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Title: D-Tech: Preparation
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: post-Black Hawk Down x pre-Bourne Supremacy
Series: D-Tech / The Long Haul
Pairing: Hoot/Sanderson
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Public sex. LOTS of it. Kink. Not romantic at all.
Disclaimer: Hoot and Sanderson were composites, hence there’s no way they could ever open their own business, so this is obviously fiction, based loosely on some movies I enjoyed. I have plucked The Russian from his environment of origin because he's so darn purdy and deadly. No harm, no foul.
Note: Excess is a real Toronto bathhouse. No, I have not been there. I looked stuff up. *fans self*
D-Tech:Preparation
Sanderson tries again, starting the edge of the towel at his left hipbone and wrapping it counterclockwise around his waist. Just below his waist, actually, so it rides on his hips, held up by the swell of his ass and a prayer.
No good. The towel is too fucking small. No matter what he does, one long, smooth thigh peeks out seductively.
Hoot grins at him. “Looks perfect to me,” he drawls, letting the words hang in the air, barely touching Sanderson somewhere around the vicinity of his navel.
Sanderson is not happy. He isn’t used to feeling this out of place. Fish-out-of-water is no way to approach a serious job. Especially not a job involving someone as dangerous as The Russian.
And not when he’s distracted by the nagging question of just how Hoot – solid, manly, decent, upright, patriotic, noble, fucking-Delta Hoot – knows so goddamn much about bathhouses.
But the place is full of solid manly types, and any number of them could also be decent, upright, patriotic and noble. No other Deltas, though. At least none that Sanderson recognizes.
Sanderson had stared in horror at crowd milling about the street. The sidewalks were crawling with tourists. Gay tourists, but tourists nonetheless. A young man with long straight hair and smudged eye-liner had been lounging against a lamp post staring openly at him.
Licking his lips.
Lasciviously.
This was not Sanderson’s scene. He couldn’t go into a crowd like that. Crowd of potential enemies, sure. Crowd full of heavily armed hostiles, no problem. But openly gay men cruising each other? How was he supposed to maintain his control?
Not that he was tempted or anything. He was focused on the job. But the distractions were… numerous.
And, over the years, he's grown so used to 'don't ask, don't tell' he doesn't think about it any more. Not that he has any problem with fucking men, but this whole situation screamed danger at ear-drum perforating decibels.
“Relax. That’s not where we’re going,” Hoot had said in his low, for-your-ears-only voice, which Sanderson had trouble distinguishing from Hoot’s seductive voice. Because, really, those voices are almost the same, most of the time.
Hoot had grabbed Sanderson’s elbow and steered him down the street.
This whole part of town was one big party. They’d had to sidestep a couple of bears, who were attached to each other in, well, a bear hug. A gaggle of drag queen’s had twittered at them and rubbed up against Hoot as they passed.
This was insane. You could not complete an op under these conditions. All these people. All these civilians. All these witnesses.
Sanderson had jumped when he felt a hand on his ass.
“Sorry,” came Hoot’s whisper. “But that guy at eleven o’clock is eyeballing you, and I want him to know you’re not available.”
The guy at eleven o’clock was a muscle-bound leather man, even bigger than Hoot, rubbing his shiny black crotch with the back of his hand while his fingers beckoned. Sanderson still wasn’t sure if the man had actually heard Hoot’s growl, but the expression on Hoot’s face must have been enough, because the hand had dropped to harmlessly rest on a sleek black-clad thigh.
“We’re going over there,” Hoot said.
Right. Over there. Over where? ‘There’ was a plain wooden door with the word Excess stenciled on it in large block letters.
Sanderson had been given no choice but to follow Hoot into the bathhouse.
The light aren’t as dim as he thought they would be. Sanderson had thought a gay bathhouse would be dark and sleazy and surreptitious in all ways. Some of them, no doubt, are. This place looks legit. There’s an ordinary-looking counter, ordinary except for the huge bowl of condoms on it, where Hoot handed over some colorful bills and was given two keys.
They did a quick circuit of the ground floor to get a feel for the terrain, which is like nothing he’s ever seen. Hoot looked perfectly comfortable as they walked past a TV lounge and bar, the hallway leading to private rooms, the wet area, which is shockingly well lit. Showers. Steam room. The stairs leading up. Up to, presumably, the darker areas.
Now they’re in the locker room, disposing of everything. Their clothes. Their wallets. Their identities. Everything.
They couldn’t bring weapons; it’s against the rules. That didn’t stop Sanderson from packing, but everything has to go in the locker because there’s nowhere to hide anything.
He’s never been so naked, even though he’s got the towel wrapped around his hips.
“C’mon, Jeff. Relax. Got to blend in with the locals.”
“What’s upstairs?”
“Dunno. Can’t go up in street clothes, though.”
A slender man with his hair buzzed to within an eighth of an inch of his scalp wafts through the locker room. He’s wearing the tightest leather pants Sanderson has ever, ever seen. He avoids looking at Hoot and Sanderson and heads for the stairs. That’s when Sanderson notices the leather pants don’t actually have an ass. And the man’s butt is the tiniest, tightest ass Sanderson’s ever seen.
“You could dress like that, if it would make you more comfortable,” Hoot suggests.
Sanderson’s head snaps back in Hoot’s direction so fast it’s audible.
“But I wouldn’t want you to,” Hoot admits. “That scrawny little ass looks okay hangin’ out like that, but yours would be deadly.”
Fuck. He’s got his action-accent going full-tilt. The heat of the bath house suddenly feels like the heat of the sun of a Texan desert, except not dry enough. Maybe a southern swamp? Sanderson wonders if he should be keeping an eye out for gators.
“We got a bit of time before the meet. How about a little recon?”
Sanderson nods and tucks the towel a little more securely. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling so jumpy. He’s done a million meets before. Never naked, though. The appreciative looks he and Hoot get in the hallway ease his mind. No one is wondering who he is or what he does out on the street. They only want to ogle. Or touch. But he doesn’t have to worry about them touching because Hoot is beside him.
Maybe they’re all looking at Hoot. There’s certainly a lot to look at. Hoot’s towel looks even smaller, even though his hips are a touch narrower than Sanderson’s. His ass isn’t narrower, though, and the white towel is stretched across it perfectly. Hoot’s playing dumb without doing anything stupid. He’s not making any eye contact, but he’s making himself look as innocuous as possible.
Not that it’s possible for six foot three of prime ex-Delta to look innocuous.
But Hoot is amazingly calm as they walk past the glass-walled steam room in full view of the showers and head up the stairs.
Sanderson was right. It’s darker up here. And this is the public sex room. And there’s sex going on. It smells of come and sweat and men. Lots of men. They round a corner and there’s a big guy draped over what reminds Sanderson of the vault back in high school gym. His hands are cuffed underneath it. Sanderson looks to the left and sees the slender boy in the leather pants, suspended from the ceiling in a complicated looking swing.
It’s hard not to smirk. The kid’s head is thrown back as a tattooed behemoth is plowing into him. Didn’t take him long.
Jesus. There’s a row of guys lined up, asses facing out, noses to the wall, moans filling the air.
He hears a sound of distress coming from a booth, hidden by a black curtain. Hoot shakes his head. No one goes into a booth without knowing what he’s getting into, and no one interrupts. Must not have been so distressing after all, because the moans coming out now are anything but distraught.
There are more rooms, getting progressively darker, and the further you go the heavier the air becomes.
“Enough,” Hoot breathes into his ear and they head back downstairs, having noted two fire exits, a presumably locked door with an ‘Employees Only’ sign on it, several blacked out windows and the skinny boy now being prepared by a gloved nasty-looking character in a studded jock strap. A third man stands to one side, holding what looks like a bucket of lube of some sort. The skinny guy groans as the fourth finger goes in.
Christ. This place is a circus. More like a zoo.
Hoot signals him to go back to the locker room. He’s got the two keys looped on the chain he wears around his neck. There’s a cross on the chain. Sanderson has never asked why he’s wearing it, since, as far as he knows, Hoot isn’t religious. But he can’t very well wear his old dog tags to a bathhouse, can he?
They’re standing by the lockers again.
“Why?”
Hoot looks innocent. “Why what?”
“A bathhouse, Hoot. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“Neutral territory, Jeff. No way for Kirill to conceal any weapons.”
“No way for us to conceal any weapons either. Did you think of that?”
Hoot shrugs. “Trust me. We’re due to meet Kirill in the steam room in ten minutes. We’ll talk. He isn't going to start anything with all these people around, and neither are we. Once we get a handle on what’s going on, we’ll get out of here.”
Sanderson nods tensely.
“Unless you want to hang around a while…” Hoot purrs.
Aw, fuck, that’s just what Sanderson needs. As if the kid getting fisted and that guy with the nipple clamps, in the corner by the horse, wasn’t enough, now Hoot’s going all seductive on him.
Sanderson drops his head back, smacking it forcefully on a steel locker. “I can’t do this,” he groans.
Hoot doesn’t seem to understand what the problem is.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” Sanderson demands to know, gesturing at his towel, is tented out in front of him.
A mild-mannered accountant type happens to wander in at that very moment. He’s soft and pudgy, compared to Hoot and Sanderson, but he looks clean and has a friendly face. “I could help you with that,” he offers boldly, starting to get down on his knees.
Hoot snarls. “Think again, buddy.”
The accountant disappears. Fast.
“It’s okay, Jeff. It’s a bathhouse. Everyone expects you to be hard. I’m hard.”
“You’re always hard,” Sanderson retorts, trying hard not to look.
Hoot puts one hand on the locker beside Sanderson’s head and leans forward, using his height and bulk to their full advantage. Sanderson knows he’s shielded from casual onlookers. Anyone who wants to get a good look at his dick will have to get within Hoot’s range.
“I wouldn’t want it to get in the way of the job,” Hoot breathes over Sanderson’s cheek.
Hoot’s breath is hot and feels solid at the corner of Sanderson’s mouth.
“Give it up.” Hoot swings his hips forward as he snatches both towels away.
Hot cock on cock. Hoot so close his right hip is touching Sanderson’s left hip. Wet tongue in Sanderson’s ear. Hint of teeth.
Sanderson angles his hips so their cocks line up as if they were created for the purpose. Hoot’s big hand closes around them.
“Hard and fast, Jeff.” Sanderson barely hears Hoot say. “All we have time for.”
Too fast. No matter how aroused he is, no matter how expertly Hoot’s hand twists and jerks and crushes their cocks together, Sanderson isn’t a teenager. He doesn’t just shoot off at the first physical stimulation.
“Like to see you in that swing,” Hoot gasps in his ear. “Like to fuck you hard while you’re hangin’ in the air. Want my cock inside you so bad. So hot. So tight. So hard and fast. So fucking…”
Okay. So maybe he can still come fast. And hard. Sweat blinds him and he panics, unable to watch the door, but Hoot’s hand on his hip calms him. He lets the orgasm tumble him for as long as it takes to shoot his load, then starts to bring himself back to full awareness.
They’re still alone. Hoot is right at the edge. That’s good, because he doesn’t get to look at Hoot’s face that often when they fuck, since they both prefer it from behind. Hoot’s a little to close for Sanderson to see everything, but the intensity is hard to miss. Hoot has his eyes shut and his teeth clenched, trying for control. He forces his eyes open at the last second, so Sanderson can see inside them when he comes.
Hoot wipes them both clean with one of the towels, and has to open the locker to retrieve another one.
No one else could spot it, but Sanderson sees his hand shake as he puts the lock back on.
“Okay,” Hoot says, voice rough and low. “Let’s go meet our guy.”
Next: D-Tech: The Americans
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