Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to 20th Century Fox, not to me.
Sequel to Just Another Day.
The kissing goes on for a week.
At first it's quick, shy busses on the mouth when no one happens to be watching, barely-there pecks exchanged in the gray predawn darkness of the Swamp as they both get up, or in the inky deep blackness of the wee hours as they stroll away from Rosie's. They're both a bit shy about it, not just because B.J.'s still hesitant and awkward about the whole thing, but because they're both aware that if they're caught, the consequences will be horrendous. Even so, before long it's progressed to long, deep kisses in the supply room, or in the darkness of the Swamp when Frank's on duty.
It's wrong. B.J. knows it's wrong. But at least, he rationalizes, it's not sex. It's just kissing. As long as it doesn't cross that line...
Hawkeye is showing restraint, for once in his impetuous life, and following B.J.'s lead. Every time they kiss, B.J. carefully puts his arms around Hawk's neck and keeps them there. Hawkeye, who's clearly afraid of pushing too hard and damaging their burgeoning friendship, does the same. And as a consequence, it doesn't go any further. No matter how inclined B.J. is to let his hands roam... he doesn't.
Because as wrong as this is, letting himself touch Hawkeye the way he wants to would be a whole lot worse.
It's a week B.J. will never forget, a week of quick warm kisses and deep, never-ending kisses and everything in between. A week in which every time Hawk slides a glance at him, he blushes red, and wonders if everyone in the camp can see the growing infatuation in his eyes.
He's never felt this way about a guy before.
Maybe it's just that Hawkeye is an amazing kisser. He himself doesn't have much experience with kissing. Most of his experience is derived from fumbling stolen moments with two-- well, okay, three-- girls in the back seat of his dad's Studebaker. And one of those girls was Peg, the girl he eventually married.
Married, he thinks. I'm married. I should not be doing this.
But since Hawkeye's tongue is in his mouth at the time, the thought doesn't have much sincerity behind it.
Still, it's only kissing. True, kissing Hawkeye is more intense than making love to Peg is-- and he hates the disloyalty of that thought, but it's undeniable. Being with Peg was sweet and pleasant, nice but not earth-shattering by any means. Being with Hawkeye, on the other hand, is hot and feverish and entirely incredible.
He knows it's at least partly due to Hawk's extensive experience. The guy has undeniable native talent, polished on a long list of lovers. He's practiced a hell of a lot, and it shows. Hawkeye has a way of veering from gentle, adoring kisses to fierce, demanding ones, making B.J.'s knees go weak.
But still, it's only kissing.
Even so, he's starting to think more and more about... more. Things he shouldn't be thinking of, like what Hawkeye's bare skin might feel like beneath his hands, or what it might feel like to kiss Hawkeye without his clothes on, or to what it would be like to lie down in a cot with him and...
He isn't even really sure what and might involve. But his imagination runs wild trying to figure it out.
But no, that's not going to happen, because this is just kissing. And he's married. And that's that.
This evening, he's been kissing Hawkeye for the past fifteen minutes. The two of them are sitting in the darkness near the mine field-- one of the few fairly private places on the base. They came out here ostensibly to talk, but their customary pleasant, humorous banter has faded in the face of their inexplicable physical attraction, and now their arms are wrapped around each other.
A dry, warm Indian summer has settled over this part of Korea. During the day it was comfortable enough for short sleeves, but as the night falls a cool breeze begins to blow. They're both wearing trousers and t-shirts, and B.J. is starting to shiver a little, partly from the chilly night air, but partly due to the sensations Hawkeye's lips are bringing him.
As they share long, intense kisses, a cool rain starts to fall. It hasn't rained in weeks, so that a gray haze of dust seems to permeate the atmosphere, clinging to the back of B.J.'s throat and coating his eyes and nose, and rain is something they've all been waiting for. It's just a drizzle, just enough to plaster Hawkeye's dark hair to his head. Hawkeye utters a soft, happy laugh and pulls away, tilting his face up to the dark sky.
He's beautiful when he's laughing this way, his eyes bright, the lines on his face more sharply etched than ever. His smile is genuine and unguarded, as it all too rarely is, and the sound of his laughter is less raucous than usual, almost musical. He opens his mouth, letting the drizzle in, and B.J. can see raindrops on his eyelashes.
The rain falls a little harder, and Hawkeye's t-shirt begins to adhere to his torso, outlining his body in all its lean beauty. He's too thin, but wiry, with well-defined muscles that ripple beneath his skin as he moves. B.J. stares at his pectorals, his shoulders, his abdomen, and suddenly his palms itch with the desire to touch the other man.
Kissing isn't enough. It isn't nearly enough.
He can't seem to draw in enough oxygen, and he's too hot despite the cooling rain. He reaches for Hawk, grasping the hem of his olive t-shirt and pulls it up. Hawkeye blinks at him, his laughter fading, and then cooperates eagerly, raising his hands and letting it be pulled off over his head. And then, still following B.J.'s lead, he strips off B.J.'s shirt, too.
B.J. sighs with pleasure at this fulfillment of one of his fantasies, and his hands begin to explore the rain-slick skin of Hawk's back. His flesh feels nothing like Peg's soft, fragile skin. It's coarser and yet somehow satiny at the same time, warm and infinitely touchable. He feels full of life, as Hawkeye always is, even in the midst of death and destruction, and B.J. closes his eyes, letting Hawk's energy surge into his own body.
In the month since he came to Korea, he's been shot at by sniper bullets and mortar fire. He's seen more death-- horrible, bloody death-- than he's ever seen before in his lifetime.
And yet here, twenty yards from a mine field, he feels life pulsing through his body more intensely than ever before.
B.J. leans into him. Their bare chests press together, and it feels good, warm and wet and exactly right somehow. This is more than just kissing. Much, much more. He can't excuse this away.
And yet, even knowing full well it's wrong, he can't stop.
Hawk's hands are all over him, too. His back, and then his chest, caressing with light, sure touches. B.J. is shivering in earnest now, and there's a heavy, throbbing ache in his groin he can't deny, a desire for more that's so powerful he can't restrain himself any longer.
Hawkeye's dark head lowers, and his lips are on B.J.'s shoulder, slowly caressing the skin there, and B.J. hears a low, soft moan. It takes a moment for him to realize it's his own voice.
The rain pours down harder, soaking them both. B.J. finds that he's kissing Hawkeye everywhere, too. Hawk's skin tastes like rain, like sweat, like sex. They roll over and over in the grass, frantic, hands and mouths everywhere.
Hawk's lips are all over his chest, kissing, nipping, licking. And then his mouth zeroes on B.J.'s nipple, nibbling and sucking, and B.J. has to bite back another moan. God, that's amazing. So amazing. Peg has never-- no one's ever--
He arches up wildly against Hawk's questing hand, which is trailing down the center of his stomach, so lightly it almost tickles. Hawkeye stops just above the waistband of his pants, as if he's still afraid to push too hard, afraid to go too far. But B.J. is mindless, desperate, and he takes Hawk's hand in his, shoving it downward.
Hawk takes the hint. His fingers-- deft, talented surgeon's fingers-- wrap around B.J.'s aching flesh, stroking him, giving him exactly what he needs. Even through the fabric of his trousers, it's incredible. B.J. feels his spine curve like a tautly drawn bow, hears a long gasping wail of need come from his own throat.
Hawk's mouth is on his nipple and his hand works B.J. steadily, moving faster and faster, and rain pours over them both, and B.J. comes in a rush of heat that wrings a long, low cry from him. Thank God for the beating rain, muffling any sound he might make. He writhes, helpless, in the grass, his hips jerking eagerly against Hawkeye's palm. It's so good, so much more powerful than anything he's ever felt, surge after surge of almost unbearable rapture...
When he comes back to himself, he's lying on his back in the tall grass, a mud puddle rapidly forming beneath him. He draws in a long, shuddering breath. Hawkeye is resting quietly against his chest, and B.J. isn't sure if he found his own release or not. Regardless, Hawkeye seems happy enough. His eyes are slitted in an expression of almost feline contentment, and a faint smile curves his mouth.
Wet and uncomfortable though B.J. is, part of him wants to close his eyes and drift off to sleep with Hawkeye Pierce in his arms. But he can't. The wrongness of this is starting to rise up in his mind, drowning out the memory of his gloriously gut-wrenching orgasm.
He can't excuse this away as just kissing. He's married to a sweet, wonderful woman, and yet he let a man touch him intimately... and liked it.
God, he liked it.
And that's so wrong it makes him want to weep.
Tears of confusion and pain blur his vision, washed away almost instantly by the rain. He doesn't know what to do here. He just doesn't. He knows that what just happened between them is a violation of his wedding vows, a violation of decency, a violation of laws and of Army regulations. He knows that he must never let it happen again.
And yet as he remembers the feel of Hawk's lips on his, the touch of his hand, the taste of his skin... he knows with grim certainty that there is no possible way he can turn away from Hawkeye now.