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Kyle had first been called a cocksucker in secondary school. The term had been new and exciting for the future doctors and lawyers of the United Kingdom, along with nicked cigarettes and the opposite sex and Halo 2. It had been prophetical, not factual, as Kyle hadn't sucked his first cock until well after. Really, he hadn't sucked a proper cock until his second year under Captain John Price.
A sprinkle of ash dusted his shoulder, falling like grey freckles across the canvas of his body. Kyle looked up into his Captain's face. The cherry of John's cigar glinted twice again in his shadowed eyes. These communions usually took place in the dark.
Of course, back in secondary school, Kyle had had other things to worry about. How much he hated the goddamn uniform skirt, for one - he'd stuffed the stupid thing behind the dryer the instant he hit Year 12 and was allowed to wear trousers. If his mother ever found it, she hadn't told him. Bless her, she'd let a lot slide, dealing with the prickly little tit that was her newborn son. Shannon Garrick was a saint unlike any other. Every parting, she would cup his face, sighing that her boy was sculpted by angels, God keep him and bring him home to her. Kyle doubted the last very much. Holy water sizzled off of him of late.
A very different hand cupped his face. Not the close manicure and perfumed palms of his mother, but the scratchy callouses of his Captain. His mentor. A sort of Father, by self-appointment. His man.
His fucking man, and wasn't that enough to make a fellow feel special. Not blessed, certainly not, after the hells he'd plunged happily into. Chosen, though, and ever so exalted for that. Not lucky. Not hardly. Nothing about their lives had happened by chance. Their hands, beneath the blood, were tools of sculpture.
John's thumb brushed against Kyle's lips and he parted them reflexively. "Stop thinking," John murmured, no less an order in its softness. Like wine taking the shape of its container, Kyle flowed into the bounds set for him.
Their dynamic had been pretty fucking questionable since Day One. From the first 'You're with Me' he just had been. Kyle was a bloody good soldier, and thus hadn't lacked for figures of authority, but John Price was something else entirely. As if the man had nestled in beside his spinal cord and said certainly, good job so far, but everything would go through him from then on. People spoke of their partners in terms of hearts and souls and such - Price had the reins on his damn hindbrain. Price made him a lunatic. Price made him plastic, malleable and pluripotent, and gripped him hard enough that Kyle still felt the crescents of Price's fingernails on his mind.
Naturally, he'd gotten a puppy crush. Men followed other men for faith or fear, and Price commanded both. Kyle's feelings over the fucking man spanned the whole roster of Deadly Sins. No matter. It would have passed, he assumed, if Price had been good enough to let it.
'Price' and 'good' did not often occupy the same sentence.
Kyle had been called into his office a little after Spain. The printouts of coordinates near Al-Mazrah, gear manifests, and stills of Laswell's proof-of-life hadn't yet been cleared off the desk. This last was partly obscured by a rocks glass and blurred through two fingers of something older than he was. No cigar smoke, no lingering aroma of gun oil or sweat, just the thin mildew funk of infrequently opened windows. It was a small, utilitarian room. Price didn't get up from behind the desk. By habit, Kyle locked the door behind him.
There had been an odd look on Price's face, but between the mustache and his ambient sociopathy, Kyle wasn't much for reading actionable meaning from Price's expressions. With that in mind - "Something up, Captain?"
Price's head had tilted by single degrees. "Sergeant Garrick," he greeted, a low exhale from the bellows of his broad chest. "If I put my hand down your trousers, what would I find?"
A beat of silence.
When remembering that afternoon, Kyle could never remember if he'd frowned, swallowed, or just stared. All told, he'd shrugged off harder blows than that. He just usually wasn't in parade-fucking-rest for them. It was always useless to ask Price to repeat himself and bordering insulting to stall for time by asking his meaning, so Kyle did neither. Disguising his kneejerk hurt with hackling, disguising his hackling with cheek, he replied, "My pants, sir."
No 'Cute, Sergeant', no 'Mind yourself, Garrick', just a slowly raised eyebrow. "And beneath them?" Price had prompted.
Kyle remembered allowing himself a deep breath. It had been bound to happen at some point. Doubtless, his neutral smile didn't hide the edge of his tone. "My cock, sir." Which was true. Surgical leave was easy to explain away in their line of work.
In some of his raunchier fantasies, he may have imagined an 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours' offer. As ever, predicting Price was a fool's errand, and as ever, there were punches to roll with. There was no such offer.
The conversation took on a crackling sort of charge. With no more inflection than usual, Price had asked, "And if, Sergeant, I happened to put my hand down your trousers, down your pants, and took hold of your cock-" It seared around his lower spine. Kyle remembered being surprised that Price's drink wasn't boiling away. "-would it be hard for me?"
Well. That sort of chat was good and welcome, then.
"No less than usual, Captain."
Standing from his desk chair, Price had crowded Kyle back against the closed office door in three steps. He'd bumped his desk lamp in the process, sending the shade spinning, casting a loop of light over the low ceiling. Kyle had inhaled so quickly he nearly choked, just barely able to brace his hands on painted pressboard to keep from rattling the door in its frame. Before he could form a question - not that he would have, what would have been the damned point, Price would always position himself to do exactly as he pleased and then do it - Kyle had felt a palm ramming between his legs to double-check his answer. His modest prick didn't leave much bulge but Price's lower teeth flashed in a wicked grin regardless.
"That's exactly right," Price had growled, bruised into Kyle's memory just as he'd done his best to bruise the zipper-print of Kyle's fly into his inner thigh. "Good fucking man. Perfect."
The memory skewed fuzzy after that. Rough hand over his trousers, rough grinding at his thigh, rough fucking touch, rough fucking tone. The sweat smeared over their brows a better sacrament than ash on the forehead. Price's awful old liquor more potent than communion wine. It wouldn't be the last time Kyle was forced to cum in his pants in his Captain's office - it wouldn't be the roughest, the most disorienting time either - but it was the first, and notable for that alone. If Kyle had the ability to reach back to that colt-footed self in the immediate aftermath of getting jerked off through his fatigues, he would have kicked his own legs out just to get on his knees for John Price that few seconds faster.
Price's flat was leagues better than his office. Without the chance of interruption or prying eyes, there was no need for clothing. Kyle went entirely without - he knew what he looked like and he knew how John looked at him - but John tended to keep at least his trousers on. That was less for practicality and more for effect. For one, wearing boots with nothing else made nearly anyone look like a twat. For another, Kyle knew he got off on physically fishing out that fat prick of his.
Which he might hopefully do before long. Mind still soupy, Kyle suckled at John's thumb, doe-eyed and pliant. His little cock pulsed in time with his syrup-slow heartbeat.
There was a good deal of staging between them. The theatre of war. Shock and awe. John never quite stopped calculating angles, on or off the field. His favourite du jour was to perch back on his desk (or the table, or the counter, or the washing machine, or the dresser, or the bathroom sink) and let Kyle kneel astride his crossed ankles. He would lounge, arms out to either side, like an emperor reclining. Surveying what was his.
It was very bodice-ripper, poolside smut cover, from Kyle's angle. The big strong warrior, shirt hanging open, letting his damsel cling to his legs. The difference being, of course, that Kyle was distinctly not a blushing heroine with her tits half out. Blushing, perhaps, sometimes, but there were no heroes in their line of work. And his tits were all the way out, thank you. A new fall of cigar ash blessed them with a powdered-sugar dusting that clung to his chest hair. Perched on his topmost boot, Kyle played prop to Price's fantasies, the nymph in his lap as easily as the bishop on his board.
He pulled off of the thumb in his mouth and nuzzled against the soft bulge in John's pants. Ice-blue eyes, dim in the lamplight, gleamed down at him.
"Use your words, son," Price quietly prompted. His deep, husky voice in the near-silent room rose through Kyle's head like champagne bubbles.
Kyle gave him a long, slow blink. He let his eyes drift over John's soft, bare, hairy chest, rolling over his furred belly to the bare patch beneath his navel. Leaning in close left him nearly cross-eyed as he met his own gaze in John's belt buckle.
"Please, Captain," he murmured, letting his breath fog the brassy surface. "Use my mouth?"
Christ, his man loved that. John chewed the end of his cigar. Evidently, he didn't have much 'well do you deserve it' or 'you can beg prettier than that' in him. Not when Kyle knelt so nicely at his altar. Pausing to adjust his footing, letting Kyle sneak in a cheeky grind against the leather toe of his boot, John unbuckled his belt and slid it free. Kyle craned his neck back, giving him the chance to wind it around the slender column of his throat and pull tight, if he wished. John's belt had been cuffs or a collar many a time. He could play the spaniel as readily as the supplicant. Which chalice for communion today, sir? Or shall I lap the wine from your fingers?
Not tonight, it seemed. John set his belt aside and popped open the button of his trousers, unzipping and letting them hang open. No knickers. "Fucking gorgeous, sir," Kyle breathed. He was spellbound, watching his man brush aside the halves of his open shirt and push his trousers down around his thighs one-handed.
Price’s cock was built with flesh from his belly. Easiest scar to hide from their various brothers in arms - everyone in the army had battle scuffs up and down their bodies, so a graft across his gut meant only another badge of survival. Appropriate, perhaps, but this particular scar was one of pure creation. Brightly pale against Kyle’s own dark jaw, John’s cock rasped over his stubble.
He already felt drunk on it. Hooking his chin over John's zipper, Kyle pushed his trousers down that much further so he could bury his face up between his Captain's legs. Pure masculine musk flooded his nose and mouth. Kyle opened wide and wrapped his lips around John's scrotum, tonguing the seam down the middle. The funk of sweat bloomed across his tastebuds like ambrosia. His man, his fucking man, the flavour of him- An amused little hum met Kyle's ears through a haze of arousal.
"Settle, love. It's all yours."
Kyle groaned around his mouthful, hips jerking forward so that his cock ground cruelly on the laces of John's boot. "God, don't say that," he breathed. "You'd never pry me off."
"Never." John's warm fingers traced down the side of Kyle's neck and he tilted back easily, displaying his throat to the dominant male of the pack. "Go on, give me your mouth."
He'd given more than that and he'd give more still. Rocking back to sit more heavily on the toe of Price's boot, Kyle let his mouth open wide to take John's whole cock.
The girth was always a little difficult to manage. Though he couldn't get traditionally hard, the John Price of almost twenty years prior had opted for optics. It looked impressive swinging between his legs in the locker rooms, but it felt even more so on Kyle's palate. He had to break off a whine as the soft tip blocked his airway. An inch or so still bulged from his lips.
John, evidently in an uncharacteristically affectionate mood, just kept stroking the side of his throat. "So fucking pretty," he crooned. "My best lad, aren't you? Perfect thing. You swallow that down, there's a good boy."
With tears gathering at his lashes, Kyle looked dazedly up into John's face and gave an attempt at swallowing. Price's cock wasn't long or stiff enough to make him gag, but it was more than thick enough to choke on. Still, he whined for it, barely a reedy keen around his man's shaft. The weight of it was so fucking addicting. No purer benediction, the sacred Body of the self-made man more godly than whatever pasty shit they passed out at church. John stuffed his manhood past Kyle's lips until all it was all he could smell, taste, or feel.
That, and the rough rasp of laces over his own cock. Kyle had opted for a different sort of rebirth, saving sensation over appearance. The swollen tip of his dick was all raw nerves as he helplessly humped at John's boot. He could already tell he was oozing over the leather.
Unfairly, he had to draw back to take a breath, tonguing apologetically at Price's wide slit. The flavour of skin grew sharper there, just barely inside him, capillaries throbbing close to the surface. It let a tang just shy of copper spread under Kyle's tongue and make his mouth water. He gave the head of John's cock the filthiest kiss.
John took a deep breath and blew smoke down into his face. Through the cloud, the space between them momentarily blurred.
The rotten bastard knew what that did to him. Kyle had first seen Captain Price through a haze of smoke, after all. I see you. In the beginning.
Taking a deep breath of his own, Kyle opened his mouth wide and took John's cock back down his throat, flattening his tongue and letting John push against it. It was the best way to generate friction at the sensitive base of his shaft. The fingers on his throat skated up to pet along his jaw instead, clearly admiring the full extension of masseter necessary to take in his girth. Kyle just kept admiring John's face. Pulse by pulse, just barely rocking his hips, John looked down on him with his always-unreadable expression. Soft eyes, soft gut, soft set to his lower lip. This was a war of attrition. Who would give out first? There were few mercies for Kyle there.
Only a handful of times had they attempted penetrative sex with John's phallo, stuffing his fat cock into a condom more for structure than safety. Even then, Kyle's hole had been stretched to gaping before they could coax their bodies to fit together. The sheer possessiveness of it, the primal sense of hollowing himself out for it, had been buckshot to the brainstem. All he could do then was lay on his front and take it.
This way, he could participate. As usual, in their line of work, he employed every wicked tactic in the playbook.
Tilting his head back, Kyle let John's cock slip that much farther to gag him more effectively. He neither needed nor wanted mercies. When his Captain demanded obliteration, his only avenue was to shut his eyes and brace for impact.
"Nrgh-" he gurgled, "Mrh-?"
John's prey drive kicked in reliably. "Fuck's sake," he huffed, finally stubbing his smoke and using both hands to grip the sides of Kyle's face. Kyle hurriedly dropped his stance and hooked one arm around the back of John's shin for stability. Hard fingers steepled behind his head. He pressed his tongue down and out, letting it cup the base of John's shaft where he was softest. Scooping at the seam like it would save him, Kyle let loose another muffled whimper.
Ruthless, trusting, John locked down and started to fuck forward properly. No longer lounging so indolently, John had to brace himself as well, bringing his front foot down flat and robbing Kyle of his grinding post.
No matter. Kyle groped along the back of his shin, letting his fingers flutter over the rough material of his trousers in only partially feigned overwhelm. He brushed the top edge of John's boot as his Captain nearly bent double to hump into his lips and chase his orgasm in Kyle's throat.
His register only plunged deeper as his pleasure grew. "Gorgeous fucking thing, you are," John gritted, sounding as if he was still puffing out smoke from the extinguished cigar. "You'd let me fuck this pretty mouth 'til you slumped over limp on it. You'd- you'd take it however I gave it. Kyle, Jesus, that's it, keep your tongue just there, that's a good lad-" Kyle knew he wasn't as close as he sounded. This was a long crest to a short, explosive plateau, but the steamy chat benefited them both. Hearing John growl above him like the voice of fucking God made him lose his train of thought for several seconds, struggling to breathe as the flabby base of John's cock fully obstructed his nose.
The spine of John's boot held a clever little loop to clip a tool to. Much like the halligan bar on his tac pack, he liked to keep a bladed multitool there, accessible to both of them in a pinch. They'd used it to hack through too-tight ropes, carve through clothing, or, one particularly exciting night, hold to John's throat while Kyle fucked his hairy chest to completion. Kyle was only just able to unlatch it and flip the hooked blade from its plastic hood.
If John noticed, he didn't acknowledge it, still huffing like a great bull. His cheeks glowed golden in the lamplight.
Kyle brought the keen edge of the tool slicing through the laces of John's boot. Never fully off guard, John only jolted slightly forward as the tension left his stance, letting Kyle press in still closer. With the slit laces going limp, he used shaking hands to part the folds of John's boot and press his cock directly against the body-warmed leather tongue.
Fuck, it felt so damn good. Holding the limp wings to either side, Kyle fucked forward into the much softer leather normally caged behind cord. On his third frantic thrust, John regained his rhythm, cupping the back of Kyle's head to rock up against his palate.
"Filthy whore," he panted through his grin. "Dirty fucking faggot. You want to cum on my boot, Kyle? My pretty cocksucker."
Kyle could hardly process the words, much less respond to them. Yes, yes, all of that and more, and say I'm yours, your whore, your only son. Both of his hands gripped John's boot until the eyelets stamped onto his skin. The ridge created at the slope of the ankle gave the perfect friction for his cock to grind over. Cum oozed from his tip like honey. He was almost in the splits, legs splayed out to put his full body weight into each thrust.
Viciously, Price pinched the side of Kyle's neck, making him gag again. With fire on his breath, he half-laughed, "Have at it, then." Go on, lad. You're a man now.
It snapped him like kindling. Garbling out a whine, Kyle dug his nails into well-worn skin and came on his Captain's boot. Frayed fibres lay on the floor around John's foot. The sheen of the leather tongue was noticeably darker than the rest, locked away as it had been. Kyle wanted to smear his cum over the whole surface and christen that virgin flesh. Knelt at the altar of his god damn fucking man, in their holy fucking sanctum where nothing so crass as manners dared tread, he was halfway tempted to piss all over it too.
If Price had kept up fucking his throat like a bloody animal, he may not have had a choice. Clearly, though, the old man's resolve had tanked with Kyle's orgasm. When his eyes refocused and he could see over the hump of John's pelvis again, Kyle could see that his blush had spread and deepened. Knowing his role (his calling) was to sit and be pretty and let himself be used, he let his eyelids droop again, soft and sweet. Drool drizzled over his bare chest. He fought the relentless press of John's cockhead into his throat to relax his jaw from full extension, drawing his lips tight around the base of John's shaft.
It worked. John's hips pushed forward fit to knock against Kyle's teeth, bruising and undeterrable in chasing his pleasure. The tang of salt on the back of his tongue matched the telltale pulsing against the tip. With a long groan, John came in his mouth, not once looking away from his face.
Kyle did his best to lave at the connection between shaft and balls. He could feel the throbbing of John's root, bulging between his lips, demanding more and yet more space in his body.
With an involuntary spasm, oversensitive, John's front foot snapped up hard against Kyle's cock. He gave a muffled yelp around his mouthful, almost kicked, the merciless spike of sensation making him dribble his last between the flaps of John's boot. John certainly didn't apologize (kneejerk reaction or no, it wasn't his way, not to other men) but his knuckles petted over Kyle's cheekbone in pure affection. Stroking his face - he wouldn't kick his loyal pup away. Tracing his jaw - they fit too well together. Nudging against his pulse. You broken?
Care, but not worry. The glaze of tears on Kyle's lower lids only darkened John's eyes.
At his Captain's short nod, Kyle finally unclenched his grip on John's boot and brought his hands up to guide the soft cock from his mouth. Trying not to cough as it came free from his throat, Kyle cupped the slick flesh and gave him a few last licks, then let it hang heavy atop John's sack, framed in his fly. He leaned in and nestled right alongside, nuzzling up into the crease of his groin to inhale deep at the soaked fabric of his trousers. Spit and sweat cooled on their bodies as John's fingers continued their lazy arc over his cheek and brow.
It took Kyle a long time to recover his breathing. Every time he thought he'd regained composure, a thready aftershock would take him, or a cheeky nudge of John's foot, or simply the echoes of how fucking hot it was to have John's fat cock still drooling on his shoulder. His drifting took a backseat, though, when he heard a grunt above him and John's arms came away to support him on the counter again.
"Murder on my back," he grunted apologetically as Kyle pulled out of his warm cradle, his wince more like a smile.
"Hell on my knees," Kyle replied, his grin more like an I love you.
The twist of John's lips, always wicked, turned even more so. "I don't doubt it."
Folding up off the floor, Kyle steadied John as he tried to uncross his legs, stepping right out of his unlaced boot. A curse, a chuckle, and an indulgent groping of bare, scarred chests. One more little death to join the many beneath their nails. One more rebirth to join those on their skin. Kyle tucked his face up under John's chin and knocked back the air that had just been in his Captain's lungs. His own exhale pooled in the hollow of John's throat and settled warm in his chest.