Black Hawk Down fanfiction

Gary/Randy, NC-17

Summary: Randy waits for Gary to finish a volleyball game. (Randy POV.)

~*~

Randy sat perfectly still in first class, hearing but not listening to what the surgeon in the seat beside him was saying. The flight was four hours in and the surgeon had been talking almost ceaselessly since they reached cruising altitude.

Aside from the man’s low chatter, the cabin hummed quietly in the golden light coming from the windows. Once in a while a flight attendant stopped by and checked on them, or a soft ding alerted them when they could buckle or unbuckle their seat belts.

Each time, the surgeon quickly glanced at Randy's crotch and asked him whether he wasn’t going to unbuckle, and each time Randy snorted silently, smiled and said no, he was fine.

He shouldn’t smile any more at the man, but he was amused because every time he did the man would desperately rub forearms while his pants tented slightly. He hadn’t fucked Gary in sixty-six days, and he was getting a dirty kick out of making the surgeon squirm.

The surgeon had initially told him his name, but after a short while Randy had put it out of his head as the man went on to make a lot of inaccurate statements about everything from recreational vehicles to the state of national politics. And laugh at the most obvious things.

No subtly whatsoever, and not very interesting. However…

Randy shifted position slightly and looked at the surgeon while he talked, nodding occasionally in the right places even though he was listening even less now.

Half-ignorant or no, the surgeon was tall, good-looking and blond, and Randy was absolutely enjoying the sights.

A flush began to spread up the surgeon’s neck as Randy stared, but to his credit he kept right on chattering.

Randy found it further amusing that on his way to the airport exit after they landed the surgeon seemed at a loss for words when he told him it had been a pleasure. He stopped when the man called to him, and took his card when he offered.

He flipped it over and saw that the surgeon lived in Fayetteville and briefly wondered whether he shouldn’t introduce the guy to Gary. Gary would get along with him, mainly because Gary got along with everyone, and maybe, who knew, Gary could teach him a thing or two about being blond and charming.

Then Randy would have himself two big blonds.

He controlled the smile pulling on his mouth. Enterprising of him, but so very greedy.

He looked up and let himself smile at the surgeon, and winked. The surgeon quivered and gushed his goodbye, heading back to luggage claim. Randy caught a cab for Bragg.

He arrived around seventeen hundred hours, and during this time any operator inside Delta’s compound who didn’t have a good enough excuse was expected to be participating in some way in their daily volleyball game. Even if all he was doing was watching, which was what Roth was engaged in when Randy entered his office.

Roth waved him back out without dropping the binoculars he had trained out the window in the direction of their volleyball court. He told Randy to report to the court. C Squadron had discovered that A Squadron had been fucking them over for months regarding Shooting House detail and were settling the conflict over a game.

“It is your duty to make sure that a certain jump striker does himself no injury. You two are leaving for the 10th’s Sniper Competition in three days, and you’d better come back with some hardware of the shiny medal variety.”

Randy only listened to the relevant parts.

Gary was back at Bragg.

And not just that, he was playing in the game. To miss that sight would be unthinkable. Roth was right, his debriefing could wait. Nothing more had happened since their last phone conversation. He would have to send a thank-you note to the state of Vermont for being the antithesis of a terrorist hotbed.

Randy took his ruck with him and took long strides out of their headquarters building.

Surrounding the court were the guys who weren’t playing and therefore functioning primarily as cheerleaders. Off to one side by a long table were a few guys who were impartial enough to be trusted with first aid. Randy noted they were mostly B Squadron guys, as were the two referees. Everyone else was either substituting or playing.

Randy stopped a few feet behind the crowd and zeroed in on his blond. It was between plays, and Gary was pacing the backcourt line in the midst of spectator shouts of encouragement, groans of frustration, heckling, and even catcalls.

Gary was ignoring it all, nodding as his friend Samer trailed one step behind him, whispering strategy in his ear. They were both drenched in sweat in the August heat, their shorts clinging to their thighs as their long legs moved in unison.

Randy watched, mesmerized. He reminded himself over and over not to get an erection so early in the game, when there was still probably a lot of waiting ahead.

He thought Gary would catch sight of him as Gary surveyed C Squad’s as well as A Squad’s side of the court, but Gary’s mind was firmly entrenched in warfare, his jaw clenched with a look of utmost determination. He spun on his heel and called a huddle.

Randy narrowed his eyes as C Squad’s players converged and dipped their heads into the tight circle, and silently thanked his lucky star.

He loved the huddle.

There was already enough electricity on the court to light a Christmas parade, but that was nothing compared to the tension generated when the guys pushed into their tight circle to exchange intelligence. Their bodies tightened as they pushed against each other to hold the circle, grabbing each other by the waist of their shorts until their fingers slid and interlaced along slick backs.

While they grunted and whispered and breathed each other’s smells, Randy watched them and slowly worked his jaw from side to side.

None of them were wearing T-shirts by this point – except Gary, who always forgot he had his on until it was plastered to his body – but Randy didn’t think any of them was aware of what was turning their bodies on even more than the game.

Such exquisite biochemistry.

Even the guys who would notice under normal circumstances were far gone, with nothing on their minds except death to A Squad.

They broke apart and Gary strode back to the backcourt line, lifted his arm and barked some kind of code at Samer and the two other blockers at the net. Samer called back to him before turning to face their opponents. A Squad’s server toed their own backcourt line for a serve.

The ball shot straight up and C Squad’s players roared in unison so that the server faltered and hit the ball with much less force than he should have, causing it to arc high in the air.

Randy’s eyes shot to C Squad’s side of the court just as Gary shifted his weight and was clearly going for the dreaded one-footed spike. Everyone on and off the court held their breaths, but Randy kept on breathing. Gary swept one step forward, lifted off the ground and cracked his fist into the ball.

Two of A Squad’s blockers knew enough to only pretend to block, because Gary’s center of mass velocity alone was definitely going to inflict damage on anyone interested in blocking the shot. But the third blocker experienced a dumb-attack and actually blocked, deflecting the ninety mph shot into their backcourt at the cost of broken fingers, most likely.

He bellowed a string of obscenities and stumbled off the court.

A Squad hissed and C Squad made animal grunting noises and told the victim to learn to take a spanking lying down.

Randy listened as the referee called out the score and positions were rotated. C Squad’s team captain clapped his hands and they pushed into another huddle, this time no doubt breathing hard with adrenaline and pounding hard-ons inside their jockstraps.

Randy walked a few paces to his left to correspond with Gary’s changed position just as Gary ran his hands through is hair.

Oh, wait. Gary’s wet hair was long and spiked, and obviously hadn’t been trimmed as scheduled.

Randy felt a momentary flash as his thoughts short circuited. God help him, he was assuredly going to make the most of that wonderful coincidence as soon as he could. He was going to grab Gary’s hair and hang on and moan like a whore while Gary got as big and as rough as he saw fit.

He thanked whichever lucky star was working overtime for him.

By this time Gary’s T-shirt was soaked, glued to every contour of his back all the way from his shoulders to the curve of his ass. Randy stared with glazed eyes, roasting in his own body heat as he watched the material fold into the curve of Gary’s spine.

It was about the time in the game when Gary usually remembered he still had his T-shirt on. Right on cue, Gary suddenly gave the seam an absentminded, irritated yank.

Randy didn’t move a muscle, waiting for the inevitable peel-off.

Take it off, baby, he silently crooned.

A second later, Gary stripped off.

Randy gritted his teeth and lowered his head. He slid his ruck off his shoulder and onto the ground.

Would anyone really mind if he unzipped, put his hand over his cock and screamed Gary’s name right now? He truly wondered. Gary would get a kick out of it, definitely.

As would Hank, one of their Korean War vet shooting instructors standing towards his right, chortling, sweating and leering at Gary. Hank was a good old fashioned pervert where Gary was concerned.

Gary’s feet suddenly appeared in front of him, catching him off-guard.

“You!” Gary cried happily.

Randy crossed his arms and looked up, but not fully. He kept his eyes somewhere around Gary’s shoulder. He could see from the corner of his eyes that Gary was smiling, looking completely thrilled to see him.

Randy felt his head being to swim, getting the sensation he always did when they first reunited, when he had to convince himself all over that Gary was real.

It was difficult because he had no photographs of him, no written correspondence to prove anything to himself when on some nights in surreal places he found himself wondering.

But with Gary finally standing in front of him, he found it especially difficult to look too closely and find that it might all be a dream after all. He saw him instead with his mind’s eye.

He saw his blond. Beautiful, powerful, sensitive and painfully intelligent, possessed of a photographic memory and able to process information like a machine, fuck like a machine, work like a machine, haul two hundred pounds of equipment with that smile still on his face.

And Gary was indeed his. Gary worshipped him selflessly, looked at him with eyes that pleaded to be eternally loved, but with the magnificent dichotomy of a body that never pleaded for anything.

A body that took what it wanted, how it wanted, rough or tender, depending on Gary’s mood. Gary gave him no choice, and after always having to wait so long for him, Randy wanted none. He only wanted to beg for it.

“Hey, Gary,” he murmured, keeping his eyes on Gary’s shoulder.

“You’re back right on time.”

“Why is that?”

“We’re going to the 10th’s sniper contest in three days, and in the meantime Roth told me you’re assigned to keep me out of trouble, in good shooting health, and to cater to my every whim.”

Randy squinted over Gary’s shoulder, concentrating on the first aid table in the distance. But he could see the stubble on Gary’s jaw and could practically feel the short, raspy whiskers against his stomach.

He was beginning to feel nearly sick with longing.

“Is that so?” he remarked.

Gary grinned, then leaned forward, lowered his voice and drawled, “Yeah.”

Someone yelled Gary’s name from the court and Gary quickly promised he would be done soon. Gary gave him a small wave and trotted back into the game.

One awful hour later, Randy had moved to the court sideline and was standing there overheating, repeating Fuck, fuck, fuck in motionless silence.

Gary, as if he heard, glanced over at him occasionally and grinned. Randy kept on swearing. For Gary it was straightforward concentrating until the game was over. For him it was frantic desperation to remain calm amidst a screaming need.

He needed to be rendered mindless.

Ten minutes later the game was over and the guys were wiping down with their T-shirts, some cursing softly and as they realized they had sustained minor injuries that needed first aid before they could go in for dinner.

Gary hurried over to his kit and gathered up his gear. Randy finally let his thoughts go.

He went over a mental map of the area, wondering what secluded spot he could park his jeep so he could go down on Gary. Just for a little bit.

Realistically, of course, he could do no such thing. But every time he thought about it he devised a way around mental and real world obstacles, only to make himself wait until they entered his apartment.

He imagined dropping to his knees as soon as they closed the front door and hearing Gary’s breath come in shudders as Gary whimpered his name and broke out in a sweat all over again.

He imagined sliding Gary’s shorts and underwear down and watching his cock swing free for only a second before it bumped against his lips then pushed in. He imagined Gary’s trembling hand clamping on the back of his head then falling to his shoulder when Gary remembered not to grip.

But Gary would quickly forget again and grip him hard when he pumped his mouth over his cock, or scraped his teeth other the bulging veins, or drilled the tip of his tongue into the soft skin under the head.

Gary would cry hoarsely and brace his forearms against the door, pressing his head into his arms, twisting his head in every direction. He would moan in his own world, thrusting deep and mindlessly into Randy’s face for his own pleasure.

His moans would break into tiny whines, and Randy’s body would scorch with anticipation of the hard pulses about to caress his lips. And when they did he would never break his rhythm. He would get Gary’s cock coated with his come until it dripped with it, and he would suck until he couldn’t get a single drop out anymore, and Gary would rub his shoulder and tell him he had nothing left.

Then he would breathe warm air into Gary’s crotch and lick him until he was thoroughly clean before guiding Gary by his hips onto his knees. Gary would press his forehead against his and whisper how much he loved him. Randy would stroke his face and kiss him slowly, as if for the first time.

Then he would pull them onto the floor and pull off their clothes and hear himself beg for things he really didn’t understand. But Gary would understand and get on top of him. He would rub their bodies together until Randy would feel as though he was dying. And when he thought he was actually going to die he would instead break in release.

At that point he would drag Gary into the shower and hose him down.

Randy blinked slowly in the late afternoon sunlight and came back to his body, in time to feel himself losing control of it.

He was done waiting.

He shouldered his ruck and fished for his car keys as he headed for the parking lot.

Gary followed.

~*~