Chapter Text
There were a number of factors compounding Francis’s situation. If only the hot weather hadn’t arrived during a lull. If only the lull hadn't come at the same time that Colonel Potter had been called to one of General Imbrie’s never-ending meetings in Seoul. If only Potter hadn't, with Charles on R&R, left BJ of all people to preside over a peaceful, casualty-less string of days that couldn’t be more different than Hawkeye’s maddening stint as camp commander. If only everyone hadn't been so desperate for a break. For the first time Francis could remember, leisure ruled over the 4077th.
It was difficult to even think in the heat, and for most of the camp, the time that wasn’t allotted to eating, sleeping, drinking, and regular duties was spent lounging around in whatever scrap of shade people could find. Even with the flaps rolled up, the tents were too hot to be occupied for long. BJ and Hawkeye, for their part, were currently parked outside the Swamp in their lawn chairs, Hawkeye’s complaining tones carrying loudly across the compound to where Francis had volunteered to help unload a supply truck. While the heat had reduced BJ to shorts and one of the M*A*S*H tank tops they’d printed for the ping pong game, Hawkeye, Francis couldn’t help but notice, was occupying their patch of shade in nothing but a pair of briefs that left little to the imagination. This in and of itself wasn’t unusual. It had long been obvious that the Lord hadn’t blessed Hawkeye with a hint of modesty. And it was hot out.
“Well, you see, I’ve got a new magazine in, Father,” Hawkeye drawled from his lawn chair, his voice low with the effort it took to speak in the heavy, humid air. BJ was snoozing next to him in his own recliner, hat pulled low over his eyes. The pair had spent the day moving around seeking shade and had recently taken up residence next to where Francis was weeding his garden. The retreat of the afternoon sun over the roof of the hospital building had cast a blessed shadow over where the Father had been toiling. Their arrival was a pleasant distraction, even with the effort required for him not to look at the body that had sprawled itself out mere feet from where he was working.
He sat up to take a break and wiped the sweat off his face. He thought to himself that Hawkeye looked so content lounging there, bare, skinny legs stretched out in the dirt, a light sheen of sweat over his bare chest, his eyes closed, and a pleasant smile on his face as he talked. The aforementioned magazine rose and fell gently with each breath. Francis could feel his own shirt sticking to him uncomfortably with the buildup of dirt and hours’ sweat. He closed his own eyes, taking a moment to just soak in the cool shade, the relieved ache of his muscles, the smell of freshly turned soil, and, under their voices, the murmur of music on the radio that now accompanied Hawkeye and BJ everywhere.
A tap on his shoulder. Hawkeye was offering him BJ’s canteen. He accepted it gratefully and drank the first water he’d had in hours. The thing’s canvas outside was damp with Hawkeye’s sweat. He tuned back in to the slow rumble of Hawkeye’s voice: “It’s the anniversary issue of American Sunbather. It emphasizes the importance of the nudist lifestyle for one’s health. Did you know just a few hours au natural in the sun every day has psychological benefits along with the physical?”
He knew it was strange to notice people’s bodies. He could tell by the sting of guilt he felt when he noticed Hawkeye’s. But such a thing was impossible to avoid after two years in a field hospital with everyone living on top of each other. Sooner or later you saw everyone sweaty and unwashed, heard them complain of their pains and ailments, huddled close to them when the temperature dropped or the shells fell. And in the same way that you got to know people’s habits, quirks, fears, and emotional highs and lows, you became intimately familiar with what they looked like, how they moved, and what stood out about them, whether it was the sound of Radar’s quick footsteps, the eternal hunch in Hawkeye’s back, or the different hairstyles Margaret would rotate between in a regular week.
For example, Francis had showered next to just about every man in the camp, something he had never done despite living in similarly close quarters to others at other points in his life. He knew that being completely naked next to other naked men with only a thin wooden divider separating them had no more significant purpose than the sharing of resources, or perhaps even the encouragement of camaraderie. It was just one of the things one endured in the Army. There was no secret thrill about seeing BJ’s hairy chest, Max’s strong, lithe shoulders, or the work-hardened bodies of the enlisted men. It wasn’t lustful. It was simply that he loved these people, and knew them better than possibly anyone he had known in his life. It got to the point where you could recognize people by their footsteps or their breath. He had been shocked once, moving a massive stack of filthy sheets and pillowcases to laundry, to find that the topmost one carried a scent that he instinctively and automatically recognized as Hawkeye’s.
The other thing was, there was something about working alongside medical professionals that made you appreciate what a marvel the human body was. Once you had seen bodies mutilated beyond repair, a whole, living, breathing, working one never stopped seeming like a miracle.
The body was both incredibly resilient and susceptible to so many different kinds of damage, especially when the forces of violence leveled against it so far outstripped the body’s considerable capabilities. The fact was, after only a few months in Korea he had seen things he never meant to see, and which he was privately convinced no one was ever meant to.
Facts like these became basic truths of his life: He had seen limbs, torsos, and faces with flesh blasted off by land mines. He had seen skin melted by chemicals conceived in laboratories in his own country and dropped by his own army on the local population. He saw what gunshot wounds did at close range to chests and faces, and how a sniper’s precise bullet could penetrate the brain from afar and eliminate some tiny piece of flesh essential for cognition. And then there was the mystifying ordeal of how far shrapnel could travel inside the body, how many nooks and crannies there were for it to hide in. How many secrets the body held. Francis couldn’t count the spleens, bowels, lungs, livers, and intestines that had passed in front of his eyes during the lifetime of hours he had spent in his corner in the OR, holding onto his stole and silently begging that there wouldn’t be a need for last rites today.
Until, of course, he'd be yanked forward to stick his hand in a chest cavity or clumsily clamp a bleeding vein in the absence of a nurse. He would meet Klinger or Radar’s terrified eyes across the table, sharing the silent agreement that they had no choice but to trust Hawkeye, BJ, Charles, or Potter to keep the pulse of life beneath their hands from going away. Sometimes he imagined telling his younger self that he was to become familiar with the sound of a ribcage being cracked open or the distinctive, foul stench of a perforated bowel. Amputations were particularly difficult to watch, and although they still troubled his dreams from time to time, the shock of witnessing the actual procedures had faded over time in comparison to what he had learned lay ahead for the young men and, God forbid, local children, with whom Francis sat in Post-Op, testing the limits of what comfort a person could provide against such an insult to God’s creation. But after all, he knew now that there were things even worse than amputations. There was a certain category of things he had learned not to think about every day: the cracked skull coming apart in BJ’s hands, and how the shrapnel-torn chunks of bone and gray matter plopped off to hit the stretcher with a squelch. Or maybe the grey-green, infected human heart fighting to keep beating as it was squeezed in Hawkeye’s bloodied gloved hands while Francis himself stood immobile, watching beads of sweat accumulate on Hawkeye’s brow. Such intimate knowledge of what could befall the body brought terror and awe in equal measure. He had seen distortions of God’s creation so momentous that it was almost without his realization that a few months into his stay, late at night, he would find himself on his knees in the quiet of his tent asking Him in a whisper to protect the bodies of his friends.
There was something incredibly intimate about going through these experiences with others that was surely one of the roots of the inexplicable closeness in this place. One of them.
People came and went at the 4077th, others seemed to be stuck there forever, and at the center of it all was always Hawkeye and the magnetic, mysterious, life-affirming pull that his presence seemed to generate. Wherever that intense, emotional, energetic force came from, it was the beating heart of the camp. Hawkeye vocalized their suffering and embodied the joy they found in one another. And with the endless capacity for love and endless appetite for attention Francis knew him to have, he suspected the closeness he shared with the camp did the same thing for Hawkeye.
Yes, Francis looked forward to spending time in Hawkeye’s company. Almost everyone did. It was wonderful to be noticed by him, staggering to have the full force of his attention turned on you. He had seen younger nurses’ knees buckle at how charming and attractive Hawkeye could make himself when he wanted to. He seemed to effortlessly slip into whatever role he intuited: handsome, persistent suitor, gentle, sweet lover, sultry temptress — tempter? —, mischievous alley cat looking for a warm lap to curl up in. Somehow always still Hawkeye. In the same way that Francis did his best to make himself a source of emotional support for the camp, Hawkeye provided emotional and physical services all his own.
So, essentially, it didn’t take much looking to notice Hawkeye, who seemed to enjoy putting himself on display as much as Francis enjoyed looking. A great deal of jokes here had to do with Hawkeye’s… availability. When the heat of the day had somewhat died down, Francis had gone to Rosie’s Bar to use the payphone and forked over a frankly ridiculous stack of dimes and nickels to attempt to place a five-minute call to the man in Seoul responsible for bringing a truckload of cot frames to the orphanage next week.
“Annyeong? Hello? This is—hello?” There had been nothing but static and garbled voices on the other end of the phone. He had no idea if the person he was talking to was the operator, and if they were, they were clearly unable to hear him. It had taken ten minutes even to put the call through. US strikes on supply lines had done a number on phone communication in this country.
The voice of the operator came through, speaking Korean. Francis fumbled for a scrap of paper in his pocket and parsed out the words he had copied from his dictionary to make his request. He had no idea if he’d said the correct thing or not, but he heard the line click, the operator replaced with a loud hum.
In the time it had taken to place the call, the bar had become significantly more crowded. The Post-Op shift was out and the evening was well on its way to full swing. Tuning out the phone’s humming as he continued to wait, the loud, cheerful voices of three of his friends came through the wall: Lieutenants Bigelow, Lacey, and Armstrong. He was happy that they were able to have some time off at the bar to relax. Judging by the volume of their voices, their table must have been right up against the thin wall that separated the nook with the telephone from the rest of the place.
“...A-cups, basically.”
“Cute butt, too.”
“Bigelow, how would you know that?”
“Like it isn’t easy to bend him over a table and see.”
“You’re crazy. I just let him get all over me in supply, I didn’t have to do anything.”
“He’s certainly eager.”
“...And thorough. ”
“If there’s one thing you can say for the Bike…”
“The Bike?”
“I forgot you haven’t been here that long, Armstrong. You know, the camp bicycle.” He could hear Lacey snorting with laughter.
“The— ohhh.” Lacey and Bigelow’s loud chortles filled the air.
“That much mileage on him, he ought to know what he’s doing!”
“Oh, that’s mean!”
Bigelow smacked the table a little drunkenly, its legs wobbling. “I mean it as a compliment. How often do you shack up with a guy who knows what foreplay is?”
“--Who doesn’t just stick it in without asking.”
“Oh, he was asking, alright. He was practically begging for it.” A round of giggles. Francis tried his hardest to focus on the sound at the end of the line.
“God, Bigelow, you’ve been holding out on us!”
“You only transferred here a month ago, I can’t fill you in about everything that’s ever happened in my life.”
From the sound of it, Armstrong was giggling nervously, trying to play along with the more experienced nurse. Bigelow had that effect on a lot of people; like Hawkeye, she had one of those strong personalities that pulled people in. She had a degree of authority among the nurses, having been there so long she was practically the second-in-command to Kellye, who was second-in-command to Margaret. But unlike Margaret, Bigelow and Kellye knew everything that happened among the nurses.
“C’mon, spill the beans, Lacey.”
“Well, I had him about a month ago. And I’ll tell you, it’s really something to be with someone so… oral.”
“Wow.”
“I’m not talking about French kissing.”
“Lacey!”
“We’re all adults here!”
Armstrong’s voice dropped. “Did you… for him?”
“No. But he had me pull his hair while we were doing it.” An appreciative groan from Bigelow’s side of the table.
He heard a chair scraping, and the voice of Lieutenant Anderson joining them: “He let me give him a hickey.”
“How’d that happen?”
“He asked me to.”
“What a little slut!”
“And that’s why they call him the Bicycle.” Armstrong hooted with laughter.
“You want to hear some real gossip?” Anderson asked in her calm, even tone. He could hear the creak of the nurses’ chairs leaning in. “Some of the things I’ve seen around here— let's just say, I wouldn’t be surprised if nurses weren’t the only ones he chases.”
Armstrong gasped. “You mean B-girls?”
“Nah. He’ll dance with the B-girls, chat ‘em up a little bit, but if he’s ever taken one home it must have been in Tokyo or Seoul or else we’d know about it.”
“By the way, don’t be scared of the B-girls, Armstrong. There’s three or four in the bar right now.”
“Oh, wow.”
“The local women come in for shots every few months. They’re not so bad once you get to know them. Besides, think about it. Hawkeye doesn’t spend most of his time with B-girls.” Anderson laughed. “He doesn’t even spend it with us, for that matter. Who does he spend it with?”
The answer came in unison: “...BJ!”
“Shhh, don’t yell!”
“I could have sworn he just looked over."
“Play it cool!"
“It’s not like he completely stopped leching after BJ got here, but you gotta admit, things changed.”
“After BJ got him to settle down.”
“I’d kill to know what goes on in that tent after dark.”
A squeal. “Lacey, shhh!”
“...Or in the showers!”
“I mean, who showers with their best friend every day? ”
“I shower with all of you, but I don’t usually invite you there on purpose.”
“...Usually!...”
“Sure, Bigelow. Tell that to what’s-her-name from the 8063rd.”
“Wouldn’t it make sense, though?”
“He’s not exactly the manliest man in the world.”
“Can’t even change a tire.”
“It’s just something about the way he acts. I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe it’s all the singing. That Broadway stuff.”
“He talks to a lot of men, you know… kinda the same way he talks to us.”
“And what’s with the pregnant jokes?”
"Don't get me started!"
“Remember the old days? It was always ‘Uncle Trapper’ this, ‘Aunt Hawkeye’ that.”
“He’s still like that with BJ.”
“Yeah, but I think it’s a lot deeper,” Bigelow said. “Trapper was a fun guy, and not bad-looking—”
“—Now there was a charmer!—”
“—But what Hawk and Trap had wasn’t as complicated as whatever the hell goes on now.”
“Right. They drank, pulled their schemes, and chased us—”
“—And anything else that moved—”
“There’s still plenty of schemes, and plenty of drinking. The only difference is the chasing.”
“They just sit in that tent with BJ’s picture of his wife and kid and talk about God knows what. They’ll have their stupid fights and contests and private jokes. One of them inevitably throws a fit, the whole thing spirals out of control and engulfs the whole camp regardless of what the rest of us have to say about it.”
"It's easy enough to ignore in the mess tent or something, but it sure makes work a lot harder."
“Post-Op is usually okay, but if either of them’s upset, forget about having a good day in OR. If they don’t feel like talking or livening the place up, it’s enforced gloominess for the rest of us.”
“Yup. They’re in their own little world.”
“Unless someone wants a ride on the Bicycle.”
“That’s right.”
“Have you ever noticed how jealous BJ gets when Hawkeye has a date?”
“And when he gets jealous, he gets mean.”
“They’re codependent. They can’t be without each other.”
“It’s just evidence that maybe they’re, you know.”
“I mean, once you start looking, you see it all the time.”
“I don't know. Are you sure you aren’t just seeing what you want to see?”
“I’m just calling it as I see it.”
“You guys seem to know them really well.”
“Trust me, we’ve all spent a lot of time together. You start to pick things up.”
“And you really think Hawkeye and BJ might…?”
“Don’t say what you’re about to say. I’m not saying anything like that. If anything, I’d like to say that I frankly have no idea what the two of them get up to. All I know is that not even BJ can can take the Bike out of commission."
There was a sound like Bigelow had slammed her glass down on the table. “Come here, Armstrong. Point is— listen — just stick with me. Take our advice about him.”
Lacey’s voice was determined: “I get it. He’s cute. And he’s easy. And I won’t lie to you. He’s good. But he’s still a lech, and you can’t be too nice to him or it’ll go to his head.”
“Ok, I’m getting the picture.”
“Don’t take him up just because he’s asking. Only do it when and if you want to do it.”
More drunken giggles. “You know he’s gonna say yes anyway.”
“Seriously, we won’t blame you if you wanna mess around. Just don’t encourage him too much.”
Lacey gave an exaggerated hmmm. “So I shouldn’t’ve told him it was cute that he moaned like a girl?”
A flash of movement caught Francis's eye: in the slice of the bar he could see, Hawkeye was throwing his head back in laughter at something BJ had said, pounding his fists on the table with glee. Then, as if he could feel Francis watching, glanced over and for one split-second, licked his lips while he made eye contact. Francis knew it had to be utterly unintentional and felt it like a shock wave down his spine anyway.
The phone line was still humming. The nurses’ conversation kept going, loud and indistinct over the ringing in his ears. He calmly hung up the phone, sparing his dimes, and let his feet take him straight across the bar to the door.
And yet, plenty of people greeted him; he attempted to give a smile and wave to each of them.
“Father, are you alright?”
Kellye had risen from the table by the door to talk to him. Of all people, of course it had to be her — possibly the shrewdest person in camp beneath her bubbly, gentle demeanor. It was something Francis admired greatly about her. Practically nothing happened in this camp without Kellye’s notice; but she was never, ever mean or judgmental, just observant, emotionally intelligent, and empathetic. Of course she had noticed something odd in his demeanor before he even had the chance to escape the bar, and now she was asking, probably out of genuine concern, his emotional state registering for her as quick as a flash.
Francis tried to smile. “I’m quite alright, Lieutenant.”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you all week. Do you want to sit here?”
Francis glanced around, clutching his hat. “I’m afraid I… have some business to attend to. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Kellye’s thoughtful eyes searched his face. “You’re the only one who hasn’t been relaxing this week. Every time I see you, you’re unloading supplies or hauling something. You must be dead in this heat.”
“Well, I just thought the lull would be a good opportunity to, you know, help out. Besides, it’s not as selfless as it sounds. I’ve been gardening quite a bit, too.”
“Okay,” Kellye said, eyebrows drawn together, “But you should talk to somebody if there’s something bothering you. We need you, Father.”
Francis felt a spark of genuine gratitude. “I do appreciate it, Kellye. But please, enjoy your evening.”
Outside of Rosie’s, the air was still and oppressively humid, but the road was empty, and camp was blessedly quiet save the sound of insects chirping. Music, colorful light, voices, and laughter poured out of the glowing windows and doors of Rosie’s and the O-Club. He went to his tent, closed the door, took off his shoes and hat, lay flat on his back on the neatly made bed, and, ignoring his erection, tried to count backwards from fifty. Instead of dispelling Lacey, Armstrong, Bigelow, and Anderson’s words, the long, careful breaths he took just seemed to be bringing them into clearer focus.
He’s not exactly the manliest man in the world.
Although some of the nurses' speculations were guesses, there was a strong element of truth to them that Francis found difficult to ignore. Hawkeye and BJ did have a complicated relationship. Their problems did often dominate the atmosphere around camp. Working conditions could be improved. And Hawkeye did act in the ways they described. He touched men and flirted with them and joked about having Generals' babies. But he wasn't the only straight man to do that. Unlike the nurses, Francis had never allowed himself to extrapolate beyond the obvious facts of the situation.
But finding out that the nurses, in their close proximity to Hawkeye, had doubts? Enough to send them theorizing and whispering and gathering at bars to discuss it in an already sex-obsessed camp? That they were so assured about Hawkeye's promiscuity that they wouldn't hesitate to announce the sordid details at full volume in a place full of people? It was as if Hawkeye didn't care who knew. Or almost like he wanted people to know.
Sex was obviously a part of life, even if it wasn't currently part of Francis’s. It was certainly a big part of life at the camp. The concept was applied to himself only on the occasions, every few months or so, where he took himself in hand. Each time it happened, he seemed to have the same realization: he had put off the task far too long and was too pent up to last long or really need to spend long fantasizing. There usually weren’t any particularly strong lustful feelings to avoid. Yes, it was a sin—like hundreds of other things people did every day—but it was also a necessary source of physical relief. He was always more ornery, less relaxed, more anxious, more tense before he did it than after. It provided a sense of relief and a clear head. It was a sin that he committed occasionally, confessed to, and didn’t lose much sleep worrying over.
That was before the damn heat wave. Now, he was anything but relaxed. Kellye had noticed, which meant that others would notice soon, too. He needed to get this over with, quickly, so he could clear his head and get back to his life. He didn’t do the types of things Bigelow and her crowd were talking about. He didn’t really think about other people doing them. And he definitely didn’t think about them while he masturbated.
The problem was his curiosity. Faced with any situation, he had always been the kind of person who wanted to know more. He couldn't help it.
Hawkeye would probably use his hands first. He gave his touch so easily under normal circumstances, he had to be an incredibly affectionate lover. Francis could see him running his hands up and down his lover’s arms, then their sides, stroking with his thumbs. Warm, firm hands, grasping and seeking, completely in control, eager—like they’d said—but steady as in surgery, practiced and confident. He’d follow his hands with his mouth and land kisses across any available skin, gentle, light kisses, then open his mouth more, scraping a little with his teeth, one hand cradling the face. Francis gasped at the phantom sensation that ran across his skin. He couldn’t be thinking this. But whether he closed his eyes or opened them, all he could see was Hawkeye with his arms draped across a man’s shoulders, Hawkeye expertly taking off a nurse’s bra, Hawkeye kissing slowly, lazily, Hawkeye pulling off his pants and t-shirt, Hawkeye with his eyelids slowly closing in bliss at the sensation of hands touching his bare chest.
No. No. No. No.
Anyone at camp at this time of night were involved in activities it was best not to disturb. It was very unlikely anyone would come to his tent. He had at least a few hours of privacy to dispel this feeling.
But how?
It’s really something to be with someone so… oral.
Francis shut his eyes, seeking plain, empty darkness, and the image appeared unbidden: Hawkeye’s dark head between his legs, his hands resting on his thighs. His eyes were closed as he nuzzled against his leg, mouthing at Francis’s bulge through his underwear. And then he looked up, and the flash of bright blue eye contact sent the same agonizing jolt down his spine as the moment of eye contact they had shared in the bar.
He could feel the guilt rushing through his bloodstream, hot and violent, accompanying the force of the erection. It was time to let his mind drift away and think about something, anything, until it was gone, anything but the way the Hawkeye in his fantasy was as skillful and uninhibited as in real life, kissing and licking the skin of his abdomen, warm hands traveling up and down his sides, his fingers tugging at his waistband. He knew what Francis wanted, and there was no guilt or shame or hesitation in giving it to him. All he had to do was give him permission.
Hawkeye in his lap, one of Francis’s legs shoved between his. The hot, firm feeling of Hawkeye’s hard cock pressed into his thigh, and Hawkeye’s beautiful voice moaning low as he tried to rub himself against his leg.
The erection was definitely not going away.
It would be a give and take of pleasure. He’d touch Hawkeye back just as much as he touched him; sides, arms, legs, bury his fingers in the flagrantly unmasculine long hair at the back of his neck, stroke his unshaven face. Hawkeye would be kissing him, surely, hot, wet kisses on the neck, the chest, kissing a line up his jaw like he’d seen him do with the nurses. Hell, he’d seen it a million times. At the movies, through the open flaps of the Swamp, in the middle of the compound. Kissing, and then…
Kissing him on the mouth, hand cupping his face. Warm, languorous kisses, opening up Francis’s mouth more and more to slip his tongue in, kissing like he had nowhere else in the world to be. A small noise escaped him, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He’d had the willpower thus far not to give into the desire to touch himself, but the images kept coming, one after another. No matter where else he imagined himself to escape the fantasy, Hawkeye was there.
I just let him get all over me in supply, I didn’t have to do anything.
He wouldn’t have to ask Hawkeye. It’d be like he was reading his mind. Those fingers would slip under the waistband of his underwear again, this time pulling them all the way off, and the eager, hungry expression would descend down his body. He’d settle there between his legs, wrap a careful hand around it, and begin delivering affectionate little licks. He’d do something Hawkeye-like; he’d probably bat his eyelashes or wink at Francis as he let it slip into his mouth. He’d start slow, just teasing, aware of how long it had been for him. He’d give him time to feel every initial spark of pleasure until the feeling built and built, and then, only then, he'd take the whole thing until his nose brushed his pubic hair and he could feel Hawkeye’s tongue alive and pulsing underneath the sensitive skin of the most private part of his body.
Skin crawling with shame, disgusted with himself and the way he was thinking about his friend, he spat in his hand anyway, and, teeth gritted, began pumping himself hard.
It had been far too long. That was why this was happening. He spent a lot of time around Hawkeye, and the normal amount of sexual desire present in a healthy, average human like himself had transposed itself onto him simply because was already there, and because he liked and admired Hawkeye. It was nothing more than a biological impulse. He was sinning in his thoughts, he had done it before, and he would keep doing it again, because it was his fate as a human being. The real test of his resolve was simply not to act on his sinful thoughts. And of course, he never would.
His fingers would find Hawkeye’s hair, and he would pull it. The thought of the sound this might bring out of Hawkeye made him jerk himself furiously harder. Hawkeye’s voice always seemed to drop an octave or two when he was delivering a flirtatious line or playing sensual in a normal conversation. He was such an expressive person. Even the moans he gave when he ate a good piece of food or collapsed into his cot after working were borderline sexual. What would it sound like when he was actually having sex?
He had catalogued Hawkeye’s voice so well. It was easy to imagine hearing sexual groans in his beautiful, rich timbre, or to imagine his voice rumbling against him as he’d speak in Francis’s ear. Then he returned to his prior image, and felt a shock of electricity go through his body at the horrible, unavoidably erotic realization that Hawkeye wouldn’t be able to speak with his mouth full.
Without consulting him, his traitorous mind was already offering up ideas of how it might sound: that same voice, but groaning around him, mumbling indistinctly as he tried to get the words out, wet gagging sounds as he fucked his own throat on it, oh God, oh God, Hawkeye never did anything by half, he probably threw himself into fellatio with as much enthusiasm as everything else. He imagined his mouth open, his tongue out, licking a long stripe along the base, going down to mouth at his balls, coming back up and taking the whole thing into his mouth, going up and down, then hollowing his cheeks with determination as he sucked Francis’s very being out through his cock, pretty eyelids fluttering closed as he let out a sound that reverberated through Francis's whole body.
Should I not have told him it was cute that he moaned like a girl?
Another unbidden image: Hawkeye under him, half-lidded, lips parted, his arms flung out, body jostling with the rhythm Francis was setting, their combined moans rattling the ceiling. Hawkeye never held back with anything, he would probably make noise on every thrust, a groan or a gasp or an expletive every time. Maybe he’d whine as he was getting closer, panting breathlessly as he tried to get his words out. Pleading, either for effect or just because it made the whole thing so hot. You make me feel so good. Please, I need it. Come on, I’m so close. Please. Please. Want you to come in me. Please.
It was like a pressure valve had been opened, the tension exploding out as Francis came furiously over his own hand. Panting, he kept his eyes shut, letting blinking black stars overtake his vision as the stages of the orgasm rushed over him. Happy and numb with the pleasant sensation, he permitted a small, satisfied sigh to escape him. He had finally wiped his mind clean; there would be no more thinking. There was nothing to do but grab a rag, perform a hasty clean-up, and slip into the tempting darkness overtaking him. He knew there would be plenty of time for shame later. Plenty.