Giving Over
Apr. 3rd, 2011 07:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Lynch/Pkie
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Summary: Written for the Come As Your Aren’t challenge over at the meme.
Pike/Lynch, surprisingly romantic...
There’s just something about Lynch that Pike really, really needs. And not in the way he ever expected.
It wasn’t really supposed to go down like this, Pike thinks, as Lynch’s tongue, lips, press to that spot right below his ear, making him shiver. Not supposed to be this way at all.
Hired for a job? Sure. By a crooked CIA agent? Sounded like a plan. But this part, this part, right here, this wasn’t supposed to be any part of that
“How you doin’ there, cupcake?” he growls up at the man who’s just invited himself in to the mercenary’s Munich hotel room. Who’s just almost kissed him. Growls, because doing anything else at this point just wouldn’t fit. Even though it kind of does, it just... just wouldn’t.
Lynch grins back at him, blue eyes set off by a robin’s egg shirt. No tie. Never a tie with the agent. He looks more like some bored playboy from the East Coast, rather than what he pretends to be, rather than what he really is. But when those clothes come off, when everything else is stripped away and there’s nothing between them, then Pike gets to see him.
Then Pike knows him.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how my flight was, sweetheart? Aren’t you even curious?” Lynch replies easily and kicks the door shut as he slides fully into the room, unconcerned with Pike’s defensive stance. After a year of planning and plotting, they have a rhythm. A really good, really bizarre rhythm.
This is only going to end one way. And Pike can’t stop it at all. He’s missed it too much in the last few months. Didn't realize how much he needed it before, just taking it for granted. Part of the job. Until it had shifted, become more.
Become this.
“Don’t really give a shit,” the shorter man shrugs.
Lynch smiles a little broader and puts a hand over his heart, patting a little, and drops down into a chair. “You wound me, baby.”
“Gee, didn’t mean to do that, sweetheart,” he says with every ounce of sarcasm he can muster, rolling his eyes for good measure, mocking. “Oh, are you going to live?”
“Hmm, good question,” his lover yawns, draping an arm over the back of the chair, arching up a little and sliding down, opening himself up. “I’ve got a terrible cramp in my neck, actually. Hurts like a mofo.”
“I don’t care,” Pike says, moving now towards that six-odd feet of grinning CIA agent. For his own part, he’s already shoeless. Makes this easier. Even if the hotel carpet’s a bit rough underfoot. Better than many a place he’s been. Better than many places they’ve done this. A good place. This’ll be a good place. He settles his hands on either side of the chair’s arms, fixing Lynch with his best glare. “I really couldn’t give two shits how you feel.”
“Mm, of course you don't. Cold bastard,” Lynch says, and grabs the front of his shirt, dragging him down.
"Fuck you."
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“Haven’t talked to my family in twenty years. Especially that hippie bitch...” he replies, so close now, so close to what they both want. He can see the agent’s pants starting to tent. Feels his own arousal beginning to build. “She just couldn’t bear the thought of me killing people...”
“I think you’re sexy when you kill people,” his lover murmurs back, and there’s the first little brush of mouths, tentative, almost... almost sweet, if Pike’s honest with himself. “Very, very sexy...”
He can’t keep it up for much longer, but he manages one more shot. “Keep up the chit-chat, sweetheart, and you just might find out what it’s like first-hand...”
“Saw plenty of that in Colombia,” the man beneath him murmurs back. “You ever seen any jungle combat, Brock? The way the bugs just fucking take over after you’re done?”
“Must have been horrible for you...”
“At twenty three? Fucking A, lover...”
And there it is, here they are, at that moment, the moment when Lynch sublimes away, when Pike can catch those fascinating glimpses of Vance, his Van, the man underneath all the CIA-issued armor, the man he...well, nothing he’s going to say aloud, or think. Or consider at all.
Just doesn’t fit.
But then Lynch surges up at the same moment he’s falling down, and somewhere in the middle, their lips crash, fighting for just a second.
And Pike gives over.
Completely.
These kisses are always amazing.
Always a little too rough to be loving, always a little too gentle to be mistaken for anything else. Tonight, when they’re just seeing each other again after months apart, working on the goddamn plate plan, the Great A-Team Escape plan, tonight the kiss is more of both. More of everything.
Pike groans into it, feeling his lover’s tongue thrusting, seeking, distracting, world-ending. Lynch is up now, height and weight and muscle he does, in fact, know how to use all working in his favor. Fuck, the agent can pick him up if he really wanted to, although Pike did threaten his life if he ever tried that again. It’s just... it’s too goddamn vulnerable and there’s already enough of that going on here already.
Way too much of everything.
Their hands freed on some kind of silent timer, Pike’s are roaming now, light over the polished tortoiseshell rounds on his lover’s tailored shirt, pushing the pale jacket off strong shoulders, working his torso out of all those constricting layers of Lynch between them. Wants everything that’s not Vance gone, and he suspects the other man’s got some kind of similar feeling about him, Brock the ex-Green Beret verses Pike, Black Forest contractor asshole extraordinaire. Judging from the way his tie’s ripped off and tossed away, how his own shirt’s suddenly gone and a nipple’s being rolled between a soft thumb and forefinger.
“Been too long, baby,” comes the heated murmur along his neck, drawing goosebumps and making him shiver.
A bulldog tattoo stands out on the upper bicep, half gone, skin red again today from the laser treatments. The mercenary never asks. But he knows. Knows what that means. Knows what getting rid of it means.
“Nothing quite like you, lover,” he growls back, knowing it’s not threatening, knowing that it doesn’t need to be. Not right now. Never right now. He grabs that expensive leather belt that Lynch wears and tugs it loose, almost ripping a belt loop as he does it. “Nobody...”
“Fuck, baby...” his man murmurs and thumbs up the hot seam of his fly as he dives back in for another kiss.
The room’s not cooperating with them right now, because they hit at least two walls and one piece of furniture, a table or something, before they finally align and crash down into the bed, Pike on top. He grins down at the fine form of the CIA man beneath him and slides away, pulling those concealing pants and underwear and shoes and socks off in one single go.
He starts at the knee and works up.
The knee.
Adorned with two little crescent-shaped scars, no bigger than a .45’s casing, cut over and closed up more than once. These mark the end of something for Vance, something he won’t talk about but his eyes acknowledge nonetheless. An ACL tear, probably. Sutures and then pig tissue and then cadavar. Buress has three inches of a dead body inside his knee, and even that probably couldn’t save him from a medical discharge.
Brock presses soft lips to this and moves up, nipping and kissing and blowing, making this man moan, savoring the taste of another male’s skin, musky and warm. Passes a bullet wound, criss-crossed indentation in the skin indicating the round took out a substantial piece of flesh, and so near the femoral artery.
Lynch is propped up on his elbows, watching the whole thing, those sea-blue eyes dark with lust now, and the mercenary grins up at him. He loves this routine, loves the mystery, but most of .
He kneels up a little more letting his lips brush the small tattoo on a jutting hipbone. An eagle and an anchor. Gold chain. The ink fading now. Old. Naval Academy bullshit.
But not being removed. Kept. Saved. Cherished.
All the little spots hit. Like bullseyes on a target. Like a man’s heart at fifty yards.
It’s Vance now who runs a hand back through Brock’s hair. Even if not everything’s open yet. Even if there are still some things that can’t be recorded on skin, things hiding inside yet. Some things that may always hide, but not, he hopes, not from him. Their stories must be so fucking similar... “Come on, baby, don’t tease...”
Just a little ways to go now, Brock tells himself, and let his lips slide right over the drooling tip of his lover’s cock, sucking hard.
Vance sighs.
His hands move of their own free will, cradling Brock's head, splaying across a cheek, soft and gentle as the mercenary keeps this suction up, starts working a little with his tongue and tastes his lover’s essence, salty and thick, feels it swelling in his mouth as he starts working it, slow. Vance loves it slow...
And Pike knows, in the back of his mind, that this is not the way this is supposed to go. If he polled his own men, or those minions the CIA agent seems to drag around with him, they’d all agree that this is supposed to be vicious and rough between them, blood and hair and ripped skin. A battle for dominance, two hard-asses trying to one-up each other in the bedroom, same as they do everywhere else. Almost-lethal combat.
Wouldn’t they be surprised?
But he pulls off, takes a look up at this man. Blue eyes closed, a little smile he only ever sees now, and Pike knows that this is better. This is better, so much better, even if he doesn’t understand it himself. He blows on the reddened skin in front of him and slides up between his lover’s spread knees, spreading both hands over those bare pecs, up around to grasp hard shoulders.
Too late, he remembers the raw skin of the tattoo, what's been lost, what can't bear to be remembered, and his lover hisses.
“You in to the doc’s this morning?” he asks softly, not wanting to break whatever fuck this mood is.
Too late, though, maybe. Because Vance’s hands are on his waistband, jerking him closer, hard. The mercenary can feel the other man’s cock throbbing through the thin fabric of his pants but tries to focus as button and zipper start to come undone, faster, a little more violent than it usually is.
“Fuck the Corps,” he growls, and flings them both around suddenly, violent, tossing Pike onto the bed and practically tearing his pants clean off. He crawls over him, moving to straddle the smaller man, cock rock hard and hands desperate as he starts on the lowest button. “Fuck the Corps...”
He can’t get the button open, and Pike, arousal starting to flag at the sight, figures he can excuse himself this little bit of kindness, and catches the agent’s wrist, folding his fingers up into his own.
Looks up into his eyes.
At one point, right after they started fucking, or whatever it is the name is for what they do together, Pike got Lynch’s real name out of him. Vance Buress, he’d whispered, chin hooked over the mercenary’s shoulder as they spooned in a hotel room not too different from this one. All hotel rooms were fucking the same. You should call me Vance, if we’re going to do this. Fucking CIA has nothing to do with my sex life...
He’d looked that name up.
Just to be sure Lynch wasn’t lying to him, of course. Not because he cared, or anything like that.
Found a father, a few newspaper articles, everything else scrubbed out by the CIA or some shit like that. Still. It’d been enough to piece it together.
Rich family, Long Island or some shit like that. Old money. Old, like 1600 sea captain money. Probably expected their son to go into the military, get a commission, be a gentleman officer. Surface warfare, probably, fucking elite of the Navy. Whites, scotch, beautiful wife and some weird variety of purebred dog in there. But he’d gone Marines instead, gone gay, gone off the plan...
He could tell Vance that he understands. Knows what it’s like to lose something good. To let down everyone who cared about you. End up somewhere, as something, you weren’t able to fathom as a younger man. But it’s been years since the mercenary’s had the luxury of caring about any of that, and if he starts caring about it now, for Vance, even for his Van...
“Fuck the Corps,” he murmurs instead, agreeing, saying everything he can say with it, and wraps his legs around that narrow waist. Reaches up into all that dark, perfectly gelled hair. Pulls it all down over the top of him, feeling the weight of his lover’s body cover his own, and bucks up a little, lifting his hips in unmistakable invitation.
That smile gets a little broader, or maybe Pike is just imagining that as a hand, long bereft of its callouses, slips beneath his ass, another pressing to his chest. As lips brush his.
“Want to fuck something,” Vance whispers back, quiet words shivering across the stubble of the mercenary’s chin.
And Brock can’t help but smile back.
Vance pulls away for a second, and when he comes back, there’s a slick finger trailing along the underside of Pike’s balls, behind, playing over that spot they found together a few months ago, the one that makes him just fucking melt, staying there as they kiss again. The taller man breaks away far too soon, coming back to squeeze his sac gently, and the mercenary moans.
“That good, honey?” his lover purrs, voice soft, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Brock’s neck. “Is that what you need?”
“Don’t, oh fuck...” He grabs down blindly for that hand between his legs. “Don’t you fucking stop...”
“Like this, Brock?” Vance asks, rotating his hand, and presses the pad of his thumb against his entrance. “Like that, honey?”
“Just... just like that,” he gasps out, and thinks he’d fly right off the damn bed if that strong body wasn’t holding his down. He grabs out, catching broad shoulders and clenching harder with his thighs, feeling his cock slide wetly up his lover’s hard belly. “Don’t fucking stop.”
“Never.” And he’s kissed again.
More slick, more fingers, more pressure. Vance is opening him up again, wide. Loose and wet, so loose and so wet, and there’s not even the slightest twinge of pain as his lover slips inside of him, Brock sighing happily as they fit back into each other. It’s almost perfect, Vance’s hands bunched in fists on either side of his head, the muscles of his biceps almost shaking, head back, and the mercenary strokes down that lightly furred chest above him.
He wants to feel this. He still can’t quite understand it.
The strangeness never fails to surprise him. How fucking bizarre, that he’d find this man, like this, somebody who matches him, understands, somebody who knows him, knew him before they ever met, and isn’t he turning into a fucking woman for this man?
But as Vance takes a deep breath and kisses him and begins to move, Brock doesn’t really care.
It’s slow and sweet, this, his lover’s hips rolling in a rhythm they’ve discovered they both love, pulling almost all the way out and pushing all the way back in, deep. Deep and shifting, the angle moving until the head of that cock hits that nub, pleasure shooting through him. He clenches down in time to that, taking more of Vance’s weight as a shaky hand, slick and sure, wraps around his own cock and he thrusts up into it. It all spirals out of control after that, the drilling pressure inside, the grasp of that warm palm, his legs falling apart and stretching wide on the cheap duvet, the feel of lips across his neck, the thudding pulse framed by easy teeth, murmured endearments that he always tries not to listen to, the littlecome for me Brock and the way his name’s always uttered like a fucking prayer...
And he’s spilling into Vance’s hand, into the interstitial between them, even as he’s being filled himself, hot pulses warming him through, vision whiting, almost failing entirely. The mercenary isn’t vocal, usually, and neither is Vance, but they’re both crying out right now, low and keening, as they ride each other through it, holding on.
His lover falls off to the side after some amount of time Brock doesn’t pay any attention to. Lifts his chin with the weak heel of his thumb and nuzzles a little, stubble scraping. “Thank you,” he says, so softly it’s barely audible. “I needed that.”
It catches Brock off guard. Vance says a lot of things, smarmy and sarcastic and biting. He never apologizes. And he never, ever, expresses gratitude. It’s one of those many, many things they have in common.
It pisses him off a little, actually, hearing it now, the thought that they can do this to each other, that they unwind each other, that one can lay the other man bare. He’s been so guarded for so long, and then this, this, which was just supposed to be a job. Nothing like this. He didn’t want this. Didn’t want to know that something like this could exist, that he could have something like this. Loyalty’s not part of his life, doesn’t fit in the overhead bin, doesn’t travel, doesn’t make any goddamn sense. Never has. Not until he met Vance, and now, now he’s having to rethink everything and that’s terrifying.
Utterly, shit-your-pants, terrifying.
But his lover’s wrapping a leg over his, that spent cock resting between them, an arm creeping up his chest, teasing across a nipple.
“You’re welcome,” he whispers back, wrapping his own fingers around his lover's, holding him there. Stares up at the ceiling, and tries not to think about how this is going to end. If he's going to have to kill the man by his side. If Vance is going to have to kill him. If the usual patterns are going to play out here. Need, dedication, belief, betrayal, disappointment.
Loss.
If there was ever a time he could have lived a different life, he would wish for it now. If he was capable, he would wish for it now.
But as it is, they're here, right now, and they stay like that until the light outside fades completely.
Until they have to get to work.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Summary: Written for the Come As Your Aren’t challenge over at the meme.
Pike/Lynch, surprisingly romantic...
There’s just something about Lynch that Pike really, really needs. And not in the way he ever expected.
It wasn’t really supposed to go down like this, Pike thinks, as Lynch’s tongue, lips, press to that spot right below his ear, making him shiver. Not supposed to be this way at all.
Hired for a job? Sure. By a crooked CIA agent? Sounded like a plan. But this part, this part, right here, this wasn’t supposed to be any part of that
“How you doin’ there, cupcake?” he growls up at the man who’s just invited himself in to the mercenary’s Munich hotel room. Who’s just almost kissed him. Growls, because doing anything else at this point just wouldn’t fit. Even though it kind of does, it just... just wouldn’t.
Lynch grins back at him, blue eyes set off by a robin’s egg shirt. No tie. Never a tie with the agent. He looks more like some bored playboy from the East Coast, rather than what he pretends to be, rather than what he really is. But when those clothes come off, when everything else is stripped away and there’s nothing between them, then Pike gets to see him.
Then Pike knows him.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how my flight was, sweetheart? Aren’t you even curious?” Lynch replies easily and kicks the door shut as he slides fully into the room, unconcerned with Pike’s defensive stance. After a year of planning and plotting, they have a rhythm. A really good, really bizarre rhythm.
This is only going to end one way. And Pike can’t stop it at all. He’s missed it too much in the last few months. Didn't realize how much he needed it before, just taking it for granted. Part of the job. Until it had shifted, become more.
Become this.
“Don’t really give a shit,” the shorter man shrugs.
Lynch smiles a little broader and puts a hand over his heart, patting a little, and drops down into a chair. “You wound me, baby.”
“Gee, didn’t mean to do that, sweetheart,” he says with every ounce of sarcasm he can muster, rolling his eyes for good measure, mocking. “Oh, are you going to live?”
“Hmm, good question,” his lover yawns, draping an arm over the back of the chair, arching up a little and sliding down, opening himself up. “I’ve got a terrible cramp in my neck, actually. Hurts like a mofo.”
“I don’t care,” Pike says, moving now towards that six-odd feet of grinning CIA agent. For his own part, he’s already shoeless. Makes this easier. Even if the hotel carpet’s a bit rough underfoot. Better than many a place he’s been. Better than many places they’ve done this. A good place. This’ll be a good place. He settles his hands on either side of the chair’s arms, fixing Lynch with his best glare. “I really couldn’t give two shits how you feel.”
“Mm, of course you don't. Cold bastard,” Lynch says, and grabs the front of his shirt, dragging him down.
"Fuck you."
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“Haven’t talked to my family in twenty years. Especially that hippie bitch...” he replies, so close now, so close to what they both want. He can see the agent’s pants starting to tent. Feels his own arousal beginning to build. “She just couldn’t bear the thought of me killing people...”
“I think you’re sexy when you kill people,” his lover murmurs back, and there’s the first little brush of mouths, tentative, almost... almost sweet, if Pike’s honest with himself. “Very, very sexy...”
He can’t keep it up for much longer, but he manages one more shot. “Keep up the chit-chat, sweetheart, and you just might find out what it’s like first-hand...”
“Saw plenty of that in Colombia,” the man beneath him murmurs back. “You ever seen any jungle combat, Brock? The way the bugs just fucking take over after you’re done?”
“Must have been horrible for you...”
“At twenty three? Fucking A, lover...”
And there it is, here they are, at that moment, the moment when Lynch sublimes away, when Pike can catch those fascinating glimpses of Vance, his Van, the man underneath all the CIA-issued armor, the man he...well, nothing he’s going to say aloud, or think. Or consider at all.
Just doesn’t fit.
But then Lynch surges up at the same moment he’s falling down, and somewhere in the middle, their lips crash, fighting for just a second.
And Pike gives over.
Completely.
These kisses are always amazing.
Always a little too rough to be loving, always a little too gentle to be mistaken for anything else. Tonight, when they’re just seeing each other again after months apart, working on the goddamn plate plan, the Great A-Team Escape plan, tonight the kiss is more of both. More of everything.
Pike groans into it, feeling his lover’s tongue thrusting, seeking, distracting, world-ending. Lynch is up now, height and weight and muscle he does, in fact, know how to use all working in his favor. Fuck, the agent can pick him up if he really wanted to, although Pike did threaten his life if he ever tried that again. It’s just... it’s too goddamn vulnerable and there’s already enough of that going on here already.
Way too much of everything.
Their hands freed on some kind of silent timer, Pike’s are roaming now, light over the polished tortoiseshell rounds on his lover’s tailored shirt, pushing the pale jacket off strong shoulders, working his torso out of all those constricting layers of Lynch between them. Wants everything that’s not Vance gone, and he suspects the other man’s got some kind of similar feeling about him, Brock the ex-Green Beret verses Pike, Black Forest contractor asshole extraordinaire. Judging from the way his tie’s ripped off and tossed away, how his own shirt’s suddenly gone and a nipple’s being rolled between a soft thumb and forefinger.
“Been too long, baby,” comes the heated murmur along his neck, drawing goosebumps and making him shiver.
A bulldog tattoo stands out on the upper bicep, half gone, skin red again today from the laser treatments. The mercenary never asks. But he knows. Knows what that means. Knows what getting rid of it means.
“Nothing quite like you, lover,” he growls back, knowing it’s not threatening, knowing that it doesn’t need to be. Not right now. Never right now. He grabs that expensive leather belt that Lynch wears and tugs it loose, almost ripping a belt loop as he does it. “Nobody...”
“Fuck, baby...” his man murmurs and thumbs up the hot seam of his fly as he dives back in for another kiss.
The room’s not cooperating with them right now, because they hit at least two walls and one piece of furniture, a table or something, before they finally align and crash down into the bed, Pike on top. He grins down at the fine form of the CIA man beneath him and slides away, pulling those concealing pants and underwear and shoes and socks off in one single go.
He starts at the knee and works up.
The knee.
Adorned with two little crescent-shaped scars, no bigger than a .45’s casing, cut over and closed up more than once. These mark the end of something for Vance, something he won’t talk about but his eyes acknowledge nonetheless. An ACL tear, probably. Sutures and then pig tissue and then cadavar. Buress has three inches of a dead body inside his knee, and even that probably couldn’t save him from a medical discharge.
Brock presses soft lips to this and moves up, nipping and kissing and blowing, making this man moan, savoring the taste of another male’s skin, musky and warm. Passes a bullet wound, criss-crossed indentation in the skin indicating the round took out a substantial piece of flesh, and so near the femoral artery.
Lynch is propped up on his elbows, watching the whole thing, those sea-blue eyes dark with lust now, and the mercenary grins up at him. He loves this routine, loves the mystery, but most of .
He kneels up a little more letting his lips brush the small tattoo on a jutting hipbone. An eagle and an anchor. Gold chain. The ink fading now. Old. Naval Academy bullshit.
But not being removed. Kept. Saved. Cherished.
All the little spots hit. Like bullseyes on a target. Like a man’s heart at fifty yards.
It’s Vance now who runs a hand back through Brock’s hair. Even if not everything’s open yet. Even if there are still some things that can’t be recorded on skin, things hiding inside yet. Some things that may always hide, but not, he hopes, not from him. Their stories must be so fucking similar... “Come on, baby, don’t tease...”
Just a little ways to go now, Brock tells himself, and let his lips slide right over the drooling tip of his lover’s cock, sucking hard.
Vance sighs.
His hands move of their own free will, cradling Brock's head, splaying across a cheek, soft and gentle as the mercenary keeps this suction up, starts working a little with his tongue and tastes his lover’s essence, salty and thick, feels it swelling in his mouth as he starts working it, slow. Vance loves it slow...
And Pike knows, in the back of his mind, that this is not the way this is supposed to go. If he polled his own men, or those minions the CIA agent seems to drag around with him, they’d all agree that this is supposed to be vicious and rough between them, blood and hair and ripped skin. A battle for dominance, two hard-asses trying to one-up each other in the bedroom, same as they do everywhere else. Almost-lethal combat.
Wouldn’t they be surprised?
But he pulls off, takes a look up at this man. Blue eyes closed, a little smile he only ever sees now, and Pike knows that this is better. This is better, so much better, even if he doesn’t understand it himself. He blows on the reddened skin in front of him and slides up between his lover’s spread knees, spreading both hands over those bare pecs, up around to grasp hard shoulders.
Too late, he remembers the raw skin of the tattoo, what's been lost, what can't bear to be remembered, and his lover hisses.
“You in to the doc’s this morning?” he asks softly, not wanting to break whatever fuck this mood is.
Too late, though, maybe. Because Vance’s hands are on his waistband, jerking him closer, hard. The mercenary can feel the other man’s cock throbbing through the thin fabric of his pants but tries to focus as button and zipper start to come undone, faster, a little more violent than it usually is.
“Fuck the Corps,” he growls, and flings them both around suddenly, violent, tossing Pike onto the bed and practically tearing his pants clean off. He crawls over him, moving to straddle the smaller man, cock rock hard and hands desperate as he starts on the lowest button. “Fuck the Corps...”
He can’t get the button open, and Pike, arousal starting to flag at the sight, figures he can excuse himself this little bit of kindness, and catches the agent’s wrist, folding his fingers up into his own.
Looks up into his eyes.
At one point, right after they started fucking, or whatever it is the name is for what they do together, Pike got Lynch’s real name out of him. Vance Buress, he’d whispered, chin hooked over the mercenary’s shoulder as they spooned in a hotel room not too different from this one. All hotel rooms were fucking the same. You should call me Vance, if we’re going to do this. Fucking CIA has nothing to do with my sex life...
He’d looked that name up.
Just to be sure Lynch wasn’t lying to him, of course. Not because he cared, or anything like that.
Found a father, a few newspaper articles, everything else scrubbed out by the CIA or some shit like that. Still. It’d been enough to piece it together.
Rich family, Long Island or some shit like that. Old money. Old, like 1600 sea captain money. Probably expected their son to go into the military, get a commission, be a gentleman officer. Surface warfare, probably, fucking elite of the Navy. Whites, scotch, beautiful wife and some weird variety of purebred dog in there. But he’d gone Marines instead, gone gay, gone off the plan...
He could tell Vance that he understands. Knows what it’s like to lose something good. To let down everyone who cared about you. End up somewhere, as something, you weren’t able to fathom as a younger man. But it’s been years since the mercenary’s had the luxury of caring about any of that, and if he starts caring about it now, for Vance, even for his Van...
“Fuck the Corps,” he murmurs instead, agreeing, saying everything he can say with it, and wraps his legs around that narrow waist. Reaches up into all that dark, perfectly gelled hair. Pulls it all down over the top of him, feeling the weight of his lover’s body cover his own, and bucks up a little, lifting his hips in unmistakable invitation.
That smile gets a little broader, or maybe Pike is just imagining that as a hand, long bereft of its callouses, slips beneath his ass, another pressing to his chest. As lips brush his.
“Want to fuck something,” Vance whispers back, quiet words shivering across the stubble of the mercenary’s chin.
And Brock can’t help but smile back.
Vance pulls away for a second, and when he comes back, there’s a slick finger trailing along the underside of Pike’s balls, behind, playing over that spot they found together a few months ago, the one that makes him just fucking melt, staying there as they kiss again. The taller man breaks away far too soon, coming back to squeeze his sac gently, and the mercenary moans.
“That good, honey?” his lover purrs, voice soft, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Brock’s neck. “Is that what you need?”
“Don’t, oh fuck...” He grabs down blindly for that hand between his legs. “Don’t you fucking stop...”
“Like this, Brock?” Vance asks, rotating his hand, and presses the pad of his thumb against his entrance. “Like that, honey?”
“Just... just like that,” he gasps out, and thinks he’d fly right off the damn bed if that strong body wasn’t holding his down. He grabs out, catching broad shoulders and clenching harder with his thighs, feeling his cock slide wetly up his lover’s hard belly. “Don’t fucking stop.”
“Never.” And he’s kissed again.
More slick, more fingers, more pressure. Vance is opening him up again, wide. Loose and wet, so loose and so wet, and there’s not even the slightest twinge of pain as his lover slips inside of him, Brock sighing happily as they fit back into each other. It’s almost perfect, Vance’s hands bunched in fists on either side of his head, the muscles of his biceps almost shaking, head back, and the mercenary strokes down that lightly furred chest above him.
He wants to feel this. He still can’t quite understand it.
The strangeness never fails to surprise him. How fucking bizarre, that he’d find this man, like this, somebody who matches him, understands, somebody who knows him, knew him before they ever met, and isn’t he turning into a fucking woman for this man?
But as Vance takes a deep breath and kisses him and begins to move, Brock doesn’t really care.
It’s slow and sweet, this, his lover’s hips rolling in a rhythm they’ve discovered they both love, pulling almost all the way out and pushing all the way back in, deep. Deep and shifting, the angle moving until the head of that cock hits that nub, pleasure shooting through him. He clenches down in time to that, taking more of Vance’s weight as a shaky hand, slick and sure, wraps around his own cock and he thrusts up into it. It all spirals out of control after that, the drilling pressure inside, the grasp of that warm palm, his legs falling apart and stretching wide on the cheap duvet, the feel of lips across his neck, the thudding pulse framed by easy teeth, murmured endearments that he always tries not to listen to, the littlecome for me Brock and the way his name’s always uttered like a fucking prayer...
And he’s spilling into Vance’s hand, into the interstitial between them, even as he’s being filled himself, hot pulses warming him through, vision whiting, almost failing entirely. The mercenary isn’t vocal, usually, and neither is Vance, but they’re both crying out right now, low and keening, as they ride each other through it, holding on.
His lover falls off to the side after some amount of time Brock doesn’t pay any attention to. Lifts his chin with the weak heel of his thumb and nuzzles a little, stubble scraping. “Thank you,” he says, so softly it’s barely audible. “I needed that.”
It catches Brock off guard. Vance says a lot of things, smarmy and sarcastic and biting. He never apologizes. And he never, ever, expresses gratitude. It’s one of those many, many things they have in common.
It pisses him off a little, actually, hearing it now, the thought that they can do this to each other, that they unwind each other, that one can lay the other man bare. He’s been so guarded for so long, and then this, this, which was just supposed to be a job. Nothing like this. He didn’t want this. Didn’t want to know that something like this could exist, that he could have something like this. Loyalty’s not part of his life, doesn’t fit in the overhead bin, doesn’t travel, doesn’t make any goddamn sense. Never has. Not until he met Vance, and now, now he’s having to rethink everything and that’s terrifying.
Utterly, shit-your-pants, terrifying.
But his lover’s wrapping a leg over his, that spent cock resting between them, an arm creeping up his chest, teasing across a nipple.
“You’re welcome,” he whispers back, wrapping his own fingers around his lover's, holding him there. Stares up at the ceiling, and tries not to think about how this is going to end. If he's going to have to kill the man by his side. If Vance is going to have to kill him. If the usual patterns are going to play out here. Need, dedication, belief, betrayal, disappointment.
Loss.
If there was ever a time he could have lived a different life, he would wish for it now. If he was capable, he would wish for it now.
But as it is, they're here, right now, and they stay like that until the light outside fades completely.
Until they have to get to work.
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Date: 2011-04-26 11:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 12:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-18 04:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-18 04:44 am (UTC)And I like the slightly insane angle one can take on this pairing as well! It's one of the things that makes the A-Team so much fun to slash...so many combinations of hot boys with so many different possible permutations!