Archive of Our Own ^beta

Forty three patients had flowed through the O.R. over the past twenty eight hours. One three-hour nap midday punctuated the constant influx of new patients: Head wounds, chest wounds, limb wounds, abdomen wounds, wounds Trapper didn’t even remember over the blood and gauze and exhaustion. He was dead on his feet the final hours of surgery, which ended none too soon around 0145, and lay in his cot, an hour and a half later, still, somehow, awake.

He was exhausted, drained to the bones, completely beat. But his brain, weary as it was, fixated on goddamned surgical procedures his hands had begun to ache from performing a dozen times in under two days. 

Trans-femoral amputation. 

Create transversely oriented fish-mouth incision at junction of middle and distal third of femur shaft above impacted area. Dissect subcutaneous tissue. Identify and ligate saphenous vein. Divide anterior thigh compartment muscles. Identify and ligate femoral artery and vein. Perform transverse osteotomy of the femur. Divide posterior thigh compartment muscles. Identify and ligate deep femoral artery and sciatic nerve. Separate periosteum from bone. Grind bone edges with rasp and file. 

“Fuck,” he whispered in frustration, turning over in his cot. 

The monotonous, if traumatic, events of the day replayed in his head with irritating vividness and technicality as if he were still in med school studying for an exam after sitting in on a surgery. 

He remembered his first amputation as a resident without an attending scrubbed in. Arm, not leg, like he had had to do twice in the most recent O.R. stint, but essentially the same. His nerves from that first surgery, unlike the surgical process itself, were a distant memory to his battle-worn body. Few things rattled him now. 

In the darkness of the tent, he turned again to his other side and held his skull in a futile effort to stop the images and procedures and steps from playing over in his mind. His distracted brain tried to remember calming methods, breathing techniques—anything that would bring his mind down from its overcrowded surgical playbook. 

Frank had the (undeserved) blessing of being ordered to sleep six or so hours before surgery ended so that he could be rested enough to take over post-op, where he was undoubtedly nitpicking and enjoying his power trip now as Trapper should have been sleeping off the hours of surgery, along with Hawkeye and Henry, who finished patient 43 strong in the 28th hour. 

Hawkeye had fallen asleep almost immediately, and lay as still as a board for the entire time Trapper tossed and turned, his only movements the gentle rise and fall of his chest and an occasional twitch of the foot. Trapper caught himself before envying him: he knew, despite Hawk’s current ability to surrender to sleep, that his brain was more often than not louder than Trapper’s was at its most infuriatingly loud. 

A small sound from Hawk’s cot entered Trapper’s crowded consciousness. A soft sigh from his barely open lips. Trapper’s ears trained on it, desperate to focus on anything other than standard operating procedures. He was quiet for a moment, and Trapper let out his own sigh, in disappointment. He hoped his friend—friends? is that what they were?—was in a restful, dreamless sleep, but if he wasn’t, that he was at least having a pleasant dream. Of home, maybe. Or a nurse. 

A more vocal sigh escaped Hawk’s lips. Trapper could see them parted more now, barely illuminated in the dim blanket of moonlight that sneaked into the tent under the closed canvas flaps. 

At least he’s sleeping well. He deserves it.

Hawkeye shifted in his cot. Trapper could see most of his body: it was a warm night, and neither of them could stand to be covered in anything much more than their shorts. Trapper’s army issue olive, and Hawk’s blue and white striped civvies. A modest rebellion. 

In the darkness, to which Trapper’s eyes had reluctantly adjusted, Hawk raised his far knee, stretching his closer leg. His head tilted towards Trapper, and the sleepy pout of his now closed lips made Trapper smile gently. 

He exhaled suddenly, remembering another image of those lips. On him. Around him. Those eyelashes draping over his closed eyes as he moved intently, hooding over his open eyes as he looked up through them at Trapper…

Hawkeye sighed—moaned—again, and Trapper wasn’t quite sure whether the noise was only in his memory. A sound more like a whine came from Hawk and Trapper redirected his focus to what was, now certainly, happening across the room, and swallowed. 

Trapper blinked, only for a moment preventing his eyes from flitting to Hawkeye’s groin, deciding that, under the circumstances, it was okay to look. More than okay. His bent leg straightened again, and he spread his thighs apart. 

Hawkeye’s hands still lay motionless, one at his side and the other draped across his bare chest. Trapper groaned quietly, however, as, even in the darkness, he saw an elevating tent in Hawk’s shorts. They strained lightly over him, twitching every few seconds. Trapper realized, after the third or fourth twitch, that he was holding his breath between every one.

He also noticed a corresponding tenting in his own shorts.

Something in their sexual interaction the week before had turned a dial in him. There had been enough casualties filtering in nearly each day since that he and Hawk hadn’t had a chance to talk about what happened, and he’d been busy enough that what little chance he may have had to think about it in between O.R. and post-op shifts, he avoided. Now, all he had to do was recover from a taxing week of trauma surgery. And think. 

He’d never considered himself a queer. Never considered being queer, doing queer shit. Sure, he could recognize a handsome guy. He grew up on Cary Grant. He’d noticed Hawk’s devilish smirk the day they met. But he’d never been with another man, much less actively thought of it, until that night Hawkeye dreamt about him. Until Hawkeye took him into his mouth. 

God.

Trapper’s dick twitched at the memory and he closed his eyes, palming himself over his shorts. 

Hawkeye shifted again in his cot, hips now slowly gyrating, and the rustling of sheets underneath him sent a lazy arousal through Trapper’s body.

The surgical procedures faded in his mind to dull background noise as memories of Hawk’s mouth around him took over. A hand slid up his built, bare chest, caressing, feeling himself breathe and flush with heat as he continued to rub himself. He breathed heavier now, and a gasp caught in his throat when Hawkeye moaned in his sleep. Trapper looked over to see Hawk’s hand pleasuring himself likewise over his shorts, palming his length and rubbing his tip through the fabric with his slender fingers.

“Mmm fuck,” Trapper gasped, a jolt of arousal shooting through him at the sight. 

Hawkeye bent his leg again, thigh muscles clenching, legs spreading wider, and ass grinding down softly onto the cot as he touched himself. 

Trapper’s blood rushed in his ears and he closed his eyes against a wave of arousal-induced light-headedness. When he opened them again, Hawk’s mouth hung slack, his tongue moving slightly with every breath. Like he was licking in his damn sleep.

Fuck. 

Trapper swallowed. 

He remembered Hawk swallowing his spend, and rutting against his cot while sucking him dry. Remembered Hawk coming in his pants with Trap in his mouth. He hadn’t even touched him. 

How long had he wanted that?

He watched Hawk’s body move. 

What else does he want?

Hawk whimpered and finally slipped a hand under his shorts. He gasped when, Trapper assumed, his hand circled his cock directly…

Trapper had a sudden, strong sensory image of how Hawk’s dick would feel in his hand. With a groan, he had a sudden, strong need to feel that for real. 

Sweating now, Trapper swung his legs over and hopped off the cot. He strode over to Hawkeye, who moaned quietly through his ministrations, and kneeled at his side. Breathing hard, he paused, as his closeness hit him. 

He could feel Hawk’s body heat, only inches away. The rustling of sheets and shorts sounded clearer in his ears, and his breath… Hawk’s breath… his face tilted again towards Trapper, his breath left his open mouth—his gorgeous mouth—in warm pants, which Trapper felt on his arm. 

Hawkeye moaned again, and Trapper throbbed, responding with a moan of his own. That dial Hawkeye had turned in him the week before turned again, and before he could think Trapper snaked his hand under Hawk’s shorts to join him. 

Warm. Wet. Fuck.

Hawkeye groaned in pleasure, still evidently asleep. Trapper’s hand touched where it could: some grasping at the base of his cock under Hawkeye’s quickly moving hand, some fingers circling his tip, hot and velvety. 

His realized his other hand had made it to Hawk’s torso, running up his side and resting on his chest. He moaned quietly as Hawk’s eye’s fluttered in drowsy pleasure. 

He loved this, but he wanted Hawk awake. Wanted to hear him speak, encourage him, swear in pleasure. Trapper moved his hand, never leaving Hawk’s skin, to pinch his nipple. 

“Ah—“ Hawk’s eyes fluttered open slowly, slowly coming into consciousness and awareness of the hot hands on him. His eyes hooded with the remnants of sleep, looked at Trapper: for a split second they widened in surprise, then, feeling Trapper’s fingers on his cock, shut tightly in arousal. A soft smile came to his lips as he panted. 

“Thought you could use some help,” Trapper said, squeezing with both hands.

“Mmm… full of great thoughts, aren’tcha Trap…” 

“I like to think so.”

Hawkeye exhaled deeply and bit his lip. He opened his eyes and stared into Trap’s face. “Fuck.” He was breathless under Trapper’s touches. 

“You like that?” Trapper thrilled to hear the same voice he used with nurses come out of his mouth. He really liked this, and couldn’t fake it. 

“I’d—“ Hawkeye grunted— “like it better if I could feel you… mmh…”

Maybe even liked it more. 

Hawkeye suddenly pulled his knees up, lifting his ass and grabbing his waistband. “Help me,” he breathed. 

Trapper’s hands left where they touched and assisted in pulling Hawk’s underwear down, and off his legs. The sight of Hawk, completely nude, flushed red, dripping, punched a spike in his heart rate.

“God damn,” he breathed. 

“You like what you see?” Hawkeye smirked through his aroused haze. 

Trapper swallowed and nodded. He was briefly frozen, sitting on his knees, so struck by the beauty of the body in front of him that he forgot what he was doing. Thankfully, Hawkeye seemed to have the wherewithal to know what he was doing, and shifted into another position. 

He gently pushed his leaking dick between his thighs, squeezing them closed around it before it could spring back against his stomach. Trapper literally gulped when he saw its purple-red head peaking through the back of Hawk’s thighs. Hawk reached around and started to rub the tip, his slender fingers circling his slit and spreading precum around the head—and into the crease of his thighs. He whined as he thrust minutely into the mattress and Trapper thought it was the most lewd, gorgeous thing he had ever seen in his life. 

“Fuck.”

“Please,” Hawkeye replied, cheekily. 

Trapper coughed and absentmindedly rubbed his hardness over the fabric of his shorts. 

“One of us is overdressed. Get those off.”

Trapper, aware now of the situation, hastily stood and removed his underwear, kicking it to the side. Once naked, he stood looking at Hawk, nearly shaking with arousal. His cock stood, uncovered now, throbbing in the air for Hawk to see. In his nakedness, he suddenly felt self conscious. Hawkeye’s ass continued to grind circles into the mattress, and for the first time, ever, Trap found himself aroused by that particular piece of anatomy. But Hawk had asked him to fuck him. He thought. He’d never… never even thought about doing that to someone. Here Hawkeye was, his best friend in this godforsaken world, presenting his most intimate part to him. He didn’t know—

“Trapper?” Hawkeye’s voice cut through his thoughts. 

“I…” he sighed, his nerves impeding the formulation of words. 

“Trap, come here.”

Trapper breathed, and took a step closer.

“Come here, I wanna make you feel good.”

Trapper took another step, and Hawkeye grabbed his hips, pulling them nearer as he shifted to his side. Hawkeye looked up at Trapper, whose skin was on fire where Hawk’s fingers touched it. 

“Trust me.” Hawkeye said, pulling him closer. Trapper nodded. 

He moaned when Hawkeye’s tongue touched him. Put his hand in Hawkeye’s hair to steady himself when his lips circled around him. He fought to keep his eyes open, to see Hawk move on him. 

Hawk’s tongue swirled around him as he sucked, nearly drenching him. He alternated between closed eyes and those blues looking up at Trapper under his eyelashes… 

Trapper groaned. 

Hawkeye squeezed his thigh and pulled off, saliva dribbling from his swollen lips. Trapper stayed silent, save his panting. 

“Get on the bed.” For as sleep deprived and debauched as he was, Hawkeye’s voice was remarkably clear. Trapper complied. 

Hawkeye shifted again on his back, positioning Trapper to kneel near him, and stroked himself a few times. With an aroused sigh, he once again pushed his dick in between his raised thighs, and opened up his lower legs to hook his feet around Trapper’s torso. 

“Fuck my thighs, Trap.” 

Trapper groaned, almost a shocked chuckle. Hawkeye licked his lips, his eyes never leaving Trapper’s. 

“I thought—“

“I want that too, but later.”

Trapper licked his lips, which were dry from his heavy breathing. 

“Do it,” he breathed. 

Trapper’s cock throbbed, wet with Hawkeye’s spit and his own precum. Breathlessly, he nodded. Shaking, he nodded, moved his hips forward, and guided his cock into the space between Hawk’s wet thighs, pushing it past Hawkeye’s flushed head. 

So fucking hot. 

The tightness and warmth made Trapper’s eyes fall closed as he pushed in that first time. 

“Mmmmh…”

Feeling Hawkeye’s cock twitch hotly under his, he held himself there for a second, two, three, feeling him twitch, then slowly pulled back, and thrust forward again. 

“Fuck, Trap.” They both groaned. “Yeah.”

Trapper’s thighs clenched and made small smacking sounds as they hit Hawk’s thighs each time he fucked into them, dragging out slowly, then snapping his hips forward again. 

“Ah…” Trapper groaned. He felt Hawk’s fingers sweep across his balls as he feverishly rubbed his own tip under Trapper’s cock. 

“Fuck—“

His body picked up the pace of his thrusting, Hawk’s wantonness driving him on. 

“Yes… fuck, Trap… ngghh…” Hawkeye threw his head back, squeezing his eyes closed. He likewise squeezed his thighs tighter, tighter, and Trapper’s pulse rushed heavily in his neck with the wet pressure. 

Trapper’s hand found itself smacking Hawkeye’s thigh, earning a yelp, and squeezing for dear life. He held Hawkeye’s legs, both to keep them up and to steady himself against the increasingly ragged thrusting that threatened to arouse him completely off balance. 

“Fuck.” He could feel that familiar, low coiling of pleasure building, tightening with every time he fucked into Hawk. Those legs.

Hawk moaned loudly, now, as Trapper’s heavy balls hit the head of his cock with each thrust. 

“You’re gonna make me come—“ Hawkeye whined, his voice desperate.

Trapper continued his vigorous pace, moaning, close to coming himself. 

“Nnnh fuck… fuck….” Hawkeye’s brows furrowed in pleasured agony as he thrust his ass toward Trapper in sync with Trapper’s fucking. 

“Hawk—“ Trapper’s voice was strangled, cut off with a series of grunts. 

“Do it.” Hawkeye gasped, repeating his earlier challenge. 

“Ahh—“ Trapper spurt hot come onto Hawkeye’s stomach, between his thighs, dripping down the backs of his legs. His wetness mixed with Hawkeye’s as he came, pulsing and squirting onto Trapper’s cock, balls, legs… whining desperately with each throbbing spurt and drag of Trapper’s twitching cock cross his. 

“Fuck— fuck fuck. Fuuck.” Hawkeye gasped for breath, and Trapper could see tears in the corners of his eyes from the intensity of their shared orgasm. He felt the same in his as he returned Hawkeye’s gaze.

Trapper’s thighs shook as the last of his come dribbled from his spent cock onto Hawkeye, and he nearly fell over onto Hawk in sudden loss of control of his muscles. He caught himself, one hand on Hawk’s thigh, the other on the bed, and allowed his eyes to close. 

They panted, both shaking as they came down from the high of orgasm. Slowly, Hawkeye released the tension in his legs and lowered them down around Trapper, fully flopping back in exhaustion on the bed. Trapper felt Hawk’s dick twitch in aftershocks against his wet thigh, soft and hanging low, now. Muscles burning from tension and exertion, Trapper slowly, shakily, lowered himself down onto Hawkeye. He didn’t give a fuck that he was lowering his stomach onto a sizable pool of both their come.

He lay on top of Hawkeye, his body elevated by the rise of Hawk’s chest as his breathing slowed from heavy gasps to small, tired pants. He buried his face into the crook of Hawk’s neck, cool and damp from sweat. He took in Hawk’s smell… salty, and earthy, and rich, and all his…

Mine, he thought. Fuck. He liked the sound of that. Liked how it felt. It felt right. 

He jolted slightly when Hawk’s hand—the dry one—came around to his shoulders and began to stroke him, but soon relaxed into his touch. 

They stayed like that a long while as they came down. Trapper listened to Hawkeye’s heartbeat, slow and steady, and Hawkeye relaxed to the puff of Trapper’s breath on his skin. Trapper had nearly fallen asleep when Hawkeye spoke quietly into his ear. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

Trapper breathed in. “Any time,” he replied sleepily. Hawkeye chuckled softly. 

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Trapper felt his hand rest on his head, fingers finding a gentle hold in his curls. 

Yeah, I could get used to this.