The Iraqi air clung thick as molasses to Sergeant Marcus Holt's sweat-drenched fatigues. He leaned against the rusted Humvee, wiping grime from his brow with a forearm corded like steel cable. Twenty years in the Corps had etched themselves into his physique — broad shoulders straining fabric, a chest like sculpted granite, and thighs that could crush walnuts. His ice-blue eyes scanned the Baghdad outskirts, missing nothing. Command had assigned him to train Iraqi recruits, but the desert sand tasted like ash in his mouth since Benghazi. His husband, David — a pediatric surgeon with gentle hands and laugh lines — had begged him to retire after that deployment. Marcus had refused. Duty first. Always.
Across the base, Major Liam Thorne adjusted his dress blues in the makeshift officers' quarters. The mirror reflected a man carved from marble — jaw sharp enough to cut glass, silver threading through his military-trimmed dark hair. At forty-five, his body remained a weapon: dense pectorals, obliques like canyon ridges, biceps swelling against tight fabric as he fastened his medals. Afghanistan haunted him differently. Not nightmares, but ghosts — the young private who bled out in his arms whispering, "Tell Jenny I tried." Liam's wedding ring felt cold against his skin. His wife Elaine decorated their Arlington home with porcelain angels and silence. They hadn't touched in three years.
The briefing room buzzed with tension. Marcus leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his barrel chest, watching Iraqi recruits fumble rifle drills. Liam entered, posture rigid as a steel beam, eyes scanning the room like targeting lasers. Their gazes locked — Holt's glacial blue meeting Thorne's storm-grey. Recognition sparked. Benghazi. Fallujah. Legends whispered in hushed tones across mess halls. Marcus remembered Thorne single-handedly dragging wounded Marines through mortar fire. Liam recalled Holt's berserker charge when insurgents breached the embassy perimeter. A curt nod passed between them, the only acknowledgment warriors gave.
Later, beneath the relentless Iraqi sun, Marcus caught Liam inspecting perimeter defenses alone. "Heard you turned down Command School," Marcus rasped, wiping sweat from his stubbled jaw.
Liam didn't turn, tracing a finger along razor-wire. "Paperwork doesn't stop IEDs." Silence stretched, thick as the humidity. Then, softly: "Your husband. David." Marcus stiffened. "He wrote to me. After ... after Jenny." Liam's voice cracked on the name — the private's widow. Marcus saw the raw grief etched in the Major's granite features. "He said you push everyone away so loss won't gut you." Liam finally faced him, eyes burning. "Does he know you do the same?"
Marcus's knuckles whitened. The accusation landed like a mortar round. He saw David's worried face flashing on grainy video calls, heard the quiet disappointment when he'd extended his tour. Again. "What's it to you?" The growl ripped from his throat.
Liam stepped closer, the heat radiating off his dense frame palpable. "Because I see it," he hissed, low and urgent. "The way you drill these recruits till they drop. How you volunteer for every damn patrol. It's not duty. It's a suicide run." His storm-grey eyes held Marcus's glacial stare, unflinching. "You're trying to die out here."
Marcus’s fist clenched, tendons standing out like cables along his forearm. The truth of it hit harder than desert heat. David’s pleading voice echoed in his skull — "Come home, Marcus. Please." He’d buried it under gunfire and grit. Now this silver-haired bastard had dug it up with one sentence. "You don’t know shit," Marcus snarled, but the edge wavered.
Liam didn’t blink. He invaded Marcus’s space, close enough for Marcus to smell starch on his uniform and something deeper — gun oil and sorrow. "I know the look," Liam countered, voice dropping to gravel. "Saw it every morning shaving after Kunduz. That hollow stare begging for a bullet." His knuckle brushed the scar slicing Marcus’s eyebrow — Benghazi shrapnel. "Running toward death won’t erase the ones you couldn’t save."
Marcus flinched. The desert wind howled, kicking dust against their boots. He saw David’s trembling hands holding coffee mugs too tight during farewells. Saw the blood-streaked embassy floor. For twenty years, he’d armored himself in duty. Now Liam’s words pried like a crowbar. "What’s your solution?" Marcus rasped, the fight leaching from his voice. "Whiskey? Prayer?"
Liam’s gaze didn’t waver. "Neither worked." He unclipped his canteen, took a long pull. Water traced his throat. "Elaine sleeps in the guest room. Calls me 'Major' at breakfast." He offered the canteen. Marcus hesitated, then snatched it. The water tasted like grit and surrender. "We’re both ghosts," Liam said softly. "Haunting places that aren’t home."
Marcus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The recruits’ distant shouts felt muffled, unreal. "So what now? Hold hands and cry?" The sarcasm tasted hollow.
Liam’s laugh was a dry rasp. "Fuck no." He jerked his chin toward the barracks. "Got contraband Scotch in my footlocker. Single malt." His storm-grey eyes held Marcus’s. "Drink with a ghost?"
Marcus hesitated. The ice-blue glare flickered — toward the recruits, the wire, the endless sand. Toward David’s face in his mind, fading like a signal lost. He gave a single, sharp nod. "Lead the way, Major."
Liam’s quarters were Spartan — cot, footlocker, a cracked mirror reflecting dust motes dancing in the slatted light. He knelt, muscles shifting under his uniform like tectonic plates, and pulled a bottle from beneath folded socks.
The Scotch glowed amber as he poured two tin cups full. No toast. They drank in silence thick enough to choke on. Fire bloomed in Marcus’s chest, chasing the desert chill from his bones. He studied Liam across the small space — the silver at his temples, the fine lines around eyes that had seen too many boys die.
"Jenny," Marcus rasped. "The widow. She ever ...?"
Liam’s knuckles whitened on the cup. "Writes every Christmas. Pictures of her son." He swallowed hard. "Looks just like him." The grief wasn’t a wound; it was the air Liam breathed.
Marcus understood. He drained his cup, the burn a welcome distraction. "David stopped asking when I’m coming home," he admitted, the words scraping raw. "Just ... sends care packages. Socks. Jerky." He laughed, a hollow sound. "Like I’m some damn stray he’s feeding."
Liam refilled both cups. His gaze was a physical weight. "You think staying out here honors him? Or punishes him?"
The question landed like a knife between ribs. Marcus flinched. He saw David’s hands — surgeon’s hands, steady as stone in an OR, trembling when they touched Marcus’s scars. "Both," he whispered. The admission tasted like ash.
Outside, dusk bled into the sand, painting the room in bruised shadows. The Scotch hummed in their veins, lowering barriers brick by painful brick. Liam leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Elaine keeps porcelain angels," he said, voice low. "Dusts them every Tuesday. Never touches me." He met Marcus’s stare, storm-grey meeting glacial blue. "When was the last time someone touched you? Really touched you?"
The silence screamed. Marcus’s pulse hammered against his throat. Twenty years of armor, of denial, cracked. He didn’t speak. He reached out — calloused, scarred fingers brushing Liam’s cheek, tracing the harsh line of his jaw.
A shudder ripped through Liam’s frame. Not recoil. Release. His hand came up, covering Marcus’s, pressing that rough palm hard against his skin. His eyes closed. A single tear tracked through the dust on his cheek.
Marcus leaned in. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was collision — teeth, desperation, the salt of sweat and tears and shared ruin. It tasted like salvation and damnation. Like coming home to a house already burned down.
Liam’s hands fisted in Marcus’s fatigues, pulling him closer, onto the cot. Uniforms ripped. Skin met skin. They were all scar tissue and coiled muscle, a tangle of need and fury. No words. Just gasps, the slick slide of sweat, the animal sounds of men breaking open. Outside, the desert wind howled. Inside, two ghosts made flesh.
Marcus bit Liam’s shoulder, tasted salt and gunpowder. Liam arched, groaning, fingers digging into Marcus’s back like grappling hooks. They moved with the brutal efficiency of soldiers — no tenderness, just raw, grinding urgency. Marcus’s calloused hand wrapped around Liam’s cock, thick and pulsing.
Liam snarled, bucking against him. "Fuck," he rasped, voice shattered. "Just —"
Liam flipped him, pinning Marcus’s wrists above his head. His storm-grey eyes burned. "Look at me," he ordered.
Marcus did. Saw the reflection of his own wreckage.
Marcus rolled Liam onto his back, pinning those powerful shoulders with deceptive ease. His calloused hand slid down Liam’s sweat-slicked abdomen, fingers wrapping around the Major’s thick cock. He pumped once, twice, rough and demanding.
Liam snarled, hips jerking off the cot. "Fucking hell, Holt —"
The curse dissolved into a guttural groan as Marcus bent low, taking Liam’s entire length into his mouth in one brutal motion. No finesse, just suction and raw need, throat working around the girth. Liam’s fingers tangled in Marcus’s short-cropped hair, forcing him deeper, grinding upward. Marcus gagged, saliva dripping onto Liam’s heaving stomach, but didn’t relent, hollowing his cheeks until Liam’s thighs trembled.
Liam flipped them with explosive force, slamming Marcus onto the thin mattress. He spat into his palm, slicking his own rigid cock before driving into Marcus without preamble. Marcus arched off the cot, a choked shout ripped from him as Liam pistoned deep, each brutal thrust splitting him open. No tenderness, no easing in – just the raw, tearing stretch of muscle yielding to relentless invasion.
Liam’s hands clamped onto Marcus’s hips, fingers digging bruises into dense flesh, hauling him back onto every punishing stroke. Marcus roared, clawing at the sweat-drenched sheets, his own neglected cock leaking thickly onto his stomach. Liam leaned down, biting Marcus’s shoulder hard enough to draw blood, the metallic tang mixing with sweat and the musk of desperate coupling. "Take it," Liam snarled against his skin, voice ragged. "Take every fucking inch."
Marcus twisted, shoving Liam onto his back. He straddled the Major’s thick thighs, impaling himself roughly on Liam’s still-hard cock. He rode him with furious abandon, muscles straining, sweat dripping from his jaw onto Liam’s heaving chest. Liam’s hands flew to Marcus’s hips again, guiding the brutal rhythm, thumbs pressing into the hollows above his pelvis. Marcus leaned forward, capturing Liam’s mouth in a savage kiss – teeth clashing, tongues warring, breaths hot and shared. He broke away only to spit onto Liam’s face, a primal challenge. Liam growled, surging upward to sink his teeth into Marcus’s pectoral, sucking a dark bruise onto the granite muscle.
Marcus shoved Liam face-down onto the cot. He spread Liam’s powerful glutes, spitting roughly onto his exposed hole before burying his face between them. He ate Liam’s ass with ruthless hunger – tongue stabbing deep, lapping, sucking, biting the tender flesh of his inner thighs.
Liam bucked, cursing into the mattress, fingers clawing at the thin blanket. Marcus pulled back, slicking two fingers with spit before driving them knuckle-deep into Liam’s tight channel, twisting, scissoring brutally. Liam gasped, pushing back against the intrusion. "Fuck me," he demanded, voice thick and muffled. "Now."
Marcus didn’t hesitate. He spat onto his own aching cock, lined up, and slammed home. Liam arched, a ragged cry torn from him as Marcus pounded into him with jackhammer force. The cot groaned under the assault. Marcus gripped Liam’s hips, fingers bruising, driving deeper with every thrust. He leaned over, biting Liam’s trapezius muscle, tasting salt and desperation.
Liam reached back, grabbing Marcus’s hair, yanking his head back, forcing eye contact. Their gazes locked – storm-grey and glacial blue blazing with shared ruin, defiance, and a terrifying, raw hunger.
They came almost simultaneously, brutal shouts echoing in the small room – Liam spilling thick ropes of his sperm onto the blanket beneath him, Marcus emptying deep inside with pulsing, shuddering thrusts. They collapsed, slick with sweat and semen, gasping, the air thick with the scent of sex, Scotch, and the desert dust still clinging to their skin.
Later, tangled naked on the narrow cot, Liam traced a scar on Marcus’s flank – a souvenir from Fallujah. Marcus’s hand rested possessively on Liam’s hip. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it was honest. The Scotch bottle lay empty on the floor. Outside, the Iraqi night pressed in, indifferent.
They awoke before reveille, the desert chill seeping through the thin barracks walls. Marcus stirred first, Liam’s heavy arm draped across his waist, the heat of their bodies mingling under the rough blanket. Awareness flooded back – the soreness, the dried sweat and semen, the impossible weight of what they’d done. Yet, beneath the shock, a low current hummed. Marcus shifted slightly, his hardening cock pressing against Liam’s thigh. Liam’s breath hitched; Marcus felt the answering stiffness against his own hip.
No words. Liam turned, his storm-grey eyes meeting Marcus’s glacial blue in the pre-dawn gloom. There was no accusation, no retreat, only a raw, shared vulnerability. Liam’s hand slid up Marcus’s arm, calloused fingers brushing over the dense muscle of his bicep, then cupping the back of his neck. He pulled Marcus closer. Their lips met softly this time – a tentative brush, then a deeper press. Liam’s tongue traced the seam of Marcus’s lips, seeking entry.
Marcus yielded, a low groan rumbling in his chest as their tongues slid together, exploring slowly, tasting Scotch and sleep and the lingering salt of each other. The kiss deepened, unhurried, intimate. Liam’s hand slid down Marcus’s spine, fingers splaying over the swell of his ass, pulling him flush against his own thickening arousal.
Marcus rolled Liam gently onto his back. He straddled Liam’s hips, the thick length of Liam’s cock hot and urgent against his own. Leaning down, Marcus kissed him again, deep and languorous, his tongue mapping Liam’s mouth. He broke away only to trail kisses down Liam’s jaw, his throat, lingering over the pulse point. His hands explored Liam’s chest – the dense pectorals, the ridges of his abdomen, the silver trail of hair leading down. He took Liam’s nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, swirling his tongue until Liam arched beneath him with a soft gasp. Marcus’s hand closed around Liam’s cock, thick and heavy, pumping slowly, slicking pre-cum down its length.
Liam’s fingers tangled in Marcus’s hair, guiding him lower. Marcus obeyed, kissing down the taut plane of Liam’s stomach, tasting salt and musk. He took Liam fully into his mouth, sinking deep until his nose pressed against wiry curls. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking rhythmically, tongue swirling around the head. Liam groaned, hips lifting off the cot, fingers tightening. "Christ, Holt ..."
Marcus pulled off with a wet pop, his own cock dripping onto Liam’s thigh. He spat into his palm, slicking himself thickly before positioning himself at Liam’s entrance. Their eyes locked – storm-grey and ice-blue blazing. Liam nodded once, sharp. Marcus pushed forward slowly, relentlessly, breaching the tight ring of muscle. Liam hissed, jaw clenching, but held Marcus’s gaze, his legs wrapping around Marcus’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back.
Marcus sank deeper, inch by excruciating inch, until he was fully sheathed, balls pressed against Liam’s ass. They paused, breathing ragged, foreheads touching, sweat mingling. The stretch was intense, almost painful, grounding them in the raw physicality of it.
Marcus began to move. Slow, deep thrusts at first, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in with deliberate force. Liam met each stroke, pushing back, his cock trapped between their stomachs, leaking steadily. The pace built gradually – a grinding, relentless rhythm that filled the small room with the slick slap of skin, the creak of the cot, and their guttural breaths. Marcus braced one hand beside Liam’s head, the other gripping Liam’s hip, fingers leaving crescent moons in the flesh.
Liam raked his nails down Marcus’s sweat-slicked back, leaving fiery trails. Their eyes remained locked, a silent conversation of shared wreckage and unexpected solace passing between them. Marcus angled his hips, driving deeper, hitting that spot that made Liam cry out, a raw, shattered sound. Liam’s hand flew to his own cock, stroking furiously in time with Marcus’s thrusts.
The climax built like a desert storm – relentless, consuming, inevitable. Liam’s fist pumped his own thick cock in brutal sync with Marcus’s deep, grinding thrusts. Each powerful drive of Marcus’s hips slammed Liam’s prostate, wracking his body with tremors. Liam’s knuckles whitened around his shaft, precum slicking his furious strokes.
Marcus watched, mesmerized, as Liam’s storm-grey eyes glazed over, pupils blown wide with abandon. A guttural groan tore from Liam’s throat, raw and shattered, as his body locked. Thick ropes of sperm pulsed hotly onto his heaving stomach and chest, stripe after stripe painting his sweat-slicked abs and dense pectorals.
The sight, the feel of Liam convulsing beneath him, shattered Marcus’s control. Three more savage thrusts, burying himself to the hilt, and Marcus roared – a sound ripped from his core. His release surged, flooding Liam’s clenching channel in hot, pulsing waves. He collapsed forward, crushing Liam into the sweat-soaked cot, forehead pressed hard against Liam’s shoulder. Their harsh breaths mingled, the only sound in the sudden stillness besides the frantic hammering of their hearts against each other’s ribs.
Marcus didn’t move. He stayed buried deep, the aftershocks still trembling through his thighs, Liam’s spent cock sticky against his own stomach. Liam’s fingers, trembling slightly, traced the scars on Marcus’s sweat-slicked back – the map of a lifetime at war. The touch was tentative, almost reverent. Marcus lifted his head slowly, his ice-blue eyes meeting Liam’s storm-grey gaze.
There was no shame, only a raw, shared exhaustion and a dawning, terrifying intimacy. Liam’s hand slid up, calloused palm cupping Marcus’s stubbled jaw. He pulled him down into a kiss – not the desperate collision of before, but something slower, deeper, tasting salt and spent passion and an unspoken understanding.
They disentangled reluctantly, limbs heavy. Marcus rolled onto his side, facing Liam. The narrow cot forced closeness. Liam reached for a discarded fatigue shirt, damp and gritty, and began wiping the cooling semen from his own stomach and chest with rough, practical strokes. He tossed the soiled cloth aside, then reached for Marcus. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he cleaned Marcus’s softening cock and sticky thighs with another rag. The intimacy of the act, the quiet care amidst the carnality, struck Marcus harder than any thrust. Liam’s eyes held his, steady, acknowledging the shift.
Outside, the first grey streaks of dawn bled through the slatted window. The desert wind had died, leaving an eerie silence. Liam shifted, his powerful frame pressing against Marcus’s side, radiating warmth against the barracks chill. His arm draped heavily over Marcus’s waist, fingers resting possessively on his hipbone. Marcus didn’t pull away. He turned his head, burying his face in the crook of Liam’s neck, inhaling the musk of sweat, sex, gun oil, and something uniquely Liam – cedar and desert dust.
Liam’s free hand came up, fingers threading gently through Marcus’s short-cropped hair. No words were spoken. None were needed. The silence wrapped around them, thick and profound, charged with the terrifying weight of what had been broken open and the fragile promise of what might come next. The empty Scotch bottle lay forgotten on the dusty floor.
*****
The harsh, electronic blare of reveille shattered the fragile peace like a mortar round. Marcus jolted awake, disoriented for a split second by the unfamiliar warmth pressed against his back – Liam’s arm still draped heavily over his waist, Liam’s breath warm on his neck.
Instinct kicked in. He rolled away, the cot springs groaning in protest, his feet hitting the cold concrete floor before his eyes were fully open. Across the narrow space, Liam was already moving with military precision, swinging his legs over the edge, his granite face a mask. The intimacy of the night vanished, replaced by the immediate, jarring reality of duty.
They dressed in silence, pulling on sweat-stiffened fatigues, avoiding each other’s eyes. The air crackled with unspoken words and the lingering scent of sex and Scotch.
The mess hall buzzed with the usual morning chaos – the clatter of trays, shouted jokes, the smell of powdered eggs and burnt coffee. Marcus and Liam took their trays and slid onto benches opposite each other at a long table crowded with other NCOs and officers.
The conversation around them was loud and boisterous, fueled by caffeine and the dark humor endemic to war zones. Someone recounted a disastrous patrol; another mocked the Iraqi recruits’ latest blunder. Laughter erupted, sharp and jarring.
Marcus shoveled eggs into his mouth, tasting nothing. Liam sipped his coffee, his storm-grey eyes scanning the room with detached focus, the perfect Major. Yet, beneath the table, Marcus felt the brush of Liam’s boot against his own – deliberate, fleeting, a secret anchor in the storm. Their eyes met across the steam rising from Liam’s mug. A flicker, deep and unreadable, passed between them before Marcus looked down at his plate, his jaw tightening. They ate in silence amidst the roar, islands of quiet intensity.
The workday descended with the relentless Iraqi sun. Marcus drilled recruits on the dusty parade ground, his voice a bark that carried over the thud of boots and the clatter of weapons. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back. He moved with his usual brutal efficiency, correcting stances, demonstrating disarms with bone-jarring force. Yet, his ice-blue eyes kept straying towards the command tent where Liam stood, posture rigid, reviewing perimeter schematics with junior officers.
Liam’s gaze lifted, meeting Marcus’s across the shimmering heat haze. It lasted only a heartbeat – a silent acknowledgment that thrummed louder than Marcus’s shouted commands. Liam gave a curt nod, then turned back to the maps, his expression unreadable. Marcus snapped his attention back to a fumbling recruit, his correction harsher than necessary. The desert wind whipped dust into his eyes, or perhaps it was something else. The ghosts were still there, but now they walked beside each other.
***
Mail call came late afternoon, a brief respite before evening patrols. A corporal moved down the line of weary men outside the comms tent, barking names. Liam stood rigid, accepting a thick, legal-sized envelope with stiff fingers. The return address – a sleek law firm in Arlington – told him everything. He didn’t open it. The weight of it in his hand was condemnation enough. Elaine’s signature would be there, precise and cold, severing twenty hollow years.
Marcus watched Liam’s face shutter closed, saw the slight tremor in the Major’s hand before it vanished. Then his own name was called. A simple blue envelope, David’s neat handwriting stark against the cheap paper. Inside, no care package list, no cheerful update. Just three paragraphs. The words blurred: "... can't keep waiting ... feels like you chose the sand over us ... need someone present, Marcus ... I’m filing ..." The paper crumpled in Marcus’s fist. The recruits' chatter faded into a dull roar.
*****
They found each other by unspoken agreement behind the generator shed, the thrumming machinery masking their presence. Liam leaned against the corrugated metal, the unopened divorce papers dangling from his fingers. Marcus stood a few feet away, staring at the crumpled blue letter in his own hand, the desert stretching bloody-orange behind him.
"Elaine?" Marcus rasped, the word scraping his throat raw. He already knew.
Liam nodded once, a sharp jerk of his chin. His storm-grey eyes were flat, lifeless. "Final decree." He flicked the envelope. "Signed, sealed, delivered to a fucking warzone." A bitter, mirthless sound escaped him. "Efficient."
Marcus held up the crumpled blue paper. "David. Says he's done waiting." He swallowed hard, the admission tasting like gunpowder residue. "Says I picked the Corps over him."
Silence stretched, thick with shared ruin. The generator’s drone filled the void. Liam pushed off the wall. He didn’t offer platitudes. He simply stepped forward, closing the distance. His hand, calloused and strong, gripped Marcus’s shoulder, fingers digging in – not comfort, but solidarity. An anchor point in the collapsing world.
"Fuck 'em," Liam growled, low and fierce, his storm-grey gaze locking onto Marcus’s glacial blue. "Fuck 'em both."
Marcus met that stare, the raw defiance in it mirroring his own. He covered Liam’s hand on his shoulder with his own, squeezing hard. The crumpled papers fell forgotten to the dusty ground. Words were useless now. They had the desert. They had the ghosts. And now, terrifyingly, they had each other.
The generator’s thrum vibrated through Marcus’s boots. Liam’s grip shifted, sliding from shoulder to the nape of Marcus’s neck, pulling him close. Their foreheads touched, a silent communion above the discarded wreckage of their old lives. Sweat stung Marcus’s eyes, or maybe it was the grit carried on the hot wind whipping around the shed. Liam’s breath was hot against his cheek, smelling of stale coffee and the metallic tang of suppressed rage.
"Tonight," Liam rasped, the word barely audible over the machinery. His thumb brushed the scar above Marcus’s eyebrow – Benghazi’s permanent signature. "My quarters. After lights out." It wasn’t a question. It was a mission parameter.
Marcus gave a single, sharp nod against Liam’s forehead. "Copy that, Major." The generator’s thrum pulsed through their pressed skin. Liam’s hand lingered a heartbeat longer before releasing him. They stepped apart without another word. Duty called – hollow now, but relentless.
Evening patrol was a gauntlet of tension. Marcus led his squad through the labyrinthine alleys of Ramadi’s outskirts, senses hyper-alert. Shadows clung to crumbling walls like insurgents. Every stray cat’s screech sounded like a safety clicking off. His knuckles stayed white on his rifle grip.
Behind his Oakleys, his eyes kept scanning rooftops, but his mind replayed Liam’s low growl: Tonight. The promise was a live wire in his gut, hotter than the setting sun bleeding orange across the rooftops. Beside him, Private Jenkins stumbled over rubble. Marcus’s correction was a snarl. "Eyes front, Jenkins! You wanna die admiring the scenery?"
Back at base, the cold shower did little to sluice away the grime or the coiled anticipation. Marcus scrubbed his skin raw, the water stinging the fresh scratches Liam’s nails had left down his back. He dressed mechanically: clean fatigues, boots laced tight. The blue envelope lay shredded in his footlocker. He slammed the lid shut.
Liam’s quarters were dark when Marcus slipped inside after midnight. Only a sliver of moonlight cut through the shutters, illuminating Liam’s silhouette on the cot’s edge. He sat shirtless, elbows on knees, staring at the empty space where the Scotch bottle had been. The divorce papers lay neatly folded on his footlocker, a silent accusation.
Marcus locked the door. The click echoed. Liam didn’t turn. Marcus crossed the small room, boots silent on concrete. He stopped before Liam, blocking the moonlight.
Liam finally looked up. His storm-grey eyes weren’t flat anymore. They burned with a banked, dangerous fire – grief, rage, and a raw, unspoken need. Marcus reached down, fingers brushing the silvered hair at Liam’s temple. Liam flinched, then leaned into the touch, his breath catching. Marcus’s thumb traced the harsh line of Liam’s jaw. "Orders, Major?" Marcus’s voice was gravel.
Liam surged up. No words. Just hands fisting in Marcus’s shirt, dragging him down. Their mouths crashed together – not collision this time, but conflagration. Teeth, tongues, the shared taste of salt and ruin. Liam tore at Marcus’s belt buckle, fingers frantic. Marcus shoved Liam back onto the cot, following him down, their bodies slotting together with desperate familiarity.
Outside, the desert wind rose again, howling like the ghosts they carried. Inside, the only sound was the frantic rasp of zippers, the rustle of fabric, and the low, guttural sounds of men tearing open the last of their armor.
Liam’s hands were everywhere – wrenching Marcus’s shirt open, buttons scattering, palms scraping over sweat-damp pectorals, fingers digging into the dense muscle of Marcus’s back. Marcus responded in kind, peeling Liam’s undershirt up, revealing the sculpted ridges of his abdomen, the silvered scars mapping his torso.
Skin met skin, hot and urgent. Their mouths fused again, a desperate, biting kiss that tasted of coffee, dust, and shared desolation. Liam’s teeth sank into Marcus’s lower lip, drawing blood; Marcus growled, gripping Liam’s hair, forcing his head back to expose the vulnerable line of his throat. He bit down, not gently, marking Liam as the generator’s thrum vibrated through the thin walls.
They rolled off the cot onto the gritty concrete floor, a tangle of limbs and need. Liam pinned Marcus beneath him, his knee pressing Marcus’s thighs apart. There was no finesse, no patience – just the frantic slide of Liam’s calloused hand down Marcus’s stomach, beneath his waistband, wrapping around his thick, aching cock.
Marcus arched off the floor, a choked gasp escaping him as Liam pumped him roughly, pre-cum slicking the brutal strokes. Liam’s other hand fumbled with Marcus’s belt, tearing it open, shoving fatigues and briefs down Marcus’s hips.
Marcus retaliated, bucking Liam off balance. He surged up, flipping Liam onto his back, pinning his wrists above his head with one powerful hand. His free hand tore at Liam’s fly, freeing Liam’s rigid cock. He spat roughly into his palm, slicking himself and Liam simultaneously before grinding their lengths together in a furious, slippery rhythm.
Liam snarled, thrashing beneath him, his hips pistoning upward, seeking friction, seeking oblivion. Their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in harsh gasps, eyes locked – storm-grey and glacial blue blazing with defiance against the ruins of their worlds. The discarded divorce papers lay crumpled nearby, forgotten beneath the raw, consuming fire they’d ignited.
Outside, the wind screamed. Inside, they answered it.
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