Black Hawk Down fanfiction

Gary/Randy implied, NC-17

Summary: Scene is set seven months into their relationship. If you recall, Gary once made reference to this. Fluff, pwp.

~*~

Gary hears himself, he’s groaning with pleasure. Plays his fingers through the silky strands of wavy brown hair. The heat, the suction of that mouth, he can’t get over how long it’s been. How he survived so long with an orgasm this intense waiting in the wings.

“Fuuuck,” he moans. “Randy. Raaandyy.”

The mouth on his cock slackens and slides off. The face looms very close to his own. “My name,” Jake hisses, “is not Randy.”

Owlishly he blinks at Jake. His erection pulses, hot as his brain. “Wuhh?”

“I said.”

Jake sits up, swings his legs off the bed, stands up. He leans over the bed, hands on his hips drill sergeant style. Disconcerting for a flyboy. His voice is slow and loud.

“My fucking name. Is not Randy.” A vein throbs in his forehead, he is spitting mad. “Ten motherfucking minutes of this pile of shit. Are you insane? Am I supposed to be fucking flattered? You think because we’re guys I shouldn’t give a shit?”

Gary struggles with the fog in his brain, pleasure ebbs, leaving small puddles of distress in his groin. He pushes onto his elbow. “Wh-ere did you…How would you—”

“Pack that shit up, Ranger. You’re outta here. Double time. Or whatever the fuck it is you people say. Are you going to make me count to three? Can you count, GI? Then why the fuck are you still lying there? Make like my F16 and jet! Goddamned, motherfucking, knuckle dragging, asshole.”

Gary scrambles for his things. Later, it might be funny. But not right now.

He rushes back to Randy’s apartment, puts on Randy’s underwear. He reads the handwritten note taped to the dresser drawer—the cabernet is all for you. trash all the newsweek issues--i cancelled the subscription but they won’t stop sending. stay out of my underwear drawer, pervert. if you go in, I’ll know—and discards, and does something he hasn’t done since Selection days.

Clutches his jeans halfway up his hips, hobbles over to the bed. Lies on his back, throws Randy’s t-shirt over his face. He rubs his cock through the underwear, moans. His nipples go tight. He digs his hand into the tight space inside the jeans, squeezes himself. He can barely breathe.

He pulls his cock out, starts to jerk off. He’s beating hard, completely stiff, and so hot. It makes him spread his legs across the bed, reach over his head and grab the headboard. Stretches him taut.

At first he only hears the sound of his hand, and that’s enough for him. Then his tongue slips out, touches the rough t-shirt. He hears Randy croon in his ear.

He shudders, bites off a groan. His hips come off the bed.

He soaks his fist with come.

Groans Randy’s name to his heart’s content.

He sinks slowly to the bed.

Soon, he feels better.

He catches his breath, remembers an old gangster saying from Chicago in the twenties: Everything is Jake.

Meaning, all squared away, no further problems.

Roger that, flyboy.

~*~