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The door to their motel room shuts and Hawkeye falls on B.J. like a man starving; only the vague knowledge that they will have to get dressed in the morning prevents him from simply tearing his shirt open until the buttons pop.
Each button bites at Hawkeye's fingers as he slips each through its hole, little white circles made harder to maneuver by the very excitement coursing through him.
B.J. doesn't try to reciprocate. He knows from long experience that both of them ripping at each others’ clothes at once only slows Hawkeye down, and anyway, he wants to savor the slow reveal of pale skin as clothing is removed, so he's forcing himself to be patient.
Or as patient as he can be; Hawkeye finally gets his shirt open and tugs it off B.J.’s long arms, each arm of the shirt catching slightly at the wrist before it's removed completely. Hawkeye tosses the shirt aside and rests his hands, still shaking with excitement, on B.J.’s pectorals over his undershirt that is damp with sweat from the humid summer.
He stalls, briefly, overwhelmed by the curve of B.J.’s chest, the promise of strong muscles and the faint rhythm of his heartbeat through his fingers, the shape so clear and evident underneath thin-fabric.
“Hey,” B.J. says, teasing and breathless in equal measure.
Hawkeye drags his tongue over the cleft between B.J.’s pecs, tasting the sweat that's soaked into his undershirt, his cock jumping in his formal slacks as the scent of the other man's body fills his nose. He can still smell the remains of his cologne, but mostly he smells like sweat and musk, the effects of being trapped in a too-hot conference center for most of the day.
It's only when Hawkeye runs his teeth over a clothed nipple, delighting in the way the hard nubbin interrupts the smooth flow of his mouth across the plane of B.J.’s chest, that he feels B.J. chuckle, the vibration of his amusement resounding through Hawkeye's whole body. “You're so excited you can't even finish getting me naked,” B.J. says.
Hawkeye whines, high in the back of his throat, before letting out a startled moan as B.J. grabs him by the hair and pulls his head away from his chest. He can feel every hair tugging against his scalp, and the sensation sends shivers down his back.
“Don't get too distracted," B.J. says, going for amused and mostly succeeding, though there's enough breathless awe mixed in that Hawkeye is briefly overcome by emotion. “Keep going.”
“Spoilsport,” Hawkeye says.
He loves how B.J. smells. He smells healthy, and well-fed, and alive, a mammal with his own internal furnace radiating heat and light and adoration. He's slower tugging the undershirt up over B.J.’s head that he was with the button-down, some of his earlier frantic energy dissipating already by B.J.’s sheer proximity.
There's sweat clinging to B.J's chest hair, turning it dark and making it stick to his skin. Hawkeye immediately puts his face right back where it was, buried between his pectorals. B.J.’s bare skin smells even more strongly than his shirt.
Hawkeye sticks his tongue out, tasting salt. Now that B.J.’s bare-chested, Hawkeye can multi-task. He kisses his way down B.J.’s chest until he re-finds his nipple, and at the same time grabs for his fly, the buttons--these ones smaller, rounder--once again digging into the skin of his fingertips.
He always marvels at how big B.J.’s cock is, even half hard and trapped in slacks and boxer shorts. Hawkeye is tempted to just pull his cock out now through the slit in his boxers, but he's not going to get sidetracked again.
“You need--you need to undo my belt,” B.J. gasps, not quite maintaining his composure as Hawkeye bites down hard enough to leave a half-moon shaped bruise for the rest of the weekend.
The belt-buckle is cool metal, the belt itself worn leather, and Hawkeye tries to be slightly more gentle with it than with the shirts as he drops it on the carpeted floor.
“And my shoes,” B.J. says. “You're losing your mind.”
Hawkeye pulls back. “I can't help it, you're incredibly distracting.”
He drops to his knees. He can feel the old carpet on his knees even through the fabric of his own slacks, and he briefly considers the thousands of men who have likely kneeled in this exact same place, all about to do variations of the same act.
B.J.’s brought the black shoes to this conference, and worn them today with red socks. Hawkeye unties each one at a time.
B.J. lifts one foot after the other like an amused dog, letting Hawkeye remove first the shoes, then the socks.
Fabric falls on his head, and Hawkeye realizes that B.J. has finished removing his slacks.
“No fair,” he whines.
“I'm not playing fair.”
Hawkeye scrambles to his feet in time to watch B.J. tug his boxers down his legs, hooking his thumbs under the waistband, revealing his now fully erect cock in a thicket of dark hair.
“Christ alive, Beej, you're gorgeous.”
B.J. flushes bright red, a pleased grin splitting his face. “Not as pretty as you,” he says.
“You should look in a mirror more often,” Hawkeye says. He takes B.J.’s balls in his hand, completely distracted from whatever else he'd been planning to do.
B.J. moans.
“No, seriously, if Michelangelo ever saw you he'd have to fire all his other models, I think he'd even make sure to carve this part of the statue himself instead of fobbing it off on an assistant.” Hawkeye rolls his thumb over B.J.’s sack, reveling in the texture. “I think if I could just keep that thing in my mouth for the rest of my life I'd die happy.”
B.J. collects himself enough to say, “If you want me to fuck you now instead of in three hours you need to take your hand away. Jesus, Hawk.”
“Who says you're fucking me?” Hawkeye says. “I've already got you naked, all I need to do is move my hand back a little and I can even start making you ready.”
B.J. cuts off another moan, thrusting once into Hawkeye's hand.
“You do want me to fuck you,” Hawkeye says, and squeezes just a little. “You want me to tear you apart from the inside.”
“That sounds--hnng--medically inadvisable.” B.J. digs his fingers deeper into Hawkeye's sides. “Please.”
B.J. is stronger than Hawkeye, and heavier too, but you wouldn't know it from how little he resists being nearly thrown down onto the narrow motel bed.
Hawkeye crawls on top of him, taking in a moment to just admire B.J.’s body once again, each part perfectly sculpted for his pleasure and highlighted with drops of perspiration that seem to glow under the cheap yellow light.
“Pillow.”
“Pillow.” B.J. reaches behind his head and grabs a pillow, passing it forward to Hawkeye, who tucks it under B.J.’s hips. It's a little rough, but it'll do for the moment.
“Fly.”
“Fly.” B.J. opens Hawkeye's fly, giving Hawkeye a chance to admire his heads, steady and well-suited to whichever task he sets them to. He takes out Hawkeye's cock with surprising reverence, grinning up at him like it's not the thousandth time he's seen in.
“Lubricant?”
“You're the one with the lubricant, jackass, I'm not wearing any clothes.”
Hawkeye smacks the inside of B.J.’s thigh in answer as he grabs the phial from his pocket, enjoying the way he can see blood pulse through the other man's cock as he whines in response. Digging his fingers into the crease between B.J.’s thigh and pubic area, he gently nudges his legs apart.
“Look at you,” Hawkeye says, slicking up two fingers on his right hand.
“Stop looking and get inside me,” B.J. demands. “It's been too long. Doctor, doctor, please, I'm dying.” His huge, ridiculous feet knock against Hawkeye's sides as he strains to make his hole as easy to access as possible.
“I know just the prescription,” Hawkeye answers, tracing a finger around B.J.’s hole, watching the tight ring of muscle flutter in anticipation.
“If you make a Vitamin D joke I'm walking out of this motel room,” B.J. says, with no conviction whatsoever.
“It's not my fault you walked right into it,” Hawkeye says. He finally, finally, sinks one finger in to the first knuckle, savoring how tight and hot B.J.’s body is, resisting just enough to make the preparation worth it.
Part of him always wants to simply force his way inside, claiming B.J. for himself as deeply and intimately and violently as he can, mingling their blood together and making B.J. go home to his wife with proof still inside his body. That part, as always, loses out to his common sense; he doesn't want to hurt B.J., not really, not even as he leaves teeth marks on his chest and bruises in the shape of fingers on his thighs.
“Someday I will tear you open and crawl inside your stomach,” Hawkeye says, pushing his finger the rest of the way inside. “I'll curl up just under your ribcage and keep your heart pumping with my own hands.”
“You're too big,” B.J. gasps, thrusting upwards into Hawkeye's hand, his cock now red and leaking little droplets of pre-ejaculate. It bobs against his stomach with every thrust, so big it almost doesn't look real. “You wouldn't fit.”
“I'd find a way,” Hawkeye says. “We're surgeons, we can do anything.” He adds a second finger and curls them both towards where he knows he'll hit B.J.’s prostate.
B.J. muffles what would be a scream by turning his head towards one of the remaining pillows. “Please, please, Hawk, please.”
Hawkeye withdraws his hand and wraps it around his own cock, giving it a few squeezes before lining it up with B.J.’s entrance.
He moves slowly, even though he doesn't entirely want to, savoring the give of B.J.’s body beneath him, how eager it is to be breached by his cock.
Finally, he bottoms out, letting a groan escape from his mouth.
“Kiss me,” B.J. demands.
Hawkeye is more than happy to comply, bending down to kiss him as he starts to thrust, slowly at first then increasing in speed as he feels the sweat pool where their bodies touch. Heat builds in his stomach.
B.J. swallows a much louder moan from Hawkeye and tightens his legs around the other man's thighs. Hawkeye pulls back his head just long enough to move his mouth to the base of B.J.’s jaw, kissing the hollow under his ear then tracing the whole length of the bone. He wants to leave his jaw and neck covered in so many bruises no one can mistake what's happened.
He doesn't.
He can't.
He wraps a fist around B.J.’s cock and drags pre-come down the length with his thumb, feeling the thick vein there under his hand. He matches his strokes to the rhythm of his thrusts; if he could he'd stay like this, his skin against B.J.’s skin, until they fused into Aristophanes’ humans, two face and four arms and four legs, together for the rest of time.
B.J. comes first with a shriek, shooting ropes of come onto Hawkeye's chest and his own stomach. He tangles both hands into Hawkeye's hair and clashes their mouths together, riding out his orgasm with his tongue wedged firmly in Hawkeye's mouth, wet and tasting of coffee and spit and salt.
Sweat has made his entire body slick. As soon as he pulls back, Hawkeye buries his face in B.J.’s neck, lapping at the sweat collecting under his collar bones and taking in as much of his scent as he can.
He wants to memorize it. He should take that soiled undershirt and bring it home, yet another piece of B.J. that he can actually keep, that he's collected over the years.
“I love you,” B.J. says.
“I love you,” Hawkeye answers.
His orgasm hits him all at once, before he wants it. He wants to stay connected like this with B.J. forever, but instead he thrusts as deep as he's able. B.J. clamps down on him, and tightens his legs around Hawkeye's waist even more.
His cock, softening but still dribbling, flops down over his balls with each thrust. Hawkeye can feel it, even as his vision is taken up with the infinite expanse of B.J.’s chest.
When Hawkeye's orgasm finishes, he doesn't pull out. He doesn't want to; he wants to lie like this forever, on top of B.J. and inside him at the same time.
“Hawkeye, you're incredible,” B.J. sighs. He kisses the top of Hawkeye's head. “If we don't clean ourselves up you're going to be so mad in the morning.”
Hawkeye whines. All the frantic energy has left his body; his clothes are soaked in both his and B.J.’s sweat, and his shirt has come on it, but he doesn't want to move. He wants to sleep like this, with B.J. as his pillow, with B.J.’s body wrapped around his rapidly softening cock.
“Some species of insect create plugs made of semen, so other males can't impregnate their chosen female,” he says.
“I didn't know I'd called into the horrifying etymology line,” B.J. answers, petting Hawkeye's hair. “But I get it,” he says, finally, going a little quiet. “We can stay like this a little while.”
-
Eventually, Hawkeye runs out of patience, just as B.J. said he would.
He pulls out and B.J. whines at the loss, even though he was the one who originally said they should separate.
Hawkeye gets off the bed, but leaves his fly open, stripping off the rest of his clothes. He’ll let them mingle in a pile with B.J.’s; it’ll make it easier to excuse stealing the sweaty undershirt.
“I love you,” B.J. says from the bed. Hawkeye looks over at him; come and sweat have flattened his chest and belly hair against his skin, and he still hasn’t removed the pillow from under his ass, leaving his reddened hole there for Hawkeye to look at. “I love you, I love you, I love you, Hawkeye.”
“I know, Beej,” Hawkeye says. “I love you, too.”
He bites back all the unkind things that fill his head in moments like this, after the glory of B.J.’s body has worn off and he’s left with the knowledge that he could fuck the other man a hundred thousand more times and it still wouldn’t be enough.
He doesn’t know where B.J.’s wedding ring is. Probably in the pocket of his pants; they’ll look for it together, later, and Hawkeye will slip it on his finger and pretend that they’re getting married.
Hawkeye isn’t jealous of Peg Hunnicutt, because he can’t let himself be. It’s not her fault that men and women can get married; it’s not her fault that B.J. loves at least two people with the whole of his big, ridiculous heart, but only one of them can give him children.
B.J. rolls off the bed and walks over to Hawkeye, a sleepy, contented expression on his face. He pulls Hawkeye to his chest and buries his face in Hawkeye’s hair, his hands wandering down the curve of his back to give his ass a squeeze. “I’ll have to pay you back tomorrow,” he says.
There are three more days of the conference, and then they both fly home, to their separate coasts and separate lives. For now, instead, B.J. plants a line of kisses down the side of Hawkeye’s neck and slots their soft cocks against each other, his larger one overwhelming against Hawkeye’s.
“We can shower together,” Hawkeye says, and this is why he does this. This is why he sleeps with B.J. in motels, in the back of rental cars, in his own bed in Crabapple Cove. Every moment that he can spend with his skin against B.J.’s skin is a moment he isn’t cold; he would suck the life out of B.J. if he could, before he was ever properly warm.
No wonder the world can’t let them be together all the time; he’s not sure either of them would survive.
“Please,” B.J. says, voice thick with need. “Please.”