vervaceous: (kiss)
[personal profile] vervaceous
Title: Till I Am Drawn In
Fandom: Harsh Realm
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1,158
Summary: Up late on watch, Mike has a little trouble keeping his hands to himself.

Temporary insanity, that's what he'll call it later. It's not like it hasn't happened before. It was temporary insanity that shoved him into the Army in the first place, temporary insanity that sent him into the bed of a man who only beat him for it later, temporary insanity that sent him into the Realm and temporary insanity that sent him into that fucking red beret. Temporary insanity sent him out again. Temporary insanity is why he hasn't left Tom Hobbes to die on any number of occasions, so temporary insanity is why he's here now, doing what he's doing.

When it comes right down to it, temporary insanity might just be the reason for everything big that's ever happened to him.

Tom arches, sighs, murmurs something low and incoherent. Mike is getting the feeling, more and more, that this isn't any kind of standard sleeptalk, and when Tom moans and rolls his hips slowly upward, well. Not a lot of doubt left. Just looking, staring, watching the slow and sleep-drugged movement of his body, twisted and distorted in the shadows thrown up by the dying fire.

Sometimes Tom Hobbes is more beautiful than he can believe. Not talking about it doesn't make it any less true. Wishing it wasn't true doesn't erase it. It's a kind of hell he hasn't known in years.

Stupid fucking kid, he thinks, holding himself tighter into the darkness, teeth gritted. Stupid fucking kid, gonna make enough noise to get us found. It would be the work of a second to reach over and smack his arm, and it's not like he hasn't done it before, and he does reach...

And stops.

Tom's hips are still moving in that slow upward push, a rhythm that doesn't quite harden into thrusts, his hands moving vaguely against his own shirt and pants and bare skin. Mike's hand moves as well, over and down, past chest and belly and stopping. It's a warm night and Tom is lying on top of his ratty sleeping bag, shirt pulled a few inches up his middle to reveal a line of skin, pale even in the glow of the fire. It looks ghostly, unreal, but at the soft touch of a fingertip the muscles jump and quiver, and it's so warm.

Crazy. He's got no good reason at all for doing this, it's rank stupidity, he should pull his hand back, give Tom's shoulder a shove and let that be that. But maybe it isn't that crazy. It's just a touch, light and exploratory, ultimately harmless.

Crazy is when his hand moves and drops and curves lightly over the hard bulge of Tom's dick.

They're alone out here, or they're alone if nothing's changed in the past hour. Just the moon high and cold overhead and the harsh and distant calls of nightbirds, the sickly hum of crickets, and Tom's long, pleasure-soaked sigh as his hips rock upward into Mike's hand. Mike's mouth is dry. He could wake up anytime. He could wake up right now. Dammit, just fucking MOVE.

He moves, a long roll of the heel of his palm, upward and down again, and Tom lets out another shuddering sigh and presses up into it, his lips parted and wet. There's a kind of fascination that comes this late at night and this far into wanting, detached and curious with an undercurrent of desire like a slow, deep subterranean river. He leans over Tom's arching body, pulling in shallow breaths through an open mouth. His guard is down. Anyone could just walk into the clearing right now and finish them.

Is it worth it? Just a few seconds of this? Just a quick grope in the darkness, where one party doesn't even know it's happening. It feels cheap. It feels like the closest thing to good he's had in a while.

Tom reaches down and closes a clumsy hand around his wrist, and he jumps and almost pulls away, but Tom is guiding his hand, holding on, letting out soft, breathy moans in time with the rhythm of his hips. Head tilted back, half-lit face shifting and contorted with pleasure... it's almost impossible to believe he isn't awake. Maybe he is. Maybe this is some kind of sick prank.

He'll kill him if it is. Shoot him right in the fucking head. Simple Fucking Man or no.

But he doesn't have much attention left to worry. There's just the sounds Tom is making, the even press of his body and the gasp of his breath. There's the soft grimacing twist of his face, his mouth, the way he tilts his head back, the way he stiffens and shudders and lets out a low, choked sound, and by then it's too late to pull away. It's too late to take any of it back. He can feel a faint dampness spreading out under his hand. When his eyes flick back up again, Tom's eyes meet them, open and glittering.

Too late to take it back.

He succeeds in pulling his hand away, however, and then he rocks back on his heels and doesn't make it any further past a numb stare as Tom leans up on his elbow, looking down at himself and back up at Mike with wide eyes.

"You were making noise," Mike says flatly, stupidly. He opens his mouth to say something else and then only shrugs. There's nothing he could say, nothing that he could ever say now to make this all right. I've been in love with you since the moment I saw you. You're infuriating and amazing and I want to kiss you about as much as I want to punch you in the fucking mouth, and when you do shit like this I'm not sure how you expect me to keep my hands to myself. Nothing. Silence. A hole in the world and getting bigger, and who knows, maybe it might suck him into it and then he wouldn't have to face this.

Tom nods, very slowly, then shakes his head. He doesn't say anything. There's something like confusion in his eyes, something hazy and indistinct, like he can't quite make his eyes focus. Mike isn't breathing when Tom turns and lies down again, turning onto his side with a quiet exhale. Because maybe that haze had meant that Tom isn't even totally awake. Maybe it means that he won't remember it tomorrow. Maybe it means that Mike is safe. Maybe it means that he won't have to have his life changed before he's ready for the shift. Maybe, just once, he's caught a break.

If Tom doesn't remember in the morning, that's what he'll tell himself, that he got lucky. And if Tom ever moans in his sleep again, he'll tie his fucking hands down to keep himself sane.

Insanity and luck. Just two words for things that don't really fit at all.
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August 2011

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