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it’s always tease tease tease you’re happy when i’m on my knees

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"Major General," John says, all silky and smooth.

Alex risks a glance at him. He doesn’t want to award him with anything more outright, anything less subtle. He knows what he wants when he comes to his quarters like this. He knows what he’s angling for.

Usually they don't bother with these titles when they're alone. Alex finds it awkward to be addressed like he's his superior when they have spent so much time being equals, when they’ve done so much to be equals, when they’ve always been a team. No power imbalance. There’s always been a distinct sense of belonging between them.

Sweet, freckled John, his full lips, his -

Weapon against Alex's back. John's coat rustling as he leans forward, places his chin on Alex's shoulder.

"Sir," he whispers into his ear, "please."

Surely this shouldn't be arousing to him. Yet, as stiff as his spine is against the metal of the musket, pressed against his back, another part of his anatomy threatens to stiffen as well -

"John," he exhales, hands gripping onto the desk in front of him, knuckles going white. How fascinating.

"Yes, sir."

"What is that?"

"Oh, this?" John says, traces a distracted circle into his back, the motion raising goosebumps on Alex’s skin. "Just excited to see you, sir."

Alex shudders. How delicious the implications. Does he need more? Has he ever needed more than the implication of John’s desire for him to want him back? Not even that, always. Sometimes he feels like he’s always ready to take him, to be taken by him –

"You want my cock, sir?"

And isn't that the most exhilarating thing he could possibly have said –

He doesn't realize he's nodding until John is shushing him, pulling him up from the chair and then coaxing him onto his knees on the floor.

For a split second he wonders what his fellow soldiers would think if they saw him like this, him, a Major General, on his knees, begging for his subordinate’s weapon in his mouth.

It tastes like blood. It doesn't, but the implication of it does. It tastes like – it doesn't taste good, but the implication of it does. It's not loaded. He tongues at the tip, the delicate shape, the cold metal, and when he fails to properly take it into his mouth John thrusts it in, just a little bit, not enough for him to choke on it, but enough to make him want to gag. He doesn't.

He swallows around the metal like he would were it attached to John's body, if it was flesh, if it was warm and twitching, if the swirls of his tongue against the bumps and ridges of it were allowing John to derive direct pleasure from his mouth –

John pulls the weapon out of his mouth. It's the closest they get to it.

"It's not loaded," Alex thinks to himself as John holds it up to his temple absently, like it's nothing, like it doesn't even matter. Like one pull of the trigger wouldn't kill him. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. It's not loaded.

"You trust me," John notes, slowly, and then, after a long pause, "sir."

It could be a question. Somewhere else it would be. In another setting, with the tip of John's weapon on Alex's temple, hands shaking, hair a halo around his head, in the middle of a crowd of redcoats, seconds before going through with another scheme of his, another wild, under-planned escape plan, another stunt. Alex nods, just once. He doesn't open his eyes. His breeches feel tight. His legs and knees feel cold. He wants to lie down. He wants to be warm. He wants John, and his body, and his warmth.

There's a tapping sound. John's fingernails along the body of the gun, a metallic cling, a tap tap tap of his nails. Alex doesn't open his eyes. Just wait, sir. I'll handle it, sir.

The moment stretches, both of them tense, both of them waiting for the other one to react, and then John sighs, the tenseness leaving him, and Alex slumps forward in response. John puts his hand in his hair and pets him like he's a frightened horse, like he's one of the redcoat horses they've stolen from under their owners, spooked by the gunfire, stained red and brown with blood. His ponytail threatens to come undone. That's okay.

"Get on the bed, sir," he says, and Alex does, eagerly, hands flying to his belt, but John stops him, goes, "No, sir, don't take them off yet –" and Alex complies, situates himself on the bed, face down, ass up.

John arrives to investigate, and Alex feels him there as much as he feels the breath in his own body – first just the presence of his body, his soft breath, and then his hand on Alex's shoulder, flipping him over onto his back.

They make eye contact for the first time since John walked in.

He's so handsome with his hair up in a ponytail. His heart shaped face, his long lashes, his freckles, his strong arms, his weapon –

"Take off your coat, sir, and your shirt," he says, and Alex scrambles to obey. His clothes land on the floor. John steps over them, his own hands undoing his shirt under his coat, shrugging it off together with his coat.

John trails the tip of his musket down Alex's body, collarbone to hip, over the swell of his stomach, feather light, just barely there, making him shiver and twitch with the promise of it. John smiles, softly, just the whisper of appreciation at the contours of his body in his eyes. He’s gorgeous, Alexander thinks as he stares up at him, his warm brown skin, his freckled torso, his collarbones, his throat, his small breasts –

Handsome. Beautiful boy.

“What are you looking at, sir,” John asks, amusement in his voice.

Alex smiles. “Just you,” he says, softly, “just you.”

John’s face softens. “Just you, sir,” he mumbles, almost bashful for a moment.

He extends out his arms, almost sleepily, almost subconsciously asking for John’s affection. And then John is straddling him, his weapon slung over his shoulder carelessly, staring down at him with an easy smile.

Alex wants to surge up to kiss him, then, so badly. John, as if sensing this desire, lazily lowers his weapon, points it at his chest, lets it touch him right by his right nipple, like a little kiss.

“What do you want to do to me, sir?” he asks.

“I want to be in you,” Alex says, hurriedly, like if he hesitates the option will be taken away.

“Okay,” John says, and then he takes off his stockings, his breeches, like it’s that simple. Maybe it is.

“Can I –”


So Alex doesn’t take off his breeches. He squirms a little, wiggles his hips, but he doesn’t take his breeches off.

John straddles him again, and even now, him completely naked save for his hair tie and his weapon he’s so clearly in charge Alex feels like he might as well be the one naked and vulnerable. He can’t see anything from this angle, but he can smell arousal in the air. The thought of John being wet enough for him to be able to smell it is like a punch to the gut.

“Gonna get me wet, sir?” John asks, and there’s only so much Alex can do to stop himself from wiggling himself like a dog wagging its tail at the prospect of getting to use his mouth on him. His hands reach for John’s hips, hovering over his own, and then he pulls him in closer, and John stumbles forward, caught off guard.

“Careful,” John says, his voice surprised and squeaky for just a beat, and then immediately strong, authoritative, “lay your head down. Good.”

Alex surges up with desperation, hands grasping onto his hips, pulling him into himself greedily, tongue seeking out the sensitive spots of him to tease, to tongue at. He always feels like he’s too eager, like he’s too much, but John doesn’t mind it. He says he likes it – likes feeling overwhelmed, overstimulated, too much. He says sometimes that’s the only way he can feel anything at all.

So he licks the spots where he knows he’s sensitive, tongues at his opening. He can’t fuck him like this, not from this angle, not with just his tongue, but he tries, just the slightest hint of penetration. When John whimpers he points his tongue and uses it to play with his clit, careful strokes of his tongue, a flicking motion that makes John clench his abs and squeeze his thighs around Alex’s head.

“Please suck me, sir,” John mumbles, and Alex obliges, gently, wraps his lips around the tiny nub like it’s something much bigger, like he did minutes earlier with his musket, like it’s one of the other cocks he’s sucked before –

“Good, ah, thank you, sir,” gasp, “sir –”

Alex deattaches his mouth for just a few seconds, just to get a few breaths in, and John takes that as a signal to move on. Alex whines, gently, but then John is grabbing the musket again, and Alex falls silent, trembling with desire.

He traces the outline of Alex’s cock with the tip, and it jumps under the contact. John pauses there, thumb flickering over the trigger. Alex swears. It’s not loaded.

“Boom,” John says, slowly, softly, as he releases the trigger, “bye.” The trigger clicks.

That shouldn’t be hot. His wide-eyed faux innocence shouldn’t be hot. The anxious second of panic followed by relief shouldn’t be hot. John undoes his breeches and pulls them down, the gun touching Alex’s bare skin like white-hot fire, and he twitches. John ignores it. His cock is so hard he can feel it twitching, trying to get closer to John’s body, where it belongs –

John adjusts his position over his body. That’s always the most thrilling part – John, on top of him, wet and wanting, in control. His hand reaches behind himself to find Alex’s cock, and just that one touch, just moving his length to a better position, makes him gasp for breath. He feels oversensitive. Everything feels like so much.

“Sir,” John sighs out, and then he sinks down on his cock, wordlessly.

He’s always so tight when they start, and he always takes him to the root at once. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, and Alex worries for his comfort. They do this every time. It’s never worth it to ask, or to tell him to take it slow. John never wants to. He wants to feel it, he says, wants to remember it days later. Alex always wants to ask him if it works, but he never does.

John’s thighs shake. Alex reaches out a hand. “Can I give you a hand there?” he asks. John nods, teeth still gritted, and it hurts some unnamed being in Alex’s chest to see him like this, to be the cause of this. Alex rubs his clit for him, clumsy and uncoordinated in the dark, until something makes John twitch and then he repeats it until John gasps and shudders and starts moving on him. The musket is forgotten again. Alex doesn’t mind.

“Fuck me, sir,” John gasps, and Alex bucks up into him, twisting his hips best as he can to seek out whatever sensitive places there must be inside of him, that make him sigh and huff. John picks up a rhythm of his own, grinding into the motion, and Alex groans when he clamps down on him, fingers speeding up on his clit almost subconsciously, desperate to make him feel as good as he’s making Alex feel.

He aches to love the rest of him like he does this specific part of him – his collar bones, his nipples, his ribs, his stomach, his thighs, that specific spot behind his knee. He longs to kiss him. John doesn’t let him, most days. It’s okay, but he wants to. He wishes that, in another universe, he’ll be able to love him openly, and as fully as they want.

There’s certain vulnerability to this, he supposes, an inherent one. Beside that one he’s not sure John is too keen on the idea of letting him see him any more vulnerable than he must.

“Feels so good, sir,” he moans, and Alex shivers, and he wants so badly to suck him again, to get him in his mouth, to make him come, and the hand he’s got on John’s clit is getting so wet, the rub of his finger against it getting slippery. John’s moaning, softly, so quietly, and Alex wants to cry.

Alex never lasts long when they’re like this. John notices – he’s not too far behind himself, and he picks up the musket for the last time, a wild look in his eyes, hips still moving, and rests it against Alex’s forehead.

“You trust me, sir?”

This time it’s a question. “Always,” Alex gasps.

John pulls the trigger. It goes click, just softly.

Something white explodes just behind Alex’s closed eyelids, like a snow storm. He’s vaguely aware of having come, and of John kissing his temple tenderly, the sweetest display of affection. He wants to stay like this, forever. It’s impractical, of course. A man can dream.

John throws on his clothes, gets up. Alex wipes a finger through the mess that’d leaked out of John and onto the bed.

“What if you get –” he’d asked before.

“I’ll deal with it,” John’d said, eyes all fire and stone. It’d put a heavy thing in Alex’s stomach. An uneasy thing.

John picks up his musket. They make eye contact.

“Dearest,” John mouths, “tomorrow. Tomorrow.”

Maybe some other time they’ll have the time to lay in bed afterwards. To trace each other’s bones through the skin, find the softest places on the insides of each other’s wrists –

As for now, this is how it has to be.

They’ll see each other the next day. He gets dressed. He sits back down on his chair.

He hopes.