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Title: Howl
Author: heartofslash
Fandom/Pairing: BHD, Hoot/Sanderson
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Beat poetry, 13th century Sufi mystic poetry, poetry in general.
Disclaimer: I made all this up and don’t claim to own Sanderson and Hoot, who are composite characters based on real guys who would kick my ass if I ever claimed to own them.
Dedication: This is a gift for stewardess_lotr, because she’s one helluva broad.
Summary: In this kitchen stocked with fresh food, | why sit content with a cup of warm water?
Howl
“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked...”
What the fuck?
“…dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix…”
Sanderson had not had anywhere near enough beer for this.
“… angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connections to the starry dynamo machinery of the night...”
Hoot looked up at the starry night and shook his head.
“…who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking…”
Sanderson never recited Allan Ginsberg’s Howl unless he was well and truly shit-faced.
“…in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz…”
The end of that last word buzzed out into the night air.
“… who bared their souls…”
Ah-ha! Hoot knew Sanderson couldn’t have been that drunk!
“Brains! Bared their brains!” Sanderson corrected himself.
He’d only had two or three beers.
“Seared their fucking brains…” Sanderson spat in the fire.
Hoot rolled on his side to look across the campfire at Sanderson.
Sanderson slid off the log he’d been sitting on, rose on his hands and knees and stretched one arm forward, forward, a bit more forward, to reach the inflatable cooler. “I‘m not nearly shit-faced enough to get it right,” he groused.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Reciting Howl.”
“I know that. The real question, Sergeant, is why?”
Sanderson tossed a can of beer at Hoot. Hoot caught it without thinking. Sanderson popped open another can for himself. “Your turn,” he said.
“Mine?”
“Yeah.” Sanderson sat back on the ground, with his lower back against the stump. “Your turn to recite.”
Hoot opened his beer. This was odd. It wasn’t as if Sanderson had ever actually reached the end of Howl, no matter how shitfaced he got. It’s a long fucking poem. But as inconclusive as it usually turned out to be, reciting was Sanderson’s thing, not Hoot’s.
“Come on, Hoot. I want to hear you howl.”
“Ginsberg was a –”
“– a jerk-off. I know. He probably still is. You hate all Beat poets. You don’t have to do Howl. Recite anything.”
Hoot sat upright and stared into the fire. Sanderson had been acting oddly all day. He’d showed up at oh-five-hundred with a backpack, tent, sleeping bags, food and beer for two days, and a loopy grin on his face.
“Git up, boy,” he’d said in a perfect imitation of Captain Steele. “Rise and shine, soldier!”
They’d driven for over an hour, then left Sanderson’s pick-up at a general store and restaurant, which had twinkled red and green Christmas lights at them in a feeble welcome, then blinked neon in the weak dawn when the girl opened the store for them ten minutes early, so they could get some ice.
They’d traipsed through thick bush, slogged through a swamp, forded two branches of the same river, then went up and up, something akin to a forced march. By the time they’d arrived at this spot, the sun was only an hour above the horizon. It sent a faint glow still, from over the adjacent mountain. God only knew how many feet up they were (Hoot wouldn’t be surprised if they were in the clouds come morning) and how many miles away from anything noisy or lit up or human (he couldn’t see any electric lights, not even in the distance).
All Hoot knew was they were far enough from the nearest town for a lot of animals to be meandering around. Too many animals. It was all Hoot could do to get himself out of a Delta state of mind and into a camping state of mind so he could disregard all those threats comfortably. (There was something on the other side of the tent, twelve, maybe thirteen pounds, with a limp in one back leg. Hoot was diligently ignoring it.)
“Hoot, recite! That’s an order!”
“We’re the same rank, buddy.”
“Recite!”
Hoot put down his beer. “ ‘I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands: one Nation under – ’ ”
“Poetry!” Sanderson snapped.
Hoot picked up the beer and downed it. “There was a young lass from Vermont,” he drawled, “who had a black mole on her…”
“Real poetry!” Sanderson roared.
Hoot crushed the beer can. “Jefferson, what the hell is wrong with you?”
Sanderson tossed his beer can into the fire, still half-full. “It’s not working. Not getting drunk at all.”
That was a problem, because the drunkenness was essential. Once Sanderson started Howl, he didn’t stop until it was done or he was done. ‘Falling asleep blissfully’, Sanderson called it. He wouldn’t admit to passing out. Hoot let that bit of pretence stand, because it didn’t happen often. Once, maybe twice a year. Maybe once in a decade he would come to within a stanza or two of the end of the damn poem. And then he’d leave it be until the next time he got that drunk.
Sanderson wasn’t due for the next recitation of Howl for at least another month.
But tonight, tonight the poem came before the state of irreversible intoxication. It was almost as if Sanderson wished he were drunk, but didn’t feel like drinking that much, so he was hoping the poem would induce that state of inebriation its own.
Hoot prided himself on his ability to figure people out, and a day of marching with heavy pack and a few beers weren’t enough to render him illogical, so he put his mind to the problem at hand. He couldn’t see any immediate reason Sanderson would want to be that drunk, unless he was desperate to forget something. They’d been back from Africa for what felt like months, but might more accurately be measured in weeks. Maybe he wanted to forget all the things that happened there, the bloodshed, the loss of so many men, the night in the Alamo.
The night in the trailer.
That had to be it. Sanderson wanted to prove nothing had changed, that he and Hoot could work and talk and camp together, sleep in the same tent, get drunk, climb mountains, hang out, and still be the same.
That was fine. Just fine. Pretend it never happened. Ignore the whole thing. Hoot could ignore too, just like he was ignoring the three-pound mammal lurking seven feet up in the tree fifteen degrees southwest of the tent. He could forget Sanderson’s hand on his chest, keeping his heart from bursting out like something out of Alien. He could forget that he had been almost broken, more broken than he’d ever been before, and Sanderson had fucked him back to wholeness. That was what friends were for, right?
Fuck that! Hoot didn’t want to forget. It was the best fuck he’d ever had. He would not, could not, sweep it under a carpet and ignore the bulge.
He loved getting fucked, but he always felt stupid when a little guy was fucking him, like the other guy had to climb up Hoot and hold on for dear life, as if Hoot was doing him a favor. He didn’t want to be mastered or anything, he just wanted a good, hard fucking with no power issues. Jefferson was tall enough, muscular enough, tough enough, and he seriously had the best ass Hoot had ever grabbed.
Sanderson could forget if he wanted. Hoot refused to forget. He wouldn’t forget the fuck and would never, ever, forget that ass.
Hoot would, now that he’d thought it over, be pissed off with Sanderson if he chose to forget. It was important. It wasn’t like a one-night stand, even if had only lasted one night. It was a connection, and in their line of work that was rare. It was truth and beauty laid bare.
Maybe three beers was two many after the early morning and that hike up the side of the mountain. Hoot was getting maudlin. He would get poetic in about three seconds. He couldn’t even stop himself from speaking quietly.
“This night extends into eternity, / like a fire burning inside the Friend. / Truly knowing this is what joy is. / Forgetting it is grief, and a lack of courage.”
Sanderson crawled around the fire to where Hoot sat with his chin on his knees. “That was…”
Sanderson was sitting right beside Hoot. So close Hoot could feel his heat more than the heat of the fire.
“Poetry,” Hoot said. “What you wanted.”
Sanderson nodded.
“It’s by Rumi,” Hoot said.
“I thought it might be,” Sanderson said, without having to bluff. Sanderson would know of Rumi. He knew about all kinds of shit, even if he did always resort to Beat poetry when he was drunk.
“Translated, of course,” Hoot added.
“Like you know thirteenth-century Persian…”
“Nope. But I thought I should, you know, be upfront about my sources.”
“Remember any more?”
Hoot closed his eyes. “Begin as creation, become a creator. | Never wait at a barrier. | In this kitchen stocked with fresh food, | why sit content with a cup of warm water?”
They stared at the flames, together. Not touching, but they might as well have been.
Maybe Sanderson didn’t want to forget after all. Maybe he just needed reassurance that they could remember and still be friends.
“Hey, Hoot, did you ever fuck Malloy?”
The night just kept getting odder and odder.
“No. You?”
“Naw. He wanted to one time, but I…” Sanderson hesitated.
“Too scary for you?” Hoot teased.
“No, not scary. I didn’t know.”
Well, how could anyone have known Malloy would be gone so soon?
“I didn’t know I liked guys,” Sanderson clarified with a sigh.
“You didn’t know? How could you not know?”
“I wasn’t thinking of it. Besides, we were in the same company, same unit. Our bunks were next to each other. It would have been too weird.”
Hoot looked sideways at Sanderson, who was studying his own hands. Sanderson didn’t want to forget, but he wanted to make sure it never happened again? His and Sanderson’s bunks were often side by side. Hell, they’d slept on top of each other a few times.
Hoot’s cock started to get hard when he thought about sleeping on top of Sanderson, even though it had been a almost year since the last time, and back then there had been no sexual anything between them, since they were in a soaking wet mudhole doing surveillance on a suspected gun runner in a little country he was sure he wasn’t supposed to even know existed.
He was going to have to sleep with Sanderson in the tent tonight. It was too cold to sleep out in the open. This was supposed to be a vacation, after all. He could freeze his ass sleeping exposed to the elements on any given mission, he didn’t need to do it when he was on vacation; he had nothing to prove.
“I blew him,” Sanderson said suddenly.
“Huh?”
“In the hospital. He was depressed, said he’d never ball again. I guess it was a bit of a pity blow job. I don’t think it really helped, other than to make him come.”
Hoot nodded. He remembered Malloy, lying in the hospital bed, unable to look Hoot in the eye, rambling about his future, which turned out to be nonexistent, and how no one would ever want to fuck a guy missing so many limbs.
“Me too,” Hoot volunteered.
“Huh?”
“I blew him in the hospital too.”
“You’re shitting me!”
“Nope.” Hoot did not shit people about blow jobs.
“That son of a… I wonder if he got anyone else to do it.”
“The night nurse. The one with the black bangs and the giant tits. She told me at the funeral.”
She’d offered to do the same for Hoot, after the wake. Hoot declined, as politely as he could under the circumstances. For some reason the thought of the same mouth that had been on Malloy’s cock being on his cock, or his mouth, was unpleasant.
He didn’t feel that way about Sanderson’s mouth. In fact, knowing Sanderson’s mouth had been on Malloy’s cock didn’t make him feel repulsed at all; it made him want Sanderson’s mouth on his cock.
But then, Hoot had always preferred men.
“Never done a guy before that,” Sanderson said. “Hell of a first time. Guess I developed a, um, leaning.”
Sanderson was leaning, alright. He was leaning against Hoot.
“You don’t want to forget that night in the trailer, do you?” Hoot said, testing his theory out loud.
“Forget? Hell no. I want more. You think we hiked this far for our health? Why do you think I brought you here? So far away. There isn’t a soul for miles. No one can see us, interrupt us, hear us…”
Hoot understood. Sanderson wanted to hear him howl.
“You could make me howl,” Hoot twisted to the side and breathed against Sanderson’s neck. “I’d like to howl for you.”
Sanderson turned toward him shakily. “Yeah?”
“Hell, yeah. You don’t have to make yourself drunk, you know. To get up the courage, I mean. I’d prefer it if you weren’t.”
“I’m not drunk. I’m befuddled.”
Hoot smiled, and it made his whole body relax. “Well, unfuddle yourself, Jefferson. I want to fuck.”
Sanderson launched himself at Hoot.
Hoot landed on the ground with just enough sense left in his head to roll the two of them away from the fire. He didn’t want to singe his pubes. He ended up on top of Sanderson, which was good because all that muscle underneath him was genuinely hot, hotter than any fire.
“First I want to get a good look at your ass.” Hoot grabbed Sanderson by the shoulders and flipped him over. There was no resistance, only a sucking in of breath.
Oh, that was nice - the slow reveal of Sanderson’s tight ass, accompanied by Sanderson’s breath puffing out and hitching every time Hoot stopped pulling down his pants to squeeze or pinch of generally manhandle the flesh. Sanderson’s tan line was going to make Hoot come. And if the tan line didn’t, the rock hard hamstrings would. He looked forward to flipping Sanderson over so he could check out the quadriceps, but he had more to do on the back side first.
Sanderson was up on his elbows and knees, because there was no way he would want to put his dick down on the pine-needle strewn ground. Hoot stripped off his jacket and spread it under Sanderson.
That was better. Sanderson lay on the jacket and let Hoot pull off his boots and pants and boxers. Fucking great ass. The gluteus maximus is the largest muscle in the human body. Sanderson’s was tight and perfectly shaped and hot under Hoot’s touch. Hoot planted his hands on it and massaged.
Sanderson groaned and spread his legs. Very slutty. Hoot was amazed he could draw that from Sanderson, of all people. Sanderson had always been so composed, so above that sort of thing, reading his books and fiddling with his gadgets and playing mother hen.
Hoot had always known that Sanderson must have liked sex. He was a normal guy, or as normal as you get in Delta. And physically fit. Better than fit. So he had to have a sex drive, and he had to satisfy it somehow. But Sanderson talked about that sort of stuff even less than Hoot, and he never bragged.
One thing Hoot had always appreciated about Delta was that the guys didn’t boast and carry on about sex as much as other soldiers. They joked about it. They stripped off and made raunchy jokes and all. But they didn’t get back to base from a date and tell all the embarrassing details to their buddies like it was some kind of contest to see who could get a girl to do the dirtiest things with them. And the married guys never blabbed about their wives. They respected them too much.
This lack of sexual showmanship meant it was easier to fuck guys. You weren’t being judged by how many women you fucked, because you weren’t expected to shout it from the top of the barrack every time you fucked a woman. If you didn’t talk about a girlfriend, everyone assumed you were being discreet. And if anyone did find out you were fucking guys, Delta tended to ignore the evidence anyway – Deltas were far too valuable to be booting out of the army just because they fucked other men.
Hoot had tried to tell himself that finding out Sanderson liked guys had been an accident, but he wasn’t very good at lying to himself, so he admitted to himself that back in Mogadishu, when he’d been curled up in the trunk of that car wondering if he would ever get out alive, his thoughts, when not concentrating on how to get out of the trunk alive, had centered on his old friend and colleague.
He’d known damn well that Sanderson would be worried about him when missed the rendezvous, but he was surprised to discover was how he felt about Sanderson worrying about him.
He felt bad.
He felt bad that his recklessness caused Sanderson anxiety, and he didn’t want to cause Sanderson anxiety.
When he’d met the Black Hawk, he’d been disappointed that Sanderson wasn’t on board. And he’d been relieved to see Sanderson on the runway, but he’d also felt a terrible guilt, deep inside, when he saw the worry written across Sanderson’s stress-lined face and in his clenched fists and in his stiff posture. Hoot had been suddenly possessed by the urge to do something to make all that tension go away. The idea of Sanderson fucking him had entered his mind as sheer fantasy. He’d almost been able to imagine a seduction, but when he got to the trailer he wasn’t able to proceed. He couldn’t execute the plan to put Sanderson back together, since he was so close to being broken himself. He was way too far gone.
Luckily, he’d not been so far gone that he hadn’t thought to swipe the condoms and lube from Elvis’ pack, just in case. Just in case Sanderson had the inclination and desire to bring Hoot back.
Hoot felt more guilt later, when Sanderson didn’t talk about it and he thought he’d caused even more anxiety and tension and stress. He’d been in dire need, and Sanderson had helped him. But maybe Sanderson hadn’t really wanted to do it, and that bugged Hoot. First, he didn’t like the idea of anyone having sex they didn’t want. Second, because he didn’t want it to have been a mercy fuck.
Even though he’d got Malloy off in the hospital, he could plainly see that it had been a purely physical release for Malloy, bodily satisfying but emotionally empty. He dreaded the thought of seeing that same look of resignation and defeat on Sanderson’s face, ever.
But now he had Sanderson on the ground half-naked with his ass writhing. Fucking excellent turn of events. Sanderson had come up with this plan, and it was up to Hoot to make sure it went according to plan, so he ran his hands up and down solid thighs. His thumbs skidded between them and pressed up between those firm asscheeks.
“You know, I’d really howl if I fucked you,” Hoot drawled.
Sanderson moaned.
“You ever been fucked?” Hoot asked, almost casually, as he wriggled the pad of one thumb across the hot little opening.
Sanderson flipped himself over so fast Hoot didn’t have time to pull his hands away. Hoot ended up with a palm full of hard cock. Big hard cock. Jesus, Sanderson was huge. How the hell had he fit all that inside Hoot?
“I must have been further gone than I thought,” Hoot muttered, but Sanderson, fortunately, didn’t hear him. Hoot touched the cock gently, yet firmly. The same way you handle the plastic explosives you’re about to use to blow up the door you’re going to storm through.
“I’ve never-” Sanderson started to say, but then his mouth dropped open and he stopped talking, because Hoot was rubbing his thumb in circles over the head of his cock.
The skin was smooth and pliant, the slit slick with precome, the shaft heating and growing even more as Hoot handled it delicately. He had not had enough time to fully appreciate Sanderson’ cock, or any of Sanderson’s body parts, back in the trailer, an oversight he intended to correct several times over.
“It’s okay,” Hoot breathed out. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. I don’t want to…” He took a deep breath in. “Fuck, Jefferson, I really want to fuck your ass.”
Sanderson spread his legs. “As long as you promise to howl.”
Howl? Shit, once he got inside that ass, he’d fucking squeal, if that was what Sanderson wanted.
Hoot took a deep, calming breath. He was going to do this right. He settled between Sanderson’s legs and initiated a reconnaissance foray. He had to familiarize himself with the terrain. Had to learn exactly what made Sanderson shake (pinching along the line where ass met leg) and what made him groan (rasp of three-day beard on his inner thigh) and what made him whimper (hot breath over his cock) and what made him moan (fingertips brushing across his hole).
Recon was Hoot’s specialty.
“Jesus, Hoot, you trying to tease me to death?”
“Being thorough,” Hoot growled. “On your hands and knees,” he suggested. Strongly suggested. He didn’t want to order Sanderson to do anything, but damn it was nice when he obeyed. Now it was time to fully engage.
“Hoot!” Sanderson yelped when Hoot’s tongue swept across his asshole.
That’s right, Hoot thought. It’s me. I’m gonna eat your ass, and you’re gonna love it. Hoot knew he was loving it. Nothing more manly, he thought with a mental smirk, than the taste of a man’s ass.
He gripped Sanderson’s hips to keep him from wriggling away. Sanderson’s whole body was twisting, shaking, trying to get away at the same time it was trying to impale itself on Hoot’s tongue. Not an unpredictable response from a virgin, Hoot figured. He speared his tongue and shoved it inside Sanderson. Sanderson ripped a handful of vegetation out of the ground. Hoot wriggled his tongue and squeezed hard hips. Sanderson’s hole wasn’t so tight now.
After a while, Hoot had to stop. His tongue was getting sore. He rested it and let his fingers take over. They slipped across the loosened puckers easily. “Gonna fill your ass, Jefferson. Stretch it open.”
Sanderson made a choking sound. An encouraging sort of choking sound. Hoot wondered if Sanderson had been hard all day, thinking about getting Hoot up here to this campsite and making him howl. If Sanderson was worried Hoot might turn him down, or if he’d know, just known, that this was what Hoot wanted too. That kind of pressure takes its toll on a man. He would be desperate by about the time Hoot slid two fingers inside and licked around the opening as he pressed them inside.
The sound Sanderson made was definitely desperate. He arched his back and snarled.
“I’m hoping you brought the condoms this time,” Hoot said as he slid a third finger inside.
“Side pocket beside the flashlight.”
Hoot didn’t even have to take his fingers out. The back pack was two feet away. He retrieved, condoms, lube and the flashlight. “Something you want to look at?” he asked.
Sanderson shook his head and pushed back on Hoot’s fingers.
Hoot tossed the flashlight to one side, noting its exact location in case of emergency. “Good, because as much at I like looking at your ass, I’m more interested in fucking it.” He unzipped and dropped his pants, kneeling behind Sanderson.
“Fuck, yeah, now,” Sanderson managed to say as Hoot twisted his whole hand 90 degrees to the right.
Hoot opened a condom package with his teeth and put the sheath on one-handed.
Heat. Tightness. Clenching. All the things that make for a good assfuck. But better, much better, because Sanderson reared up and almost threw Hoot, so Hoot had to throw his arm around Sanderson’s chest (and it was a broad, strong chest) and brace his legs against Sanderson’s legs (thick and powerful) and Sanderson’s ass nestled against Hoot’s groin (best part of the whole experience).
Hoot was inside and holding still, awaiting instructions. Sanderson was unable to stay still, which was very unusual for Sanderson, because he was usually able to freeze for hours if necessary. Of course, staying still wasn’t necessary at all. In fact, it was probably undesirable since movement would bring Hoot’s cock in closer contact with Sanderson’s–
“Fuck!”
–ah, that would be Sanderson’s prostate.
“Jesus, Hoot! Fuck me!”
“Stay calm, we got all night.”
“No we don’t. I’m gonna explode.”
“No, you’re not,” Hoot said, and reached around Sanderson to grip the base of his cock. “I’m supposed to be the one doing the howling, aren’t I?”
Sanderson merely whimpered.
Hoot drew his hips back, withdrawing until only the head of his cock remained buried inside Sanderson’s ass.
Snap. Hoot thrust in fast. Sanderson howled and shoved hard. Hoot howled back.
Damn, it felt good to howl. No one for miles. He could let go, lose all his restraints. He hadn’t done that since… he’d never done that. Not like he was doing it now. Hoot let go of Sanderson’s cock so he could grab both hips and fuck without worry.
Howl. Squeal. Holler. Bray. He did it all. He did it all and more, because at the moment of his climax, he shouted Sanderson’s first name.
Sanderson stiffened at the sound of his name, ass tightening unbearably. Hoot tried to pull out, the tension was too great, but Sanderson held him fast. Hoot fell forward over Sanderson’s back instead, arms around Sanderson’s chest.
“Fuck, Jefferson, that’s too much.”
“Just enough,” Sanderson managed to whisper right before he came.
Hoot winced as his cock was squeezed. There was nothing left to be milked out of it. He was empty. Empty but whole, if that made sense.
“Tent,” Sanderson croaked after a good five minutes of being a panting, quivering mass collapsed on Hoot’s sweat-and-come-stained jacket.
Hoot peeled himself off Sanderson and reached for the flashlight. He was so disoriented, he couldn’t remember exactly where the tent was. He swept the beam of light across the clearing. There was something beside the tent, in a shadow so dark the light could not penetrate it – it could only make a pair of pale, grey eyes glow menacingly.
“Shit,” Sanderson said, and froze beneath Hoot, unwilling to startle the beast.
There was a loud sound of tongue licking around the creatures mouth, smacking whatever lips it happened to have. Then the eyes disappeared, and both men could hear soft, retreating footpads on the forest floor.
They gathered their belongings and crept into the tent. They zipped both sleeping bags together and crawled in.
“I’ll take first watch?” Hoot asked.
From the next ridge over, they heard the eerie sound of a howling wolf.
“Naw, no watch needed. It’s not interested in attacking. It’s probably calling for its mate.”
“Really? You think we made it want to fuck?”
“Don’t see why not. All that howling…”
Sanderson burrowed into the sleeping bag and pressed his face against Hoot’s still-clothed chest. “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked...” he muttered.
Hoot lay still and listened to the entire poem, without a single mistake, without a pause, the only time he’d ever heard the whole thing.
“Very nice,” he said when Sanderson drew a long breath after the last line. “Can I finish the one about the girl from Vermont now?”
“What the fuck would you know about any girl from Vermont?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Hoot admitted. “But I could probably tell you about a man from Nantucket with some authority.”
Sanderson slid his hand up over Hoot’s mouth. “No more poetry tonight. But I would like to hear you howl again…”
Hoot and Sanderson continue their howling in From Foot to Brow.
Back to: Soldier Porn
Note: Lines from “Howl” by Allan Ginsberg belong, of course to Ginsberg’s estate. I doubt there is an estate of Rumi’s, but these particular translations are by John Moyne and Coleman Barks. (I’m not kidding, the dude’s name is really ‘Barks’.) I feel no guilt whatsoever for using lines from the Pledge of Allegiance in an NC-17-rated slashfic. In fact, the subversion of it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling.)
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