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Mud cakes every individual streak of his short, stiff hair. Were he not already a brunette, Dave would think he’d found an adequate substitute for hair dye in the muck. It’s gone solid in the humidity, falling from the strands in little cracked clumps, decorating the sparse, too-dry grass below.
Yellow, patchy.
A dry season in a place where rain is vitality, and sun beats hot, relentless. He stirs slowly, ears boxed, ringing. Patted condescendingly by calloused, warm fingers.
“Up and at ‘em Rookie.” Fox. Cool and collected. Matter of fact while consciousness eeks it’s way to Dave’s brain in a steady crawl, only becoming aware of the sticky thick iron coating a too-dry tongue, and the gruff rasp of his own huff, dragged painfully slow from a dehydrated throat.
What happened, how he got here-these things don’t matter. He’s not bleeding out, not wounded from his own cursory observation, and Fox straddles his chest with too much ease and saccharine grin for anything dangerous looming.
So Dave tells himself, in a whoosh of surprised breath and a would-be-cough. Silenced by those same fingers pushing past dry, cracked lips and scratching against his bloodied tongue.
“Fox.” Muffled and questioning, more of a gurgle than much else. Dave doesn’t have enough saliva to do more than streak those fingers, roughshod over old stiches and scars. One of Fox’s fingers-his index-is messily healed with grafted skin, and it’s familiar and bumpy under his tongue.
“Shh.” Always the shushing. For all Fox teases him for being too noisy to bear, he does everything in his power to coax sound out. As if relishing in the moment he can silence him. It never takes much. A look. A glance.
A warning call.
A kick to the gut, or a punch to the jaw. Whether Dave’s teeth rattle or his back screams, the place Dave has at his feet is understood and expected.
“There’s a good boy.” Slowly, the fingers slip free. Work over his teeth while Dave parts his lips further. Watches through heavy-lidded eyes and fuzzy vision (concussion, then, there’s too much echo and nausea in his world for less), as the canteen upends over his mouth. He licks obediently at those few drops, dribbled patiently against his tongue, swallows the small offering while Fox’s torso looming above him blocks out the sun.
Dave can never really tell if he’s being indulged. Mocked. Or both.
Doesn’t care. Doesn’t need to care. He’s a soldier through and through. Fox outranks him, out paces him.
There’s far worse places to be than at his mercy.
Now that he’s ‘awake’ for lack of a better word, Fox pulls the canteen back with a tut-tut sound. Already impatient or perhaps endeared by his state. That dissonance between a personality Dave can never read as confusing as the silence ahead. There should be bird caws, air movement. He hears nothing over the whooshing in his ears. Feels little beyond the crush of his ribs slowly compressed beneath Fox’s shifting weight.
Somewhere far away, the clink of metal on dirt is the only way Dave knows he’s tossed the canteen aside. His belt buckles warm and heated against his bare chest, when Fox presents himself to him ass-first, BDU’s shoved mid-thigh and sweaty skin and hair the only view. He moves himself back, bracing both of those wide, imperfect hands against his own thighs, and sights no match for feeling, for sound, when he rubs his balls against his lips, coaxes age-old talents free with little more than a waiting cant of his hips.
That single rock back, giving Dave the barest amount of room to maneuvers the only cue he needs. Exhaled gratefully, wetly, around Fox’s sac. Making the skin and hair flutter, before he’s capable of moving a little higher. A little forward. The angle is awkward, at first, but with a lift of Fox’s hips, a helping hand to grip the base, he moves the rest of his cock-head first-beyond Dave’s lips and down his throat, seated in a breathless glide and leaving Dave helpless to do anything but swallow.
Not that he’d want it any other way. He exhales again, around Fox this time. Let’s his throat relax even around the dryness there. Those sad little drops barely enough to wet it. Feels Fox relish in the scrape and reliance on his own sweat to provide scratchy, tight friction. Even the echo in Dave’s ears begins to wane.
Pressure compresses his chest. Sweat from Fox’s own overheated skin drips down into every crack and crevice of his brow. The hard nub of his belt buckle bounces with every little thrust. Dents pleasantly into Dave’s chest. A backward roll pushes him deeper down his throat, and Dave’s teeth clamp down on reflex. Earning a delighted little hiss and snarl, before Fox’s own fingers snap to Dave’s belt.
He's hasty and impatient in this tug. Pulls the button too hard, tugs the zipper with too much force. Doesn’t bother with freeing Dave any further than necessary. Ducks his head without ceasing and waits for the moment Dave’s throat squeezes around his shaft before taking Dave all the way down himself.
It forces Dave to moan. Heat and weight, smooth and sticky engulfing him completely, instantly. Fox digs his mishappen nails into his thigh, scratches against the freshest of his cuts until the stitches threaten tear. Forcing him back to ground and stilling his hips in a shudder. Dave inhales through his nose and smells musk and swamp.
Disgusting, cloying. Grounding. Familiar like blood, iron. It settles him, allows him grace to relax his throat, to resume his easy task while Fox sucks and swallows him to near pain. Where Dave’s mouth is steady, slow, Fox’s is desperate and harsh. He bucks down when he swallows, forcing Dave to do the same if only to keep up. He’s dizzy, too warm and too pinned.
Impossible to turn his head, to catch his breath. Fox’s weight and relentless thrust-swallows dragging him closer to his peak. Dave feels his throat burn, eyes water, and his next moan is unbidden and silenced by skin. Known only through the vibration it sends back to Fox, who snarls in turn and picks up his pace.
Push and pull. Weight and friction. The dying echo returns with a vengeance, to a buzz and a hum. Dave starts to lift his legs, desperate to plant his boots in the grounding dirt, and gets a vicious grip to his smallest, most sensitive hairs for the trouble.
A grip that’s his downfall. Tense, bursting pain that travels straight from his groin to his sac. Small little fireworks while he arches, pulses rich against Fox’s tongue. Radiates and flows. He’s still twitching when Fox pulls off, devotes himself to harsh, unsteady thrusts that finally makes dry lips crack.
Blood that streaks the end of his shaft, when Fox laughs and licks tacky seed from his own lips, “Oh, Rookie.” Almost sweet, breathless only for how fast he thrusts. Rubs himself raw, bloody, in the way he likes when his own tension finally crests. It hurts, burns, as Dave swallows each pulse with tiny, hoarse whimpers.