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Title: 3 – Commanding Officer
Author: Haleth
Fandom/Pairing: BHD. McKnight/Grimes
Rating: NC-17
Warning: sub/DOM fun
Disclaimer: Has absolutely nothing to do with the real life men the book and movie were based. It's only inspired by the movie and I make no profit. And I do not set forth this type of relationship as ideal or healthy for anyone. Although it works for these two.
Commanding Officer
The spare room McKnight slept in at his sister’s house was really McKnight’s room. He was the only one who’d ever slept in it. His sister kept it for him.
Unlike her bedroom, which had floral print curtains and a Queen Anne dressing table and an intricately patterned rug covering the floorboards and elaborate silver lamps on the bedside tables with twining vines and a couple of jovial cherubs on the bases, McKnight’s room was plain. It had a double bed flanked by windows with plain white blinds. The dresser was painted dark green, the bedding was a lighter green and the light on plain bedside table was strictly utility grade. The walls were white, and the only decorations were an oil painting of a crumbling Scottish castle and a framed enlargement of a tank crew perched on a Sherman at the very end of World War II.
Jimmy McKnight was the gunner, and he had an impossibly wide grin on his face as he draped himself over the barrel. It was the happiest McKnight had ever seen him, in a photo or real life.
McKnight understood how his father had felt in that picture, at the end of the war when the fighting stopped. Or so he believed. They didn’t talk for the four years between when McKnight made sergeant and when his father died. If Jimmy was furious when his son enlisted, he was apoplectic when he’d re-enlisted. There wasn’t even a ‘real’ war going on. He didn’t want his son to die on a foolhardy, idealistic peacekeeping mission, or a misguided police action, the way Jimmy’s little brother had died in Korea. But then, Jimmy McKnight, unlike most people, had never bought into the whole Cold War.
Grimes didn’t know any of this when he stepped tentatively into the room. He would learn it someday, but it was irrelevant when he followed McKnight up the stairs. He didn’t notice the picture or the painting, the lamp or the bedding or the furniture. He noticed the blinds, but only long enough to make sure they were closed.
“Is there…?”
McKnight pointed to a white door, and Grimes went into the adjoining bathroom. He pissed and washed his hands and saw McKnight’s razor sitting on a shelf above the sink. He moved it a half-inch to the left. It was the most personal possession of McKnight’s he had ever touched.
When he went back into the bedroom, McKnight was sitting on the bed, shirtless. Grimes cursed himself. He’d missed unbuttoning McKnight’s shirt. He’d missed pulling it off and revealing the thick, muscular torso. Too late.
But not too late to help with the boots.
Grimes almost slid across the carpet on his knees in his haste to reach the boots before they were both unlaced. McKnight withdrew his hands and let Grimes loosen the laces, caress the leather, pull the boots off. Socks too.
Grimes wasn’t sure what to do next. Just to be safe, he stayed on his knees when McKnight stood.
Fuck, he loved being towered over. He loved the way McKnight seemed to read his every thought and rarely hesitated. He loved being told what to do. But he loved doing things without being told just as much. Maybe even more. Things he knew he should do. Things that were expected of him.
No one had ever given him what he wanted before. Not like this. He’d entered into temporary relationships that were so negotiated they were more contractual than erotic. He’d been frustrated by people who simply could not get their heads around the fundamental nature of his desire to serve. But never had anyone given him what McKnight gave him. And on a daily basis, no less.
No one had ever commanded him so effortlessly. So intuitively. So unerringly.
“Take off your clothes.”
Except for that. That was not what Grimes had in mind. “Sir?”
“All of them. Off.”
Here was… a difficulty. He always kept his clothes on. He was never naked more than from his waist to his ankles, usually only his knees. And this was as much as McKnight had ever been naked at once. Wasn’t that enough?
It was hard to think with McKnight looming over him like that, barefoot, naked torso a little damp. It was warm. Grimes was warm. McKnight was barrel-chested. Beefy. Solid, solid, solid. Grimes got hot.
Grimes felt small. Too small. He wasn’t quite scrawny, not like some of the younger recruits he’d seen, but he wasn’t built like McKnight. He had worked out exactly how much the army required him to work out, and not a rep more. There was a nagging voice telling him he would be found inadequate.
“There a problem, soldier?”
Grimes didn’t know what to think of that tone of voice. It had a hard edge, but it was impossible to tell if it was real or being put on for his benefit.
“No, sir, I’m just trying to understand what is- ”
“I told you to strip!”
Yes, sir, Grimes thought. He pulled off his t-shirt, all the way off. He heard McKnight’s gasp. Shit. He wasn’t good enough. He had fairly heavy dark hair on his chest and down his torso, but it wasn’t thick enough to hide his ribs, or the line of his waist, almost slender. No, actually slender, especially when compared to McKnight’s.
But McKnight didn’t look disappointed; he looked hungry. “The rest,” McKnight demanded, voice gruff with something Grimes hadn’t heard since the first night, when McKnight said it was hard not to throw Grimes on the floor and fuck him. Right before he kissed him.
He’d known all along that McKnight wanted to fuck him, but he was so happy to serve with his mouth, and McKnight so content to be served in that manner, it had not been mentioned again. Now, he really did want to get fucked. He desperately wanted to get fucked.
Just not with all his clothes off.
He’d wanted to get fucked ever since McKnight said it was hard to not fuck him. But he wanted it even more after the second time. He knew he’d surprised McKnight by showing up like that, sitting on the porch looking so calm and certain of himself, when really he was terrified. He had to have surprised McKnight, because he’d surprised the hell out of himself.
He really didn’t know what he was doing, what he was expecting of this. It was insane to show up like that after what happened between them. He’d shown everything. Everything. Everything usually resulted in a quick dismissal. Immediately. Or immediately after the other person had their fill.
But while he was sure that this was out of the ordinary for McKnight, he was equally sure that McKnight understood.
They never talked about it. No negotiations. They didn’t even have a fucking safe word. He’d just followed McKnight into the house, put his pack down with the change of clothes he needed for work later that night, got on his knees and sucked off McKnight, right there in the hallway, with McKnight’s fingers massaging his scalp and the zipper of McKnight’s pants scraping his cheek and McKnight’s boots squeaking on the wood floor when he braced himself against the wall.
Grimes had been a little surprised when McKnight gave him the spare key before Grimes went to work that night. He’d also been able, due to his training, to be able to put it out of his mind while he was on duty, but it had been hard to get to sleep when he got home after work. His head swam with ideas about the key and what time McKnight would get home from work and how to keep it all quiet so the guys wouldn’t know. He concocted a few tales about a girl and work and seeing friends, but they didn’t turn out to be necessary. The guys didn’t hang around the house much, so they weren’t suspicious of him not hanging around.
Since then, and especially since the evening after his first work shift, which was chronologically evening number four but which Grimes thought of as evening number three, the first evening McKnight came home to find dinner on the table and Grimes on his knees, Grimes’ desire to be fucked had been warring with his desire to serve.
He didn’t understand why there had to be a war. Surely, he could serve by getting fucked. But he had to wait until McKnight took the initiative. Or McKnight decided it was time to honor his desire.
He did not, however, understand why the initiative had to involve him removing all his clothes. He would have been perfectly happy bending over the kitchen table with his jeans down around his knees.
Now McKnight had his arms crossed over his chest. He was staring at Grimes’ bare torso, and at Grimes’ hands frozen on his zipper. Then the hard look in his eye melted. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Grimes’ shoulders.
Grimes was overwhelmed by the heat and texture and the rich smell of McKnight. He was surrounded. He dared to rest his head on a thick, bare shoulder.
On the first night, when McKnight held him, when he’d thought nothing could be better, he’d been wrong. Because that time Grimes was wearing his shirt and now they were chest to chest, both naked from the waist up.
McKnight stroked Grimes’ back. “Don’t be…”
Grimes stiffened. What did McKnight think was the problem?
“It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t. Because Grimes didn’t take his clothes off. It simply wasn’t something he did. He had not actually been naked in front of anyone in a sexual situation since he discovered what he really wanted in a sexual situation.
Grimes felt McKnight’s hand on his head. Not pushing him down. Soothing.
“I’m gonna be naked, too,” McKnight whispered.
He knew. He knew everything. Grimes didn’t know how McKnight did it, but he read his mind every time. He knew just what to say, just what to do. He knew how much Grimes wanted to get fucked. On this night in particular.
And he knew Grimes didn’t want to get naked but McKnight was going to make him get naked anyway.
That was exactly what Grimes needed.
Grimes unzipped his jeans and pushed them down. He groaned when his hard cock rubbed against McKnight’s hip. He let McKnight push him over to the bed and down, to pull the jeans off over his bare feet.
Grimes was naked, lying across the bed.
McKnight looked… famished.
“Stay!”
Grimes stayed.
McKnight flicked open his top button.
Grimes squirmed.
McKnight dragged his zipper down.
Grimes moaned. Quietly.
McKnight pushed his fatigues and shorts down and off and stood over Grimes with his fat cock sticking out, pointing at Grimes.
Grimes moaned. Loud.
Grimes was going to get fucked, all right.
“C’m’ere,” McKnight growled.
Grimes sat up, mouth open. He had to hunch his shoulders a bit to reach, to get the cock in. That was much better, with the cock in his mouth and one of McKnight’s hands on his head. More familiar. McKnight took a step away from the bed and Grimed melted onto the floor, with the edge of the mattress pressing into his back. Much better.
McKnight was letting him do this, he could tell, to put Grimes at ease. Grimes appreciated the thoughtfulness. He appreciated the control it must be taking for McKnight to allow him the time he needed to adjust. He was careful to suck in a way that would not take McKnight too close. Pleasurable but not too pleasurable. After all, this was just stalling. The sexual equivalent of small talk. He breathed through his nose and opened as wide as he could to take as much of the cock as possible. Thick and meaty.
Fuck, he loved McKnight’s cock.
McKnight pushed him away, not unkindly, and moved past him to lie down on the bed. Grimes stayed kneeling at the side, but turned to look at McKnight’s prone body. The body of his… what? Master? Lover?
Commanding officer.
…and everything he ever wanted.
He’d seen plenty of guys staring at each other, trying to hide the attraction. Trying to be discreet. And maybe they were being discreet, since most people were oblivious. But Grimes had always been sensitive to that sort of thing. He’d learned to be an observer, since his particular predilections were too dangerous to pursue in the open. He was used to turning off his sexual responses in crowded, unfriendly atmospheres. Ever since he’d joined the army, he’d flicked the mental switch off when he was living on base, in training, in the field. He got off, privately, in his head, on the observation alone.
Back in Somalia, the hangar had been a sexual powder keg. There was so much to observe.
He’d seen Sanderson watching Steele before the Delta had even known he was doing it. He’d noticed Shugart and Gordon the instant they stepped on the base. Schmid and that U.N. doctor assigned to the base after the battle. He’d actually walked in on them, once, but he’d reacted quickly enough that they never knew he was there. Yurek and Hawlings.
He even knew about Eversmann and Gibson. And Eversmann and Blackburn. And Gibson and Blackburn.
Blackburn. Now there was a pretty one. There were so many of them. Beautiful, young, fit men. Most of them would spit on him and worse if they could see him now. They wouldn’t understand. He wasn’t interested in the young ones anyway; they had no skills. He far preferred the experienced ones.
But none of them made him sweat the way McKnight did. He’d kept that hidden. He’d thought. Now he wasn’t so sure. Now he was naked.
His first time ever was with a firefighter built just like McKnight. Strong. Sturdy. Unstoppable, or so it seemed at the time.
He watched McKnight stretch out. Fuck, he was like a second mattress on top of the bed.
“Get up here.”
Get up there and what?
“Lie on top of me.”
Motherfucker! He was reading Grimes’ mind. Grimes climbed up and slid over McKnight.
Not like a mattress at all. Hot and textured without a flat plane anywhere. Scratchy hair and masses of muscle and dense, firm flesh.
Bare legs against bare legs. Naked chest and belly against naked chest and belly. Hard cock beside hard cock.
Thighs. Grimes had never had muscular legs. Never would. McKnight’s were broad and heavy and would feel fucking great slamming up against the back of Grimes’ legs.
Maybe McKnight didn’t want to fuck him over the kitchen table because he was afraid of hurting Grimes. Sometimes he caught McKnight looking at him with an almost tender expression. He might think Grimes was fragile somehow.
Grimes would have to disabuse him of that ridiculous notion. He might be a touch scrawny, but he was tough. If there was anything he’d learned in the Mog, it was that he was tougher than he’d ever imagined.
For now he lay on top of McKnight, hearing and feeling McKnight’s breath in his ear, feeling McKnight’s chest rise and fall beneath his, and McKnight’s hands slide down his back to cup his ass.
Continued in: Ideal Weight
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