so much grace.

And then I'm no longer impressed because impressed is too mild a word. Then I'm inside and she has her legs up around me.

Hard and fast for the first time. I can do that.

Not like I have a choice.

Part 3 (final part) coming soon.

Under Cover - Part One of Three

2009-07-01T20:10:40Z

Title: Under Cover (Part One of Three)
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Eastern Promises, sequel to Deep Cover.
Pairings: OFC(Lydia)/Nikolai Luzhin Nikolai/Kirill mentioned
Rating: NC-17 overall.
Warning: Graphic descriptions of physical disfigurement, remembrances of het sex, problematic power issues and seething resentment, and generally nasty people
Warning: Will make no sense at all if you have not seen Eastern Promises (which I highly recommend, although be warned that it contains violence, gore, brutality and very nasty people with some very offensive ideas and habits) and Deep Cover.
Disclaimer: Not meant to infringe on any copyright, only to expand a story I invented that was a continuation of a story I enjoyed. I own nothing. Only the writing that follows is mine.

Under Cover

The undiscovered country.

My map of the world is a series of concentric circles of escalating risk. Central is safest, my flat, protected by state of the art surveillance and detection systems and a back door no one else knows about. I don't use it often. Fine, I've never used it. But it's there, behind the wardrobe, in case I need it. That provides a sense of security no motion-activated alarm or row of locks on a solid steel door can ever match. That's home.

Home is closely bordered by my office, meaning my own, private office in the basement of a bland grey building in central London. Most agents at my level do not, in fact, have their own offices. Usually they have a corner of a room, or a false corner constructed of cabinets and screens covered in tacked-up alert notices and wanted posters. Even then, they share, sometimes time-share, depending on who is in, who is out.

"In" means debriefings, office work, data analysis, reports. "Out" means being in the field, and that's two circles away from my private office.

I get my own office because I have to take my sunglasses off to examine things like documents and maps, and I tend not to wear them when I'm working on the computer. No one likes to be around me when I take them off. It makes them uncomfortable. Sometimes, I take my sunglasses off for strategic purposes. Sometimes I take them off just to be a bitch.

I like home. I like office. My centre circles are comfortable. And now that they let me out more, my office is even more comfortable. Less of a prison.

Home and office are suspended in what I to like to think of as "my life". The rest of the bland grey building, where petty rivalries and long-term grudges have to be navigated with some caution, and the neighbourhood where my flat is physically situated. These are the various places I visit regularly, shops and services, the cobbler who takes care of the boots I need to keep my feet on the ground in a world I do not see all of. The park. The library. The chemist who makes me eye patches in a skin tone that matches my own perfectly. The gym where I make myself strong. The alley behind my flat. The things everyone would have in their life, if they had my life.

My life is where I am intimately acquainted with the geography, the entry and exit points, the human variables. Not safe, but not particularly dangerous either.

Then there is "out". The hot zones. Places I have to go where it's not safe, quite possibly dangerous. Meeting spots. Suppliers. Contacts. Lookouts. Dark places, some. The bread and butter of the job, so to speak. Necessary evils in my profession.

I don't do the sort of spying I used to do, but I handle. Oh, I know how to handle. I am an efficient, effective and, some might say, expert handler. That is what people like me do when they are in the places I call "out". Usually. That's what the "out" places are for.

And then, beyond them, are the badlands.

#

The clunk of the tumblers was clumsy, as the mechanisms of all public lockers tend to be, but the door opened, and had not been opened since she closed it, so her belongings were still safe, still hers. Lydia pulled out the grey duffel bag, checked that the wallet and the leather coat were as she'd left them. It was always a relief to retrieve these things. Without them, she could not get back home where it was safe.

She ducked into the toilet, which they called a washroom there, for a quick change. She pulled a smaller, dark green carryall out of the duffel. She placed her plain, nondescript clothing into the grey bag, and put on new plain, nondescript clothing, jeans and a t-shirt and a hooded sweater - not a hoodie made of sweatshirt material, because if you put up the hood of one of those, people think criminal. This was a speckled brown knitted sweater with a droopy hood, not of any particular style or era, a slightly eccentric article of clothing but not terribly noticeable. She pulled the dark brown leather jacket on, placed the wallet into the inner pocket. It contained her identification. Some of it, anyway. One set. The set she needed to board the plane for home.

Lydia looked in the mirror. Under the harsh light, the right side of her eye looked plastic, unreal, as if a make-up artist had stretched a sheet of latex over it, artfully puckered it at the edges, mottled it with not-quite-skin-tone paints, sprayed it with something that gave it a dull sheen. Her eye studied the graft and scars for a second or two, as it always did, the same as most eyes did when confronted by something that startling, and then looked away. Other eyes did that as well. She looked at the rest of herself. The rest of her was just fine.

Lydia had just spent two weeks in what she called the badlands.

#

The concentric circles are not two-dimensional. They don't exist on a flat piece of paper. Imagine, instead, a ball. You are looking at the ball dead on at, for arguments sake, the north pole of the ball. There, at the closest point, where the ball bulges toward you, is the circle of "home". Small. Neat. Contained. Paint it blue, if you wish. The colour of peace.

Around it, surrounding it, is the thin band of "my office". It can be a dull grey.

Next is my life, yellow, and that takes up almost the rest of the ball that is within your field of vision. You can just see the thinnest strip of "out".

The "out" circle goes over the top of the ball, around the ball at its widest point, and a fair way on the other side.

To make this easier, take the image of the ball in your mind and roll it toward you so that "home" disappears, and ends up on the exact opposite side of the ball. Now you are looking at the south pole of the ball. Now you see "out", descending from the top and ascending from the bottom, and moving toward the centre from both sides. "Out" takes up most of this side of the ball. You can colour it with whatever shade you like, but it should be something a little bit alarming. It can be orange, if you like.

In the centre of it, around the south pole, there is another circle. This you should colour a very alarming shade. Red would be most appropriate. Red with a small, black circle at the very centre of it. But it's the red you're looking at, that alarming red circle.

That is the badlands.

#

In the badlands she went to the meet arranged by a contact that she handled, a contact who did not know that she was the one who would make the meet, mostly because he'd never actually seen her in the flesh. In the badlands she rented the flat where the dirty work would be done. In the badlands she traded things that are not ordinarily available on the open market. The badlands there were things that were not entirely on the books.

In the badlands she had to think faster than the other guy. She tailed and was tailed, watched and was watched, did and was done to. In the badlands she made something happen that was not supposed to happen, but had to happen, because that's the way things work. Somebody has to do the dirty work.

She used to live in the badlands full-time, but now they only let her into them for special occasions. Four missions, since her recent return to more active duty.

She'd survived the badlands, once again, and this was her reward, this visit to the undiscovered country.

#

Not the death Hamlet speaks of, but death of a sort, because here I am dead to everyone.

The undiscovered country can be anywhere. It can be in London (although not likely) or the south of France or here, north of the border, in a country I've not been in before, an ocean away from home. It can be at a luxury resort in the mountains or in a dirty little slum near a port or on the outskirts of a major city, on a mild but overcast day, in a neighbourhood where hotels and strip malls compete with parking lots and conference centres for attention from the new arrivals at the international airport.

The undiscovered country is not a geographic location; it is simply where no one knows I am. It's not easy, but then, vacations are never easy.

#

The bad guys didn't know where she was; the good guys didn't know where she was. After every assignment, she would dump her identity, grab a different one (preferably one no one knew about because she had not acquired through the usual channels), and take off for a day or a week of not existing. It was her safety valve. Her way of adjusting to the change of terrain and altitude. Alone, and unencumbered.

#

That tiny black circle.

It's connected to the circle of home, the opposite pole, by a wormhole. Sometimes I go directly from one to the other.

And no one can see me.

#

Her reflection, in spite of the fluorescent lights and her lack of sleep, looked healthy. Her hair, her skin (the unscarred parts of it), her eye – all bright, clear, shining. It was exhilarating, what she'd done, what she was doing, what she was being. It suited her, damn it all. She should be doing this all the time.

Too bad they would not deploy her full-time. Hardly anyone ever got deployed full-time, unless they were undercover. Under deep cover. There was a system of rotation, alternating deployment with office stints and rest, to minimize burn-out. She didn't even get the usual amount of fieldwork; because she was so "recognizable", she couldn't work undercover.

But she could work covertly. And she had discovered that she liked that as much, perhaps more, because covert meant she could do this. She could visit the undiscovered country, if only for a brief time, before she returned home.

She tossed the cheap, oversized sunglasses into the garbage, and put on a sleeker pair that suited her better. Hid what they had to hide, showed her what she needed to see. With the hood up, she looked like someone who wanted to be left alone, but not in a menacing fashion. She rolled the grey bag as small as it would go, and tucked it under her arm. On her way out of the subway station, she dropped it into the frequently emptied refuse bin beside a news agent's stall.

No one followed her.

She had not expected anyone to follow, but she checked anyway. It's easy to get lost when no one is looking for you, but it's as easy to land on someone's radar screen without realizing it. Perhaps you'll show up as an unidentified 'blip' at first, but someone as recognizable as her had to take precautions to not show up at all. Otherwise, that bastard Crawford would be after her.

Even handlers have handlers. Hers was a real piece of work. Nominally, Crawford was her supervisor. In reality, he was the bane of her existence.

It would seem illogical, in any other field of work, to put a skilled but possibly unstable employee under the direct supervision of someone who, for all intents and purposes, did not trust her as far as he could throw her, which wasn't very far because Crawford was one of those behind-the-desk kind of agents who ate too much junk, drank too much alcohol, smoked too many cigarettes and believed too many of his own stories. He had a sour smell and liked to look at her over his glasses the same way he probably looked at his teenage daughter when she tried to leave the house wearing a miniskirt and fishnet stockings. Lydia was quite vocal about how everything about him was distasteful, but the higher-ups thought that was a good thing. The figured that if she was going to crack, Crawford would spot it first, and if she was going to do anything shady, she would go to some lengths to hide if from Crawford, but would not be able too because her sheer loathing for the man would cause her to slip up. Hate fucks up your concentration.

That actually made sense. Or it would have made sense if Lydia really hated Crawford. Actually, her loathing wasn't personal at all. She thought Crawford was a bastard, but she did not hate him. She hated some of the things he did, and some of the things he made her do, but she did not feel anything for him. He was, to her mind, an irritation, like static the electricity in her sweater or the obnoxious radio host droning in the background. Lydia did not waste any emotion on him.

She was aware of his surveillance of her. It was subtle, well-planned, textbook executed. He was never sloppy, never obvious. She generally knew when she was being watched, and assumed, to be on the safe side and also because Crawford was a thorough bastard, even if he wasn't always smart, that she was being watched at other times as well. It was all part of where she came from. Regular agents do not trust the deep cover agents. Deep cover agents can only trust themselves. That's the way it is.

How could she be so sure she was not being tracked now?

She couldn't. She was reasonably sure the ID she'd used to cross the border was clean, and she knew her exfil had gone as smoothly as it could. She knew that Crawford suspected her of taking planned vacations, but she also knew he was powerless to stop her. As long as none of the locals identified her as suspicious, she would be clear.

She left the train station, walked three blocks east, turned right into an alley that led behind a laundrette to a small park. "Ridson Parkette" the sign said. She sat on a bench and waited for the sun to come up. No one appeared to be watching her. She got up and moved fast, down the street, across to a shopping mall, through the mall to the far parking lot.

Alone.

#

Crawford snapped his laptop closed when the door opened. The Inspector looked down at him with a sour expression.

"Good afternoon," Crawford said tightly. "And what can I do for the Russian Desk today?"

"You know damn well what you can do. Let me talk to Constant."

"Agent Constant is unavailable," Crawford replied as smoothly as can be.

"Agent Constant was due back yesterday," the Inspector said, just as smooth.

How the hell had he found out? Crawford tried to shrug it off, not look too surprised. "You know I can't divulge those sorts of details, Inspector."

"You don't have to; I already know she's late coming home. She's always late coming home. Isn't it your job to know where she is at all times?"

"Don't tell me how to run my agents. If Constant needs a day or two, that's her business."

"She never used to need a day or two."

That may have been true. By all reports, she used to always be punctual. Painfully punctual. You could have set your fucking clock by her reports, whether they came by phone, post or newspaper advert. Crawford hadn't known her back then, but he'd read the reports and knew he did not have the same control, the same rapport, the same degree of authority over her as her last supervisor, something old Milton had gloated about at his retirement party. "So, you've got the lass back in the field, young man. Good for you," Milton said after a good half dozen glasses of sherry on top of the wine at dinner. "Keep your eye on the gate. She's liable to slip out on you."

Crawford always suspected that she'd pulled the same tricks on Milton, but the file showed none of it. Clean as a whistle. Hard to tell if it was Milton or Constant who'd managed that. Or maybe the reports were all true – she'd trusted and respected Milton, and she was just pulling these disappearing acts to piss off Crawford, whom she did not trust or respect.

Those deep cover types were flighty, but Lydia Constant was a cut above. He'd prefer to use almost about anyone else, but there were certain things, certain tasks… let's just say that Agent Constant possessed the sort of elastic principles that made her ideal for running a certain class of covert operation. The sort of elasticity that made her not really care whom she fleeced.

But Crawford was damned if he was going to let some Scotland Yard inspector gloat about his inability to keep one errant field agent in line.

"Is there something particular you want from Agent Constant?" Crawford asked.

The cocky prick sat down in the chair opposite Crawford's desk, crossed his legs and gave Crawford one of his oily smiles. "I'd like to know where Nikolai Luzhin is," he said.

You and half the security agencies in Europe, Crawford almost said, but did not. Because, damn it, he wanted to know where Luzhin was as well.

#

Safe, Lydia slid her hand into the inner pocket of her coat for her talisman. Smooth and warm, it lay in wait. It always waited for her, in the undiscovered country, yet another reward for a mission well accomplished. She ran her fingertips over the melted plastic, then wrapped the chunky beads around two fingers, heard the click of them as they settled.

She did not think about Nikolai Luzhin often. This was not a pining sort of remembrance at all. She kept his beads with her because they gave her comfort, as they must have given him when he used them, when he'd made them back in his other life. Religious or cultural in nature, they were a lucky charm. He had survived far worse than her, come through hell, and he had walked away two years and eight months earlier, vanished without a trace, to his own undiscovered country. She did not keep the beads to remind herself of him so much as to remind her of the job that got her out in the field again.

She had accomplished the impossible. Her reputation had always been solid, but her abilities had been thrown into doubt by injury and disfigurement. Such a waste, to be sidelined because of doubts, fears over something so inconsequential. There had never been any evidence that she'd been rendered inoperative by her wounds, yet the doubt had persisted.

She could, on an intellectual level, understand why her superiors questioned her ability to function in the field after losing an eye. It was only natural for them to do so. But they had refused her even the slightest chance to prove herself. They'd locked her away in the basement, given her respectable analysis to do but not so much as entertained the thought of sending her out again. Not until they'd become interested in Scotland Yard Russia Desk's rogue agent.

Face it, she told herself. You owe Nikolai Luzhin. If it weren't for him, she'd still be in the basement, fulltime.

Where was he? Two years, eight months in the undiscovered country. Imagine that.

She didn't need years or even months. A couple of days were all she planned to spend. She had a reservation at a nondescript hotel. She would get breakfast, go to the library until it was time to check into the hotel and, of course, keep low key. Keep to her room. Rest. Relax. She would take some time to breathe deeply and lie naked in bed and probably touch herself, although that would be an inadequate substitute.

The edge of a bead dug into her palm. So comforting but still with edges.

She moved smoothly, yes. Smooth with the practice of someone trained to waste no time or energy. She left the library and arrived at a bus stop at the same time as the bus did. She sat near the rear door, looked out the window, and at the reflections of the other riders in the smudged window. She exited the bus a stop away from the hotel, doubled back, entered the hotel lobby, bag slung over her shoulder, loose hair falling over the side of her face, fake ID at the ready. She had to drop the beads inside the pocket so that she could sign the registry.

The sound of cigarette lighter plastic must be distinctive, because the clerk said, "We do have one room available in which smoking is allowed."

Lydia looked up sharply. Perhaps... She may want to have a cigarette after all. It was not a habit of hers, but sometimes she did it, because the taste made her think of…

The worry beads weighed heavily in her pocket. She'd almost asked him for one, once, when a sudden craving had hit her, but that would have blown her cover. It was a nasty dirty habit, one Adele would never have partaken in, one she'd had to take up for an earlier assignment and had resented ever since. It wasn't like she missed it, but when people smoked around her, sometimes it happened. That raw urge in the back of her throat. Nikolai had smoked around her outside, at the Café Arbat, but had been polite enough to turn his head to direct the smoke out over the river. He was so polite about it she'd barely noticed he smoked until they'd kissed and she'd tasted it, not strongly but noticeably.

She licked her lips.

"It's at the end of the corridor," the clerk said, pointing to the schematic encased in plastic and stuck to the surface of the desk. "The exit here leads to the back of the restaurant. This door leads to the dining room, through the bar."

Lydia studied the clerk's face. Young, a little pimply, mildly bloodshot eyes. He spoke with the accent of a Francophone long-immersed in English culture. He had crooked teeth. None of these things were a sign of anything in particular – anyone could have affected them - but the slightly lewd look he gave her made her believe that he was what he seemed - a young man who liked to believe she had come there looking for an illicit encounter, and that maybe by pointing out the features of this private room - easy access, smoking allowed so it would not limit her choice of one-night-stand, close to the place where the most likely candidates would be hanging out - he'd have a chance. Or at least, he'd have something to wank to that night.

He wouldn't think like that if she took her glasses off and swept her hair back and scared the crap out of him.

That made Lydia smile. "Yes, that looks quite private," she said. And it did have the advantage of the unseen. She would not have to walk through this lobby, past his gaze, ever again. Whether she decided to smoke or not made no difference. She'd been in enough hotels to know that the room would be clean, the air fresh. They probably did a better job of airing out the smoking-allowed rooms than the others. And the non-smoking rooms were more likely to hold the faint smell of children or the elderly.

She paid in cash.

She was right. It was clean and pleasant in the room. There were two double beds, table between them, desk with mirror above. Absolutely indistinguishable from a million other hotel rooms. She put her bag on the bed, took a few things out, and felt a wave of exhaustion.

Thirty six hours was too long to go without sleep. She double checked the locks on the door and window, then lay down on the empty bed and closed her eye.

#

"I got nothing out of him."

"You really thought Crawford was going to tell you anything?"

"He's a prick."

"Everyone knows that. Can't imagine how anyone puts up with him."

"Obviously, Lydia Constant doesn't, because this is the third assignment in a row that she's been late coming home from, that I know of."

"And just how do you know she's late?"

"You think you're the only person with informants, Standish?"

"No, sir."

"I didn't lose all my skills when I went into management, you know. But, damn him, Crawford is refusing to cooperate."

"I don't know why he should, sir. From his point of view, you're the one who let Luzhin go in the first place."

"Only because it was the only way I could convince him to talk to MI6. I had to get him to talk to them. There was pressure, pressure I never told you about. We needed to know what he knew. It seemed reasonable at the time, but now I need him back."

"You really think he had something to do with those two corpses?"

"You mean those two, Russian vor corpses with their throats slit and their fingers cut off? Why, yes, Standish, I think he did. Just a wild hunch, I suppose"

"No reason for sarcasm, sir. I mean, one would think that once he got away from here, he'd want to stay away. The last trace of him was in Las Vegas. Why would he come all the way back here for a couple of revenge killings? Doesn't make any sense. And sir, to be honest, I don't see why he'd be in contact with Agent Constant."

"You wouldn't. You didn't see them together."

"No one saw them together."

"I did, right after, when we picked them up."

"Sir, weren't they unconscious?"

"And then later, in his cell, when she visited him. I watched on the monitor, and what I saw convinced me that he'll be in contact with her sooner or later. Or she'll be in contact with him. I believe the feeling is mutual."

Lieutenant Standish shook his head. These monthly visits were a joke. There was no way a guy like Nikolai Luzhin was going to risk his freedom for a piece of tail. And not for a piece of tail like that. Standish had met Lydia Constant on several visits to her office and frankly, she was okay when she had her sunglasses on but she was a right disaster when she took them off, something she seemed to enjoy doing, if only to give people the creeps.

And even if Luzhin did fancy her, what the hell would she want with him? Every time they asked her about him her face darkened, she scowled, she turned her back on them and told them to get out. Once, she'd accused them of sexism, and coldly informed that that contrary to films and romance novels, women are not pathetic creatures who go wobbly-kneed for every man who comes along, and if she was required to fuck as part of her job it was only a function of the patriarchal attitudes that both cops and criminals hold. In a world where there was gender equality, she'd told them, fucking would not be such a useful espionage technique. The way she said "fuck" made Standish think of the way most people would react to finding their mouth was full of vomit.

In fact, Standish fully suspected that Lydia Constant played for the other team, as they say. Those boots she always wore were a dead giveaway.

#

Lydia woke to the glowing 9:45 of the digital clock. More than enough time for dinner before closing time. She sat on the bed beside her bag and pulled out her hairbrush. She sat at the desk with the mirror above it and brushed slowly, carefully arranging the waves so they would do the most to cover her face. Even in the undiscovered country it was necessary to be under cover to some extent.

The good thing about dark hair is that it hides what is beneath it well, but if it falls over your good eye you can still see through it to some extent. It's harder to see through blonde hair. Something to do with the refraction of light or something. It was the sort of detail that came in handy when working out disguises.

It was harder for men. In the old days of shorter, neater haircuts disguises had been more difficult. Of course, they had hats back then. Hats may not hide your face, but they can change the way your face looks, the shape of it. More importantly they change the way people see you. The difference between a fedora and a cloth workman's cap was a whole world. And the sorts of people who wore fedoras barely noticed the sorts of people who wore workman's caps. Still don't today, even without the hats. There's a reason you always see the surveillance team riding around in a plumber's van in the movies. It's because in real life, no one ever notices the plumber's van.

The bridge of her nose ached. Those cheap sunglasses had been too cheap. She patted the ridge gently. Fuck it. No one here would see her again. She could forego the glasses, give her nose a night off. She rummaged through her bag and found a paper packet that contained a self-adhesive bandage large enough to hide the fact that she did not, in fact, have a right eye. Accident while housecleaning, she decided. Vase fell from the shelf and shattered violently. Shard flew right in before she had a chance to turn her head. She would, god willing, see out of it again. She'd know in a few weeks. In the meantime, she was a little distraught that the vase had belonged to her late Aunt Clarice, who would have been furious about it being broken and guilt-ridden about the damage to her favourite niece.

If anyone asked.

No one would. But it pays to be prepared.

Dinner was simple and perfunctory. She had a glass of white wine with it. She had been unable to drink red wine since…

#

I feel no guilt.

I feel no guilt about drugging Nikolai with the wine and bringing him in. He'd lost perspective. Someone was going to take him out, sooner or later, so I do not exactly feel guilt. As far as I'm concerned, I saved his life by deceiving him.

In spite of the lack of guilt, I do feel something akin to remorse. Yes, it had been against his will, and it is always wrong to force anyone to do anything. Yes, I lied to him, and it is also wrong to lie, even though my business is to lie. I lied terribly to him.

But I was truthful when it mattered. As was he. I may have had ulterior motives, but nothing was faked.

Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like without the ulterior motives, if I'd not been worried about getting him to drink the wine, about giving the signal and setting up the snatch. What if it had not been in the back of my mind that a half dozen heavily armed men were going to bust in and carry us both away? I might have been able to relax and enjoy it more, which would have been pretty amazing because I enjoyed it so much even under those difficult circumstances.

I enjoyed him in spite of those difficult circumstances. As I had hoped I would. All that planning, knowing how it was going to end, sitting with him, telling stories, flirting in a way that did not look like flirting, gradually sensing him warm up, open up, start to desire me, then going back to my little flat over the drycleaners, unable to go to my real home, missing home but that's what deep cover is all about, lying in that little bed at night and thinking about what it was going to be like when I finally invited him up – all that did the same to me; I grew warm. Open. Desirous.

I'd been planning to open the wine immediately, even though letting it sit out for a while helped to mask the taste of the drug. But things were going well, so I waited. But if it had turned my stomach when he'd kissed me, I would have ended it then and there. I would have said something about being nervous and needing some artificial courage. He would not have protested. And if he'd grabbed me roughly or made demands, I would have knocked him flat on his ass without hesitation. It would have blown my cover, but I would not have allowed that sort of thing to continue. Fucking can be part of the job but rape? Never.

As it turned out, he submitted to my scrutiny willingly. He even looked a little frightened. Frightened of my reaction? That I'd reject him? No doubt, that was it. I'd got him so fucking hard while I was looking at his ink, he must have been desperate for the sex. All part of the plan. I figured that at least when he was half-naked, I'd have him at a disadvantage if things turned ugly.

I don't know why I thought that; Nikolai Luzhin had certainly proved that being naked is no disadvantage in a fight.

But there, it was all part of the plan, because he was naked in front of me, and that had to make him feel vulnerable for the plan to work, and so I made sure it worked.

I prolonged it. Who wouldn’t have? To have a man like that at my mercy is not something that happens every day. Every quickened breath, every minute twitch of muscle under all that black-stained skin, it was like lightning. And that was on top of the fact that I've always liked the look of tattoos, on the whole, as a class of decoration.

And after the scrutiny, oh, he was so intent on giving me pleasure. I'd come to doubt men like that really exist, men who really care about what the woman feels. Of course, since the thing in Sarajevo with Ilya and the acid, my choice of men hasn't exactly been the cream of the crop. I admit to being out of touch with the modern sexual norms. I admit I had not known what to expect from Nikolai. Of course, what I got was more or less what I'd been aiming for all along, after all my elaborate deceptions. After all my efforts, it was the least I deserved.

I'd hoped. But known? There is no way to know until you experience.

The psychiatrist had made me clear the whole plan with him ahead of time, and I'd been reasonably forthcoming about my seduction plans. I kept a few details to myself. The white cotton panties had been my idea alone, and I saw no reason to mention them to the shrink or anyone else. That was between me and Nikolai. They certainly had the desired effect. Nothing drives a bad man wild quite like being reminded that the woman he's with might be good.

#

The debriefing had been brutal. They'd wanted details, anything that would shed light on Luzhin's character. Anything that would give them an edge in their interrogation of him. She'd described the sexual acts clinically, with detachment, as befitted an agent of her calibre. There would have been no point in lying about them anyway. There was no doubt that they'd examined her thoroughly while she was still knocked out. They knew about the sex.

They didn't know everything about the sex. They didn't have to know how many times… but of course they would have searched the flat and counted the condoms. They didn't know the quality of it, though.

She'd left out the things that were, frankly, none of their business. There was no need to lay herself, or him, bare in a brutal fashion, and some things are too personal to share.

So no one else knew just how well he used his mouth. That was her secret. And the shrink did not know everything he'd whispered to her, or what she'd whispered back. He'd grilled her, they'd all grilled her, but she'd kept the story consistent.

She had made a point of wrapping her arms around herself and admitting to feeling just a bit sullied because she'd had to have sex with a man who had done such brutal things. She'd lied and told the shrink the sex had been just what you would expect from a man like that – hard and fast and animalistic, with a lot of grunting and not much foreplay. No, she would not go so far as to say she felt violated, just a little used. They acted like they understood how distasteful it must have been for her, but were relieved that she would have no lasting damage from it. They sympathized. They praised her toughness. Her dedication to duty.

Her handlers did not know exactly what it had done to her when he'd held her ass like that, when she was on his lap with his tongue in her mouth, or that she'd come from the thrust of his cock inside her and the friction of her clit against his hard stomach, and how she'd never actually had an orgasm in the middle of fucking before in her life, not like that, without any fingers or anything, but he'd grabbed her thighs and held them against him when they shook and she'd gasped in his ear. They didn't know about his hands in her hair and his lips grazing the edge of where her eye used to be and him not flinching at all, but fucking her gently and telling her things men only tell when they are so close, so close.

And she'd sure as hell never told anyone about waking up in the middle of the night six months later, soaking wet and throbbing between her legs, in an undeniably post-orgasmic state, with the taste of his tongue in her mouth and the smell of his skin surrounding her, and the harsh rasp of Russian words filling her ear. Or how hard she wished that she could wake up like that again, and that sometimes she had.

Maybe the clerk was right about her. He must have smelled it on her the second she'd walked in the door; she needed to get laid.

No easy task. She wasn't exactly a prize beauty. But at least with the bandage on she wasn't disfigured so much as temporarily injured. Lonely travellers staying at a medium-low priced hotel between flights weren't going to be overly deterred by a bandage over one eye. She had nice legs, as long as the patch where they'd taken the skin to cover her eye socket was kept in shadow. She had great tits, when she chose to show them. She had a terrific ass, which was why she made sure her jacket fell to the bottom of it. In her line of work, it paid to be less noticeable. But if she'd wanted to be noticed, she would have been, and in all the right ways.

The real problem was her pickiness. She'd always been discerning, and had found herself even more so since Nikolai. It wasn't as if he'd exactly spoiled her for other men, but he had set a daunting standard. She found herself wanting a degree of toughness, and holding up a standard of intelligence and skill and dedication and sheer manliness that most men could not live up to.

She wanted hard. She wanted sleek. She wanted dangerous. She wanted someone who would dive into her and not care if he drowned, but who would not drown because he was too strong to drown. And she wanted that wry sense of humour. That wolfish smile. Those teeth, not just any teeth, those teeth scraping her to the bone.

She wanted Nikolai Luzhin's tongue on her clit, and his tattooed fingers thrusting inside, and his moans vibrating against her when she tightened her thighs against his head. She wanted Nikolai's cock, pushing in hard, his fingers digging into her thighs, still wet from being inside her. She wanted Nikolai's voice burning in her ear, Nikolai's starred chest crushing her breasts, Nikolai's muscles going hard against her clit while she came and he wanted more.

She went to the bar and ordered a double and looked around the room. There a couple dozen men in the place, at least half of them alone and open to the prospect of a quick lay with no strings attached. Fucking businessmen, jerks looking to cheat on their wives, losers.

Maybe Nikolai had spoiled her for regular society; she might have to go somewhere sleazier.

She put her boot on the rail and the movement pressed the worry beads into her skin, at the juncture of her thigh and her hip, where she'd slipped them into the front pocket of her jeans. She lifted her heel so they would dig in even more.

Here in the undiscovered country, she could do that without worrying about any of her colleagues noticing the bulge in her pocket. Without anyone caring if she drained her glass and wished it burned more. Here she could have another one. She could pick up one of these men and take him back to her hotel bar with her, and fuck him until she didn't want to fuck anymore. Or she could go back to her room alone, touch herself gently, stroke and caress and imagine a hot tongue tangled with her fingers, lips pushing against them, a shoulder forcing her leg to spread wider. Or she could get shitfaced and go back to her room and fall asleep and not care what she dreamt, even though she knew what she wanted to dream.

The bartender picked up the empty glass and looked up, past her shoulder.

The ambient temperature rose.

The bartender's mouth twitched and he stared with one of those intense bartender stares, sizing up the customer, deciding if he should call security.

Lydia felt the air move behind her right ear.

The voice was low, quiet, wry. With an unmistakeable Russian accent.

"The most dangerous woman in Northern Hemisphere," Nikolai Luzhin purred in her right ear. "Imagine that."

Part Two is here.

The Long Haul -- A Day Like Today

2009-07-01T19:30:28Z

Title: A Day Like Today
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: post BHD, The Long Haul
Pairings: Grimes/McKnight, Hoot/Sanderson
Rating: this part R for mature themes
Warnings: sub/Dom, relationship in crisis, substance use, poor communication, jealousy and ogling of the office manager.
Disclaimer: Has nothing to do with people, real or fictional, except for inspiration.
Follows Operation Under the Radar.
Summary: Several months after being seriously wounded by unexploded ordinance, McKnight is out of the hospital, trying to adjust to his new situation, and not entirely succeeding. Grimes is trying his best to do his duties at work and home, and not entirely succeeding. Kurt Schmid is upset about something, Hoot can't help himself, and Sanderson takes charge.
The whole of the Long Haul series to date is here.

A Day Like Today

Grimes slowed his bicycle to a stop. He watched the line of school children cross the street. The crossing guard wore an orange vest. The air was still warm, but clear, the way he imagine it was everywhere in the fall. Everything seemed perfectly normal. Funny how the world kept going on around him, no matter what. It was enough to make a person feel insignificant, even on a day like today.

He watched the kids trudge to school. He couldn't remember being a kid. He couldn’t even remember being a teenager.

He kicked his left pedal over and turned right at the intersection, to work.

Schmid was sitting in the waiting room, looking distraught. He had one leg bent up and his chin on his knee and he was chewing on the end of his pencil. The curls were getting really long, like a mop on his head, and his eyes tended to glint through them. Must have been driving Hoot crazy.

"You okay?" Grimes asked.

"Yeah… I just… nothing."

"Did you finish that job last night?" Schmid had stayed late. Grimes hoped that hadn't messed up his date with the brunette. Schmid really liked those dates. He was usually in a very good mood the next day.

Schmid twitched, not violently but noticeably. "Yeah," he said. "I… uh… not yet." Schmid got up and went to his workroom. Odd.

Grimes would have to figure out what that was about some other time. He had work to do. Nothing urgent, but he was already running a little late, and he wanted to finish his to-do list and keep very busy all day, to keep his mind from wandering. He tossed the mail on the desk and began to sort. Bills. Junk. Client correspondence. Amazing, in this high-tech age, how much business was still done through the post office.

Uh-oh. A letter from Mr. Midnight. Grimes pushed it to the edge of the desk. He could not tell if the smell was coming from the envelope or from his brain, which would always associate Mr. Midnight with the dank alley in which Mr. Midnight insisted on receiving his 'packages', which never, ever went through the post office. Rumor was that Mr. Midnight had once been a highly-respected officer specializing in recon. It just went to show that a successful career in the military did not necessarily translate into civilian success.

Grimes was not going to think about that, not today. He booted his computer and opened the accounts file. He could hear Schmid working on something in the back. The drill was harsh and erratic. Maybe the date had not gone well. Maybe he'd even missed it.

Grimes could not remember dating.

When he closed the accounting file, Sanderson was standing at the desk, looking critical.

"Is there a problem, Sarn't?" Grimes asked politely.

"I don't know, Mr. Grimes. Is there?"

Oh, geez. He did not need Sanderson being all cryptic. Not today. "Letter from Mr. Midnight," Grimes pointed at the soggy-looking envelope.

"I'll let Hoot handle that," Sanderson said.

"Wise idea, Sarn't."

Sanderson didn't move.

For a long time.

"So," he finally said, "today is the day."

How the hell had he known that? Never mind. Grimes had given up on figuring that out ages ago. It was best to assume from the get go that Sergeant Sanderson knew everything. Grimes didn't even want to know how he knew.

He'd probably had Schmid hack into McKnight's medical records or something.

"Yes, Sarn't."

"Any news?"

"Not yet, Sarn't."

"Not even a hint?"

Fuck! Grimes had experienced a lot of energy trying NOT to think about it, and he'd been doing okay, not great, but passably. "Your guess is as good as mine, Sarn't."

Sanderson made a face that, had Grimes been forced to interpret, indicated that he thought not. "Very well. Carry on."

Hoot came down the stairs wearing nothing but a pair of PT shorts. Grimes busied himself at the coffee machine, ignoring the miles of toned leg. The last thing he needed on a day like today was to be looking at a nearly-naked, nearly-perfect specimen of masculinity. Not that he was attracted to Hoot in any way, but he was already horny and a little desperate.

Nope, he wasn't attracted to Hoot, not any more than anyone else who was attracted to Hoot. Anyone who liked their men big and fit and manly, that is.

Grimes could not help noticing a bite mark on Hoot's shoulder.

Then Sanderson came back in and bent down to retrieve a file from the bottom drawer of the cabinet next to Grimes' desk, and sure enough, on the side of his neck… not a bite mark. More like a full-on hickey. Old school. Purple in the middle and red a the edges.

"Jesus," Grimes muttered to himself. "Everyone is getting some but me."

Sanderson straightened up. "What was that?"

"Nothing, Sarn't. Coffee will be ready in five."

"He's lost weight."

Hoot put down the catalog and leaned way back in his chair, craning his neck.

Grimes sat at his computer, fingers flying at an unnatural pace, back straight, mouth set in a grim line.

He had lost weight. Not a whole lot, but enough to notice. His cheeks were a little gaunt, and his collar bone was too prominent, visible thorough his t-shirt, which was casual wear for Grimes, but it was the nicest damn t-shirt Hoot had ever seen. If he'd looked at the label, he would have seen that it was made of a cotton/silk blend. Without seeing the label, he could still tell it was special, because of the way it draped over Grimes.

Jesus, Grimes had lost weight.

"Yeah, he has," Hoot agreed. "Ten, maybe twelve pounds."

"More like twenty. The stubble hides it. So do his clothes."

Not those clothes.

"He's working himself too hard, taking care of the Colonel," Hoot observed. "We should give him some time off."

"We can't," Sanderson said. "I tried. He wouldn't take it. I don't think he wants to be home all day with McKnight."

"Why do you suppose that would be?"

"What do you notice about Grimes?" Sanderson asked.

Hoot thought for a bit. He didn't mind thinking about Grimes at all, so he didn't mind the question, even though it was overly vague and possibly a trick of some kind. Trick questions deserve trick answers. Or the first thing that pops into your mind. "His pretty eyes?" Hoot guessed. "I still think they're more gray than green."

"I'm not talking about eye color, although they do look different. Tired. Don't you think?"

"He's got stress," Hoot said.

They were talking quietly, directing the sound only to each other, but Sanderson got up and closed the door. "Today's the day," he said.

"No shit." Hoot had forgotten.

"The Colonel has to decide if he's going to get the operation or not."

"And if he doesn't?" Hoot asked.

"The army will let him go. He can't hear well enough to work in the field."

"So, he'll get the operation and then he'll be able to hear again."

"Unless it fails, and then he'll be totally deaf."

"Yeah, well. What are the odds?"

"Fifty/fifty."

Hoot whistled. Hell of a choice. Not great odds and severe consequences all around. McKnight had never done anything in his adult life other than be in the army.

"So, he's got a lot of stress," Hoot said.

"He's jittery."

"Grimes has always been a little jittery." Hoot didn't mind; it was kinda cute.

"Hoot, I'm telling you, it's not right. We gotta do something."

Sanderson was such a mother hen sometimes. "Jeff, relax. He's fine."

"Didn't you hear what he just said? I can't believe you didn't hear what he just said."

Hoot had not heard. "I was yawning. You know I can't hear anything when I'm yawning." That was why he'd done so poorly in math class, until his senior year when he finally got math in the afternoon.

Sanderson got a deathly serious look on his face. "Well, it's fucking serious, Hoot; he's not getting laid."

Grimes collated the September expense sheets and checked his to-do list. Fuck! He forgot to call the supplier about the battery pack for the night optics. She wouldn’t be in her office again until the next morning. She always did sales calls in the afternoon. Shit. Where was his head?

He looked up to see Hoot hovering in the doorway looking really serious. Grimes thanked whatever god was responsible for Hoot at least being fully clothed, because when Hoot got really serious he got ten times more attractive, not that Grimes was attracted to him.

"Jeff and I would like to speak to you," Hoot said.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He'd been fucking up for weeks, but they'd been relatively minor fuck-ups and he'd hoped no one would notice. He was sure he'd been covering up adequately, but maybe not. He didn't think it was anything to warrant dismissal. Perhaps a reprimand.

He followed Hoot to the inner office.

"Have a seat, Mr. Grimes."

Grimes eyed the couch. It didn't look too recently used, but direct contact with pheromones might be unwise. He sat in the nearest chair. The smallest chair. "Is there a problem?"

Sanderson came out from behind his desk and sat in the other chair. Hoot sat on the edge of the couch. So this was a formal meeting. Grimes sat up straighter.

"No problem," Sanderson said. "Not with us. What we want to talk about, Mr. Grimes… that is, John…"

Oh, fuck. They were going to fire him.

"I know I've been a little scattered, but I can pull it together," Grimes said quickly, trying not to plead. "I wasn't that late today, and I'll get caught up tomorrow, I promise. I've just been under a little stress, but I can get it together." Shit, he was pleading.

Sanderson just stared at him.

"You've got to give me another chance. I can get better," Grimes said.

Hoot snorted. "No, you can't."

"But I can!" Grimes said. "I'll get more organized. No more stupid errors. I promise. And I'll come in fifteen minutes early, every day. Just give me another chance. I need the job."

Hoot stared at Grimes. How could he possibly think they wanted to fire him? He was the best thing about D-Tech, after Sanderson. They'd never find anyone more competent. Or discreet. Or hot.

Hoot had left the army for D-Tech, and it wasn't that he hadn't wanted to leave the army, but leaving the army had meant giving up as many things as it had meant gaining. One of the things he'd gained by leaving was getting to come into work every day to a hot office manager. No way was he going to give that up without a fight.

Grimes was all flustered, and it only made him hotter. His face was pink and his eyes were a little wild and his hair seemed to get messy even though he wasn't touching it. Jesus, McKnight must have had a fuck of a lot of fun, getting Grimes flustered like that.

Hoot did the math.

Grimes had lost weight and did not appear to be sleeping well.

Today, McKnight had to decide whether to get the operation that might just as well leave him deaf, or live with crap hearing and resign his commission.

Grimes had somehow got it into his head that he was, of all things, incompetent and somehow unworthy of employment.

Son of a bitch – Sanderson was right!

Grimes was not getting laid.

How else to explain this bizarre behavior?

Even more bizarre – why was McKnight not fucking Grimes?

Grimes shifted anxiously in his chair. He looked at the clock. It was only one minute past the last time he'd looked at the clock. He was tired of waiting, especially since he didn't even know what he was waiting for. He'd been asked to wait, so he was waiting, but he didn't have to just sit here. He got up and went to the work room, where Schmid was assembling a motion detector that looked like a rural mailbox.

"Hey."

Schmid looked up. "Hey."

"How's it going?"

"Almost done."

"Looks good."

Schmid sighed.

"What's wrong?" Grimes asked.

Schmid flipped a stray curl off his face. "Nothing's wrong. Did I say something was wrong?"

Grimes tried to speak, but Schmid kept talking.

"There's nothing wrong with it. It's just not something I, personally, happen to be into. I make no judgments about anyone else's lifestyle. It's just not something I needed to see. Personally. Or, you know…" He looked up and let out a sharp, nervous laugh.

Hoot was hovering in the doorway again.

Schmid unplugged the soldering iron and huffed out the back door to stand by the foundations of the new garage, where he pretended to inspect the workmanship when, Grimes knew, he didn't know anything about concrete.

"What the…?" Grimes was not sure what had just happened.

"Schmid walked in on Sanderson and me last night after you went home," Hoot said from the hallway. "We were…" Hoot shrugged. "You know."

Ah. That explained the discombobulation. But it didn't make total sense, because while the sight of Hoot and Sanderson together, doing 'you know', might be shocking, especially to a straight guy, it should have been expected. Unless it wasn't. "You mean, he didn't know?" Grimes asked.

"I guess not."

"After all this time? He's been working here for months." Grimes' mind boggled.

Hoot shook his head in dismay. "I know. Straight guys can be so unmindful sometimes."

Grimes could not imagine spending five minutes in the D-Tech office without knowing exactly what went on behind closed doors. He didn't want to know, but for different reasons.

The situation was getting to be more than a little frustrating.

"Can we talk?" Hoot asked.

Grimes frowned. He didn't really want to talk anymore. Enough had been said already about him and McKnight and their sex life, or lack of a sex life.

It wasn't such a big deal, was it? McKnight was wounded and grouchy, and he had enough trouble sleeping without Grimes in the bed. Grimes had accidentally bumped into a few bruises and woken him that first night, and he didn't want it to happen ever again. He'd taken to carefully lying beside McKnight until McKnight fell asleep, and then he'd go downstairs and do any chores that needed to be done and then sleep in the spare room. It was impossible to sleep next to McKnight without wanting contact, so the spare room had seemed a logical solution. McKnight had seemed to agree when Grimes explained it. Hell, he hadn't even noticed for the first week or two, he was still on so many painkillers.

That in itself was unusual for McKnight. He normally hated painkillers. But Grimes figured he didn't want to feel anything, and Grimes didn't blame him one bit, because between the surgeries and the many little wounds and the skin graft, the pain had been enough to drive even McKnight to pills.

McKnight was off the pills now. He'd assured Grimes that he wasn't taking the pills anymore the first time Grimes had come home to see him drinking. Grimes thought he might be drinking too much, but McKnight said it was fine as long as he wasn't doing both at the same time. Trust McKnight to make sure he was engaging in risky behavior in a responsible fashion. He said a drink was as good as a painkiller, and more relaxing, although most of the wounds were healed and he was still drinking.

And he had yet to invite Grimes back into his bed.

McKnight shied away from all unnecessary contact. Grimes couldn't help touching him when he helped him with buttons and zippers and other clothing related things, but McKnight's hands, thought still scarred and stiff, were getting better, enough that he dealt with his own buttons now, and he clearly wanted independence. McKnight had definitely resented all the things Grimes had been having to do for him. As soon as he could manage a task on his own, Grimes was not asked to do it again.

No more cutting his food for him. No more dressing and undressing him. No more bathing him.

Grimes sighed.

He let Hoot lead him to the front room. "Have a coffee," Hoot suggested.

"I'm fine."

"How about a tea?"

"Are you going to say embarrassing things about my sex life again?" Grimes asked bluntly. How mortifying – Sanderson and Hoot noticing that things were… different.

"Not if you don't wanna talk about it. It's not like I want you to be embarrassed, you know. I just want what's best for you, and I don't think it's the best for you and the Colonel to not be… "

Grimes tried to give Hoot a look that would kill, but that was not his forte. Instead he could feel his eyes grow hot and strained.

"And Sanderson, he doesn't mean any harm. You know he likes to take care of people, and he's just…" Hoot's voice trailed off.

Right. Sanderson. All concerned and sensitive, talking to Grimes about how he shouldn't feel ashamed if things were less than ideal and then…

Grimes looked around the office; no Sanderson.

He looked out the window; no truck.

"Sergeant Gibson, I hate to interrupt, but where the fuck is Sergeant Sanderson?"

The door was not locked, so Sanderson let himself in. The house was still, quiet, and almost frighteningly clean. It looked and smelled as if Grimes had been dusting, polishing, waxing and scouring everything to within an inch of its life. Sanderson walked into the hall and peered into the silent living room.

McKnight sat on the couch. The TV was on with the sound off. Grimes had said that McKnight hated having to play the TV loud enough so it would be clear to him, so he often watched in silence. And he watched too often. While he drank. Not good.

Sanderson cleared his throat and said, as loudly as he could without outright yelling, "Good afternoon, Colonel."

McKnight looked up sharply.

Sanderson tried a smile.

McKnight didn't flinch.

"Can I come in?" Sanderson asked.

McKnight narrowed his eyes.

McKnight didn't look so bad. He didn't look so good, either. The scars on his face weren't all that noticeable, really. Except for one above his eye, but it wasn't ugly bad, it was just there. Sanderson had seen lots of scars like that on guys. No big deal. It wasn't necessarily something anyone would want, but it wasn't… okay, it wasn't something your average civilian would be okay with.

But McKnight wasn't a civilian. Yet.

McKnight's hands were still a little messed up, but he had the remote in one, and he had no trouble hitting the 'off' button. That wasn't exactly brain surgery, but his hand didn't shake when he lifted a bottle of beer to his mouth either.

Sanderson knew there was damage he couldn't see, but overall, nothing to freak out about. McKnight did look rougher than Sanderson had seen him since Somalia. His eyes were a bit red, and he was unshaven. And grumpy. Fucking grumpy.

"Where's John?" McKnight asked. His voice was gruff, but clear. He wasn't speaking too loud, like some guys do after losing most of their hearing, but then, he'd had a few months to practice.

"He's at the office." As long as Sanderson kept his volume up and faced McKnight when he spoke, he knew his words would be understood. He hoped he would get his meaning across just as clearly.

McKnight stared at Sanderson hard. Sanderson had never really noticed just how intimidating McKnight could be. Damn.

"Is John okay?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure," Sanderson said. "Well… no."

McKnight's grumpy expression turned malevolent.

"He's not injured," Sanderson said quickly, and loudly. Jesus, talk about poking a hornet's nest.

McKnight scowled. "So what are you doing here?"

Recon. Fact-finding, Sanderson thought to himself. And the first fact was that McKnight did indeed still care about Grimes. Very much. He was concerned, protective and, most likely, a little possessive. Good to know some things had not changed.

The second fact was that while McKnight still cared, he was doing a piss poor job of showing it, but Sanderson already knew that.

Facts found, it was time to strategize.

McKnight got up. His uniform hung a bit loosely on him. Sanderson had not been expecting that. From what he'd been able to drag out of Grimes, McKnight hadn't been doing much of anything aside from television watching, and drinking quite a bit. Beer during the day, bourbon at night. Sanderson would have expected a weight gain, but Grimes had also said he wasn't eating much. Booze and no food can cause you to waste away, calories be damned. McKnight didn't look like a couch potato, though. He'd been going to physiotherapy, Grimes said. Maybe he'd been spending some of that time in the weight room or on the treadmill. He looked hard, like he'd been doing hard labor. Almost as if he'd been punishing himself.

"You want a beer?" McKnight asked.

Sanderson looked at his watch – it was 2:47 pm. Why not? "Okay."

McKnight went and returned with two bottles of beer.

"The thing is, he's unhappy," Sanderson said.

"We're all unhappy," McKnight grumbled and sat down again.

"I'm concerned about him," Sanderson said.

"Why? Isn't he spending enough goddamn time at work?"

"He's spending more than enough time at work," Sanderson said.

"Exactly." McKnight sounded bitter.

Ah-ha. That was another clue. A little resentful. Maybe Sanderson could use that.

"Mr. Grimes isn't spending any more time at the office than he ever did," Sanderson said.
McKnight turned away from Sanderson, so Sanderson upped the volume. "It may seem like more because you're home instead of..."

"I know where I am," McKnight said. "I don't need you to tell me."

Sanderson tried reasoning. "You can't resent him working. He has to work."

"Especially now," McKnight said.

"You refused the operation," Sanderson deducted.

"Not yet. My appointment isn't until sixteen hundred."

"But you're going to."

"I don't know."

"You have to make a decision."

McKnight shoved off the couch. "Don't you tell me what to do. This is my life. You don't know anything about it."

Sanderson didn't. Not really. But he knew a little about Grimes. Enough about Grimes to know that McKnight was being a miserable, selfish jerk. "I may not know you all that well, but I know this is not just about you."

"You don't think I know that?" McKnight padded to the fireplace and back. "Fuck! I've been second-guessing myself for weeks. Do I stay in the army or leave? Do I risk the operation or not? What will happen if… what will I do if… what will John do if…" McKnight practically growled and slammed his beer down on a table, sending foam flying. "How will I live if I'm not who I am?" he asked, quiet now.

McKnight had never not been in the army.

"It doesn't matter what you decide, Colonel. He's not going to leave you either way."

"He already has."

"He has not!"

"You don't know anything about it. You don't know me, and you don't know him."

"And neither do you, evidently. This is eating him up. Colonel, I don't know, and honestly I do not care what your fucking problem is, but you have got to get over it and think about John for a change. Think about John."

And McKnight really did growl.

Had he heard right?

Had Sanderson just called Grimes John?

Goddamn this shit hearing.

Had Sanderson really just referred to Grimes as John? Who the hell did he think he was?

Fuck. No one called him that. NO ONE except McKnight.

And McKnight's sister. And Grimes' yoga class. Okay, people called him John all the time, but fucking Jeff Sanderson did NOT call him John, and goddamn Hoot Gibson sure as fuck did not call him John!

Where the fuck was Hoot?

"Where is he?"

"I told you. He's at the office."

"Not John. I mean Hoot. Where is Hoot?"

"He's at the office too."

McKnight did the math.

Grimes was unhappy, because of McKnight.

Sanderson had noticed. Maybe Grimes was in a bad mood. Maybe he looked like he hadn't been sleeping well, because he hadn't been, and McKnight knew that. He could hear Grimes at night, even though he couldn't really hear much, but every now and then he heard something from downstairs, and he could smell the cleaning products – the cleaning product smells that used to give him an erection but now they just made him feel inadequate. Maybe Sanderson had noticed that Grimes had lost some weight. McKnight had noticed it, in his face, and his waist, and even his ass wasn't quite as full as it used to be.

What the fuck had Jeff Sanderson been doing looking at Grimes' ass? And if Sanderson had been looking at it, what the fuck had Hoot Gibson been doing to it?

McKnight couldn’t afford to get distracted by that. He had to finish the math.

Sanderson knew today was the day.

Grimes had spoken to them, or they had spoken to Grimes, and someone had decided that Sanderson should come over had talk to McKnight.

Which meant Hoot was left at the office, alone with Grimes.

To keep him company?

To comfort him?

Grimes needed comforting because McKnight had not been giving him what he needed, and HootfuckingGibson was comforting him?

Hell, no!

Hoot was not going to pretend that he understood the whole thing between McKnight and Grimes. He got most of it. The easy parts. He got the part that involved Grimes saying sir, and McKnight going wild because Grimes said sir. That was the easiest part.

It particularly concerned him that Grimes had confessed he hadn't even been calling McKnight sir in the last little while, because McKnight hadn't been responding to it. He'd been calling him Danny, and that seemed to disturb Grimes a little more than maybe it should have. Hoot sort of got that.

He got the part about the sex, or at least the part about Grimes getting on his knees a lot, or at least he liked to try to imagine it, and he could understand McKnight being incredibly turned on by Grimes being on his knees. If Grimes were to ever go on his knees in front of Hoot, Hoot's dick would probably spontaneously explode.

He could understand McKnight wanting to fuck Grimes, too, because who wouldn't?

But he didn't understand it all. He didn't really understand Grimes wanting to get fucked by McKnight. He couldn’t tell Grimes that they just had to get through this crisis and everything would be great because McKnight was such a great guy, because McKnight was okay for an officer but he was really, really not Hoot's type, and Hoot couldn’t wrap his head around anyone wanting to be around him, especially when he was being such a dick.

Maybe he didn't know the story from both sides, but face it, McKnight was being a dick – self-pitying and selfish and negative and not even fucking Grimes, when it was so painfully obvious that Grimes desperately needed to get laid.

Damn, if Hoot were ever wounded, and if John Grimes were there to nurse him back to health, he'd turn every moment of every day into an excuse to have sex with him.

Unless…

"Uh, Mr. Grimes, did the Colonel suffer any… injuries we don't know about?"

"What do you mean?"

What a time for Grimes to play innocent.

"You know, in the, uh, groin area."

Grimes looked scandalized. "Why would you even suggest such a thing?"

Because the only reason Hoot could think of for McKnight not to have fucked Grimes after all this time home was that McKnight's dick had been blown clear off.

"Maybe there's some kind of problem with…"

Grimes looked stricken. "You mean, what if he can't get it up?"

"Yeah." Why hadn't Hoot been able to say that?

Grimes stared at the floor. "On his first night home, he was in the bath and I was washing him and…" Grime's face went a darker shade of pink. Almost red. "Yeah, he can get it up."

Hoot was going to say that was good, but then Grimes said, "And he can get off, too."

Hoot would have said details were not required, but he kind of wanted to know details.

Grimes looked very lickable. He had enough of a beard to make Hoot's tongue ache a little. And the way that t-shirt hugged his chest was nice too.

"And I know he jerks off sometimes."

Hoot was going to ask how Grimes knew that, but then he figured that was Grimes' business.

"Why doesn't he want me anymore?" Grimes asked.

Fucked if Hoot knew.

"What's wrong with me?" Grimes asked.

"Not a goddamn thing," Hoot said with all the sincerity he felt.

It was a good thing Sanderson had gone over to talk some sense into McKnight, because at that moment, all Hoot wanted to do was beat some sense into the stubborn bastard.

But he was a little upset with Grimes, too, because he was not, in fact, being perfect. He was being a bit of a fucking doormat about this.

Ever since the night he and Sanderson had gone over to their house for dinner, Hoot had been under the impression that Grimes and McKnight were in perfect sync. Maybe Hoot didn't understand the idea of being submissive to someone all the time, and he didn't understand wanting to be dominant over someone all the time, and while he certainly enjoyed just about everything he ever did with Sanderson, he could not see wanting just one person and only that one person, forever and ever. But things sure had seemed idyllic, when McKnight called Grimes over, and Grimes called him sir, and McKnight looked so fucking proud and pleased and happy. They were happy, damn it. Both of them.

So why would either of them settle for anything less than that?

And why wasn't Grimes doing anything about it? Fuck, all he'd have to do is slide on down to his knees and look up with those pretty grayblue eyes, and surely McKnight would snap out of whatever the hell was bugging him, and then everything would be okay again. But here Grimes was, upset after confessing, in a stilted way, that things were not okay, and he was worried they might never be okay again, which was just crazy. There wasn't anything wrong with Grimes that a good, hard fuck wouldn’t solve.

Hoot tried not to think about good hard fucking as he reached over and gave Grimes a cautious pat on the shoulder. "It's okay, you know. Everyone has bad patches, right?" Didn't they? Every relationship had its ups and downs. Sometimes, he and Sanderson didn't have sex for nearly… okay, maybe they were a bad example.

Grimes did this shuddery sigh that made Hoot want to comfort him even more, and leaned a little into Hoot's hand. Hoot's hand slid a little down Grimes' back. Grimes seemed to move closer and Hoot had to remind himself that Grimes was probably starved for contact. It didn't mean anything, not really.

"There's nothing wrong with you at all," Hoot assured him. He stopped himself from offering a good hard fuck, because even if he didn't entirely get the monogamy thing, Grimes did, and Hoot respected that. Really, he did. He respected the very clear, highly inviolable limits, even as he shifted over and let his arm drape over Grimes' shoulder, in a totally non-sexual, comforting manner. "Everything will be okay."

Grimes shook his head, and his fucking hair brushed Hoot's arm. Hoot hadn't felt hair that long… ever. Not from a man. He'd only started sleeping with men in a serious way after he joined the army, and even Delta ops didn't grow their hair that long. Or that soft.

"It'll be okay," Hoot said helplessly when Grimes ducked his head down so it was almost on Hoot's shoulder.

"At least it wasn't the last time," Grimes said. "Technically, I mean. Because I helped him in the bath, and there were a few times in bed after than, when he was getting ready to go to sleep, and I touched him because he needed it, and he had no problem responding."

What the fuck was Grimes talking about?

"So it wasn't the last time, it was just the last time we fucked.*"

"Excuse me?" Hoot asked, not quite able to believe it. Was he on the verge of hearing… details? He held his breath.

"If it was the last time, I mean, the last time ever… that would be awful. I wouldn't want it to be the very last memory he had of us together, you know?"

Hoot did not, in fact, know. But he desperately did want to know. Something bad must have happened the night before McKnight left for the training exercise. Something sexual. And if he played his cards right, if he just stayed quiet, he might find out what it was.

"I don't know why I put that uniform on," Grimes went on.

Hoot pictured Grimes in uniform. With that hair. Oh, god. Hoot didn't even like uniforms. Well, maybe he did, a little.

"And the lipstick. I mean, I know it makes him crazy, but that's not an excuse."

Hoot blinked. Grimes wearing lipstick?

"And the eyeliner was just to be slutty. I know that."

Yeah. Eyeliner was pretty slutty, wasn't it? Not that Hoot would ever consider wearing it… although he was not above trying to imagine it on Grimes, dark and smudged and slutty. Oh, my.

"I should have known he would want me to do it to him. It's all my fault. And then he got wounded, and now the last time we fucked was me fucking him, and that's not what I wanted him to remember me doing, because it's not right."

Hoot felt faint.

"I shouldn't have fucked him, not like that with him on his knees. Not so hard, like that."

Hoot didn't just feel faint. He was faint. He could almost picture Grimes in a uniform, with the uniform pulled down, and Grimes bare ass pumping as he fucked someone from behind. Very faint. Fingers of black tickled the edges of his vision and he fought the close to uncontrollable urge to sink to the floor and offer his ass to Grimes.

"I know he demanded it. He fucking ordered me to do it to him, and I liked it. Jesus, I liked fucking him. But it's still not right, no matter how great it felt to fuck him so hard from behind," Grimes concluded.

Hoot found that his mouth was hanging open. The idea of Grimes in uniform and make-up fucking McKnight from behind left him so speechless he thought maybe he'd give up talking for a while and resort to helpless grunts.

And then the door burst open and McKnight stormed in.

"Sir!" Grimes stood up, almost at attention.

Yeah, he'd lost weight. And he looked like he hadn't been sleeping enough. But even so, he looked good enough to fuck right then and there.

And Hoot had been sitting next to him on the couch, with his goddamn arm around him. Touching him. No, Grimes had not been touching back. To the untrained eye it looked like Grimes was upset and Hoot had been innocently comforting him.

But, goddamn it, McKnight was not untrained, and Hoot was not innocent. He had a hard on the size of fucking Texas showing through his jeans, and his mouth was hanging open, drooling like a dog in summertime.

McKnight's jaw set like stone. "Get the fuck out, Gibson. I need to talk to my boy."

Next: Part Two, in which things are sorted out in the only way possible.

Great big site update

2009-06-03T18:08:49Z

Nothing terribly new here, but I did manage to get all this up on my site. Phew!

Brand new site!

Deep Cover, a longish Eastern Promises fic, which picks up where the movie left off.

Warnings for violence, nasty people who say nasty things, and heterosexual hijinks.

The Island
The completely reloaded Island 100 fic, in which
Lincoln Six Echo and Albert Laurent discover each other,
discover a lot about themselves, and discover that they are not alone.
New Fic - Room With A View

Pirates! Arrrrr!
The Boots, If The Coat Fits

Lord of the Rings
The Randy Elf

Jedi Kink Fic
Jedi Spanking and Jedi Vid Screen

New Fandom - Swordspoint
Those Eternal Seconds

New Fandom (probably one-time only) - Miss Potter
The Strange Case of Mr. Norman Warne

Soldier Porn
The Long Haul - The Cajun Medic, The Dinner Party, The Case of the Missing Mole,
A Fucking Order, Full Body Massage, Zen, The Tech Guy,
Need to Know and Operation: Under the Radar

The Lake District - Off The Clock and Adrenaline Withdrawal

Army of Two - Measuring Up, Earring, The Fake Highland Games

My first ever Generation Kill fic (drabble)

2009-04-07T04:02:31Z

Title: Hurts
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Colbert/Doc Bryan
Disclaimer: Not mine, not even really the real poeple, just a fantasy because when i fantasize, my brain tends to wander over to soldiers. Some sort of perverted side effect of my personal pacifism, no doubt.
Summary: A little drabble after Trombley shoots.

"Not a fucking thing, Brad."

The hurt, the betrayal, the disgust in Doc's eyes as he looks over the bleeding shepherd kid at Brad, open wounds that are Brad's fault, even if Brad didn't change the orders and Trombley is a fucking psycho. It breaks Brad's heart to know he may have forever lost Doc Bryan's respect. The one man who is actually more badass than Brad in the whole fucking company, because a Navy Corpsman may be the only thing tougher than a Recon Marine.

What's worse is when Brad realizes he may never get laid again.

That hurts.

The Way You Fluff.

2009-03-31T19:53:44Z

Title: The Way You Fluff
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: RPS
Pairing: Bana/Bloom
Rating: XXX
Warning: Graphic descriptions of vague back ailment and buttsexx. And LOTS of bad language. Which you love, and you know it, so stop complaining.
Disclaimer: Real people, but NOT. Totally made up fake events in the lives of men bearing a strong but not exact resemblance to two of the hawtest men on the planet buttfucker. Not to be confused with real men, who are friends and constantly TEASING us with their ridiculously hot friendship. Fuckers!
Dedication: to [lj user=fillintheblank]
Summary: Eric is injured. Orlando shows up to "help". Buttsexx ensues, maybe because I have so little imagination. Or so much.

The Way You Fluff

Eric sighed. He was on his back, with his legs up at a 90-degree angle, knees bent, lower legs resting on the mattress, just like the doctor ordered. He'd been like that all afternoon, and he was tired of it, but it was supposed to fix the problem in his back, and he needed his back fixed, so he was being good, even though he was bored to fucking tears, not even supposed to lift his head.

He tried reading, but it was too awkward to hold the book up for long.

He tried watching the telly but the angle was wrong and he was going to get eyestrain.

He tried listening to the radio, but there was nothing on.

Nothing interesting. Same boring shit on every station, except for the one playing German dancehall tunes. German dancehall tunes from the fifties. He hoped the program director for that station had been good and fired for that decision.

There was an annoying little twit of an assistant something-or-other who kept trying to "keep him company". Eric kept telling him to piss off. He was probably hovering around the sitting room of the suite, contemplating ways to make Eric's life even more miserable.

His stomach grumbled. Getting close to dinnertime. He was going to have something quick and simple, because he wasn't supposed to sit up for more than a half hour at a time, and he had to be careful not to do anything that would upset his stomach, since he had to spend so much time lying down. He closed his eyes and planned the menu, visualized everything he would have to do to prepare the meal. He was going to do it all himself. He didn't need anyone's help. He tried to think of some way he could get it all done in twenty minutes, so he'd have ten minutes of just sitting up, enjoying being upright without having to do anything, before he had to get down on the floor again.

He didn't need much for dinner. He hadn't done anything all day. He didn't even feel hungry. His stomach had probably just growled because it was unused to lying down in the middle of the day like this.

He heard a strange whistling noise, like someone letting air out between clenched teeth.

He opened his eyes.

Orlando Bloom stood directly above him, looking down at him with an expression of pity mixed with mischief.

Bloody hell.

"Really did a number on yourself, did you, Bana?"

Bloody fucking bloody hell. He was in trouble now. "Who let you in?"

"Honestly, Eric, I turn my back on you for one or two movies, and look what happens!"

"I'm fine."

"You are not. And the AD says you've been like this all afternoon. But don't worry – I sent him home. Told him I'd take after you all by myself."

"That's not necessary, Orlando."

"Of course it is. You're just lucky I happened to be in town. Now, you lie still. I'm going to heat you up some dinner, and then you can get up for a bit. Not too long. Actually, why don't you take a hot shower while I cook the food? Then you'll be nice and limber."

Eric did not see why he needed to be limber for dinner, but a hot shower did sound lovely. Except that would involve getting naked while Orlando was in the suite. Not a good idea if he wanted to rest his back, or any other part of himself. Orlando tended to inspire activity on the part of most of Eric's body parts.

"Come on, Eric, I know all about taking care of backs. I'll get you comfier than you've ever been in your life."

Eric was reasonably certain that "comfier" was not a word, except for when Orlando said it. And he had to admit that Orlando did have a lot of experience with the back thing, so he took the shower and got into a fresh pair of sleep pants and ate the soup and bread that Orlando prepared for him and was feeling pretty good, when Orlando told him it was time to get into a comfy position.

Which made Eric's cock go all un-comfy, because it's not comfy to have that kind of an erection when you can't do anything about it, because anything that would do anything about it would make his back hurt even more.

Orlando had about ten pillows in his arms. He was hugging them all to his body, as if he was making love to the Michelin man. "The trick is to get support you where you need support, and to get your spine to open up a bit."

Eric liked the idea of support, but opening up his spine sounded dangerous. He allowed himself to be led to the bed, though. Not because he particularly wanted to lie down again. It was just that where Orlando and beds were involved, Eric tended to follow.

"You should pee, first. You may fall asleep right away."

That was a good idea. Eric headed for the bathroom.

Orlando was right behind him.

"Can I have a little privacy?" Eric asked.

"Nothing I haven't seen before." Orlando sounded defensive.

"Not peeing, you haven't."

"Well, no, but I thought you might need some help."

Eric could tell that was meant to be an innocent smile, but Orlando, fine actor though he was, was incapable of actually pulling off 'innocent' anywhere within ten yards of Eric's penis. He knew what Orlando meant when he said 'help.'

Eric closed the door between them because, damn it all to hell, he was not going to let Orlando hold his cock for him while he peed. It was going to be difficult enough to pee with what erection he already had.

By the time he was finished, Orlando had the pillows arranged like a landscape, and was fluffing the one Eric would lay his head upon. He studied his work, head tilted to one side. He looked over at Eric critically. "Hang on," he said, and he moved some of the pillows further apart. "You are quite a bit taller than me…okay, so you get on the bed… um… Eric… are you okay?"

Eric had one knee on the bed, and was bent over partway, and his face was frozen in a grimace. "Not really," Eric replied, without opening his mouth too much because jaw movement - any movement - was only going to make things worse.

"Pains shooting down the backs of your thighs?" Orlando asked.

Eric shook his head. He tried to explain there was no disc damage, just pulled muscles, but that they tended to spasm if he tugged them too fast, to one side or the other, by doing something stupid, like lifting one knee to get on the bed. "Uuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrg."

"Painkillers wore off," Orlando diagnosed. He grabbed the pill bottle from the dresser. "Let's see now, you're to take 'two po'…" He squinted at the label. "What the hell does that mean?"

Eric grunted.

"Oh, yeah, 'per oral' or something like that. That means you take it in your mouth. Well, duh. What was I going to do? Shove it up your…"

Oh, God, no! Don't say it!

"…Ass?" Orlando muttered.

It was okay. Eric was in too much pain for Orlando saying "ass" to have much of an effect on him. That was, in a very sick way, a relief.

"I'll get some water and then you can… oh, dear."

"What?" Eric snapped.

"It says here… you're supposed to take it 'prn' - what do you suppose that means?"

Eric did not give a flying fuck. He just wanted the goddamn pills.

"Are you supposed to take it with 'porn', do you think?" Orlando looked about the room. "Do you have any of that around here?"

Eric grabbed the pills from Orlando and swallowed two of them dry.

"Hey! You shouldn’t do that. Not without your porn. Or at least a little water." Orlando handed him a cup.

Eric drank it obediently and let Orlando tilt him over, onto the bed, on his stomach, onto the ridiculously fluffed pillows.

"I'm sorry, Eric. I shouldn't have teased. I know what it means, and it has nothing to do with porn. Not that I wouldn't want porn with you, but it's not porn, it's pro re nata." He deftly arranged Eric's limbs and adjusted the pillow under his hips. "That means as you need it. I'm going to give you what you need, Eric. I promise."

Oh, God, that felt good. It was perfect. Just fucking perfect. The pillows under his hips really did support him and open up his spine and made everything feel like it was in the right place again. So perfect. The softness of the pillows, the firmness of the support, the warmth of the long fingers trailing over his skin…

"Orlando!"

"Shh, Eric, relax. The massage is part of the treatment. Don't worry. I know what I'm doing. And I'm not trying to get into your pants."

No, he wasn't. He was simply working the soft tissue, gently massaging it and soothing it. Eric relaxed. He was reassured by that.

His cock was not. His cock was pushing into the fluffed up pillows like it was burrowing, seeking relief from wherever it could find it, and if the nearest solid thing to rub up against was the mattress, then so be it, his cock would be happy enough with that, as long as it had some kind of pressure or friction or something, anything, because those fingers were long and lean and warm and… running along the very loose waistband of his pants.

"Tease," Orlando whispered.

Every hair on Eric's body stood up.

"Coming out of the shower like that, no shirt on, all damp with your chest hair plastered against your skin…"

Eric's cock hit bottom. The mattress was harder than he remembered it.

One long, warm finger slipped under the waistband and teased the top of Eric's ass crack. "Making me want to lick you."

Eric's cock started banging its head against the mattress furiously.

"Not very nice of you…"

Eric winced.

"Teasing me like that."

"Jesus, Orlando, look who's talking! You know what you're doing to me, and you know I bloody well can't do a thing about it."

Orlando's finger slid down the crack. "I know. You're helpless. If you try to move, the pain will paralyze you. But I can move you. Enough to do this…"

And cool air flowed across Eric's naked arse.

"Nice ass," Orlando cooed.

"Oh, fuck," Eric moaned.

"Are you crazy? That would kill you, especially in this position," Orlando laughed as he slid down the bed, pulling the pants right off. Eric's toes twitched ineffectually in the air. Orlando tugged a pillow here, and a leg there, and Eric was spread open.

But his back still did not hurt. Not one bit. "Okay," Eric said. "You know what you're doing."

Did he ever! Orlando nuzzled between Eric's legs, gently pushed his arse to expose him to the air and Orlando's hot mouth. Unable to move, Eric decided to do the only thing he could. He rode it out. He tried to breathe deeply and steadily, and he let Orlando push and prod however he wanted to, and he let himself open up, be invaded by a slick tongue and wet fingers and spit - hot spit, it seemed - which Orlando was pushing into him with his slick tongue and his wet fingers, until Eric was hot and slick and wet and open, and he realized he wasn't so much chewing the corner of a pillowcase but grinding his teeth on it, and it was so wet from his biting it for so long it was making squeaking noises against his teeth – noises he sincerely hoped were only audible to him through bone conduction, because they were a little bit pathetic, not that Orlando could have heard anything so subtle under all that slurping and moaning he was doing.

"Arrrrr," Eric said, which he wasn't sure meant good or bad. "Fuck me dead, mate."

Orlando turned his head to the side and bit a cheek. Eric did not know which one, because left and right had disappeared, along with up and down, around the time Orlando had stuck two fingers inside him, spread then, and slithered his tongue between them. "We'll skip the dead part," Orlando said in a hoarse, needy voice. "But you'll have to roll over for the fucking."

Impossible. He could not possibly move. He didn't even have any limbs anymore. How could he move his body, which was sort of limp and melting all over the bed, without the use of any limbs? He was all squishy and limp, except for his cock. Maybe he could use his cock. It would be like a pole vault. A cock vault. He could flip himself over that way.

Strong, firm hands moved his legs together and one arm to his side and the other one over his head and then were on his hips. There was a twinge in the middle of his back, one streak of tensed muscle amid all the mush, and he could not help growling and demanding to know what the fucking hell Orlando thought he was doing, but then Orlando had him on his back and was kissing the tip of his cock. "Silly, I can't fuck you from behind. I'll ram into your spine and cause you no end of pain."

"You could be gentle."

"No, I could not. Not after doing that to you for half an hour."

Had it really been half an hour? Time flies when you're getting rimmed.

Eric settled on his back with pillows supporting his back at a comfortable angle, in a position almost as comfortable as the one he'd been in on his stomach, except that his cock didn't have a mattress to dry hump anymore, so it waved in the air a bit, like it was drunk. Orlando knelt up and displayed his own cock proudly. Eric would have given almost anything to be able to sit up and take it in his mouth, but Orlando was rolling a condom over it, and Eric was not fond of the taste of latex. Besides, he couldn't have sat up to save his life. He truly was helpless.

"Where did your clothes go?" Eric asked.

Orlando laughed. "I think they were incinerated. You are so fucking hot," he said, totally naked, but for the condom, which he was slicking up with lube.

"Where did that lube come from?" Eric asked.

"Must have been the lube fairy," Orlando snickered, and he guided his cock between Eric's spread thighs. "Keep breathing," he advised.

Eric took a deep breath and held it. He didn't want to hold it. It was a reflex thing. Bracing himself. The blunt head of Orlando's cock was just too big, not matter how much rimming had occurred.

"Fucking breathe!" Orlando hissed. He pinched one of Eric's nipples, and that made Eric gasp and then let out the breath. Orlando pushed through the tight outer muscle and Eric's asshole clenched. "Open open open open," Orlando chanted. "Fuck, don't do that. I'll blow my load right away."

Eric's arsehole unclenched like magic. His brain didn't even have to command it. His arsehole just knew – if Orlando blew his load now, there wouldn't be a slow, burning slide in, and no nerve-shattering slide back out, and not less-slow, less-burning slide back in, and not cooler, damp press of balls against his skin, and no jolt when Orlando hit him inside just right.

Just right.

"Ahhhhh, just right."

"Yeah, I know what I'm doing."

"Oh, yeah, you do. You know. You fucking know."

"I know fucking."

"Fuck me."

Clever arsehole. Opening up meant that there was that steady, firm stroke of thumb behind his balls, between his balls and his stretched-open hole. And that tight, but not too tight, circle of fingers around his cock. That twist and pull. That tug on the foreskin. That shudder. That sigh. That…

"Orlando, I can't…"

"Yes, you can, just keep breathing and let it happen."

"But…"

"You can. You will. Do you think I don't jerk off when my back hurts? It won't hurt to come, I promise. Just come. It won't hurt a bit."

And it didn't. It didn't hurt at all. Not one bit. It was smooth as honey, as easy as settling into a pile of expertly fluffed and placed pillows.

Orlando rocked steadily, and Eric rode it out, just let him keep pushing in. Pushing pushing. Beautiful. But it wouldn't stay beautiful forever. The lube was getting thin, and Eric didn't want to push his luck any further.

Besides, he loved to cause a sudden, explosive and mind-blowing orgasm, especially in Orlando.

All he could do to cause such a thing was to squeeze with his ass muscles, which wasn't quite enough. The rest of his body was useless.

Except for his mouth.

His mouth was fine. It was so fine, it started talking Orlando to that sudden, explosive and mind-blowing orgasm before Eric had time to think about it. Not that he had to think about it. It was all pretty instinctive.

"Fuck, yeah, your cock feels so good inside me. I love having your cock in my arse. And you love coming in my arse, don't you? You must really want to come, after licking my arsehole like that for so long. You love having your tongue up inside me, oh, fuck, yeah, I love having your tongue in me. I love it when you want to lick my arsehole and make it feel good…"

He didn't even get to get to the part about wanting Orlando to lick his arsehole after he'd fucked him, or about Orlando having a sexy, sweet, dirty mouth, which was just as well, since he knew Orlando wouldn't be fond of the taste of latex and lube.

Instead, he shut up and watched Orlando's beautiful face screw up in a look of intense pleasure, and then go slack, in a look of intense release. And he watched Orlando's beautiful long torso arch, his arms shake, and his abs ripple. Really,
Eric had the best seat in the house.

Orlando swivelled his hips and groaned and Eric groaned along with him. Fucking perfect.

As perfect as a perfectly fluffed bed of pillows.

Orlando rolled Eric onto his side, rearranging pillows as he slid into place behind him. "I told you I'd give you what you need, " he murmured.

Almost everything. Eric winced as he reached back, but he had to move Orlando's leg forward, so it rested against Eric's thigh, and so Orlando's chest was plastered against his back, keeping it warm so the muscles would all stay relaxed, all night long. Orlando wriggled until they fit together perfectly.

Eric sighed in contentment. No more painkillers would be needed.

The End.

The Strange Case of Mr. Norman Warne

2009-03-23T14:26:51Z

Title: the Strange Case of Mr. Norman Warne
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Historical, Miss Potter
Pairing: Norman Warne/John Gray
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Obscure, to say the least.
Dedication: To the wonderful sue_chose_this, who probably did not believe that I could, in fact, slash Ewan McGregor in Miss Potter, or rather, prior to Miss Potter… and explain Norman's strangely staid-yet-foppish-without-overt-flamboyance appearance.

Note to the Reader: These are the unedited notes of Mr. D___ B___, as they were found amidst his personal belongings, left behind in his room at the Sainte A___ Hotel and recovered by his next of kin, after his mysterious disappearance on or about the 10th of July 10, 1936.

It appears that in an earlier part of his life, Mr. B___ fancied himself somewhat of an investigative journalist, although he gave up that hobby when he married a Miss F___, a wealthy socialite, in the fall of 1909, after which Mr. B___ joined the insurance firm owned by Miss F__'s father. Mr. B___ maintained his position as a junior account manager until June of 1936, when he left the home family home following a violent disagreement.

According to police records, the hotel night clerk was the last person known to have seen Mr. B___, who went out on the evening oaf the 10th accompanied by what the clerk described to the authorities as "a young man of a feminine demeanour." There were no signs of foul play, and no indication of Mr. B___'s destination on the night in question.

The notes, which date from before Mr. B___'s marriage, concern the life of one Norman Warne, youngest of the Warne publishing family, who died at the age of 37 in the summer of 1905. The papers were torn out of a notebook or notebooks of the same manufacture, and seem to be quotations from interviews. Each quotation had the name of the speaker written at the top of the page in blue ink. A pen containing that same blue ink was found on the bedside table. The papers were found arranged on the bed covers, along with a note scrawled on the outside of the manila envelope in which, presumably, the papers had been stored.

The notes are reproduced here in the order in which they were arranged on the bed, according to a photograph taken of the scene, which was contained with the papers in the original manila envelope, as it was given to the family by the police when they recovered the body. The notes are unaltered, except for the addition of a few clarifications.

The note on the envelope reads: "Seize the day!"

The Strange Case of Mr. Norman Warne

Millie Warne: Norman was a delightful child, so creative and carefree. He liked nothing more than to play out of doors, weaving chains of flowers and studying nature. He made up little songs and dances, and he would dedicate them to this animal or that tree. He was delightful.

Harold Warne: Well, as the youngest I suppose Norman was what one might call spoiled. Mother doted on him. She indulged him, but I would not say it was to a harmful degree. He may have had his way during the day, but by teatime he was indoors, clean and neatly dressed, and always wearing shoes.

Fruing Warne: Barefoot in the grass was how Norman spent his childhood, always with green stains on his trousers and bits of flora stuck in his hair, and wild hair it was. Shockingly red, I dare say. How mother put up with it I don't know. He was like a little heathen, worshipping the sun in the meadow, caked in mud, unnatural I say.

Millis Warne: He was not a dirty child! No, he was exuberant, that's all. You mustn't listen to my brothers. Oh, he got into his share of scrapes, but that's the way boys are, isn't it?

Eloise Darner: I was not employed by the Warne family until Master Norman was eight or nine years old, so I couldn’t tell you about his early childhood, but he was a cheerful youth, somewhat wild, yes, but not in a nasty way. He enjoyed the out of doors. I heard stories about him running around in the altogether when he was a wee lad. Families like to tell tales, all in fun. There was none of that by the time I came into the household, I assure you. Master Norman was always fully clothed. Except his feet. He liked to go barefoot. The lady of the house was a bit indulgent about that, I suppose. He was the youngest, after all, and very different from his brothers. The older ones were, I don't mind saying, a bit stodgy.

Millie Warne: He grew into an artistic young man.

Harold Warne: As he got older, Norman channelled that energy into art. We had some hopes for him as an illustrator, not that we would encourage art as a career, mind you, but as the youngest son there was no need for Norman to learn the business end of things. His place was at home, with mother. He took to drawing and design quite naturally, but to be perfectly honest, he was never what one would call 'good'. Not at the drawing part of it. He had a flair for design, though. Good eye. Good colour sense. That is important in publishing, you know. Presentation is important. He had a future. He certainly did well with the Potter woman's little books.

Fruing Warne: He turned into a bit of a fop, I'd say. He wasn't prancing about in the woods anymore, think goodness for small graces, but he began to dress in an outlandish fashion. Quite irregular. Too much colour, far too much. And flowing things, scarves and the like. Inappropriate business attire, that's what I'd call it.

Millie Warne: Norman had a lovely eye for colour and detail, and he wasn't afraid to show it. It may have been a bit bold, but what's the harm in that? I thought he was very handsome youth.

Jack Hareson: Oh, you've heard about him, have you? He was eccentric around the house. Not that I spent much time in the house. The Warnes aren't the sort to allow the hired help inside unless they're working, so I spent my time with the horses. I saw enough. Like I said, Mr. Norman was a tad eccentric around home, but after he left the house he got even more so. I'd drive him out to that place on the Vale, the one where all the artists and writers used to go, the house of those two men. There was a Charles and another Charles. I would collect Mr. Norman after dinner, and in the carriage he would do things to his clothes and his hair. Kept his hair long. That was the fashion at the time. And he had colourful kerchiefs and the like. The sort of thing you'd see in the more bohemian tearooms. I never said nothing to the missus. She was a right nice dame to me, kept me on up until my leg gave out and I couldn't climb up to the carriage now more, and I got nothing but respect for her, but I had respect for all her sons too, and there was no reason for me to be saying anything to anyone abut what Mr. Norman might be doing or not doing when he went out.

Eloise Darner: Master Norman was meticulous in his attire, not the slightest bit improper, although his choice of accessories may have seemed a little peculiar to the more staid members of the family. I'd call it showy, but not gaudy. He was terribly proper with me. I was in charge of the laundry back then, and he was always polite but precise about how he wanted his things cared for. Everything had to be ironed and starched just right. Or, rather, not starched. Master Norman liked things to flow naturally. And he liked things to match. Or contrast nicely. Striking would be a word I'd use. Oh, and his hair - you never saw anything like it!

Millie Warne: Norman let his hair grow quite long for a while, there. It was the style.

Harold Warne: Silly, what? Well, we've all grown mutton chops and other things that must look extreme to people from other places. Norman didn’t grow much on his face back when he was so young. I suppose growing his hair long like that was some sort of a fashionable statement.

Fruing Warne: Ridiculous. He had hair like a girl, that's what it was. Long and red. Down to his shoulders! Thank heavens he eventually cut it off.

Millie Warne: It was so soft, and it had a shine to it. I suppose he must have brushed it quite a bit. I was jealous, because it wasn't acceptable for me to wear my hair down like that. How I would have loved to let my hair down like that in public.

Harold Warne: Can't say I cared for the company he kept. Not that he kept much of it around the house. Norman was out most nights, a young man sowing his oats, as they say.

Fruing Warne: Out every night, off to his little soirees and salons. Fancied himself quite the artist. But that didn't' last long, did it? No, only a few years, I'd say. Those are the most dangerous years, between the ages of 19 and 21.

Harold Warne: We all do silly things at that age. Many of us. I believe I was besotted with a laundress when I was that young. It didn't last long. It never does at that age.

Charles Rickett: Norman Warne? Oh, goodness, that's going back a long time, isn't it? Let's see, that would be '88 or '89… Norman used to visit us at The Vale quite often. He was friendly with an illustrator, bit of a protégé of mine. I don't know if I should mention his name - he later became somewhat infamous in certain circles, although at that time he was very respectable, as far as anyone outside our little circle knew. Norman came along with him to a party, and began to visit on his own shortly thereafter. Charming young man, quite beautiful in his own way. Almost angelic, wouldn’t you say?

Charles Shannon: Of course, Charles will tell you he looked angelic. He was that type, the type that Charles enjoyed. Boyish, pretty eyes, gorgeous long hair, although the hair was a bit too red to be in fashion. Blond was more popular. I remember Norman's hair well. It got more vivid in the summer. He spent a lot of time outdoors, as I recall, so it got quite shocking. Thick and with just enough of a wave to it, yes. Quite attractive. But I would not call him angelic. His nose was a little too masculine. And his jaw a bit too… square. And he wasn't…frail.

Charles Rickett: Robust, yes, I would characterize his look as robust, although not in an overly athletic manner. He was fresh. Energetic. And he loved to laugh. He had a delightful laugh. It would fill the room. When I say angelic, perhaps I mean cherubic. Joyful and without restraint, and not at all iniquitous.

Jack Hareson: I seen the likes who went to those parties, all dandies with their fancy waistcoats and their frills. They'd look you up and down like they was looking at the Sunday joint. Now, I never seen nothing that would dishonour the family. I was lucky to be working for them and I knew it. It's not the coachman's place to be judging anyone, least of all the lad inside the coach. But they was a slippery lot. I saw the way they looked at Mr. Norman, and I didn't like that. I don't think he noticed. He was too good a soul to be wicked like that.

Millie Warne: He was an innocent up to the day he died. Poor Norman. He was awkward in social situations. I think we sheltered him too much.

Charles Shannon: Norman was wonderful at parties. I recall him being fairly affectionate.

Charles Rickett: Kissing on the cheek was how he greeted everyone, friend or stranger. Very open that way, yes. And charming. Oh, he could charm his way out of anything, and probably back in again. But a little charm can be a dangerous thing. It can beguile almost anyone.

Charles Shannon: John Gray.

Charles Rickett: That was a fateful meeting, wouldn't you say? I remember it well. The two of them lit up at the sight of each other.

John Gray: Norman Warne? Never heard of him, and I no longer write that sort of poetry. I'm not interested in talking to anyone unless it is on official church business.

Millie Warne: Norman was passionate about whatever he set his mind to. He was determined, and single-minded when necessary. Once he decided what he wanted, he did not rest until he got it. Why, you could see it in his work with Miss Potter. He fought tooth and nail to have her work presented to the public in the way he envisioned it. He believed in her artistic vision, and he believed in his ideas about how to convey it. He was always that way.

Mr. R. T___: I'll tell you about Norman Warne, as long as you don't use my name. I don't travel in those sorts of circles anymore, and the circles I do travel in… well, you understand. Fine young man, although a bit naïve for that lot. We were a rambunctious crew, dedicated to life and love and changing the world. Aren't all young men? Norman threw himself into it, the art of it, the glamour, if you will. He had a fierce hunger for artistic adventure. And there was none that made him more hungry than John Gray.

Charles Shannon: You've never seen anyone like that. He [John Gray] was so beautiful it was unreal.

Charles Rickett: Blindingly attractive, or so it was said. A bit too pretty for my taste. And perfectly turned out. It was Aubrey [Beardsley] who brought him around, I believe.

Mr. R. T___: Those aesthetic poets, they all looked alike to me, but John Gray stood out in any crowd. Norman was positively smitten. And Gray took it all in stride, as if it were perfectly normal for beautiful young men to follow him around like a puppy dog.

Charles Shannon: John and Norman were thick as thieves, for a time.

Charles Rickett: Inseparable. And who could blame either of them? If you were the most beautiful young man in the room, wouldn't you want to spend your time with the next most beautiful man in the room? Though the jury is still out on which was which. I'd say it's a matter of personal taste.

Charles Shannon: I wouldn't put them in the same category, no. I know Charles was quite taken with Norman, but no one could compare to John.

Mr. R. T___: And then someone brought Oscar to a party, and that was it.

Charles Rickett: He'll deny it until the day he dies, but everyone knows that John Gray was the real inspiration for Dorian Gray.

Charles Shannon: Oscar wrote most of it [The Picture of Dorian Gray] before he ever met John. It was just the name. Maybe he went back and fiddled with some of the descriptions after he met John. That's the official story, anyway. Does it really matter?

Mr. R. T___: In my estimation, Norman Warne was devastated by the whole affair. There he was, the chosen companion one moment, basking in the light of the great and gorgeous Gray; cut dead the next. Gray didn't want to have a thing to do with him once Oscar came along.

Charles Shannon: Oscar was like that. He saw what he wanted and he took it. What choice did John have? He'd been happy with Norman, but happiness is nothing next to fame, to a man like that. And that's not saying anything bad about John. Fame is a wicked temptress, nigh impossible to resist, especially when she comes in such a witty form. From Norman, John could get fleeting pleasure, but Oscar promised him immortality. The sort of immortality that made Norman look like what he was.

Charles Rickett: Norman was the son of the man who printed books. Oscar was the glorious scribe.

Mr. R. T___: Oscar was a greedy bastard. He looked down his nose – and it was a considerable nose, if you ask me – at Norman.

Charles Rickett: I can't blame Oscar for anything. He didn't know how attached Norman might have been. John certainly didn't let on. He dismissed Norman as a follower, a dilettante. A crude tradesman with pretensions to artistry. I can't say any of us leapt to Norman's defence, much to my shame. An older man, one I can't name, he swooped in like a vulture to pick up the pieces.

Mr. R. T___: Who told you that? I did no such thing! The lad was heartbroken. I merely comforted him in his time of need. And young as he was, he was not exactly new at the game. He'd been around a while. He was no innocent.

Millie Warne: Norman had a bad patch, I'd say it was around his twenty-first birthday, just before. Happy and carefree one day, and in a black mood the next. He kept going out, but I had the feeling he didn't really want to socialize. He was just doing it to save face. Although why, I can't tell you. I have no idea who he was socializing with in those days. Other young men, I suppose. He was certainly busy. It was totally out of character for him.

Jack Hareson: He started drinking a bit before he got out of the carriage. I could smell it on him. Like he needed a stiff one to deal with the crowd. He didn't enjoy going out again. To be honest, I thought he looked a bit ill. You know, lovesick or something. Not that I ever saw anything untoward. Not directly. There was a fight that one time, aye, outside that place where the artists went. An older man, a rich one. I was coming to fetch young Mr. Norman, and this older gent was following him, chiding him. There must have been some fisticuffs before I got there. Mr. Norman's clothes were askew, and his hair was mussed something fierce. He was spitting mad, and in no mood to be calmed by me. I pulled him away from that place, put him in the carriage. He asked me to take him out to the countryside, and he howled at the moon for a bit. Reciting some damn poetry or other.

Charles Rickett: It was an unfortunate scene. I fear Mr…. our friend had rather forced himself on poor Norman. Oscar, being Oscar, had to make some comment about it. I'm sure it would have been amusing if Norman had not been so… distraught. And then John… John could be thoughtless.

Charles Shannon: Laughter can be the cruellest sound, don't you think?

Fruing Warne: Something snapped him out of it. He had his foul moods for a while, but then he settled out. First to go was that awful hair, thank heavens for small mercies. Maybe it was because he kept out of the sun, our out of the outdoors, really, once he matured. The colour dimmed a bit.

Harold Warne: Norman found his twenty-first birthday to be quite traumatic, I thought. I suppose he finally decided to grow up. That's a painful decision to make, and delaying it that long had only made it more painful for him.

Eloise Darner: Gone were all the lovely silks and his best suits. He said he gave them away, but I found scraps of the nicest kerchiefs one day, cut to ribbons, stuffed in the back of the dresser. I worked some of them into a rug I was weaving. You can see it on your way out. I keep it by the doorway. Warms my feet when I come in. Those bright greens and the rose and that sky blue, they came from Master Warne's things. They were discarded, so it's perfectly all right that I used them. Had to make some use of them. He wasn't wearing them anymore. He looked like he was in right mourning for a time.

Millie Warne: Norman was quite withdrawn and pale. I feared for his health. He moped around the house for a few weeks, and then he came to talk to me. He told me he'd been quite a foolish young man, and I told him I didn't belief it. Norman may have been a tad frivolous at times, but he was no fool. He argued with me, told me he was a fool, the worst kind of fool. I just knew it had something to do with love, but he denied it. He didn't deny the romance part, but he denied it had ever been true love. He made me promise never to tell anyone as long as he lived. And I didn't. But it can't hurt anyone now, because he's gone.

Charles Shannon: I heard he went to see John Gray, a few weeks after the fight. He'd not been back to see us – that was the last time I saw him, in fact. But people talk, and I heard talk of him appearing at John's apartments, and that he waited until Oscar was out.

Charles Rickett: Must we rehash those tawdry rumours? Even if it's true, even if Norman did go to John, to beg to be taken back, and even if John did turn him away coldheartedly, why should anyone talk of that?

Mr. R. T___: John Gray got his though. Oscar was a fickle as him. Once that young lord [Lord Alfred Bruce Douglas, "Bosie"] turned up, John was thrown on the discard pile along with Norman. They were a cruel lot. And I don't care what anyone says. Norman was the only one who didn't deserve any of it. I'll never forgive myself if I did anything to cause him any hurt.

Charles Rickett: John went into the church. Can you imagine, a man like that taking vows. But that was his type - melodramatic. That was his response to being rejected. Norman was, from all reports, much more sensible about things. He stopped associating with our crowd, perhaps out of embarrassment, but he didn't do anything ridiculous like taking vows.

Mr. R. T___: Ah, well, yes. That was John Gray. Always overly dramatic. It's an unfortunate tendency among our sort, I think. The artistic sort. No, I suppose Norman was not really one of us.

John Gray: Who are you? Who gave you this address? I don't want to talk to you, or anyone, about Norman Warne.

Charles Shannon: I lied. I did see him again. It was years later. He looked so different. I didn't speak to him, but I saw him. He was escorting his mother somewhere, and he was so solemn, so reserved. He had his hair short, oiled back, very severe. And he'd grown an imposing moustache, almost as if he were wearing a disguise. I hardly recognized the dear boy.

Harold Warne: I was pleased when Norman snapped out of whatever doldrums he was in. He smartened himself up a bit, started dressing more respectably. He even grew a moustache, and a rather impressive one, at that. He wasn't broken entirely of his old habits – he had a few things left, the odd fancy scarf, something with a pattern on it that was not strictly cricket, but he settled down nicely to take care of mother, and eventually, as we all know, he did make a success of himself in the family business.

Charles Rickett: He had a good deal of success with those books by Miss Potter. I wasn't surprised at all when I heard he was involved in that. Not exactly high art, was it? But it was the sort of thing Norman would enjoy. He was never a fine artist. He was workmanlike. And those books – I bought one just last week for my niece's children – they are rather delightful. Rather like Norman, actually. Sunny, you know. Darkness lurked beneath the surface, and the little characters were flawed, but they were charming, if a little awkward. Sunny and awkward and charming, just like Norman was. I must say, I was very sad to hear of his passing.

Millie Warne: He never spoke of it again to me, of love, not until Miss Potter. All those years he was like the garden in winter. Life was lying beneath the surface, waiting to blossom. And I was so very, very happy for him, and for Beatrix. I think she was rather the same way. A seed waiting to grow.

Harold Warne: I noticed, even before that last summer, that he seemed a bit flushed. He seemed excited about things. Maybe I'm imagining it. There is always guilt, when a family member passes so suddenly. If only we'd noticed he wasn't well. If only we'd taken him to the doctor or taken better care of him. He went out a lot that winter, and I do remember warning him about taking a chill. That may or may not have had anything to do with his illness in the summer, of course. It was just so…

Fruing Warne: Sudden. In the blink of an eye. We may have had our differences, but I loved him dearly. So shocking.

Eloise Darner: I never did see a family so shocked. He was so full of life in the time before he… oh, it was such a shock! He was hardly sick at all. Just a cough that wouldn’t clear up, but before that there was nothing at all. He seemed so healthy. It just goes to show you.

Jack Hareson: That was the last time I drove for them, to take Miss Millie out to the gravesite. It was a clear day, and she wanted to see him something dreadful. I couldn't help her into the carriage, for my leg was bad, but she said she'd be able to get in and out herself. She just wanted a moment alone with her younger brother. So I took her, and when we got to the cemetery there was a man there, a priest, at the headstone. I never seen a priest cry before, but there he was, crying at the grave.

Millie Warne: It was terribly upsetting to see that priest, in our cemetery, crying like that. It was disrespectful to Norman. Or at least to our Church. He looked so out of place.

Jack Hareson: Miss Millie walked right up to him and told him to leave. She saw it as an insult, to see him carrying on like that. He was a funny chap, pretty like a girl, what with the cassock and all. His face was all red from crying, eyes swollen. He was pitiable, but Miss Millie was having none of it. She pushed him. Might have even slapped him, but I can't say for certain. I was trying to keep a respectful distance.

Millie Warne: I very politely asked the priest to leave. He claimed to be an old friend of Norman's but I can't imagine how Norman could have known such a man. Father John, he said his name was. John… oh, I can't remember. I was in such a state. Green or Grey or something. It was a colour. How appropriate that someone named after a colour would be mourning Norman. But I still told him to leave.

Jack Hareson: Now that you mention it, he did look a might familiar. Not sure where I seen him, but maybe he does some charity work in the place I been staying. Since my leg has gone bad, I've been drifting a bit. I'm quite amazed you found me, actually. You must be one of those private investigators, what? An author? I hope you'll track me down again if your book gets published. Anyway, so she pushed the priest away, but when I was driving her home I looked back. The road doubles back there, you know, and I saw him at the grave again.

Millie Warne: It was terrible for Miss Potter, to have to hide how she felt about dear Norman in public. Imagine not being able to grieve in front of anyone. It was difficult enough to maintain a proper composure while wearing black and a veil. At least if a tear or two leaked out, no one would gossip.

John Gray: Yes, fine, all right. I was not always a priest. I'm not ashamed of my past. I knew Norman Warnes. What of it? We moved in the same circles. He was in publishing, I fancied myself an aesthetic poet. All young, artistic, fashionable men of that time moved in that circle. There is no shame in that is there?

Millie Warne: But Beatrix had to pretend he was a mere business acquaintance, when I know he was so much more. That's what makes it so much more tragic. After waiting for so long, and then to have it all end so suddenly.

John Gray: He had a vivaciousness that none could match. I was dazzled by him – everything about him. His eyes sparkled, blue one moment, green the next. They changed colour. Did no one tell you about that? Ah, so changeable. And his hair. That too, seemed to change, from blonde to red, depending on the light, on the time of day, maybe even on his mood. Who knew? And his smile. Lord forgive me, but his smile was like the sun. It warmed me. And his laugh, that set me on fire. Oh, he had a laugh of such unadulterated joy. It would burst out of him, sometimes at the most inappropriate times. That was how much the Norman Warne I knew enjoyed life.

Millie Warne: Not that I think they were ever, I mean. Oh, no. Norman was shy, an absolute innocent. I'm sure they were not intimate beyond what was proper. I saw them hold hands. Beatrix did say they kissed. A long kiss. But nothing more.

John Gray: [crying] It was wrong of me, so wrong. He was an innocent. Maybe not in his body – he had not been shy about sharing that. And what a body it was, all robust curves and beautiful golden skin - but in his heart. His heart was untouched, and I allowed him to give it over to me wholly. I took it, greedily. I revelled in his love and his desire. I have prayed for forgiveness, but I doubt I shall receive it for that part of it, because I do not feel remorse for enjoying his affections. That was honest and pure and untainted. I admit, some of the things I did with his body were impure. Sins, yes. But what I felt in my heart, what he felt in his, no just and loving God could deny.

Greed was my sin, not lust. What I regret, the sin I will never be forgiven for, is what happened after I availed myself of his generosity. I turned my back on what Norman offered, and sought after all manner of sinful things from Oscar – fame, glamour, notoriety. And the sex. The sex with Oscar was something else. It was base. It was dissolute. Even the same act, the exact same act, with Oscar, as opposed to with Norman, could seem… Norman gave the sweetest kisses. When he offered his body, it was with a wholesomeness I cannot express. When I offered myself to him, he did not take; we shared.

Oscar took. Oscar took and thrust himself inside me and I felt dirty, but I wanted it. I knew he didn't love me. I knew I was an experiment, a toy, a phase. I didn't care. He promised to make me immortal, and perhaps he did. Perhaps. I wanted that, I wanted to be immortal. Yet more greed, that was. And hubris, even. Filthy.

I never felt dirty with Norman. With Norman I felt pure. When Norman entered me, I did not feel skewered and invaded; I felt joined. We were joined. And I threw that away, threw it in the gutter because of Pride and Greed and Lust and Sin.

And what have I proven to be? Oscar was brought down to the depths by me. Oh, you can say it was Bosie who brought him down, but his arrogance, his pride was fed by me. I nurtured the pride that would lead to his end. I gave up love for Oscar, I turned my back on Norman, on decency, on truth, to worship at his altar. He grew to expect it from everyone, until he thought himself above all others.

And then Norman. I know that I hold no real responsibility for his death. I was in my monastery on retreat when he grew ill. But his death was long-coming. His death was a slow process of not really living.

He came to see me, to beg me, and when I laughed at him, spurned him cruelly, he swore he would never love, would never live again. He took the scissors from my table, brandishing them in the air. He was crying, and instead of caring, instead of responding with love and decency, I turned away from him. Told him he could do as he liked, I cared not. I had Oscar.

Not for long. I'm sure, if he even heard that bit of gossip, that gave Norman some satisfaction, to know I'd been rejected the same way I rejected him. Life has a way of coming around like that.

I did, for a moment, fear Norman would do something mad. To my credit, I did not wish him ill. To my great discredit, my primary fear was that if he were to plunge the scissors into his heart, right there in my sitting room, I would not know how to explain it to the authorities. Heartless, don't you think? You see how far I'd sunk.

But no, Norman was far too practical for that sort of thing. And he was far less sinful than I. He would never do himself harm. Although he did disfigure himself, to an extent. He chopped off all that glorious red hair that I'd loved so much. Left it strewn across the carpet. The scissors fell from his fingers and put a gash in the rug. Oscar was furious. And Norman stood there, looking like a little boy. Helpless. Hopeless.

"No one will ever love me again," he said. He was crying openly, poor boy,a s he chopped away at it. "No one will ever touch me again, and I'll make sure of that. I won't ever let them," he cried. "Thank you for curing me of this ridiculous obsession with love."

I threw him out, told him never to darken my door again. I'm sure I said "our" door, as if it were Oscar's too, but it never really was. Although you would have thought so, with the way Oscar railed about the hair all over the carpet. He was deathly jealous, for one so profligate with his affections.

Norman stopped halfway down the stairs, and he looked up at me. I don't know why I sttod there at the railing, looking down at him. It was a callous thing to do. Norman stred up at me with his eyes full of tears and his shorn head making him look like a sacrifice, and he said, "I vow to you, John, that I will never love again."

And I never saw him again.

I did ask about him, and by all reports he'd made himself reclusive, and as stodgy as can be. The perfect son for his perfect bourgeois family. That glorious sunshine – his smile – hidden forever under the armour of a gentleman's moustache and polite demeanour.

Now, go. You have your tale. Go away, and never speak to me again.

The End.

Deep Cover

2009-03-21T03:42:31Z

Fandom: Eastern Promises
Pairings: Nikolai/Kirill, Nikolai/OFC
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex and violence and graphic descriptions of various sorts and bad, bad men.
Disclaimer: It's like a sequel, only unauthorized, but it makes no profit. No harm, no foul.
Beta: sundew
Note: A little while after the movie ends, Nikolai is still acting the part of the vor. He is under deep cover. Perhaps a little too deep.

The Deep Cover Site

If you have any feedback, complaints or whatever...

The Lake District - Adrenaline Withdrawal

2009-03-12T05:13:01Z

Title: The Lake District – Adrenaline Withdrawal
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Ummmm… it's kind of pre-Bourne Supremacy, kind of original, with links to D-Tech, hence Black Hawk Down, but with no one from Black Hawk Down in it. Hence, the "original"ish classification.
Pairing: Damian/Kirill
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Made up, and shamelessly so.
Follows: Aftermath and Off the Clock. Damian has brought Kirill to a cottage in the Lake District, because that's the last place anyone would ever think to look for guys like this.
Dedication: For mlyn, the most patientest perv ever. And cute too!

Adrenaline Withdrawal

It was not easy.

But then, nothing was ever easy where Kirill was involved.

Damian was starving, but he could barely eat. His stomach was jumping somewhere up in the middle of this throat. His mouth was dry. No, it was wet. His tongue felt too rough, his lips swollen. The swelling of the lips was not an illusion. They were swollen, a little. From working so hard. He didn't mind working hard, but sometimes his lips did. Sometimes his whole body did. His toes were cramped from curling so violently when he came. He could still feel the floor against his knees, even though he was sitting up at the table like a civilized person, opposite Kirill, who was not civilized.

Kirill was something else entirely.

Kirill had his eyes closed as he slowly chewed. His fingers clutched a napkin, let go, flattened against the table. Damian watched the fingertips rub the smooth wood. The table was very old, a dark wood with a low lustre. Kirill's fingers were white against it, where they pressed against the surface. Tense.

Kirill swallowed.

Damian wondered if he would ever really get to feel those lips. He wanted very much to feel them. They were full, looked lush. He'd felt the barest hint of them when Kirill had sunk his teeth into the skin of Damian's neck.

Once he thought of it, which was something he'd been trying to avoid, Damian could feet the teeth - not really the teeth, but where the teeth had been, where the skin throbbed, hotter than the surrounding skin. More satisfied. But still craving lips.

The slightly blunted tips of Kirill's fingers lifted the linen to those lips.

Damian could only concentrate on these details, on thing at a time. Fingers. Lips. Movement of the throat. Curtain of lashes lifting, hazel and bright.

Were Damian to think of the big picture, he would have to think about what he'd done by bringing Kirill here to his safehouse, to his most personal space, so personal that he did not, in fact, keep anything personal there. He would have to face the fact that Kirill was sitting across the table from him. Eating. Eating food Damian had prepared.

Damian pressed his lips together to keep his teeth from chattering.

He recognised this. Adrenaline withdrawal. He used his biofeedback training to mitigate it. He should get some food into himself, or maybe some caffeine, so he wouldn’t come down too fast and crash. The last thing he needed was to pass out when he had Kirill in his house.

Kirill might kill him while he slept it off.

Damian got up to fetch the teapot. Good strong tea would do the trick. The cup only clattered a little in the saucer. Damian blew air out slowly, counting to ten as he slowed his heartbeat. He held the teapot more or less steadily, but the stream of hot, dark liquid splashed against the side of the cup instead of into the milk.

Kirill's hand stilled his wrist.

"You don't need tea," Kirill said.

He didn't?

"You need to get some air."

He did!

And it was a good time to go out, dead of night, no one about. Damian led the way down through the overgrown garden, the crooked stone steps, and path that wound back on itself ending at the boathouse. There was no boat. There hadn't been one for years. There was the smell of an ancient tarpaulin and weedy undergrowth, wet wood, and possibly mouldy life jackets. Damian found the stub of a candle, stuck in the bottom of a tin, where he had left it, on a decaying shelf by the door. The flare of Kirill's lighter made him jump. Once more, Kirill steadied his wrist.

"A little light is nice," Kirill said. But only inside the boathouse, he did not have to say aloud.

But there was nothing to do inside the boathouse. It wasn't a large boathouse. There was no floor above the dock. There was only the narrow ledge of floorboards and water lapping at the posts below and some old junk hanging from the walls It was damp and dreary and not really better than anywhere else, except that there could be light, and Damian did not really, now that he thought about it, want light. He stood still while Kirill moved the candle up to his face.

"Do you swim?" Kirill asked.

Damian nodded. Of course, he swam. It was mandatory. Everyone could swim. Everyone could swim, hold their breath for four minutes, jump out of a plane, drive defensively, operate the short wave, kill a man seventeen ways with their bare hands, forge simple documents, hack a security system, devise a substitution code on the spot in case of emergency, fire a sidearm...

...strip. Naked. In a boathouse.

Kirill moved the candle again, up and down Damian's body, while Damian stood perfectly still, even though he wanted to run. After a time, after several passes of the candle and one particularly long moment when Kirill held the light beside Damian's mouth and made a sigh that anyone else would have mistaken for a passing bird or the kiss of water against the shore, Kirill held the light up to his own mouth and pursed his full lips and blew out the light.

"I will watch you swim," Kirill said.

And Damian walked out of the boathouse to the little pier and dove into the black water. Shallow dive. Just because there was a sociopathic Russian hit man standing beside the boat house, there was no reason to risk spinal injury.

The smart thing to do would have been to swim across the lake to McGillson's place, feign inebriation, ask to stay the night, act suitably sheepish. No one would have thought it all that unusual. Damian could have done that. He could have.

The water slipped past his skin. He was a streak of pale in the inky lake. Kirill's eyes were on him, watching him in the water, watching his limbs move. It wasn't quite black out, not out in the open like than, not over the lake. Kirill would be watching him glide to the big rock and stop swimming. Kirill had not said to keep swimming until he was told to stop. He had to stop. He couldn't breathe.

Damian pulled himself onto the big rock with one smooth motion. He lay back and looked at the cloud-shrouded moon. His lungs were tight. His balls were tighter. His cock had somehow stayed hard, in spite of the cold water. The water was always cold. Cold and lacking oxygen. That did not stop his cock. From the moment in the garden, when he'd felt Kirill's hand on the small of his back, it had been like that. Damian spread his legs and cupped his balls with one hand. He stroked his cock with the other hand to warm it.

Kirill moved on the shore.

Damian closed his eyes so he could hear the splash better. It was a smooth entry. Sharklike, if a shark were to somehow dive into the water from land. Almost no splash. Sleek. It only seemed a moment, then Kirill emerged and covered him.

Kirill had stayed warm in spite of the chill water. He spread himself over Damian, and Damian's arms and legs tingled as the blood returned to them. Kirill shifted suddenly to one side and gripped Damian's hard cock.

"You need endorphins to replace adrenaline," Kirill suggested. "This will bring you down more gentle."

No, it wouldn't. How would that help? That was bad science.

He pulled on Damian's cock deliberately, not at all gently, in unqualified control.

"Poor Damian," Kirill purred in his ear. "Too much excitement for you. Always so careful. You take big risks every day, but none with so high a stake. You think I might reject you. I might leave you here, all alone. Big risk, big danger. So now, you second-guess yourself. Never a good strategy."

Damian gasped. The hand on his cock was mercilessly sliding his foreskin up and down, squeezing, pulling, pulling him inside out, knuckles dragging over his painfully hard abdominals, nail of the last finger scratching a groove into him, indelibly.

And then the lips.

Warm, full and lush, as Damian had expected. There was no hint of teeth, now it was only lips, and they were on his jaw, just beneath his jaw, moving just enough to cause suction, to convince Damian they were really there. Damian tensed, all control gone.

It had been a terrible mistake, undoubtedly fatal, to bring Kirill to this place. Kirill was going to kill him. If he did not snap his neck or slit his throat, he would kill him with sex, and then he was going to sink his body in the mere and return to Moscow, mission accomplished a hundred times over.

It would be an incredible coup for Kirill to claim a British agent. England did not do business that way, not anymore, but for all Damian knew there could be a monetary bonus in it for Kirill. Damian knew, he simply knew, that the moment he came would be his last. And he could hold it off no longer.

* * *

"Why so surprised?" Kirill asked.

Damian's eyes were wide and, even with the clouds filtering the moonlight, bright blue. His mouth was open, not wide but a little lax. He was so pale, even compared to Kirill, whose skin hardly ever saw the sun; the freckles on his shoulders looked liked dots of ink.

Kirill trailed his fingers through the pool of semen on Damian's stomach. It was still thick, slippery, but it would turn to liquid soon enough, and then it would get tacky and unpleasant. There was a reason Kirill did not like anyone to come on his skin. But on Damian's skin…

Damian took a deep breath. So surprised.

"What," Kirill asked, "did you think I was going to slaughter you while you came?"

Damian blinked, lying before Kirill like some sacrifice of old. What did he expect Kirill to do? Eviscerate him?

Adrenaline is a crafty substance. Too much or too little can to things to a man's thinking.

Kirill leaned down. His nose brushed the wet hair that curled about Damian's ear. Even after swimming through the water, which had its own smell of weeds and minerals, Damian smelled like Damian. A scent Kirill would come to associate with comfort, eventually. Not yet.

"You are as alive as me," Kirill said slowly. He reached across Damian and scooped some water over his stomach. The muscles clenched, curved down, made Damian look almost thin. Shocking. Damian was not thin. He was long and lean, but not thin. Kirill scooped more water, and Damian curled up.

"Milan," he gasped.

Kirill smiled. He was glad for the darkness, because his smiles, he knew, were not always pleasant. They tended to scare the crap out of people. Scaring the crap out of people was one of Kirill's favourite pastimes, but not now, not here. He had no need or desire to scare Damian at this moment.

"What is it you English say?" he asked. "'Better late than never'?"

Damian nodded. He sank back on the rock, not so tense, not quite so sacrificial.

Pity.

Kirill looked down at himself. He wasn't even hard. It had not been sex for him at all. It had been a matter of biology. Damian needed to come down from the adrenaline in a safe and controlled fashion. Kirill had accomplished that admirably. Damian would not crash.

It had not been disagreeable. He liked the shape of Damian's cock, a pleasing shape, well-proportioned and not too bumpy. Kirill did not enjoy a gnarled cock. He did not like veins sticking out too far or uneven texture, or a misshapen head. He liked everything neat and clean and streamlined. Damian was streamlined from head to toe, long in the limbs and torso alike. He did not have as many muscles as Kirill, or rather, his muscles were not so bulky – everyone has the same muscles, but some are hidden by too much fat and others show every detail because they have no fat at all.

Damian, as far as Kirill was concerned, had the exact amount of everything.

Damian raised a hand and touched his jaw. Ah, he had enjoyed the feel of lips. He had a healthy appetite for variety.

Kirill bent so his lips were very close to Damian's ear, close to where he'd bitten earlier.

"Oh, Damian," Kirill whispered. "The things I could do to you."

END

ZEN - a Hoot/Sanderson Adventure of the Sexual Variety

2009-02-19T21:26:12Z

Title: Zen
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: post-Black Hawk Down
Pairing: Hoot/Sanderson
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: Idle speculation about composite characters waaay after the events of the movie. Not the real deal.
Note: When your Hoot-muse starts talkin', you'd best listen.
Dedication: ennorwen is a wonderful woman who sends me amazing beautiful gifts and writes great fic and takes part in fandom on so many different levels. I'm in awe. And she's got this thing for Sanderson. Got it bad. So does Hoot. So, in honor of her love of Sanderson, and all things Bill Fichtner, here is Hoot doing what Hoot does, and Sanderson being who Sanderson is.

Hoot couldn't tell what time it was. It was dark, but that could mean anything – late night, early morning, curtains pulled tight – or he could still be asleep. In addition, he could be almost anywhere. He was used to waking up like that, so it didn't worry him.

He was naked, so he was reasonably sure he wasn't in a war zone. (He never got totally naked in war zones. Too risky.) His lack of clothing and gear was reassuring.

He groped in the dark for his watch. It was on a bedside table, walnut with a curved edge and a half-inch nick in the middle of the front. He couldn't tell it was walnut in the dark, but he recognized the nick, so he knew it was walnut because it was the table on the left side of the bed in the bedroom above the D-Tech offices. So he knew we was at home.

Naked.

And he felt good.

Not good. Better than good. Great. He felt fucking great all over. His whole body was humming, but not in a tense, anticipatory manner. It was humming contentedly. Calmly. Satisfied. But not sluggish. Every muscle was supple, every nerve alert. Even his skin felt great, and Hoot was not in the habit of noticing how his skin felt, let alone noticing when it felt great, except to check for wounds or infections that might have impact negatively on his combat effectiveness.

Hoot was combat effective. To the maximum.

There had to be a reason for that.

He was surprised he did not immediately know the reason, since every single part of him appeared to be operating at optimal capacity. Shouldn't he know WHY he felt so fucking great? So alive? So in tune with himself and his surroundings that he could have told you that his heart was beating at a steady 73 beats per minute and his temperature was half a degree higher than normal, but it always was when he first woke up, so that didn't count as exceptional.

Hoot thought about it further, and was not surprised to find that his brain felt just as great as the rest of him, in spite of his inability to pinpoint the source of the greatness. Sharp, but not jagged. Clear, but still solid. He hated it when his brain was so clear it went sort of vaporous and disappeared. Then he was acting without thought at all – everything was instinct and training. All instinct, really, since effective training was, in essence, manufactured instinct. It was an in-the-moment state that could easily be mistaken for Zen, but there wasn't anything Zen about it.

This was more like Zen. This was being at one with himself and the universe. He was so fucking here, here almost didn't exist. Almost. That was why it was like Zen and not actual Zen. There was something missing, something… to make it absolutely perfect. But it wasn't an emptiness, an ache, a glaringly obvious thing. He wasn't hungry, he wasn't tired, he wasn't injured, there wasn't any one thing standing out. He was just a hairsbreadth shy of being a state of total not-wanting. The absence of desire. Perfection.

That didn't make any sense. That was how he knew it was a Zen thing. Zen had never, ever made any sense to Hoot. Sanderson said that was what made Hoot Zen. But he probably just said that to fuck with Hoot's mind. His mind that was so unfucked that thinking about Zen didn't even fuck it up.

WHY??

There were no drugs involved, Hoot could tell that. This was natural.

Not that some drugs weren't natural, and not that he was opposed to drugs on moral grounds. He wasn't even opposed to them on health grounds, although most of them were bad for you in one way or another, but no worse than a lot of the other things Hoot often did. He didn't hold anything in particular against drugs, he just didn't like it when he'd had to take them. If his perceptions were going to be altered and his body functions skewed, he wanted it to be of his own free will and with his full consent and knowledge. He'd taken them when ordered or when it was vital to the mission – to keep awake, keep active, stay calm, keep fighting, running, functioning beyond natural parameters. That was part of the job. He hadn't enjoyed it.

Supplements, too. He'd taken those as ordered. Fuck, if he didn't like stimulants, he hated` the supplements. Toxic, that's what they were.

Maybe he'd finally been out of it long enough for all traces of drugs and supplements to be flushed from his body at the cellular level. Maybe this was what it was like to be creatine-free once and for all.

No. It wouldn't have taken so long.

He was clear-minded and alert because he'd just woken – naturally and non-traumatically – from a deep and pure sleep. Restful, rejuvenating and dreamless. No dreams. No nightmares. No danger lurking in every shadow, no mazes of back alleys buildings exploding roads turning into quicksand people reaching for him aiming at him bodies imploding shrapnel embedding. No dreams, just sleep. Rested.

He never woke fully rested after dreaming those dreams You're not rested after a night of constant tension.

Hoot had not mentioned the dreams to anyone. Not even to...

Jeff Sanderson lay beside him, one arm bent over his head, the other laying with his hand spread flat across his flat stomach. It was a ridiculously flat stomach. Sanderson was a decade older than Hoot but in better shape than most a decade younger. Strong, lean, toned. Toned like a fighter.

Sanderson didn't look like he went to the gym, but he did. He went to a boxing gym at least once a week, twice if he could, more if he had time.

Boxers have the best bodies.

When you box, everything has to be prime, everything in balance. Boxers have to be fast, but strong. Strong, but flexible. Flexible but tough. Tough, but graceful. And then there's endurance.

Endurance was the hardest part of any training. Anyone could take hardship for a little while. Short bursts. A minute under water. One punch. But long term, four minutes, a dozen punches, with kicks thrown in and no time to rest in between… okay, maybe kickboxers had the best bodies. Either way, endurance was the real test, especially for men.

Hoot hadn't had much work experience with women, but there was this one mission, this one woman, a big blonde from Wisconsin. Kelly, that was her name. She'd laughed a lot. Climbing up a sheer rock face after running ten miles, she'd shouted to him over the rain, "This is nothing! Try being in labour for thirty-one hours!" Hoot still sent a card to Kelly's daughter every year, on the anniversary of the mission. All the endurance in the world won't keep you alive after an explosion like that.

That was the kind of memory that led to the tense dreams. He'd watched that building go up, knowing a full third of the team was inside, undercover, unable to say or do anything about it without exposing the other two thirds to the same fate or worse.

It was miracle he and Sanderson were not basket cases after some of the fucked up shit they'd seen and done.

It wasn't only death. It was the inequality of it all, the unfairness. How many times had they gone into a situation with superior firepower, superior technology, wasting people who hadn't even seen it coming? And just as many times, sometimes at the same time, they'd gone in under-equipped, or ill-equipped, vastly outnumbered, or undercover in a sea of hostile forces, or with the wrong fucking maps, bad intel, just plain stupid instructions, facing insurmountable odds. Stupid odds. The kinds of odds no sane man would take.

But Sanderson was lying next to him, whole and healthy. And Hoot felt better than he'd felt in months, maybe years, so alive so alert, so in tune with everything around him, even his skin – he could have given you an accurate thread count of the sheet that was draped over his bare hip.

Of course he was naked. He was in bed with Sanderson.

Why was he in bed with Sanderson and still thinking of him as Sanderson?

It wasn't like Hoot ever called Sanderson Sanderson to his face. He called him Jeff. But he never called him Jeff to anyone else. Even when he was talking to people who knew them both, People who called Sanderson Jeff, Hoot called Sanderson Sanderson. Like that night Steele had surprised them, but not totally surprised them – Sanderson had been half-expecting Steele to return - and Steel had asked Hoot what he was doing when they were both in the kitchen and Hoot had said, "Sanderson needs protein after that kind of exertion," and he did – Sanderson was a lean man with a relatively fast metabolism. After strenuous activity like that – and what could be more strenuous than taking on both Hoot and Steele at the some time? – maybe he didn't need protein stat, but it would sure as hell help him recover quickly enough to be able to do it all again in the morning.

Hoot liked sex in the mornings.

Steel had given him a funny look and said "Jeff does like his midnight snacks."

Hoot could recall the jolt in his gut – something he'd been able to, accurately he thought, identify as jealousy.

Jealous that Steele knew that about Sanderson.

But now, with his clear mind and preternatural alertness, Hoot wondered if he might be jealous of Steele not over anything that had to do with Sanderson, but jealous that Steele, who was still in the army, was able to refer to men by their first names so easily, and Hoot, who was not only out of the army but had not been in the regular army for some time – he'd been Delta, man! they barely even used ranks – and Hoot thought of everyone, not just Sanderson, by their last name, and he himself was the only exception to that rule, except for Griz, but Griz had been the exception to a lot of things.

It wasn't just that everyone else called him Hoot. He thought of himself as Hoot. He would answer to Gibson, out of habit, but when he met someone else named Gibson he never thought there was any connection between them. It was just a word, a name. He wasn't really Gibson. He was someone named Gibson. He was Hoot.

His Uncle Matty had first called him Hoot. He had been too young back then to understand anything about Uncle Matty, who only visited once or twice a year, and about whom his mother had always got a little teary-eyed.

Uncle Matty had taught him that boxers have the best bodies. At the time, young Hoot had thought he was talking about old black-and-white movies and the newsreels with the boxers who always had beautiful, glamorous women hanging all over them. No matter how beat up a boxer got, some beautiful dame was always in love with him. Uncle Matty called them dames. Uncle Matty said he liked dames, and they liked him too, and Hoot figured the dames liked the boxers for their great bodies, like Uncle Matty said. It hadn't occurred to him until much later that it was Uncle Matty who had liked the boxers' bodies.

Sanderson went to the boxing gym at least once a week. Hoot had never gone with him. Now, looking at the clean lines of Sanderson's body, growing sharper as the sky began to lighten a bit at the edges, Hoot thought maybe he would. He would like to see Sanderson in the gym, going at the heavy bag, fists pounding, muscles pumping, hands taped. He would enjoy watching him jab, spar, fake, weave. Jump rope. He'd seen Sanderson jump rope a few times. Sanderson was fast, blindingly fast.

Hoot did not enjoy jumping rope. He wasn't bad at it, but it wasn't comfortable. In spite of his considerable fitness, Hoot felt clumsy with a jump rope.

But he could outrun Sanderson.

Could he outbox him?

Not a chance. He'd never want to hit Sanderson in the face.

Besides, Sanderson wouldn't really want to box Hoot. He wasn't a serious fighter. He didn't devote his whole life to it. No real bouts. It was fitness. It was a release. He said it got his blood circulating and he liked the energy in the gym.

It was a local gym, not one of those chain fitness centers. Old school. Dusty in the corners, not enough life. "Like you imagine a boxing gym from a movie," Sanderson had told him once. "Upstairs from an auto repair shop."

Hoot wanted to see Sanderson in that environment – rangy and sweaty, joking with some punch drunk old guy in the corner, showing some cocky young guy that age doesn't mean as much as he'd hoped. Hoot wanted to see Sanderson after an hour of jumping rope and sit ups and heavy bag work, a couple of sparring sessions, taking off his soaked shirt, grabbing a bottle of water and tilting his head back, drinking, letting the water flow over his flushed face and trail down his shoulder and naked chest…

"Jeff!"

Sanderson sat up, blinked twice, reached for his weapon beside his bed.

Sanderson did not have a weapon beside his bed. They didn't need weapons beside the bed anymore. His hand hit the top of a digital clock, which lit up and bathed him in bluish light. "What?" He turned to Hoot with one hand out, ready to check for wounds.

"I'm okay," Hoot said. "I'm great, actually."

Sanderson gave him one long look that went from the two inches of thick dark hair curling over Hoot's scalp down to where the sheet crossed his hip, revealing the top of his pubic hair.

"I know," Sanderson said, with enough of a tease in his voice to make Hoot know why he had woken up feeling so fucking great all over.

Full body massage. Oh, yeah. Sanderson's hands on him, pummeling him, sorting out whatever ailed him with the same precision and accuracy he used when he cleaned his weapon or arranged the tools on his workbench. His eyes were not unlike his eyes when he surveilled a target. Acute.

That was a good word for Sanderson.

Acute.

"Why do I think of you as Sanderson?" Hoot blurted out. Maybe his brain was not as clear as he'd believed it to be.

"That's my name," Sanderson answered.

"Sure, but you don't think of me as Gibson, do you?"

"No one thinks of you as Gibson, except for maybe some guy in payroll who used to sign your checks. You're Hoot."

"But why?… Do I need to distance myself or something?" That could have been it.

"You mean by calling me by my last name?"

"I don't call you Sanderson. I call you Jeff. I think of you as Sanderson."

"It's a military thing, Hoot. That's what we all do. Don't worry. You'll get over it in another decade or so."

"It's weird."

"No, it's habit. That's what the military is all about. Habit. You know that."

That was Sanderson. So practical. He never questioned things unless there was a reason to do so. And he usually knew when it was worth questioning.

"Do you think of anyone you ever served with by their first name?" Sanderson asked.

"Griz," Hoot said.

"That was a nickname, not a first name. Even now, do you think of Schmid, or do you think of Kurt?"

"Schmid," Hoot said.

"Me too. Do you think of Grimes or do you think of…" Sanderson's voice trailed off.

"Grimes," Hoot said decisively.

"So what's the big deal?"

"I don't sleep with Grimes."

"You better not. McKnight would kill you."

"And Grimes doesn't count anyway."

"Why not?"

Hoot tried to think of why not. Grimes had been a soldier. He was like any other guy. Except he wasn't. "Because you can't call him John. McKnight would kill you."

"Good point. Forget about Grimes. What about McKnight?"

Hoot laughed. "Can you think of McKnight as anything but McKnight?"

"Hell, no. I bet Grimes doesn’t either."

Hoot did not want to even think about what Grimes thought about McKnight. It was hard enough not to get hard around Grimes as it was.

"Shit, Hoot, what the hell is this about?"

Hoot couldn't remember. "I don't know. I woke up and I was seeing everything so clearly, but now I'm not so sure. I was just lying here thinking."

"About what?"

"Nothing. Stuff. You. I think you're beautiful."

"And I think I went overboard with the blowjob. I should have left it at the massage."

"No!" Hoot had enjoyed the blowjob very much.

Sanderson lay down again. "Go back to sleep, Hoot."

"I'm not tired."

Sanderson rolled on his side, away from Hoot, long, lean, strong back facing Hoot, with one leg forward and his briefs tight across his ass.

"I'm hungry," Hoot announced.

"So get a snack."

"Not that kind of hungry." Hoot grabbed Sanderson's shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

Just as he'd suspected. Sanderson was a little hard. Not all the way, but getting there. Maybe it was residual erection from earlier, when he'd had his hands all over Hoot, and his mouth in one place only.

Damn. Sanderson's mouth. Fucking lethal, that was. More lethal than his trigger finger.

Although… there were a few choice things Sanderson could do with his trigger finger that had nothing to do with conventional weapons.

Hoot's mind raced. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to repay Sanderson in kind. Hold him down, rip those shorts off him, maybe shred them (not strictly required, but it would be fun) and suck down that monster cock. It was a porn star cock. It made Hoot feel like a porn star every time he had it in his mouth. Or hand. Or ass…

A fuck would be even better, but it would not be gentlemanly.

The reason it would not be gentlemanly to demand a fuck was that it would be a lot of work on the part of Sanderson. Hoot liked hard fucking, and that was strenuous. He didn't doubt that Sanderson was up to the task, but it might be a little selfish to demand it of him this early in the morning.

"Hoot."

"What?"

"Reciprocal fire is not required."

"I was thinking more of an escalation." Hoot was actually thinking about several hours earlier, of lying on the bed with Sanderson's hands on his ass. He knew it was foolish to arbitrarily assign some sort of emotion to the action, but to him it had felt passionate. Heartfelt. Maybe a little bit possessive.

Hoot thought about someone, Sanderson, possessing his ass, or any part of him. He wasn't entirely uncomfortable with the idea, especially since for almost his entire adult life he'd been accepting of the notion that he'd been, more or less, property of the United States Army. But the army had never owned him entirely. It might have owned his bones and muscle and sinew, might have owned his mind, or at least the training and intel part of it, but it had never owned or controlled his sex drive. He may have had to curtail his sexual activities on account of the army, but he'd never stopped wanting.

He wanted. He wanted Sanderson's hands on his ass again. He wanted Sanderson's trigger finger. He wanted the whole monster porn star cock inside him, even though that was not an easy thing to do. He would have to force himself to relax and he would have to force himself not to force anything. He'd learned over the years that you can push almost every part of your body beyond its natural limits without doing lasting damage, but the temporary damage that occurs when you stretch your asshole beyond its limits takes pain and discomfort to an undignified level.

He also knew that if he did not force it, and if they used enough lube, Sanderson was more than capable of giving him the kind of hard fucking he liked. Wanted. Needed.

"Hoot, I can't fuck you."

"Oh, I think you can."

"Not now."

"I know. You're tired."

"No, I'm rested. But I've had this hard on ever since you took your clothes off last night. I wouldn't last a minute inside your ass."

Hoot thought about that.

The more he thought about it, the more he liked it.

"Really?" Hoot asked.

"Really."

"Okay," Hoot said.

"Okay what?"

"A minute. Hard and fast." Hoot reached for the lube.

"Seriously, Hoot. I put my dick in you and I'm gonna go off like a firecracker."

"Sounds romantic." Hoot squirted lube over his fingers. "Just give me a minute to lube up."

If there wasn't going to be prolonged fucking, he only needed to prepare for entry, not a long ride.

"Did you not hear me?"

"Loud and clear." Hoot twisted a couple of fingers inside himself. Then he considered the sheer size of Sanderson's cock. He added a third finger.

"Aw, fuck, Hoot."

"Now you're talking."

"Don't do that. Don't… not in front of me… you can't be… fuck! Four fingers!"

Hoot pulled his fingers out and squirted more lube onto them. "Get those shorts off, unless you want me to tear 'em into a million pieces."

The briefs hit the wall opposite the bed. Hoot slicked up Sanderson's cock, fast, not too much pressure. Utilitarianism at its finest.

Hoot got on his hands and knees. He'd always liked fucking that way. It was the animal thing. Animals have sex because they have to, not because they want to. Or maybe they did want to. How would Hoot know?

What Hoot did know was that Sanderson was behind him, looming over him, pressing against him, pressing into him, and four fingers had not, in fact, been enough, not on such short notice, but there was enough lube, so the burn wasn't enough to make him pull away. On the contrary. He pushed back. Hard. And Sanderson was all the way in, in less time than it took for Hoot's body to realize he was there, which was too late.

"Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," Sanderson said.

Hoot would have said something very similar to that had all the air not been forced out of him – not from Sanderson pushing in, but from his body clenching tight everywhere all at once, including, it would seem, around Sanderson's cock. Hoot couldn't really feel that part of himself, not with all the clenching and burning and just fucking greatness going on.

Sanderson managed to pull out and slam back in a half dozen times. Just when Hoot started to think it might actually be possible to die from getting assfucked, Sanderson slumped over him and grabbed his biceps and groaned.

Okay. That was… even worse. Sanderson's cock was pulsing inside him, with his body weight pushing it inside even more. And then Sanderson was dragging his teeth over Hoot's shoulder blade, and his thighs were shaking against the backs of Hoot's thighs. And he said, "Hoot," and Hoot said, "Jeff," and then they both crashed down onto the mattress.

And Hoot's mind wasn't clear anymore. Not clear at all. It was hazy and cloudy and swirling and opaque. It had only one vague thought in it, and that thought was that it did not matter whether he thought of the man whose cock was shoved up his ass by his first name or his last name or by no name at all, because all that mattered was that that cock was inside him and his whole body felt fucking great. And now he knew that what had been missing was considerably larger than a hair's breadth.

And for as long as that thought lasted, Hoot knew Zen.

OMG - potterslashRPS!

2009-02-06T01:33:14Z

Title: All In The Wrist
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: RPS
Pairing: Gary Oldman/Alan Rickman
Rating: Adultish
Warning: euphemisms and puns galore. Also, way too much use of italics… but it's Alan Rickman, for pete's sake. He talks in italics all the time!
Disclaimer: No, this didn't happen. If it did, I'm sure it would have leaked.

Note: I know. I said I'd never do RPS again. (Except for that time I did, but that was for Salix too!) But there are some things you do for your wives. (You'll understand when you've got three wives, a mistress and a hot piece of totty on the side. And Mlyn. She's one of my girls too. I tell you, it's exhausting!)
Dedication: For salixbabylon

All In The Wrist

"Gary, do you mind? I'm trying to read my script."

"You've been at it for over an hour."

"Some of us have actual lines to memorize."

"I have lines."

"I hate to spoil your delusions of thespian glory, but "'laugh in a demented fashion and look vaguely menacing' does not count as a line."

"Nor does 'look haughty and as if you have a wand stuck up your arse'!"

"I do not have a wand stuck up my arse!"

"Would you like one? I'd be happy to arrange it, you know."

"You don't even have a wand."

"Do too!"

"Do not, and you would know that if you read your bloody script."

"I don't need to read my script. All I have to do is laugh in a demented fashion and look vaguely menacing."

"My point."

"I don't need one, anyway. I'm a very magical creature, you know."

"Magical creatures are CGI. You, my dear, are a convict."

"You in the mood for some rough trade?"

"I'm in the mood to learn my lines. I've got an important scene in the morning."

"And I have one for tonight, right now - you be the stern school teacher and I'll be the bad boy who's returned after a long absence…"

"You're perverted."

"Now you've got it!"

Well, if you're not going to let me work, I might as well play. Come on, then. Whip it out. Let's see your wand."

"I thought you said I don't have one."

"Not much of one."

"It's cold in here."

"Don't worry. I'm a wizard at this sort of thing. I'll have your wand working in not time at all… See?"

"Ahhhhh…"

"Mmmmm."

"Oh!"

"Who's the magical creature now?"

"I don't know about the rest of you, but your fingers are certainly magic."

"It's all in the wrist, actually."

"Jesus! Yes, it is!"

"I've been practicing with my own wand."

"I can tell."

"Not that wand."

"Why on earth not? If you can do that to me, I can only imagine what you do to yourself."

"that's nothing. How about this?"

"Oh, God, yes! This!"

"And I haven't even used my tongue. Yet"

OMG - it's harrypotterslash...

2009-02-06T01:32:40Z

Title: The Visitor
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: *gulp* Harry Potter
Pairing: Snape/Black
Rating: Mild, nudity
Disclaimer: I don't own these men. I know what I'd do with them if I did, but I don't. No profit, no foul.

Massive Disclaimer: I know. I said I'd never do Potterslash. But there are some things you do for your wives. (You'll understand when you've got three wives, a mistress and a hot piece of totty on the side. And Mlyn. She's one of my girls too. I tell you, it's exhausting!)
Dedication: For pir8fancier.

The Visitor

Another late night in the lab.

There was no end of mischief for children to get up to, and no end to the hours he had to spend setting everything right once they were done. It was madness for them to be allowed anywhere near an equipped laboratory - they shouldn't even be allowed to buy tissues at the local apothecary - but what could Severus Snape do about it? He taught potions in a school for children. He had no choice but to let the little buggers mix potions. After all the time it took to clean up after them, he always had to go about his own, personal work late into the night.

But first he had to mix various potions to deal with various ailments among the staff. Wizards were an odd lot, prone to all manner of mishap, magical and otherwise. Professor Sprout was suffering from an unfortunate-looking facial rash due to accidental exposure to a particularly nasty mushroom. He whipped up a soothing unguent for that. It paid to be on her good side, since she did supply him with so many ingredients. One of the groundskeepers had been zapped by a careless second-year student and had developed a nervous tic. Snape mixed a little of this and a little of that. McGonagall, as much as Snape disliked her, was next. Nothing magical required, only a simple remedy for nighttime acid reflux. She was marginally less irritating after she'd slept well. Oh, yes, he had to throw together something to cure the cook's decidedly unmagical hot flashes.

That was all that was on his list for the time being. He took the time to make sure he had the necessary constituents for several doses of boil-be-gone, because you never knew when that would be required.

Finally, he could settle down to his own work. His personal studies. Experiments, if you will. Although tonight was a reading night, for the most part.

Snape unrolled a brittle scroll on the tabletop, a piece of yellowed parchment not more than a foot long but curled tight from years of being stowed in a small metal cylinder, tucked into a dusty back shelf of the restricted section of the library. He weighed each corner with a full bottle - tincture of St. John's Wort, essence of Shepherd's Purse, a lifetime supply of bugleweed, and comfrey leaf preserved in a light almond oil. All soothing substances, he thought, with a hint of a smile. appropriate, for the parchment detailed a sedative of a much more lethally relaxing nature.

His intent was not to mix the potentially paralyzing potion, no. Snape was studying, learning the ways of the enemy. Although it might not hurt to have some of this about, in case of dire emergency. Or revenge.

The mark on his arm flared, a biting heat.

No. No revenge. That would be too dangerous.

He would read and learn and serve the light.

So intent was he on his studies, Snape did not notice the shadow behind him begin to move. Not until a large, hairy black paw nudged the edge of the parchment.

"Not now," Snape muttered, and copied a line from the parchment. He ignored the sharp whine from the dog at his feet. Or tried to. It echoed between the stone walls of the chamber. He slammed his quill into its holder in a huff. "For the love of…"

The dog looked up at him. Beseeching.

"Fine!" Snape snarled, rolling up the parchment. "Go ahead. Transform. Take your true shape in the middle of Hogwarts. See how long it takes for somebody to spot you!"

He looked away.

He could never stand to watch. The elongation of the limbs was sickening enough, but the reformation of the skull was what really made him cringe. Snape was not a coward, but even he had limits.

"It's over," Sirius Black announced form the corner, in the shadows, where he'd retreted to spare Snape the discomfort of witnessing his transformation.

Snape turned his head slowly. It would do him no good to look to take it all in at once. It might throw him off balance. Sirius was bound to look as breathtaking as he always had, if far to bony since his time in Azkaban.

"It's dreary how you always work in the dankest, draughtiest rooms possible, you know. Your parents must have kept you in a basement for the first eleven years of your life." He hugged himself with too-thin arms. "Can I have a cloak or something?" Sirius asked with a shiver.

"This is dangerous," Snape said.

"I know."

"No, you don't. You haven't even considered the risks. This could mean the end of both of us," Snape snapped.

"I know, but honestly, isn't it worth it?"

Sirius spread his arms and stepped into the light of the lantern, reveling the same lean lines, the same almost boyish shape Snape remembered from so long ago. And his eyes showed the same spirit, a light not even Dementors could extinguish.

Snape stood and opened his cloak. "Here," he said. "Share mine."

For woosgirl - A Glass Table Top

2009-02-06T00:18:08Z

Title: Room With A View
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: post-The Island
Pairing: Lincoln Six Echo/Albert Laurent
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: This didn't happen in the movie, I don't own the characters. Total fiction. honest.
Note: It helps to be familiar with my Island100 stories (which I will get up on my site as soon as I can!) The short version is this: Lincoln and Laurent, having overcome any reservations about their relationship and finding life a little hectic in the States, go on a long journey, from Lincoln's ~~ancestral~~ genetic homeland to Laurent's home village. So far, they've reached the Alps…
Dedication: For woosgirl, who gave me wicked ideas from a picture of Ewan McGregor sitting in front of a glass table on which sat a bowl of fruit. Or maybe it was flowers. I don't know. I was distracted byt he pretty. So I cloned Ewan into Lincoln Six Echo and let my imagination (and Albert Laurent's) roam.

A Room With A View

"This is a beautiful hotel room," Lincoln Six Echo said solemnly, looking at the beautiful sitting area, with the modern furniture and the coffee table with the bowl of fruit. Even the drapery was beautiful.

"Yes, this is a beautiful hotel room." Sharp brown eyes darted to each corner, every potential entry or exit point, assessing every possible threat, calculating all the angles.

"Very cozy, for its size," Lincoln noted.

A broad nose twitched. Clean. No unnecessary chemicals. Good air flow, but not chill from the mountain air outside. That might change if Lincoln were to open the curtains, which he would, because he was Lincoln and he liked to look out at the world, but the heating unit across the base of the window would compensate as required.

"Cozy," Laurent agreed.

There was a rustle of fabric and the roll of tiny metal wheels when Lincoln pulled the curtains open.

"Oh, Albert, look at the view!"

A smooth brown hand spread over the heavy tempered glass of a coffee table. Shook it to test the strength of the welded metal frame. Approved. Trailed paler fingertips over the cool surface…

"Beautiful," Albert Laurent agreed.

The decorative complimentary fruit bowl was moved to another table.

Oil slicked the surface of the glass, a thin layer but enough to make Lincoln slide a little when Laurent twisted his fingers inside him.

Laurent was very happy for his long, long arms; he could lie comfortably on the floor under the table without having to strain at all.

The most perfectly-engineered ass on earth pressed against the glass above him, no less beautiful for being somewhat squashed against the tabletop. He watched Lincoln's body open to accept his fingers. Lincoln's fingers curled around the rounded edges of the thick glass. Lincoln leaned back, head hanging, and Laurent spared a moment to study the shadow running up the centre of Lincoln's arched back, the tension in his shoulder blades, the strain in his arms, and the sound of Lincoln moaning for more.

Then back to the ass, from beneath, an angle in which he'd never had the opportunity to indulge before.

Fuck the view.

Lincoln worried about the table. Glass is breakable, everyone knows that, and even thought it was remarkably thick glass, and Albert had assured him that the frame was designed to support the glass with maximum efficiency, and the glass was highly unlikely to break, he still worried.

But not enough to distract him too much.

Besides, the glass was tempered.

Tempering is a process of strengthening the very fibre of a substance. In this process, the material is heated and cooled, sometimes heated and cooled again, as many times as is required, at temperatures and intervals dependant on the properties of the material in question. The inner layers and outer layers expand and contract at different rates. Molecular bonds are broken and healed, stronger than before, more resistant to breakage, more able to withstand blows.

Tempering could be performed on a variety of materials. Glass. Metal. People, Lincoln suspected.

Did it make it more or less flexible? Lincoln couldn't remember. But then, he couldn't think clearly, let alone remember the particulars about glassmaking or metallurgy.

The oil and the glass had been cool at first. They'd warmed quickly, but that was only from the heat of Lincoln's own body. The next heat had come from outside Lincoln. He wasn't sure if it was from Albert's touch or his look.

Albert's hands had started at Lincoln's ankles and worked their way up, caressing his calves, stroking his thighs, urging his penis to grow into a cock. Lincoln had been acutely self-conscious, sitting up on the cool-soon-to-be-worm glass table top with Albert lying beneath.

"This is weird," he'd said.

"Weird and wonderful," Albert had murmured, voice thick.

With a little urging, Lincoln had put his feet on Albert's chest.

"Lean back."

That was when things started to get really hot.

Lincoln scrunched his toes and gripped hardened nipples with them. Albert's fingers moved inside him, and on his inner thigh.

They'd travelled all this way, all the way to this spectacular resort in the mountains between Switzerland and Italy. They'd taken their time, made it a journey with short legs, so they spent as much time walking around towns and in the country as they did biking. Lincoln suspected Albert had planned it that way so he wouldn't get sore. So he could build up his muscles gradually. It was working - he felt fit and firm all over. He was getting used to riding for extended periods. They'd biked up to Seattle first and flown to the UK from there, then made their way up to John O'Groats, and then slowly south.

The flight had been long. After all the preparation for the journey, Lincoln had trouble sitting still. He'd already grown used to a workout every day, using his thighs and his butt and his whole body to manoeuvre the big bike. Sitting all the way across the States, across the ocean, had made him twitchy.

Lincoln had worried about the bikes in the cargo bay. And during the layover, when they had to be moved form one plane to the next. And he'd worried he would get cramps in his legs from sitting for too long.

Lincoln - taken out of his comfort zone, the only real home he'd ever known - worried a lot. In the very back of his mind, he still worried about the glass tabletop. And whether anyone would get upset that they were doing this on a glass table in a hotel room.

Outside he could see only magnificent mountains. No one could see inside. Could they?

The only thing he wasn't worried about what Albert was seeing. Albert always liked what he saw But he was worried that he didn't look his best. From that angle. Squashed against the oily glass. In front of the open curtains with the sun shining in and glinting on the mountaintops.

"Beautiful view," Albert murmured.

Fuck the Alps, Lincoln thought.

The Fake Highland Games

2009-01-28T20:35:10Z

Title: The Fake Highland Games
Author: heartofslash
Fandom/Pairing: post-Black Hawk Down, Grimes/McKnight
Rating: Adult. Very adult.
Warning: sub/Dom. Explicitness galore. Absurdly large amounts of dirty talk. And a kilt.
Disclaimer: Not intended to infringe on anyone's copyright, and almost impossible to do so anyway because the original Black Hawk Down did not include kilts or fuck me jeans or dirty talk anything like that... unless you consider military lingo in the heat of battle "dirty talk". *sheepishly raises hand*
Timeframe: This takes place just before Grimes takes his job at D-Tech, so it's one of those bridge fics between Army of Two and The Long Haul, but I'm using my new "The Long Haul" banner because byte366 made it for me and it's spiffy and gives me the warm and squigglies.

Woohoohoo!

Note about names: I've been slahsing for a while now. At first my pen name was Haleth Haladin. When I got an LJ, I decided to use "heartofslash" because it was a popular song parody I'd written, and then people who met me on LJ started calling me heartofslash, and that stuck a bit, so now I'll answer to "haleth" or "haleth haladin" or "heartofslash" ~~or "good girl" or "hey, slut" or whatever...~~

Dedication: This fic is dedicated to molly_millions, (who, for those who may have read my recent Jedi Kink fics, is the person who planted the phrase "bubble butt" in my brain in relation to the endowments of a certain Mr. McGregor, who has a fine arse indeed.)My your year be full of bubble butts and other delights, my dear. And to byte366, who always makes me want to slash MORE.

The Fake Highland Games

Linda McKnight seemed to enjoy giving things to her brother that would enhance his sex life.

First, she'd given him the use of her house for a summer, the summer that John Grimes had left the US Army and enlisted in a far more private army, the one Danny McKnight commanded.

Then she'd given Grimes a convenient place to live, and a job that made serving McKnight easy.

None of those things had been done with the intent of getting her brother laid. She'd needed someone to take care of the house and the fish and the cat. She had not, at the time, even been aware of John Grimes' existence. And she'd needed someone to live in the cottage and deal with the mess in the cottage. John Grimes was the ideal man for the job.

The other things she'd given, though… they may have been given with some intent to induce sex.

Like the hooded sweatshirt. The one that made Grimes' eyes turn a matching shade of gray-blue, and made Grimes look young and almost innocent, or as innocent as a man can look when another man has his hand in the pocket, around his hard cock.

And those jeans she'd bought him. The fuck-me jeans. The jeans that Grimes could not wear without McKnight being bowled over by a blinding rush of lust. Yeah, those jeans, a little too low cut on the waist, a little too tight in the back, a little too closely molded in the front.

And the lipstick. Which she had not, in fact, given, but that Danny McKnight had taken. The smell of lipstick gave McKnight an erection that only one thing could cure.

Then there was the weight bench. She had not, technically, given it to McKnight. He'd bought it with his own money, money he'd earned at his summer job doing flat roofing. But she had stored it for years, and then had it moved over to the house McKnight and Grimes shared, and that had both induced and enhanced a whole lot of sex.

McKnight did not need things in order to have a sex life.

If he and Grimes had been locked in an empty room with no things in it at all, they still would have had sex.

But things… things were wonderful when sex was happening.

Anyone who tells you that things don't make sex better is lying. The bed, the sheets, the lube, the lighting – those are all things, and they make sex better. A heater in the winter, a fan in summertime, candlelight or music – not necessarily soft romantic music, either. All those things can make sex better.

A shower stall. A bath tub. Grab bars. The sofa. A chair. Kitchen chair, easy chair… any chair. Table. Rug. Grass. The sun on your skin.

A cigarette.

A drink. The game on the TV. A song on the stereo. A suit. A uniform. No uniform. A uniform half-on and half-off. Mostly off.

But this. This was a little too much to handle.

McKnight stared as if he'd never seen anything like it before.

A kilt. Red and green with a thin yellow line. A fucking plaid... no, tartan... goddamn kilt.

"You want me to wear that where?" he asked.

"Not you," Linda said. "It doesn't have to be you. Either of you. I would have got two kilts, but then you'd both have to wear them, and there might be parents there who work at the base, and I think it might be a bit blatant if you showed up wearing matching kilts."

"You think?" McKnight asked. Yeah, he could imagine the talk if he and Grimes showed up anywhere in matching outfits that weren't regulation uniform, let alone kilts. "Whatever happened to you retiring?"

Linda laughed. "Teachers don't really retire, Danny. We just give up our permanent positions, spend a few quiet weeks or months at home or on vacation, and then take on temporary positions."

Linda had traveled for almost a year. But one of the English teachers got cancer and needed extended time off. She was okay, but two weeks into her chemotherapy the other English teacher found out she was pregnant. But the time the first one was able to return to work, it was time for the other one to go on leave, so she'd been at the school all year like a regular teacher.

McKnight had known all this for a while, but he still didn't understand why she would want to spend her days with a bunch of rotten kids when she didn't need the money.

If it wasn’t for the paycheck and the pension, there was no way he's still be in the army. He'd much rather spend his time with Grimes. Traveling, at home, wherever. He didn't care.

But then, he was the lucky one. Luckier than anyone else in the world, actually. Because he had Grimes.

And now he had Grimes and a kilt – a combination he predicted would be highly volatile, no matter which one of them wore it.

"It's a theme event, Danny. Highland Days. In preparation for the school trip to Scotland. We're putting on our own Highland Games."

"Uh-huh," McKnight said. He had to say something, but he couldn’t think of anything because his brain was being flooded with images of Grimes wearing the kilt. They were overwhelming images. He knew you weren't supposed to wear anything under a kilt, so his primary image was of Grimes wearing the kilt and a pair of highly polished combat boots and nothing else.

Well… socks. Combat boots would be too uncomfortable without socks. Combat boots, socks, the kilt and that was it.

Words were not quite within his grasp when he was having thoughts like that.

"Oh, here's John now," Linda said brightly.

Of course she would show him the kilt and tell him about the upcoming Highland Days at the high school and how he should wear the kilt and come to the games and help out, and then McKnight got the image of Grimes in the kilt (and socks and boots) and a t-shirt, because there was no way he was letting him go out in public shirtless, and Grimes wouldn't go out in public without a shirt anyway (McKnight hoped), and Grimes helping out.

McKnight didn't know what he'd be doing exactly. What did you do to help out at fake Highland Games? Maybe Grimes would carry stuff, or set up tables or build a stage or something. Something that would, at some point, involve bending over. McKnight's brain busied itself imagining Grimes bending over and the wind catching the kilt and the kilt rising up to expose Grimes' ass.

"Danny!"

"Hmm?"

"You'll both come, won't you?"

McKnight was sure they would.

"There will be all the traditional events, wrestling and sword-dancing and caber tossing."

Grimes, who had actually been standing next to McKnight and holding the kilt in his hands for some time even though McKnight hadn't really noticed because of the overwhelming image of Grimes with the wind blowing his kilt askew, could not contain a laugh. McKnight could tell Grimes had tried to contain it, because he had his hand up, covering his mouth, which made McKnight think about putting his hand over Grimes' mouth, and he must have got that smoldering look in his eye that Grimes had mentioned on more than one occasion, because then Grimes looked a little alarmed.

Good. Let him be alarmed. Grimes knew it was impolite to do things that would give McKnight a massive hard on when his sister was standing right there.

Then Grimes couldn’t stop laughing. He covered it up with a cough and excused himself to go to the bathroom.

McKnight knew he was thinking about wearing a kilt and then wrestling with McKnight. He was sure there was some sword-dancing going on Grimes' wonderfully perverted mind too, but it had probably been the caber tossing that had put him over the edge.

Sword, tree trunk, beercan – any mention of a phallic object would make Grimes titter nervously in Linda's presence.

It was almost hysterical laughter. McKnight could still hear it over the sound of the water running.

McKnight's neck felt hot. The heat spread. He had to get Linda out of there. Except they'd invited her over for dinner. Damn.

Grimes finally came out of the bathroom. He had a funny flushed look, but at least he'd stopped laughing inappropriately. He busied himself making dinner and chatting with Linda.

McKnight considered going upstairs for a quick jack, because all that thinking about Grimes in the kilt had made him a bit tense, and a good, fast orgasm was just the thing he needed to unwind, but he made it a practice to never jerk off when Grimes was around. Grimes considered that to be his job. And why waste a perfectly good orgasm? He could wait.

Linda went home after dinner, after extracting the promise that either Grimes or McKnight would wear the damn kilt to the fake Highland Games. Grimes did the dishes and McKnight watched him. Intently.

Grimes stopped doing the dishes.

"Is there something wrong, sir?"

McKnight sat back in his chair and popped his top button open. "Yeah, I got a caber that needs tossing."

It wasn't easy for Grimes to get all that cock into his mouth while he was laughing, but McKnight grabbed a handful of soft hair and that seemed to help him. That and the taste of his not-quite-fresh cock made the laugh turn to a choked moan.

McKnight had been planning on driving straight home from work and having a hot shower, because it had been a long day spent, for the most part, inside a tank, teaching maneuvers to a bunch of kids who didn't know a turret from a turd. It was a hot day, and they'd been crammed in their pretty tightly in the tank. The hot, sweaty tank. So McKnight needed a shower.

But in the parking lot one of the majors had discovered that he had a flat tire, so McKnight had helped him change it, and by the time he got home he was even hotter and sweatier, but Linda was already there and it would have been impolite to shower, and besides, there had been the kilt to deal with. So McKnight was still sweaty. Still hot.

McKnight stroked Grimes' bulging cheek. "You like the taste of a dirty cock, don't you?"

Grimes slid his lips further along the shaft and tugged McKnight's pants down in answer.

McKnight yanked Grimes' hair and watched his cock pull free of Grimes' frantically sucking mouth. "I asked you a question."

Grimes licked his lips. "Yes, sir. Dirty cock, sir."

"I would have cleaned it, you know," McKnight said. "But it was a long day." He told Grimes about the tank and the flat tire and everything while he rubbed his cock all over Grimes' face. He told him about the whole day, right up to sitting at the dinner table, still not showered, with his pants shoved down to his ankles and his legs spread as with as they could go with Grimes' head buried between his legs licking his sweaty balls…

McKnight stopped his recitation of the day's woes. Having his balls licked by Grimes wasn't much of a woe, was it? Besides, it was a good thing he hadn't had time to shower, because Grimes liked him dirty sometimes. He must have. He had McKnight's cock halfway down his throat again.

"Oh, motherfucker, good boy," McKnight said with his teeth gritted. "Good, good boy. I wanna see you in the kilt." He was feeling so greedy.

Grimes said something around his cock that sounded like "at the games".

"You know you're not supposed to wear anything under it," McKnight said.

There was a definite sound of approval, which buzzed on the head of McKnight's dick and made his balls tingle. Unless that was the feeling of the saliva drying on his skin.

Fuck, yes.

But the kilt.

Grimes being Linda's fake younger lover, helping to do whatever he was supposed to do to help at the fake Highland Games, all self-conscious about the kilt and his lack of anything under the kilt, trying to act like he wasn't half naked, almost exposed, in front of everyone.

And then Grimes bent over the table with the kilt flipped up over his back and McKnight behind him…

"I can't," Grimes panted against his cock. "I can't wear the kilt."

"Yes, you can," McKnight growled.

"Sir, I can't. At the Highland Games. I'll be afraid to move. What if it opens up? Sir, what if I have to bend over? What if I get hard?"

McKnight laughed and hauled Grimes to his feet. "All of the above," he said. "But that's for later. I wanna see you in the kilt now."

"Now, sir? But… I'm hard."

"I know." He reached between Grimes' legs. "You always get hard when you suck my fat, dirty dick."

Grimes whimpered. "My jeans are way to tight," he whispered. "Maybe the kilt wouldn't be so bad after all."

Motherfucker. "Get naked," McKnight ordered.

Grimes slid his sweatshirt over his head and pushed his jeans down. That was all he'd been wearing. McKnight didn't know why the kilt would be such a big deal when Grimes was always walking around like that with hardly anything on anyway.

Grimes was standing right in front of McKnight, naked and hard, so it seemed natural to tug him closer, by the cock. "On second thought, maybe you being naked under a kilt isn't such a good idea," McKnight murmured. He flicked his tongue out and just touched the tip of Grimes' cock. "I'd hate for anyone to see this."

"You're right, sir. I should wear something under the kilt."

The need for an undergarment became clearer once Grimes actually got the kilt on. The texture, soft and scratchy at the same time, was tantalizing and torturous all at once.

The weight wasn't a lot, but it felt like the same pressure McKnight exerted when he would cup his hand over Grimes' eager cock and whisper "not yet", something McKnight would do after he had made it clear that he wanted Grimes to do something incredibly dirty and fun, but that Grimes would have to wait to do until after dinner or during the next commercial break or whatever arbitrary time limit McKnight could stand to think of, because when Grimes had to wait things always got better.

But the kilt wasn't heavy enough to make his cock go down, so it tented out, looking a little ridiculous. So he had the pressure AND his cock sticking straight out.

Awkward.

McKnight put his hand on the kilt and exerted that pressure now, so that Grimes got a double dose of it.

"Impatient," McKnight noted.

"I was already hard, sir," Grimes pointed out, impatient and wanting to speed things up. "I was already hard from sucking your fat, dirty cock."

Dirty talk worked just as effectively on McKnight as it did on Grimes. McKnight shoved his hand up under Grimes' kilt and grabbed his balls. "I think I like this kilt thing," he said gruffly.

Grimes could not speak. If he spoke, he might yelp.

"You're not laughing now," McKnight observed. "Don't you find sword dancing funny anymore?"

Grimes shook his head. Not funny at all.

McKnight moved close enough to his hot breath to seep through both layers of wool. "I think you should finish the caber toss."

Grimes didn't even smirk. He had no time to smirk, because he got down on his knees so fast. Then he couldn't smirk because it's physically impossible to smirk and deepthroat a caber in your mouth, and even thinking of it as a caber instead of a fat, dirty cock didn't make him smirk because it was not funny. It was dead fucking serious.

He was still self-conscious about the kilt, or rather about the tent his erection made in the front of the kilt. And the floor was hard on his knees, but the floor was always hard when he knelt on it with bare knees. It was amazing what a difference a single layer of denim could make.

McKnight unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it. He shucked his t-shirt for good measure. He dropped the shirt on Grimes' naked back. It slipped over his shoulders, slightly damp, smelling like McKnight and axle grease and the inside of a hot, sweaty tank. Grimes forced his mouth open that much wider. Enough to make McKnight fist his hair again.

"Motherfucker, John, you are one fine cocksucker," McKnight breathed out harshly.

Grimes moved his tongue with as much force as he could muster. His mouth was stuffed full of cock and there was something primal about that. Submissive, yes, inherently submissive – not the cocksucking part of that, but the stuffed part. Plus he was on the floor, half-naked, on his knees between his commanding officer's thighs, with McKnight's fist tugging, guiding his mouth up and down. But it went beyond serving.

It had to be the sweat, the sheer manliness of McKnight's sweat. Dirty, but not in a disgusting way. It wasn't like he was caked in actual dirt, although there was a slight grittiness to the whole situation.

It had to be the balls. McKnight had had his face crammed right into his crotch, and the damp skin, the smell, the taste, had made Grimes' brain explode. The pungent flavour made his mouth water even now, and this was fast becoming the sloppiest blowjob he'd given in a long time. The slurping noises were obscene, and McKnight was doing all he could to make them louder.

He tugged Grimes' head up again and pushed sideways, back and forth, so his wet cock slid all over Grimes' face, coating it with saliva and pre-come and sweat and sex and this could go on all night, in and out, sucking, rubbing, smearing, teasing, groaning, begging. McKnight tilted Grimes' face up more, and Grimes' vision was blurred but he could see the gleam in McKnight's eye.

"Fuck, John, you have to sit on my cock," McKnight groaned.

Grimes clamored up and bunched the kilt around his waist. McKnight's cock nudged his balls. "Sir, I just need…" Grimes panted. He needed lube, that's what he needed.

McKnight shoved three fingers into Grimes' mouth. Grimes sucked automatically, then he worked his tongue and lips around them wetly. As soon as they were slick all around, McKnight shoved his hand between the two of them, pushing his cock to the side. He circled twice, maybe three times, spreading the spit around, and then worked a finger inside.

The entrance of just that one finger was enough to make Grimes beg. "Yes, sir, please."

McKnight crooked his finger.

"Thank you, sir," Grimes moaned. He had one arm bent across his stomach holding the hastily gathered kilt. He was on tip toe, holding his body weight up so McKnight's hand could move freely. The way his legs were spread so wide made his thighs ache. He dug the fingers of his other hand into McKnight's shoulder. He was going to come just from the tension.

McKnight's other hand came out of nowhere to grasp his jaw and pull his face down. "Aw, fuck, look at your face." McKnight licked his cheek. "You're wet all over." He gnawed a bit on Grimes' chin. "You look good all sloppy like that. Too bad I didn't come on your face. You'd look even better."

Grimes' asshole clenched around McKnight's finger, without Grimes even trying.

"Mmm, you like that," McKnight noted. Accurately.

The wool scratched the top half of Grimes' ass. "Sir, if I can just get this kilt off…"

"I like the kilt."

"I don't want to come on the kilt, sir." How would he explain that to Linda? He would have to get it drycleaned. You can't wash 100% virgin wool, not even in cold water.

"I'm not done with the kilt yet," McKnight said.

There was something ominous about that.

Before Grimes could pinpoint what it was, McKnight gave Grimes' face one last lick, shoved him upright, and ordered Grimes to put his arms behind his back.

Grimes did as he was told, grasping his elbows in the familiar position, even if he hadn't been in it in a long time.

The kilt fell down and made his cock bounce.

"There's definitely a problem with you wearing a skirt," McKnight teased. He pushed his finger up further inside and turned his wrist.

Grimes was about to beg for more, but McKnight lifted the kilt and shoved his whole head under it. There was nothing to beg for anymore.

Heat was the first thing he noticed. Heat and lips and McKnight's mouth enveloping his cock. In fact, he was so distracted by the mouth he barely noticed the second finger, or the other hand sneaking up his thigh, grabbing the base of this cock. He looked down and saw McKnight's broad back, hunched forward, shoulders draped in red and green with a thin line of yellow.

It was a sloppy blowjob, just the way Grimes had done it. McKnight was letting his spit flow freely, slipping and sliding his lips around the way Grimes had, flicking his tongue madly as he pulled back, lips smacking. He let Grimes' cock slide out of his mouth and Grimes felt a prickle of unshaved cheek against it.

"Sir!" Fuck! He was rubbing Grimes' cock all over his face. And Grimes couldn’t see. He didn't want to see. It would have been too…

McKnight ran his top teeth along the shaft. "Give it to me," McKnight ordered. He started to pump his fingers in and out, and slammed the cock back in his mouth.

Grimes prided himself on obeying orders, even when he could net see them being given on account of the kilt covering McKnight's head. He almost wished he could watch, but if he'd actually seen McKnight rubbing cock on his face Grimes might have fainted. It was difficult enough to remain in a vertical position what with the fingers up his ass and the hungry mouth on his cock, lips pulling at him, fingers squeezing.

"Yes, sir," he agreed, but with his thighs straining and the effort of standing it wasn't easy to come. McKnight moaned around his cock and stroked the bottom half of it. It sounded like 'good boy', but that could have been Grimes' imagination as the fingers moved inside him and his testicles tightened into one, round, aching ball of…

"Danny!"

McKnight took him deeper and clamped his lips around the shaft so tightly Grimes didn't have to worry about a drop getting on the kilt. Through it all, McKnight never stopped moving his fingers. Half of Grimes wanted to collapse from the bliss of the orgasm, but the other half, the back half, he guessed, wanted to keep going.

The last thing he wanted was for the fingers to go away. He tried to squirm on them, but he was starting to get dry in his ass, so the squirming was awkward.

McKnight pulled his fingers out and did something Grimes still could not see. Goddamn kilt! But when McKnight shoved them back in they were slick from the come and saliva that had been in McKnight's mouth.

Grimes' knees buckled.

McKnight pulled him forward so he fell onto McKnight's thighs and forearm.

"Good boy," McKnight said again, and went back to licking Grimes' face. "You think you can reach over there on the table to that olive oil?"

Olive oil was a good idea. A really good idea. Even with the come and the spit, Grimes wasn't slick enough to take McKnight's cock. Grimes squinted and the olive oil came into focus, next to the balsamic vinegar he'd brought out for Linda, because that was her favorite, and Linda had brought him a kilt to wear and olive oil wouldn’t be that hard to wash out, would it? Except…

"Virgin wool," he croaked.

McKnight laughed. He fiddled with the buckle on one side of the kilt. "Can't be mixing virgin wool with virgin olive oil, can we?" he asked, and Grimes nodded stupidly. He was surprised he'd been able to get two words out at all.

"Too bad there's no virgin ass to go along with all this virgin everything else," McKnight said and scraped his knuckles against the ring of muscle that was not as tight as it had been a few minutes before. "We'll just have to imagine that part."

Grimes could not remember ever being a virgin.

"You're a virgin at wearing a kilt, right?"

There was that.

McKnight only had one hand free, since the other one was ravishing Grimes' asshole pretty effectively. Grimes had to help with the stupid little buckles, fingers tripping over McKnight's. They both grumbled a bit in frustration, but with a little concentration - tough to do when the fingers were flexing like that...

Finally he was free of the kilt. McKnight tossed it far enough away that no come or oil or anything would hurt it. It hadn't been too difficult to get off because Grimes hadn't put it on properly in the first place, with the pin and the belt and the pouch he would have to wear for the fake Highland Games. The pin would keep it from opening up so easily and the pouch would help hide any erections. Plus, he was planning to wear the tightest, most restrictive and uncomfortable underwear he could find.

But right now he was totally naked and had three fingers inside his ass and he wanted the fat, dirty, hard cock that was sticking up between them like a fucking caber.

"Come on, John. It's too far for me to reach with this hand, and the other one is busy. " He moved his fingers in a new way inside Grimes and made Grimes yelp. "Get the oil."

Grimes' hand trembled, but he managed to grab the bottle and drag it across the table. He splashed some oil onto McKnight's hard cock and dropped the bottle on the floor. It didn't break. He'd replaced the old, broken glass bottle with a plastic one after the first time that had happened.

He slid his hand over the thick shaft.

"Time for the sword dance?" McKnight grunted.

Flailing, not dancing. Flailing as the fingers pulled out, flailing as a wet, hot hand gripped his hip, guided him up, eased him down. And flailing as McKnight's cock stretched into him.

He knew his mouth was open and he was going "Ah! Ah! Ah!" and his arms flailed so much he got olive oil all over McKnight's shoulder and neck. He would lick that off later.

McKnight stroked his back with his clean hand. "Easy," he whispered, hoarse and fighting for control. "Easy, John. Easy."

"Oh!" Was all Grimes could respond. It burned and stretched and filled him until his ass rested on McKnight's thighs.

"My fat, dirty cock is in your ass now," McKnight growled.

Was it over?"

"Open your eyes. Good boy. You get that glazed look whenever I put my cock up your ass."

Grimes nodded. His limbs weighed a ton and they were pulling him down onto the cock, forcing it deeper inside him.

"You're not wearing that kilt to the school. You can't. Not after this. You'd be thinking about this too much. I can't have you thinking about this in public. Your eyes will glaze over, and everyone will see how hard your cock is under the kilt, and they'll know you're thinking about my big, fat, dirty cock being shoved up your ass…"

Grimes shook his head and wondered if he was ever going to stop being filled.

McKnight just kept on talking, even though his voice was so harsh it sounded like it was scraping his throat. "I think wearing a skirt makes you slutty, John. Doesn’t it? I think putting that skirt on made you want to get fucked in the ass."

Grimes didn't need to put on a skirt to want to get fucked in the ass by McKnight, but he wasn't able to argue the point. Not with his ass full of McKnight.

"And everyone who saw you in that kilt would want to give you cock," McKnight continued. He tilted his hips and gave Grimes cock, enough to make Grimes shake all over. "I wanted to give you cock right away, but first I wanted to see you with your mouth full." He licked across Grimes' lips. "Good cocksucker," he whispered.

McKnight's mouth tasted like Grimes' come. Grimes rocked forward and back. It stopped McKnight from talking. For a minute or two. McKnight shoved his tongue into Grimes' mouth and helped Grimes rock. Then he started up again.

"Fuck, yeah, fuck yourself on me. Lemme see how you like to fuck yourself on my fat, dirty cock. I was thinking about this all the way home, hoping I could get my cock in you, nice and dirty."

That was a lie. He's already said he'd been thinking about having a shower when he got home, but now he was saying he'd wanted to fuck Grimes, still dirty. He was lying. Lying for the purpose of making Grimes want to get fucked by him even more. That was unfair. Unfair and indecent. Almost as indecent as the way Grimes was rocking on McKnight's lap and moaning and tasting his own come on McKnight's lips. And how McKnight was red in the face, flushed from being under the hot wool kilt and rubbing Grimes' cock all over his face like that.

"Good boy, dirty boy, full of cock," McKnight chanted. "Come on, make me come inside you."

Grimes found his hands again and used them to grab McKnight on both sides of his head. He kissed him hard, sucked his tongue until he couldn't taste himself anymore, all the while rocking his hips, rubbing himself inside and out with McKnight's cock. He kept kissing until McKnight made a noise he only ever made when he was right on the brink.

"Danny," Grimes whispered.

And the brink was no more. Everything was deep pulses and wild panting and crushing bear hugging and then words, words, words that tumbled over him like the t-shirt had earlier, only hotter and sweatier.

"Oh, fuck, John, no. No one is ever going to see you in that kilt. You are not wearing that thing out in public. You are not thinking about this in public. No way. I'll wear the damn thing to the school."

Grimes peeled himself off McKnight's sweaty chest. "Sir?"

"I said I'm gonna wear the fucking kilt to the goddamn fake Highland Games."

Grimes blinked. He had not seriously considered that at all. He'd just assumed that as Linda's fake boyfriend, he would be the one to wear the kilt to the fake Highland Games.

"You will keep yourself covered in a respectable pair of jeans," McKnight ordered.

Grimes tried to imagine himself wearing his fuck me jeans out in public, watching McKnight walk around, in public, in the kilt. McKnight with bare legs, in the kilt, with his bare legs and his cock under the kilt, fat, dirty cock and sweaty balls and hot thighs, under the kilt… in public.

"And it's not going to be those tight ones, either. I won't have you showing your hard on in public while I'm wearing a fucking kilt."

Grimes could kneel on the ground and put his head under the kilt. It would be hot, stifled, like sucking cock under the blankets.

"Sir."

"Yes?"

"I'm hard again."

"I can see that."

The End.

Sanderson Gives Hoot a Massage... all manly-like.

2009-01-28T19:33:47Z

Title: Full Body Massage
Author: heartofslash
Rating: Adult
Fandom/Pairing: Black Hawk Down, Sanderson/Hoot
Disclaimer: Not real guys. Based on real guys originally, but so many steps away from the original product it's nigh unrecognizable. No infringement intended.

Dedication: For second_banana, my cyberwife, to whom I wanted to give an intense massage, and for my old friend helena_s_renn, to whom I wanted to give a very macho blow job. May you both have the very best this year, and may it include massages and oral sex of all varieties.

Full Body Massage

Warm oil dripped in slow motion from Sanderson's fingertips to the wide expanse of rippling muscles spread out on the bed below them. Hoot twitched when the first few drops hit, then he settled into the mattress.

"Work it good," he drawled.

Sanderson was happy to oblige. He spread the oil over taut skin and kneaded. There was nothing subtle about it.

You didn't give Hoot Gibson one of those namby-pamby-scented-candles-and-soft-music kind of massages. He was more of a being-pummeled-by-someone-Swedish-and-burly sort of massage recipient. He liked to have the tightness pounded out him, knots smashed into submission, tension beaten down, not eased up.

His back wasn't in a bad state, actually. He was tense, but there were no injuries, no giant knots or strains. Sanderson suspected that Hoot's day had not been nearly as hard as Hoot claimed it to have been when he'd walked in, tossed his coat in the corner and downed a beer in two swallows, three tops.

Nowhere near as hard as Sanderson's cock was, but that was to be expected. He was wearing only a pair of briefs as he straddled the best ass he'd ever straddled, and he had his hands all over what could only be described as a hunk of grade A prime man.

But first, the massage.

Sanderson's hands moved with brutal efficiency. He worked his way down, from neck to waist, in ten minutes. The muscles responded the way they were supposed to, and by the end the glistening of all that skin was close to blinding, not only from the oil but from the shapes, the sheer symmetry and beauty of the ridges and slopes and fuck but Hoot was cut nice.

"I'm good," Hoot sighed.

"Not yet, you're not," Sanderson said. He slid his hands down over Hoot's firm ass.

"You're right. I'm not," Hoot moaned into the pillow. "But I'm getting there…"

Sanderson kneaded ruthlessly. It wasn't often he got his hands and Hoot's ass together like this without Hoot trying to get his hands on Sanderson's ass too. Hoot was practically helpless beneath him, accepting whatever Sanderson had to give without trying to gain the upper hand. Almost - and Sanderson almost dared to think it but not quite - submissive.

It was a luxury Sanderson was not going to pass up.

Hoot wriggled and stuck a hand under himself to adjust his cock.

Sanderson flipped him over, no warning.

"Hold still," Sanderson said. "I'm going to get you relaxed all over."

"I was relaxed all over. I was just getting ready to fall asleep I was so damn relaxed and then - Ah! Fuck! Warn a man before you do that!"

Sanderson mumbled around his very full mouthful of cock.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Jeff! If you keep sucking like that…!"

Sanderson kept sucking like that. Just like that. Hard. Unrelenting. The way Hoot needed to relax.

Hoot's hips rose up off the mattress.

Sanderson pushed them back down.

Hoot started to spread his legs.

Sanderson was tempted.

But... no.

Hoot's cock jerked. His whole body tensed like one big six-foot-four muscle ready to flee or fight. Every muscle Sanderson had worked so hard to soften went rigid. And then he made a sound like he was choking.

Sanderson swallowed. Several times.

Hoot melted back onto the bed, breathing heavily, as if he'd just run ten miles up a mountain.

Sanderson lifted his head to look at Hoot's slack limbs, sated cock, and the smooth lines of his totally relaxed body.

Mission accomplished.

If the Coat Fits - a piratey fic!

2009-01-28T19:28:46Z

Title: If The Coat Fits
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: POTC, The Pirate Way
Pairing: Will Turner/Jack Sparrow
Rating: Adult
Warning: Old-fashioned domination.
Disclaimer: This is not the Will and Jack your mother knows. Unless I'm your mother. In which case – get off the computer and go do your homework! Disney owns the original characters, but not my interpretations of them.

Dedication: This is a happy belated holidays and have an excellent new year fic dedicated to barbossas_wench (Thanks for the terrific card and picture, babe!) and for veronica_rich, who likes the boots. Heh.

If The Coat Fits

"It doesn't fit, it's too elaborate, and it's not mine," Will growled.

"It fits you perfectly, now that it's been taken in," Jack countered. "A man of your masculine beauty can more than compensate for a few frills. And it is yours. You make it yours, luv,"

Will moved jerkily in the stiff brocade. There was something wrong with the cut. The way it hugged his waist then flared, the swell of the sleeves past the wrist, the collar - unnecessarily fussy - and then the complex folds and puckers at the shoulders, the breast, the hemline - some had been there from the start, some put there to make it fit him like a skin. A very decorative skin. An overly decorative skin. There was something almost feminine about it, as if Jack intended to put him on display, his prize, his treasure.

This was not the coat of a blacksmith, even if he was a blacksmith turned pirate, and if it was the coat of a pirate, it was the coat not of a working pirate, but of a captain. A captain as peacock, strutting the deck, showing his pride of ownership and command.

"Mine", it said. "All I survey is mine and you should bow to me." But the way Jack had produced it with such a flourish and fussed over the alterations, made it say "his" as well as "mine". Even if one had not known of Jack's involvement, the air of propriety would have been undeniable.

"A captain's coat," Will growled. He did nothing, would do nothing, but growl as long as this coat draped his framed.

Long frame. Lean frame. A frame that was happier in less ostentatious wrappings, and only truly joyful without any at all, if truth be told, and Jack was fond of the truth, protestations as to his pirateness notwithstanding.

Jack had taught him that - the joy of being absolutely naked. Naked and free. Why on earth would Jack forgo that in favour of this ridiculous, sumptuous fabric with its embroidered edges and lush contours, a russet background wrought with vibrant greens and subtle golds? Jack should be the one in this garment, not Will. Jack was the captain. Jack was in charge. Jack was…

"Where did you find such a thing?"

"I have my ways."

"We've been at sea for weeks," Will growled. "Months, almost."

"We've made stops," Jack countered.

"Nowhere you could beg, borrow or steal a coat of this sort," Will growled. "And don't tell me you bought it; you never buy anything."

Not entirely true. Jack had been known to buy the odd man a drink. Only very odd men. And he'd bought supplies. At times.

Jack's hand flattened over the collar, tugging, adjusting, avoiding.

"This coat was on board already," Will suspected. More than suspected – he accused.

Jack arranged a fall of lace at Will's throat. "It's been thoroughly cleaned, aired out, fluffed and puffed. It's been completely altered to fit you and only you. It is…" Jack stopped arranging and instead drew Will closer. "You have made it your own," he purred.

"No. YOU have made it my own. Why?"

Jack leaned the last few inched and licked Will's jawline.

"Whose was it?" Will demanded.

Jack nibbled a delicious earlobe.

"Jack…" Will warned…

Jack patted Will's ass through the coat and Will's trousers.

Elaborate. Commanding. Flambyant. This was the coat of someone who wanted everyone to know he was important. Not a man like Will. Someone wanting respect, but not wanting the bother of earning his name honestly through hard work and honest living. Someone who wanted power. Some who wanted…

Will pushed Jack away. "This was Barbossa's coat!"

"No, it wasn't."

"Yes, it was."

"Nonsense."

"Logic - whose else could it have been?"

"I don't know. Could have been anyone's. I've never seen it on anyone."

"Where did it come from?"

"The captain's cabin." Jack gestured around the spacious cabin. "In a trunk I never looked in before."

"And did you put it there?"

"Well, how could I have if I never looked in it before?" Jack waved the question away. "Anyone at all could have put it there."

Will growled and ripped the coat off. Bits and bobs flew through the air, shredded lace and ripped ruffle fluttered to the deck, and still feeling the oppressive weight of it on his shoulders, Will tore his own shirt off for good measure.

Now, that was more like it.

Will stood before Jack naked from the waist up, chest heaving, trousers all but hanging off hips that could not have been sculpted to be more enticing.

Jack fell to his knees.

He'd known that coat would bring out the captain in Will. He'd had no idea quite how it would work, until now, but that coat had "captain" written all over it.

Will grabbed a handful of dreadlocks and beads and tilted Jack's head back. "Is that what this is all about? You want me to be captain for a change?"

"Only in the privacy of this cabin," Jack said.

There was always a catch.

Will considered this.

For a moment, Jack feared Will might say no, might demand command of the entire ship. And, at that moment, Jack would have given it to him, because Will's fingers were steely against his scalp, and Will's trousers showed definite interest in the notion of being captain, and Will was so close that his boots were on either side of Jack's thighs and the leather was uncommonly warm through Jack's trousers, and the thought of how warm that leather would feel against his naked skin made him dizzy.

"Mr. Gibbs has the bridge?" Will asked.

Jack nodded. Always so practical, Will was. It had rubbed off on Jack over their time together, and he was now always sure to put responsible people in charge. Mr. Gibbs was in charge of the bridge, and Mr. Cotton was in charge of making sure Mr. Gibbs did not drink to excess while in charge of the bridge. And every hand knew not to disturb the captain in his quarters. Not unless it was a dire emergency, and even then, they'd know to knock first.

Will tugged, tilting Jack's head to one side. Then the other.

"Very well, Mr. Sparrow. I think you are overdressed for an evening indoors, wouldn't you agree?"

Jack did not think he could get his clothes off fast enough, and he was right. He'd managed to divest himself of coat, boots, vest, the first sash at his hips, and his scabbard when Will planted a boot on Jack's shoulder. "Slow, Sparrow. Very slow."

Jack winced. Damn his fumbling fingers. No rum, next time. Or maybe more rum. "My apologies," he said, palms pressed together, eyes growing smoky as if by his will alone. But then, Will always made that happen to Jack's eyes.

Will pushed with his foot. The heel dug into Jack's shoulder. Jack sat back on his heels and looked up.

Will had somehow managed to untie his hair - probably while Jack had been fumbling with the knot of the sash - so it fell around his face and over his shoulders like the sea.

Will shoved and Jack sprawled on his back. Will stepped forward, straddling Jack's hips.

"Oh, dear God and gods and goddesses, and randy heathen gods and anyone else with any influence at all," Jack prayed in the back of his mind. "Let me survive this and I'll worship you forever."

Will squatted.

It was hopeless. The gods would not help him at all, because they knew Jack had no real interest in them at all - he would only ever worship Will Turner.

"Do I… distract you?" Will asked in a voice that was liquid.

Jack nodded uncontrollably.

"Good. I'd hate it if you could ignore this…" Will ran his hand over his own chest and pinched a nipple until it grew stiff and darkened.

"No, Captain," Jack whimpered. "Can't ignore that."

Will slid his hand inside his own trousers.

Jack gulped.

"Aren't you supposed to be naked?" Will asked, then hissed, and Jack could see that his fingers were curled around and tightening.

Jack slithered out from between Will's boots and ripped off his shirt, second scarf and pants. "Naked, sir, and awaiting orders," Jack said smartly, right before his jaw dropped opening, ending all coherent speech.

Will dropped his knees to the deck and pushed his trousers down, pulling out his cock. He fisted it in a manner that Jack could only describe as luxurious.

Jack immediately got on his hands and knees, so as to put his mouth at the correct height. He wanted to pounce, but he knew that Captain Turner would not appreciate that. Instead, he made a groveling noise. More of a groan than a plea.

Will held his cock out toward Jack and Jack descended gratefully, voraciously and in a most acquiescent fashion. The coat lay crumpled not two feet away, and Jack could smell it, the sea air from when he'd had it strung up in the rigging to air out, the slight lemon of the soap that had been used to wash it, the perfume he'd carefully anointed it with before offering it to Will. It didn't smell nearly as good as Will did. As engrossed as Jack was in his task of sucking Will's cock, he kept seeing the coat there, a glint of decorative brass button, the sparkle of metallic thread, the sheen of the silk, the curve of a ruffle.

A captain's coat.

He moved his head up and down, fucking his mouth onto Will's cock. Sloppy. A very wet affair. Will's cock, as it always did, began to leak, making the whole business even messier. Everything slid, lips on shaft, tongue on the underside, head into his throat. Will's fingers steeled themselves against his scalp again, pushing. Deeper. Jack flailed, mouth full, barely able to breathe. Will grunted and pumped seed down his throat, held himself there until Jack saw spots.

Will sank back onto his heels. Jack followed, unwilling to let go of the cock with its satin skin and its earthy taste, something not of the sea. Will pet his hair. "Was that really what you wanted?" he asked quietly.

Jack tried to think of what the right answer might be.

"I hope it was," Will said. "Because I liked it very much."

Jack tried not to make it too noticeable when he shifted his leg to press against his very hard cock.

"I see you did, as well." The steely fingers were back in Jack's hair. "Not yet, you don't. You want a captain, you get a captain for the whole night."

Jack was not entirely sure what he'd signed up for. But he was eager to find out…

Fic for sue_chose_this - Jedi Vid Screen!

2009-01-27T18:04:46Z

Title: Jedi Vid Screen
Author: heartofslash
Fandom/Pairing: Star Wars, Master Qui-Gon Jinn/Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi
Rating: Adult
Warning: a bit of the old sub/Dom kink, especially if you follow the links.
Disclaimer: This is NOT what George Lucas meant for his Jedi masters and padawans to do in their spare time. Not that George Lucas showed much of what Jedi do in their off hours. So we'll call this unfounded speculation that infringes on no copyrights, shall we?
Note: This is part of a series of Jedi Kink stories, but the entire series is not required to understand what's going on. You need only know that Qui-Gon Jinn is, indeed, Obi-Wan Kenobi's master.
Dedication: this is dedicated to the lovely, charming and talented sue_chose_this, who makes the vids that make me perv.

Thank you, Sue, for all the joy you have given to me and to all your viewers. You are a very special padawan, and I would love to master you some day. Unless you wanted to be the master, of course.

Jedi Vid Screen

Padawan Chose-Sue This sat calmly at her console, awaiting the critical response to her latest creation, which was playing on the large vid screen in the small, private viewing booth.

Though one of the top students in the technical program, and one of the most senior padawans in the order, Padawan This was not in training to become a Jedi Knight in the field. Her talents lay in the technical and artistic realms, specifically in surveillance technology and the vid arts. For her culminating project, the completion of which would earn her knighthood, she had undertaken a complete re-edit of the entire junior Jedi training vid series. Her work had been close to finished when she had been asked to put it aside for a time to perform a special task by one of the most revered masters in the order, Mace Windu.

Padawan This was an excellent Jedi, as dedicated and as diligent as any field operative, and no one doubted her value to the Order - so it was never doubted that she would accept the mission and perform it admirably - but this special project was a welcome reprieve from the tedious process of updating the curriculum. There are only so many times a padawan can take hearing the code recited over the images of famous knights (some quite old and unattractive) performing the first seven forms (the most boring in the sequence) before the uncontrollable urge to produce a parody strikes.

Padawan This kept the parody discs safely locked away in her quarters.

Special tasks were nothing new. Security issues often required instant responses that took skilled vid makers away from their usual routines. This particular special project dovetailed nicely with Padawan This's hobby, so it had not only been a break from the tedium but also quite enjoyable in and of itself. But how her finished project would ultimately be received was still in question.

Master Mace Windu sat still, fingers steepled, chin resting on his thumbs, as he glowered at the vid screen. His admirable Jedi non-movement was disturbed by the sudden arch of an eyebrow.

Padawan This was not too worried. She had not disappointed the venerable master. She knew his reaction only proved that her work had confirmed his suspicions, an analysis further supported by a twitch in Master Yoda's left ear.

The project had sounded simple enough at the start. Master Windu had asked Padawan This to edit a piece showing the day-to-day interaction between members of a typical Jedi team. The purpose of this vid had been vaguely identified as "something to illustrate the bond and trust between master and padawan, and its importance to the training process." At first, Padawan This had assumed the vid was meant to reassure nervous parents of force-sensitive younglings that the order would care well for their children, and to show that there was no danger of harm from the close relationship the child would be expected to form with his or her master. (It was natural for parents to be concerned about an organization that used loaded terminology, especially since some of them came from worlds where words like 'master' had a whole other meaning.)

Padawan This had anticipated a week or so of careful editing of scenes of everyday life - lessons, training, physical education, meditation, chores, recreation - illustrating the wholesomeness of Jedi education and the tranquility of life at the Temple, as well as the effectiveness of the training and essential worth of the training bond, all set to a soothing soundtrack of harmonium and Fralaaxian chimes.

But when Master Windu had specified that the master-padawan relationship to be studied would be that of Master Qui-Gon Jinn and Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, Padawan This's force-sensitive whiskers had bristled immediately.

So much for typical.

To be sure, Jinn and Kenobi were an excellent tem, well-respected and effective in the field, but they were hardly average or ordinary. Master Jinn was too unorthodox to accurately represent the typical daily activities of the Order. And Kenobi was… well, he was Kenobi. She was a couple of years older than Kenobi, but This had seen enough of him to know that there were things about Kenobi that were neither typical nor ordinary.

If one were to choose any one of the many currently active master-padawan pairings to represent the ordinary, run-of-the-mill activity of the Temple, the pairing of Jinn/Kenobi would rank second to last, but only because Padawan Gork was finishing his apprenticeship with a state-of-the-art, computer-simulated AI construct of his recently deceased master, after an unfortunate incident involving a nest of newly-hatched rancor chicks and their unimpressed mother.

However, the Jinn/Kenobi pairing was at the top of the "intriguing" list, in Padawan This's book, so she had approached the assignment with some zeal.

As for Padawan This's little hobby, she could hardly be held accountable for the fact that it complimented Master Windu's request so thoroughly.

It had started a few years back, by accident. Or maybe as a joke. There had been rumours that one senior padawan was overly fond of another, one who could not stand him, which often led to awkward moments and some rather heated exchanges. Padawan This had come into possession of some video of a particularly fierce saber battle between the two of them. No one had been injured, but the onslaught could have turned violent at any moment. With a few clever edits and the inclusion of a popular love ballad on the soundtrack, Chose-Sue This had made it look as if the rebuffed padawan's passion was returned, which had amused a select group of Padawan This's yearmates to no end.

Soon, Padawan This had become the recipient of every possible favour from her close friends - extra desserts, first place in line for the showers after physical training, passes to see the most popular shows - in exchange for similar vids in which relatively benign friendships were made to look like passionate love affairs. Padawan This was clear that it was all in fun - she would never make a vid to hurt anyone - but she had a talent, and it would have been stingy not to share it with her friends. That select group of friends had grown over time, but not uncontrollably. They were all trustworthy, all discrete and mostly females This knew personally, although there were a few friends of friends.

At first she'd only worked with images taken from the training room cameras, footage that was available to all for the purpose of review and study. But soon every look and gesture caught by the Temple's ubiquitous security system was not safe from deliberate misinterpretation, for Padawan This had found her calling. She'd discovered that while no single touch or expression was damning in and of itself, taken together, edited into the right sequence, with the right background music, a collection of innocuous moments could make the case for a passionate romantic involvement between any two members of the order, even if they'd never met each other.

Now, Padawan This had a particular fondness for making two male members of the Order seem to be involved. She would freely admit to a fondness for the male form and a corresponding double-fondness for two male forms together, a fondness that was tripled when those two male forms were entangled in an erotic embrace. It was not a very Jedi-like predilection, she knew, but she did not limit herself to her own tastes. She'd even made one somewhat pompous intermediate padawan look to be infatuated with a service droid!

The techniques were no unlike the techniques used in any other sort of vidding to convince people to see things from your own point of view.

It was not that she'd applied those techniques to Master Jinn and Padawan Kenobi's interactions. Padawan This never let her hobby infringe on her work time. There were no clever edits or deceptive camera angles involved. For the special project, what she saw was what Windu got.

Just about every padawan in the temple had fantasized at some time or other about Master Jinn. He was a legend, and a legend who was quite easy on the eyes, no matter how many eyes the viewer happened to possess. Almost as many padawans had thought about trying, if not actively tried, to get into the pants of Kenobi. Murmurs about the two of them together, as more than just a master/padawan team, were usually dismissed as wishful thinking. However, less than half a day into the project, Padawan This had realized that what she wished she was seeing was, in fact, what she was seeing.

At first, she'd panicked. What was she to do? Master Windu would find out about her hobby - the data discs would be confiscated - there would be recriminations and public humiliation and she would be banned from the Temple - and so close to attaining Knighthood!

But then she'd taken a deep breath, locked the door of the editing suite, and thought it through logically.

There was no reason to suspect that Master Windu had found out about the joke vids (or even that if he ever did find out about them he would be upset - who knew? maybe Master Windu did have a sense of humour after all. Stranger things had happened.). Besides, she had never done anything harmful to anyone, other than a little teasing. And there was no reason to fear that Master Windu had chosen her for this project because of her special ability to make two people seem closer than they really were. After all, she was well known for her legitimate vid editing - she was the best candidate for the job, hands down, all four of them.

This had nothing to do with her. Master Windu had asked for typical scenes of Jinn and Kenobi - it wasn't This's fault if typical scenes of Jinn and Kenobi suggested that Jinn and Kenobi were… she wasn't quite sure what they were, but they were not innocently carrying out the business of the Temple, that was for sure.

After calming down and reassuring herself that she was in no danger, Padawan This (after slicking down her spiking hair and arranging her limbs in a reasonable facsimile of unperturbed) had next done a thorough search for video data of Master Jinn and Padawan Kenobi. She'd compared scenes of Master Jinn training with Padawan Kenobi with those of him sparring with other padawans, then with other knights, then with other masters. She'd studied the way Kenobi interacted with his agemates, with his teachers, with younger padawans he was in charge of during his various duties around the Temple, and compared that with the way Kenobi acted in public around his master.

It was obvious there was something to it beyond Padawan This's understandable if somewhat un-Jedi-like urges to imagine the tall, rugged master and the not-so-tall-and-rugged padawan in extremely less-than-Jedi-like circumstances.

More research was in order.

She had traded some favours (which included erasing some damning evidence of an ill-thought-out real-life tryst between the junior knight in charge of the laundry area and the lady who mended the padawan's tunics) in exchange for a few security codes. The rest of the procedures for accessing the more classified sections of the security system she'd figured out for herself, because above all else, she was a clever padawan.

That was how This had obtained the more private data - video data that painted a crystal clear picture of the exact relationship between Master Jinn and his padawan.

After that, Padawan This had embarked on an elaborate self-examination cleansing ritual and long meditation session, during which she'd contemplated all the possibilities - of Master Windu's motivations, of the implications of the vids she'd viewed, and of consequences that might ensue were she to give an honest picture of the Jinn/Kenobi relationship - and having established in her own mind that she was not imaging things, and that she would not be unduly punished for revealing the truth in her vid project, Padawan This delivered her weekly report which, for some reason, had not been delivered in the usual way, in the classroom to her own master, but in a private council session at which only she and Master Windu were present.

She reported to the master that she had obtained the necessary footage and would have a finished vid for him at the end of the week, and added a strong recommendation that, in her humble opinion, it would be best if only the two of them viewed the final product first, before exposing it to the wider public. She figured that covered her, just in case her judgement was severely off course.

Master Windu informed her that Master Yoda would also be present for the premier.

The addition of Master Yoda to the complicated moral equation did not overly concern Padawan This. He had been Master Jinn's master, and he had the right to know.

Besides that, there was nothing illegal in what it looked like was going on between Jinn and Kenobi, no matter how it looked on screen.

Master Windu had repeated his instructions for her to be scrupulously honest in her portrayal of the daily lives of Master Jinn and Padawan Kenobi, and that he would review her work accompanied by only Master Yoda before it was made pubic, except Master Windu had made and uncharacteristic error and said "if" it were made public.

In hindsight, it had likely not been an error. Master Windu did not seem at all surprised by the content of the video data, even though that one scene had made him raise his eyebrow so suddenly. Hells, scene seven made Padawan This raise her eyebrow, even though she'd seen it before. Numerous times. In close-up. With freeze frames.

And scene seven was nothing compared to scene seventeen!

Scene seven took place in the far garden, the one carpeted by the Andorran shade grass. It had been culled from the low-res public video security data, so it was a little fuzzy, but what was happening was clear enough, if you knew what you were looking for. Padawan Kenobi sitting very still on the pale green grass, legs crossed, eyes closed. Master Jinn sitting opposite in the same position, but with his eyes open. Master Jinn speaking. Low-res security vid being audio-less, the angle making it impossible to read Master Jinn's lips, the actual words being irrelevant, the effect of his words needing no soundtrack to be understood.

Face serene, limbs at rest, Padawan Kenobi breathing in, breathing out, breathing in faster, his lips parting sensually, chest rising, and a sizeable bulge appearing in his leggings. The bulge growing, his breath quickening again, Master Jinn leaning closer, so close their breath mingles as the master speaks his final words of the guided meditation and finally…

That was what had caused Master Windu's brow to rise - the distinct appearance of a wet spot on the front of Padawan Kenobi's pants.

Though Padawan This was not destined to be a knight in the field, nor was she a male padawan, or even a male humanoid, she was reasonably sure that spontaneous ejaculation was NOT a standard training practice.

The vid had begun with six training scenes. Padawan This felt that they were most representative of the daily activities of Jedi life in the Temple, and she'd wanted to establish the close bond between the two men. Some light saber sparring, a few katas, a lesson in levitation - standard establishing shots. Then had come the scene in the garden. This had deemed it necessary to pull back a bit at that point - she'd learned that to throw in all the damning evidence in at once was less convincing than to show a sustained pattern of behaviour.

Master Jinn and Padawan Kenobi in line at the food tables in the common dining lounge. Standing close, no closer than any other team, but as they both reach for the same dish, their hands brush.

True, when she first saw that scene, Padawan This believed the data stream to have been corrupted. She thought there was a flash of light when their fingers touched, a millisecond of electrical spark. She still was not entirely sure if the spark had occurred on screen or in her own brain. When she slowed it down and zoomed in there had been no flash, just the brush of a very large, somewhat rough thumb over the back of a much smaller thumb, and the answering twitch of the smaller hand - impulsive, instinctive - the kind of twitch that she might have used to spin a wild fantasy had it been necessary. But it was not necessary. Not at all. And it wasn’t even the mid-meditation, in-pants ejaculation that clinched it.

Scene nine was from the training room. Padawan Kenobi executing a perfect back flip off the end of a beam, accompanied by a very impressive spin of his fully powered saber. Master Jinn looking on with an unmistakable gleam of pride in his eye. Unbecoming a staid Jedi master, but understandable.

A post work-out massage of a pulled calf muscle - on a mat on the floor of the training room. Perfectly normal. But there something about the way those massive hands cup the tight muscle, knead it carefully, slide up to the back of Padawan Kenobi's knee… most padawans do not arch that way when their masters ease an ache.

A shot of Padawan Kenobi following Master Jinn in the hallway, cloak swirling around him in an unusual fashion. Closer than a Jedi cloak usually swirls. A flash of naked leg above a perfectly shined boot.

"Tch tch," Padawan This heard from Master Yoda.

Master Windu sighed. "I know."

"Risk of exposure a valuable lesson," Master Yoda mused. "Undercover a Jedi must be able to achieve."

"I don't think naked under one's robe is quite what is required to train for undercover missions," Master Windu said dryly.

"Working to overcome the boy's natural shyness, he is," Yoda suggested with a slight, if This was not mistaken, smirk.

Both masters turned their attention back to the screen. Off to one side, while two senior padawans battle fiercely with light sabers, Master Jinn and Padawan Kenobi can be seen at the side of the picture, seated on a bench next to the demonstration platform. They have obviously been working out strenuously - both are flushed and Master Jinn's long hair is dishevelled. Padawan Kenobi helpfully brushes out his master's hair, first untying then separating the strands, then combing his fingers through the freed tresses. He sinks his fingers into the hair, leaning closer, breathing in deeply.

Jinn reprimanding his padawan, not harshly, but definitely, and Kenobi's lips moving in apology. The word "master" can clearly be read. Kenobi straightening out the hair expertly, intently, devotedly. When he finishes, Jinn turns, winding Kenobi's padawan braid around his finger. Tugging sharply, Jinn nudges Kenobi's chin with the back of his hand. Kenobi's eyes are turned down. Jinn speaks, and then Kenobi bows his head. The graze of Jinn's other hand over Kenobi's leg is subtle, but effective. Kenobi shivers. Jinn shivers too.

Jinn, alone, in the garden. Meditating. Another incident of spontaneous ejaculation. Solitary, this time. The words on his lips clear without the audio. After all, how many words look like "Obi-Wan"?

"Hmmm," Master Yoda said. "Contemplating?"

"Planning," Master Windu grumbled.

Master Yoda chuckled. "Scheming, more like it."

Kenobi is in the classroom, reciting poetry. Jinn is at the doorway, eyes burning brightly. Kenobi sees his master at the door. He stands straighter, his diction becomes more clipped, more precise. He finishes the difficult verse masterfully. His eyes shine.

Later that day (Padawan This could tell from the time signatures on the data), the master rewards his padawan for his performance with a rare visit to the planetarium. Rare for students of Kenobi's calibre. Senior students have access to the map rooms. The planetarium is for children. It is deserted at night times. And it is night time. Qui-Gon Jinn opens the door and ushers his student inside. The stars begin to whirl above and Kenobi stares up, rapt. Jinn stands behind him, hands on his shoulders. Jinn whispers in Kenobi's ear. A poem of such erotic intensity that copies of it are stored in the restricted area of the library. Jinn knows it by heart.

Kenobi leans back into his master's chest. The master's hands disappear, and Kenobi's robe begins to bulge suggestively - at his chest, his stomach, his hips. Jinn begins the poem again. Kenobi repeats each line, quietly at first, with increasing breathlessness as he proceeds. His hands are out of sight as well, but they appear to be behind his back. The last word is but a gasp from both of them.

Master Yoda's ears positively vibrated.

"I have always found the poetry part of the curriculum a bit extraneous to Jedi training," Master Windu said with stereotypical lack of humour.

Padawan Kenobi in his private quarters, performing the Kata of the Four Paws. Wearing only a loincloth, as dictated by tradition. Skin shining with sweat, muscles straining as they always do during this most strenuous kata. He is lean. He is strong. His loincloth is a little too tight.

Padawan This does not possess the equipment Padawan Kenobi so obviously possesses, but she can imagine that might be a little uncomfortable.

Master Jinn watches intently. "Again," you can read his lips say.

Padawan Kenobi complies.

"Very fit, he is," Master Yoda noted.

Master Windu did not respond verbally.

Scene seventeen. The shared shower room. Padawan Kenobi stretching under the hot water as soap streams down over every inch of his body. Master Jinn standing to one side, hands covered in lather. Very clear who put the soap all over the padawan. Kenobi arches his back - he is so good at that - and reaches over to grasp the towel bar. Jinn's hands spread across his back.

"Checking for injuries, he is," Yoda explained. "A master's duty."

The large hands move down over toned back muscles.

"How very diligent," Master Windu agreed, sounding not-quite-complimentary.

Jinn's lips are once more obscured, hidden as they are behind a curtain of long, set hair. Jinn's hands are also hidden. Hidden by the swell of perfectly rounded padawan buttocks.

"I heard that Padawan Woo once referred to that as a bubble butt," Master Windu murmured.

Master Yoda snorts in an undignified fashion.

The scene had not been easy to attain. The security logs for the shower room cameras were stored behind a most complex digital lock. But, as noted, Padawan Chose-Sue This was clever.

"Allow this we do?" Master Yoda asked. "Cameras in the shower have we?"

"Only in the shared shower room, not the padawans-only or knights-only rooms," Master Windu explained. "It is to prevent abuse."

"Is not it abuse to watch?" Master Yoda gestured at the vid screen. "Private moment it is."

So private that one would have been forgiven to assume that Master Jinn would never have done such a thing if he'd known about the camera.

Padawan Kenobi bends slightly and thrusts his bubble butt in the direction of his master, who appears to be probing quite diligently for internal injuries.

"Hrmph. Abuse will not be prevented if hidden the camera is!"

Master Jinn looks up at the camera and winks as he twists his wrist, causing his padawan to shimmy under the spray of the shower.

"I'm pretty sure Qui-Gon knows it's there," Master Windo smirked.

Master Yoda made another harrumphing sound. "Candid camera not so secret after all."

Here Padawan This had changed the tone of the vid again, easing off on the explicitness while still emphasizing the pattern of close contact. The scenes rolled past. Padawan Kenobi bringing his master tea, with a dignified bow. Master Jinn reading reports in his quarters, with Padawan Kenobi kneeling at his feet. Padawan Kenobi massaging his master's feet as he knelt on the floor. Master Jinn stoking Padawan Kenobi's hair as Kenobi rested his cheek on his master's thigh. (Oh, how Padawan This wished that the surveillance network extended into the private bedrooms of the masters and padawans of the temple, but she could see how that would be ripe for abuse.)

Padawan Kenobi learning a difficult new kata involving much balancing on one leg and slow twisting. Master Jinn correcting his form often. His massive hands (they really did look even more massive on the screen than they did in person) quick to support his padawan's weight wherever needed - his inner thigh, his shapely calf, his quite luscious bottom.

Master Jinn actually kneading that bottom in the course of a post-work-out massage, right in the training room, with dozens of other Jedi practicing around them.

There was nothing else as shocking as the shower scene, just a series of fleeting touches, glances, moments. A stern look, a sudden blush, a completely inappropriate grope. Interactions and erections that made the ongoing nature of the relationship quite clear. The sequences seemed to have been ordered for maximum effect. In reality, Padawan This had not had to try very hard. Any order would have been effective.

"Nothing here I know not already," Master Yoda announced with a note of triumph in his voice.

Master Windu looked equal part shocked and disappointed. "You knew this was going on?"

"Of course." The smugness was hard to miss.

"But… you know what he's like - Qui-Gon. You know the kinds of relationships he has."

"My padawan he was. Know him well, I do," Master Yoda assured Master Windu.

"Then you knew he was doing these things to Obi-Wan and you did nothing about it?"

"Of age Kenobi is. Consensual it seems. Our business it is not."

"Respectfully, Master Yoda, I don't think you fully understand the kind of relationships Qui-Gon prefers."

"Know I do. Understand have I always."

"Then you know he's not… normal."

"Mmm, perhaps jealous you are?"

"I am not!"

"Are too, you are!" Yoda cackled gleefully. "Perhaps reject you, Qui-Gon did. Not able to keep up were you."

"That's ridiculous! I can take anything that man has to dish out! And that's not what concerns us here. He and I were yearmates. This is about the sacred bond between master and padawan. We must preserve that at all costs. And Master Jinn is clearly-"

"-mastering his padawan. He is," Master Yoda confirmed. "Trust Qui-Gon not to take advantage of underage padawan did I, and am sure he did not. Honourable he is. But suspect this from the time young Kenobi did come of age, I have. Never did I see such clear evidence, but notice you not how lustrous are Qui-Gon's boots of late?"

Master Windu scowled. "That boot thing," he muttered.

Master Yoda nodded victoriously.

"It's perverted!" He pointed at the image on screen, Padawan Kenobi bending swiftly to rub a smudge of dirt from the toe of his master's boot as they stood in the hall outside the council chambers waiting to be seen. Master Jinn adjusting his utility belt around his hips, and Padawan Kenobi watching, hand drifting down to still his rising erection beneath his tunic. A long shot of the two of them standing in the back of a crowd watching a demonstration of ceremonial blade-fighting techniques at the Mon Calamarian Embassy. Padawan Kenobi holding his robes closely to his body. A little too closely.

"Sith be damned - look at that!" Master Windu roared. "He's naked under that robe!"

"Naked are we all under our clothing," intoned the wise old master.

"At an official function! It's one thing in the halls of the Temple…"

"And in the council chamber," Master Yoda added with a leer.

"But that padawan is naked in public!"

"As is the master," Master Yoda said, pointing to the screen. "Look closely at image. Light saber not is that. Hmm."

Padawan Chose-Sue This looked at the vidscreen. WOW! So intent had she been on the comely blush on Obi-Wan's cheeks, she hadn't noticed that before. Master Jinn had one impressive… light saber.

Yoda let out something close to a giggle, and then the last scene began.

Padawan Kenobi performing a complex aerial move in the gym. He has all but finished the dangerous sequence. It is not something included in the Jedi curriculum. It is something most knights never learn, but Padawan Kenobi has always prided himself on his acrobatic abilities. He arcs through he air, graceful as a bird. Left ankle bends slightly on landing. He tilts to one side and hits the mat hard.

Master Jinn is at his side in an instant, touching his limbs, looking into his eyes, while Padawan Kenobi smiles sheepishly and looks to be assuring his master he is unharmed. An understandable error given the difficulty of the landing. He is fine. Really.

Master Jinn lifts one hand to his padawan's cheek, brushing it lightly with the backs of this fingers. Tenderly.

"Dear gods," Master Windu groaned.

"Serious, this is," Master Yoda says, all signs of smirking vanished from his sombre face. "Just about sex I assumed it was. Blame Qui-Gon not did I. A bubble butt like that can no master resist."

"But this isn't just about the ass," Master Windu said.

"In love is he," Master Yoda sighed.

Padawan This watched the screen fade to black. The lights in the viewing booth came up automatically.

The three sat in silence for a moment.

"What do we do?" Master Windu asked.

"Do? Nothing we do. Done, it is."

"But what if this gets out? We have to do damage control. This data must be destroyed."

"Destroy original data you will not. Only when spliced together does it incriminating become."

Padawan This stifled a giggle. No one had "spliced" anything visual in centuries on Coruscant. Master Yoda was so old sometimes.

"Warn Qui-Gon, I will. More discretion is required."

Master Windu nodded. "I agree. On all counts. It is obviously too far gone to demand an end to the relationship, and it does seem consensual. Discretion will have to suffice."

"In the bedroom the counsel belongs not," Master Yoda said firmly.

Master Windu rose, gathering his cloak around him with as much dignity as he could marshal under the circumstances. "Padawan This, you have done an excellent job, but you surely understand that this project must be destroyed. I appreciate the time you took to complete it, and I regret that you may see the time as wasted. You have shown tremendous maturity and sound judgement."

"A wise Jedi you will be."

"I will recommend that you be elevated to knighthood immediately. One of the other padawans can finish the training vids." Master Windu planted a firm hand on Padawan This's shoulder. "I'm counting on you to destroy this."

"Yes, Master," Padawan This said, thrilled that her training was at an end, that her work had not got her into trouble, and that she would not have to ever edit junior training vids again..

Master Windu left the viewing booth, muttering under his breath. "Always have to be the master, don't you, Qui-Gon? You old perv, you…"

Master Yoda hopped off his stool, surprisingly sprightly for a Jedi of his advanced centuries. "Thank you, young This. Most illuminating your work has been. Mmm, before destroying files in system, disc you will make. Deliver it to me, you will. For keeping safe. Yes?"

"Yes, Master."

"And ever saw it you will forget."

"Of course, Master Yoda."

Padawan This breathed a sigh of relief. And neglected to tell Master Yoda about the encrypted copy she had already stashed in her quarters. There was no reason to waste her best work, after all. She would keep the disc safe and secret. Along with the disc of the outtakes from the shower scene, and the midnight nude meditation session in the garden. And the time Padawan Kenobi was scrubbing the floor in the kitchen of their shared quarters. Also nude. All that would be kept for her private, personal viewing.

That was a given.

The End

New Year fic for elfscribe5

2009-01-13T16:00:45Z

Title: Those Eternal Seconds
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Swordspoint
Pairing: Richard/Alec
Rating: Mild. Bittersweet. Would go down well with a nice Cabernet Sauvignon, or so the interwebs tells me.
Disclaimer: Playing with the swords of others. It's a no-no, but not necessarily deadly. No infringement intended. Ellen Kushner rocks my world.
Note: Written after my second reading of Swordspoint, but before my first reading of The Privilege of the Sword, but it still manages to stay canon. Imagine that.
New Year Present for: elfscribe5

Those Eternal Seconds

Richard stood at the window, lit by the dusty moon, still as the night, still as only Richard could stand, as if petty things like time and gravity and the world did not exist.
It took an hour, a day, for Alec to cross the room, to wade through the night air, wading through that stillness, ripples spreading. No creaking floorboards announced his approach but Richard knew. St. Vier always knew.

Alec did not know. He never did. He never knew exactly why Richard had these moments of unreserved withdrawal, brief in duration on one plane, eternal on the next. The life of a swordsman required that a part of Richard surface only in the safest and most private of times. Alec had never had much respect for privacy that was not his own, but then, there were those other moments when everything else of Richard's felt like his and his alone, not even Richard could keep hold of those. So they were even.

An almost imperceptible tilt of the head, acknowledgement of Alec's presence, caused a glitter from the most exquisite jewel, high on Richard's cheek, catching the moonlight and magnifying it for another of those eternal seconds.

Alec reached for it instinctively. Richard's stillness was broken by a flinch so controlled that the single tear was transferred whole to the tip of Alex's extended finger. It was wet on his skin, but it held together in a sphere, a perfect, self-contained, shining fraction of Richard's soul.

They both stared at it.

Alec tried to imagine it there forever, to imagine going through life with this tiny fragile drop - droplet, really - attached to him, an extension of himself, of Richard. He would cradle it with his other hand to protect it from passers-by and inclement weather, shield it from view lest any potential enemy interpret it as a weakness. Cherish it.

An impossibility. The air itself would reclaim this droplet before Alec's own skin could absorb it. So Alec placed his fingertip in his mouth.

There wasn't enough to truly taste. A little water, perhaps some salt, flavoured with imagination. Sorrow, regret, blame, love, but in such small quantity Alec could barely conceive of it, let alone perceive it. But it was his now. It was Alec's forever, and
Richard's eyes were trained on the fingertip, where it disappeared into Alec's mouth.

Some past experience, bitter betrayal or humiliation - an off balance lunge, a squandered opportunity, the subtle nick of a well-placed blade, or perhaps the memory of Alec entering his life, altering it, forging something new, honing it to a brightness unimagined - Alec swallowed it down and made it even more his own, its passage aided by the caress of Richard's gaze on his throat as the muscles there rippled, swallowed, claimed. Claimed, not knowing why.

"It happens," Richard explained of the tear.

Not of his doing, no volition required. It had escaped its tight confines and tasted freedom on the smooth curve of Richard's cheek, bathed itself in the glow of the moon, and had its moment, until Alec cruelly deprived it of its liberty.

It happens.

"So does this," Alec said, and touched his lips to Richard's.

Richard stabbed inside, the quick, fatal blow to the heart that kills at once.

Alec curled his tongue around it, ignoring the sharpness of the blade, which was, after all, only a tongue. He wondered if Richard could taste his own tear, or if Alec overwhelmed it. Richard gave no sign. His hands moved with their usual precision, and Alec gave himself up to them as graciously as Richard's mouth had given up to Alec's. Stretched out on the bed, long and lean as a sword but deadlier, Alec shone from within. More pliable than steel, heating to the touch, Alec kept Richard deep inside him, absorbed him, kept him safe.

It happened, and the tear was forgotten.

For a while.

End.