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Tucker, Caboose, and Andy the Bomb failing at their stupid quest? Not a surprise. Tex ditching him, again, to go track down Wyoming? Not a surprise. Tucker wasting Church’s time, whining and bitching, and then eating all the food in the base and not cleaning up after himself? Not a surprise.
“Church! I can’t jerk off! I think I’m dying!”
That? That’s a surprise. Church chokes on a mouthful of bitter coffee, swallows it down the wrong pipe, and then nearly hacks up a lung trying to breathe again while simultaneously attempting to erase the picture, now seared into his mind forever, of Tucker charging into the base’s tiny kitchen, completely naked, with his raging boner in one hand and tissues in the other.
“What the fuck, Tucker?!” Church spits out, throat still stinging and voice rough. “Get out of here and put some fucking clothes on!”
“Church, this is serious! I’ve been trying to rub one out all morning and I can’t!”
“Oh my god, shut up. I don’t care,” Church snaps.
“I’m dying,” Tucker says with a whine, and Church can’t deal with this. He pushes roughly away from the table and stalks over to Tucker, keeping his eyes furiously focused on his teammate’s face and not anywhere else.
“You are not dying,” Church says with a snarl. “You cannot die from a lack of orgasms. Abstaining for one day will not kill you. You know what will kill you? Me, if I have to hear one more word of this shit.”
Marching angrily past Tucker, Church storms off down the hall to his room, wondering exactly what sins he committed in his previous life to deserve this. He armors up faster than usual and with less care, smacking the pieces into place urgently and narrowly avoiding catching sensitive skin in a zipper.
Patrolling the caves keeps him away from Tucker all day.
—-
Tucker comes to breakfast the next day already wearing his armor, which Church takes as a marked improvement from yesterday, although it’s probably too much to hope that Tucker is embarrassed enough to leave him alone for a while. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be a lot that actually embarrasses Tucker. Or Caboose for that matter. Church’s team has been back for two days and he already wants to get rid of them again. He doesn’t even feel bad about it.
After armoring up himself, Church heads to the roof with his sniper rifle to watch the Reds. Donut and Grif look like they’re ganging up on Simmons, which makes Church snicker with remembered laughter. Messing with Simmons had been fun, and maybe he should feel bad about that too, but Church long ago came to the realization that he isn’t a nice person, and he’s fine with that.
The Reds quickly grow boring (watching people standing around talking is only fun for so long), and Church ends up swinging his legs over the side of the base and staring up at the thin clouds drifting lazily across the sky. It’s warm, the way it always is in Blood Gulch, but his armor keeps him comfortable and it’s otherwise a nice day to do nothing outside.
He feels more than sees Caboose walk across the roof of the base towards him, until the heavy steps pause and Caboose’s helmet blots out his view of the sky. Church stares up at him for a minute, silently, before giving up with a sigh. When it comes to some things (patience, strength, teamkilling), Caboose simply cannot be bested. Church has learned the fastest way to get his team’s overgrown idiot rookie to go away is often to just deal with whatever it is Caboose wants. Unless what Caboose wants is to stare at Church forever, in which case Church is shit outta luck because there will be no getting rid of him.
“What do you want, Caboose?”
“Uhm, Church,” Caboose says hesitantly. “I think Tucker is dying.”
“Not this again.” Church flops down with a groan. “Caboose, look, I know you don’t know how this works, but Tucker isn’t dying. He’s just being a little baby.”
“I do not think so,” Caboose says, and Church hates himself a little for being able to read doubt in the tilt of Caboose’s helmet. It’s just a helmet. He did not ask to know these guys well enough to read expressions through helmets, for fuck’s sake. “I have seen lots of babies,” Caboose continues. “They are very loud, and they cry a lot, and scream, and are very annoying.” That’s rich, Caboose calling something annoying. “I do not like babies. And I do not like Tucker. But Tucker is not crying or screaming like a baby. It is more like… moaning.”
“Oh, gross, Caboose,” Church says irritably, letting his annoyance show in his voice. Caboose doesn’t notice, not that he ever does. “Trust me, Tucker is just fine. Don’t - ugh, just don’t listen when he does that.”
“Does what?” Caboose asks. “What is Tucker doing with all the moaning? It is very annoying. I wish he would stop.”
“Me too, buddy,” Church sighs in agreement. “Me too.”
—-
When neither Caboose nor Tucker show up at breakfast the next morning, Church takes advantage of the peace and quiet to enjoy a huge mug of coffee, black and bitter as his soul, just how he likes it. Coffee might be the one thing he and the military agree on. Also the only thing he and Tex don’t fight over, although when there’s only one cup left in the pot all bets are off.
He has the whole pot to himself this morning, since nobody has been stupid enough to give caffeine to Caboose after the first incident, and he’s not feeling particularly inclined to save any for Tucker, who will just insist on defiling it with sugar and milk anyway.
It is, however, Tucker’s turn to watch Caboose for the day, and Church needs some time to work on Sheila, so he reluctantly finishes off the coffee, cleans up the kitchen, and trudges back to his room to put on his armor. Tucker still isn’t awake when he’s done, despite Church stomping loudly past Tucker’s room in full power armor more than once.
While it might be nice not to have to carry the whole team, or to have more people around capable of actual work, the upside of Blue team’s lack of manpower is that they each get their own room. This is absolutely 100% necessary: Caboose is a cuddler with a supernatural ability to end up in beds other than his own, Tucker sleeps naked and has no shame, and Tex, when she’s around, is entirely too capable of murdering them all without even waking up. As they say, better safe than sorry.
After the third pass Church makes outside Tucker’s door, he completely gives up on attempts at subtlety and switches to shouting, which he should have just done in the first place. It’s so much more cathartic.
“Tucker,” Church calls through the door, giving it a loud rap, “put your armor on and get out here. You’re on Caboose duty today.”
All he gets in response is a pained groan. That is not one of Tucker’s sex groans, thank God. Just because they have their own rooms doesn’t mean Tucker isn’t loud, and Church is uncomfortably familiar with Tucker’s noises. The handful of weeks before they instituted the “if you’re going to jerk off all day do it outside where we can’t hear you” policy had been torturous for Church. Sure, there’s one less rock in the canyon that Blue team can use for cover, but it’s a sacrifice that needed to be made. For Church’s sanity, if nothing else.
“Tucker,” Church yells in aggravation, raising his fist to bang on the door again, when it suddenly opens, spilling a very naked and very sweaty Tucker right on top of him. The power armor is the only thing that keeps Church standing, and he immediately dumps Tucker onto the floor once he gets his footing back.
Tucker just lies there like a dead thing, starfished out on the concrete floor of the base, and Church nudges him with a boot, trying not to look at his ass.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“‘S hot,” Tucker complains with another moan.
“You’re hot? Put your suit on, you idiot. It has a cooling system.”
“‘S broke,” Tucker says with a whine, flattening himself against the concrete further, seemingly uncaring that his face is mashed into the ground.
“It’s broken?” Church repeats incredulously. “How the fuck did you break it? When?”
“Yes’rday,” Tucker answers. His voice sounds utterly self-pitying and Church is about 5000% done with this nonsense, so he steps over Tucker with the intent of grabbing the asshole’s armor and forcing him into it if necessary.
Tucker isn’t exactly a neat freak, but he definitely takes pride in his appearance, and Church has heard him brag about keeping his space “ready for the ladies,” whatever that means, so the mess in Tucker’s room comes as a surprise. His armor is scattered all over the place, as are the sheets, blankets, and what looks like half his clothes. His mattress is entirely bare, like he threw everything off in whatever direction was easiest at the time. Church gathers up his undersuit and armor, unwilling to risk touching the clothing, and dumps it next to Tucker, still sprawled out in the hallway. It won’t be the first time Tucker’s worn nothing under the suit.
There’s no way Church is actually going to cram his naked teammate into armor with his own hands, so when Tucker makes no move to leave the floor, Church heads back towards the kitchen. He fills the empty coffee pot with water from the sink, as cold as he can get it.
Dumping it directly onto Tucker’s face and watching him squirm is the most satisfying thing Church has seen all day. It’s hard being the leader, but someone’s gotta do it.
“All right, all right, I’m going, asshole,” Tucker says, finally beginning to struggle into his armor. His face and hair are still dripping, and Church walks away with an extra spring in his step from a job well done.
—-
The day isn’t even half over when Caboose surprises Church into dropping a wrench inside Sheila, where he’s probably never going to get it back. Who thought a talking tank was a good idea? And why did they make it a woman?
“Caboose, why aren’t you with Tucker?”
“Oh, well,” Caboose says, “he is sleeping.”
“What?” Church screeches. No, Leonard L. Church refuses to admit to screeching. He says it. Loudly.
“Yes, he is asleep,” Caboose says. “He was not listening to my story and fell asleep, and now I cannot wake him up. So I came to visit you and Sheila!”
If Tucker has been up all night doing some weird sex thing and can’t even stay awake to watch Caboose, well, Church is going to shove his boot so far up Tucker’s ass.
Dragging Caboose behind him, Church heads off in search of Tucker, a search made surprisingly easy by the fact that he does seem to be sleeping. In the open space outside the base. That can’t possibly be comfortable, if the awkward way he’s twisted is any indication. Well, he’s going to be a lot more uncomfortable when Church is through with him.
With even less consideration than he showed this morning, Church uses his boot again to shove Tucker over roughly. The annoying asshole just flops over without a sound, and it finally, belatedly, occurs to Church that maybe he should actually be worried.
“Yeah, I already tried that,” Caboose says, and Church grimaces. Caboose doesn’t understand the concept of restraint, so he probably gave Tucker a big ole kick in the ribs, which makes it even more concerning that Tucker is still lying in front of them, silently.
Church kneels down and pulls Tucker’s helmet off, and yup, he’s definitely unconscious. What Church isn’t sure of is why Tucker is unconscious. It’s not actually possible to pass out from masturbating too little, is it? Or from too much? Honestly with Tucker the latter makes so much more sense. Still holding Tucker’s helmet, he orders Caboose to carry Tucker inside. If nothing else, at least Caboose is good for carrying shit. Compared to Andy, a fully grown man in power armor probably escapes his notice. On some days, Church isn’t sure if Caboose even notices gravity.
When Caboose dumps Tucker onto their battered sofa, Church reluctantly starts pulling off Tucker’s armor. He is hot, worryingly so, dripping with sweat, and when Church holds a hand up to his forehead it feels like touching a bonfire. This is much, much worse than he was this morning.
Why wasn’t the idiot using the cooling system? It’s standard in all their armor. If it turns out that Tucker wasn’t using it just because Church brought it up this morning, if this is some of Tucker’s posturing bullshit, some lame attempt to be manly, then Church is going to wait patiently until Tucker feels better and murder him all over again.
Sending Caboose off for some cold water and towels, Church finishes pulling off Tucker’s armor and starts inspecting it. Now that he’s paying attention, the armor is hotter to the touch than usual, and a close look at the cooling unit reveals that it is broken. It looks damaged, but recently, like it’s been overclocked in the last few days and finally wore out. How hard did Tucker have it running to cause it to do that?
Caboose comes back carrying water and a towel, finally, along with Andy, of all things. Because a bomb is exactly what this situation needs.
“How long has he been like this?” Church asks, guilt and anger at himself making the question come out sharper than he means it to.
“First he stopped listening to my story, and then I said hello to you and Sheila, and now we are here,” Caboose says very slowly and clearly, like Church’s problem is his hearing and not the fact that he forgot Caboose doesn’t understand context.
“Ugh, not how long has he been unconscious,” Church groans. “How long has he been feverish?”
Caboose takes a wary step back. “Tucker has a fever?”
“Yes,” Church says, banging his forehead against the arm of the sofa in frustration.
The rest of the conversation doesn’t get any better. Caboose is useless, unable to provide any details, and Andy suggests exploding as a solution for everything. Apparently Tucker actually has been sick, since they went through some sort of swamp, which probably means he has a terrible, highly contagious, alien swamp disease and Church and Caboose have definitely caught it by now, and they’re all going to die painful deaths if Andy doesn’t just blow them all up first. Which he has volunteered to do several times.
They end up deciding to call Doc, which is laughable as a plan, but it’s not like they have internet in the canyon. Church can’t just look up alien swamp ailments and find a cure to save the day. So, he’ll make the best of what they have and all that bullshit.
He can’t let Tucker die.
—-
Talking with Doc, or O’Malley, whichever one happens to be in control, goes exactly as well as Church thought it would. The only positive thing about the whole exchange is that Church walks off with an extra ten bucks he’s purloined from Caboose. Not that there’s anything good to spend it on in this shithole.
Just in case Tucker is contagious (he’s probably contagious) and even though it might be too late for them (it’s probably too late for them), Church is keeping himself and Caboose outside the base while Doc examines Tucker.
“Well, he definitely has a fever!” Doc informs them cheerfully, as he trots out of the base like an eager (and really fucking dumb) puppy expecting praise. Tell them something they don’t already know. Church is already regretting this ill-considered plan.
Tucker is apparently conscious and back to complaining, but he’s running a fever of 104.1℉, which Doc helpfully informs them is high enough to cause brain damage if they don’t get Tucker’s temperature down soon. Church already has one brain-damaged teammate, he can’t deal with another, and Tucker can’t afford to lose the few brain cells he has. Unfortunately for Tucker's future mental acuity, nothing in the canyon gets particularly cold.
“Oh, and he also has priapism!” Doc adds, sounding just as pleased with this addition as he did with his original diagnosis.
“Tucker has to pry up his what? What is he prying up? Is it floorboards? I have heard people hide treasure under floorboards. Is Tucker hiding treasure? Is the treasure cookies? ARE THERE COOKIES UNDER THE FLOOR OF THE BASE?”
Church buries his helmet in his hands with a pained groan as Caboose turns to head back towards the base. Two dumb puppies, this is what Church has to deal with.
“Priapism!” Doc repeats. “It means prolonged erection of the penis that will n-”
“Oh my god, Doc, shut up,” Church interrupts. This is already more than he wanted to know about Tucker, ever, but at least Caboose is no longer about to race into the base convinced Tucker is hiding a treasure chest of cookies somewhere. “Do you know why Tucker has a fever and... that?”
“No idea!”
Yeah, that’s not surprising. Why did he even bother asking? Isn’t the definition of insanity asking the same question and expecting a different answer? Nobody ever knows anything around here.
“It’s probably an evil alien plague!” O’Malley adds gleefully. “You’re all about to die, muahahah!”
“Is he contagious?” Church asks, without much faith in the answer.
“I don’t think so?”
“Well that’s confidence-inspiring,” Church says with a sigh. “I guess we should -”
“It’s probably the alien mating pheromones!” Andy interjects.
“... the what?”
“You know, mating pheromones? That the aliens use to stimulate their chosen host - you know, mess with their hormones and stuff, preparing for the implantation of a parasitic embryo. That’s how they reproduce. You know?”
“WHAT?! Fuck no, we didn’t know that! Why didn’t you tell us that could happen?”
“Are you a fucking moron? That’s how the quest works. Get chosen, get fucked alien-conception style, deliver alien baby Jesus. It’s not that fuckin’ complicated!”
“Ugh, I should have let you blow up the base,” Church mutters into his hands.
“Hey, that’s still on the table! One little explosion, take care of all your problems right here!”
“Shut up, Andy. Caboose, go take Andy… somewhere else.”
“Ok!”
“Doc, you’re with me. You can tell Tucker what’s wrong with him.”
“Muahahaha, this will be fun,” O’Malley cackles.
Yeah, this is going to go great.
—-
“WHAT?!”
Tucker looks better, even though he’s sitting on the cold concrete flooring wearing nothing but a damp towel around his waist. There’s still a sheen of sweat over his body, but his eyes are focused and bright with annoyance.
Church and Doc have both ditched their armor, and Caboose is doing the same, having dropped Andy off with the Reds. Apparently they needed him for something specific? Church didn’t ask and he doesn’t want to know. If the Reds accidentally blow themselves up, Church’s only regret will be that they didn’t take everyone else with them.
Also Caboose seems to have accepted an actual human skull in trade for Andy and Church isn’t going to ask about that either. He really, really does not want to know.
“Am I dying?” Tucker continues. “Oh my god, is my dick going to fall off?”
“Well,” Doc says hesitantly, “I don’t know?”
“Is there anything you do know?” Church asks.
“Hey!” Doc protests. “I’m a medic, not a urologist. Or uhm, a gynecologist? I’m not sure which one is appropriate here.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Tucker whines pitifully, and Church can’t quite tell if Tucker really is feeling that badly or if he just wants attention.
“It might… go away on its own?” Doc suggests.
“You don’t sound too sure about that,” Church says, frowning at Doc.
“Or you could die!” O’Malley adds.
“Thanks, asshole,” Tucker mutters, glaring up from where he’s still sitting on the floor.
“Shut up, both of you,” Church says. “Doc, what are Tucker’s options?”
“Well, I guess he either dies, or he gets better. Or, uhm, he finds an alien to help?”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tucker explodes, “you seriously want me to go find some alien to fuck? That’s your answer? This is some sci-fi bullshit.”
Church has to agree with Tucker there. In general, the idea of Tucker reproducing is appalling. The idea of Tucker having alien offspring is disgusting. Or, alternatively, completely hilarious and good for years of insults. Safer to think of it as disgusting though.
“The only goddamn alien we know is dead,” Tucker continues. “D. E. A. D. Very dead. Fucking dead aliens is not my thing, dude.”
“As a matter of fact,” O’Malley puts in, his expression transforming Doc’s face into a villainous leer, “I think the alien needs to fuck you.”
Tucker sputters in indignation.
“Actually, that might help!” Doc says. The switch back and forth between O’Malley and Doc is even weirder when he’s (they’re?) out of armor. Church is afraid to ask what either of them mean by that.
Tucker, apparently, is not. “What does that mean?” he asks suspiciously.
“Well,” Doc says, “if these ‘alien mating pheromones’ are supposed to prepare you for copulation, then it seems likely that the effects will fade once you’ve done so. O’Malley may be correct; penetration in a sexual manner could relieve or reduce your symptoms.”
“WHAT?!” Tucker shrieks, and Church turns to glance at Caboose, who thankfully doesn’t seem to have understood a word of that. “No. No way. That is not happening.”
“Tucker, shut up,” Church orders. “Doc, can you please keep your suggestions to things that are physically possible? We don’t exactly have another alien.”
“It’s possible even a human partner could prove beneficial to Tucker’s condition. It might save him!”
“What?!” This time, both Church and Tucker ask the question in unison. “You’re saying if I don’t get fucked by someone, I could die?” Tucker continues. “That’s really what you’re saying? This is some sort of bullshit ‘fuck or die’ scenario? I thought that only happened in shitty fanfics!”
“That’s exactly what he’s saying,” O’Malley says with an evil laugh. “Prepare for your imminent demise. It really is too bad you’re not contagious though.”
“No.” Tucker says. “Absolutely not. I am the love doctor, I refuse to die for lack of sex.” Tucker’s expression is fierce and stubborn, before he pauses for a second and mutters under his breath, “totally fine with dying from too much sex though, bow chica bow wow.”
Church groans at Tucker’s stupid catchphrase, which has the unfortunate side effect of focusing Tucker’s attention onto him. Tucker has a look in his eye that Church doesn’t like.
“Hey Church,” Tucker begins, and oh no. No, this does not bode well for Church at all. No. Whatever it is, no. “You want to help a brother out here?”
“No!”
The expression on Tucker’s face is something Church hasn’t seen before, a little bit predatory, a little bit suggestive, and a lot determined.
“Aww, come on man,” Tucker pouts. “It’s you or Doc here. Who else is gonna do it, Caboose?”
All three of them turn to Caboose.
“I do not want to catch Tucker’s sickness,” Caboose says, from where he’s been lurking in the corner.
“Wow, Caboose,” Church says, “I’d say that’s actually a valid concern for once, if I thought you had any clue what we’re talking about.”
“Hey!” Tucker protests, looking disgruntled and, surprisingly, a little hurt. “I’m clean.”
“Oh yeah?” Church challenges him. “Explain what’s going on then.”
“Hey man, this could have happened to anybody!”
“No, Tucker, I really think this is the sort of thing that could only happen to you.”
“Well,” Doc says, as he tries to sneak out of the room, “I’m just going to leave you two alone then….”
“You know, Doc’s the one who suggested it, why don’t you get him to fuck you?” Church asks, sounding bitter even to his own ears.
“I really don’t think that would be ethical,” Doc practically squeaks, raising his hands up like he expects them to drag him over to Tucker right then. “The doctor-patient relationship aside, you know Tucker isn’t really in a state where it’s possible for him to consent right now.”
“Hey, no!” Tucker protests. “I consent! I really do!”
Doc turns to him. “Tucker, it isn’t possible for someone to give free and willing consent while under duress the way you are.”
“Oh my god, I understand consent!” Tucker says in frustration. “I’m not a moron like Caboose over there, I know what enthusiastic consent means. I am intimately familiar with the concept, you might say. Can you fucking trust me to consent to not fucking dying?”
“See, it’s because you’re dying that you can’t - “
“Doc, you’re not helping,” Church says, gritting his teeth. “Just… just take Caboose and get the hell out of here.”
“Does this mean you’ll help me?” Tucker asks, as Doc and Caboose nearly trip on each other in their haste to leave. Church shakes his head slightly and Tucker immediately begins whining again. “Come on, Church! You’re not going to leave me to the Reds, are you?”
“Shut up,” Church says, sinking back into the sofa to avoid looking directly at Tucker. Rubbing his temples does nothing to alleviate the impending headache. “Look, Doc said there’s a chance this will just go away.” Tucker lets out another whine, which Church does his best to ignore. “We are going to wait. We are going to wait, and see if this improves on its own. If you’re not any better in 24 hours…” he sighs, sure he’s going to regret this, “we will… reconsider.”
—-
It’s the most annoying 24 hours of Church’s life so far, and that counts the time Caboose locked them into the pantry together for an entire day and forced Church to make a village of stick-people out of their dried spaghetti. At least Caboose had been wearing more than just a (completely inadequate) towel around his waist. Also, the thought of Caboose in nothing but a towel is gross. The actuality of Tucker in nothing but a towel is proving to be… problematic for Church.
Not only does he have to keep an eye on Tucker’s temperature - it eventually steadies at 104.5℉, thank god - Tucker is a whiny little bitch when sick, demanding water and cool towels every time Church’s attention even appears to waver. Neither of them get any sleep. Tucker, because he refuses to sleep unless he’s completely naked. Church, because he refuses to let Tucker be completely naked. He would prefer Tucker not even be partially naked. Surely there is a towel that offers more coverage somewhere in this base? And does the towel really need to be so wet and clingy?
That’s not even the worst part. The worst part, by far, is the way Tucker looks when he’s pleading with Church to fuck him. Church is a sick and twisted bastard, because goddamn does that look do something for him. At the moment, he’s not willing to analyze if it’s just satisfaction at an annoying teammate getting what he deserves, or… something else.
Either way, Tucker has this trick with his eyes, some way he makes them big and dark and soulful when he wants something, and he’s not holding back at all. That he’s literally at Church’s feet and begging for it isn’t helping either.
“Please, Church?” Tucker whines prettily. “It hurts.” He starts to reach under that stupidly revealing towel before Church bats his hand away.
“Stop it. You know that won’t make it better. You’ll just hurt yourself more.”
“Church, come on,” he whines again, and Church has finally had it. Stopping Tucker from mishandling his own dick is not in Church’s job description. It’s not Church’s fault Tucker can’t seem to go 24 hours without touching himself.
“Fine,” Church snaps roughly, turning away from where Tucker is still sprawled out on the floor. “You wanna hurt yourself? Go right ahead.” If Tucker wants to rub his dick raw, why should Church give a fuck? Storming out of the room is what he’d really like to do (whatever Tucker chooses to do to himself is not Church’s problem and he is not going to participate), but he can’t leave, not when there’s still a chance of Tucker passing out again, all alone. Instead, because he can restrain himself, thanks, Church grabs a chair and shoves it roughly around to face the wall, away from Tucker, and lets himself drop into it heavily.
“Oh thank god,” he hears Tucker moan from the ground behind him, and the distinctive sound of a wet towel hitting cold concrete accompanies Tucker’s exclamation.
Church does his best to focus on rereading a manual on his datapad (or stare at the wall), but it’s not particularly interesting on a good day (neither is the wall), and Tucker’s noises are distracting. With nothing to hold Church’s attention, every sound seems amplified.
In the stillness of the base, empty except for the two of them, even silence seems to echo. The soft whisper of Tucker’s hands against his own skin, the gasp of air into his lungs, the whoosh of breath released again; all of it permeates the hush that has settled onto them like fog. Every sigh, every rustle, every shudder, reaches into Church and twists something inside of him, winding it tighter.
The air shifts as Tucker begins to pant, wordlessly finding his own rhythm, the steady slide of his strokes interrupted only by the occasional stifled moan or a muffled hiss when he finds a sensitive spot. The longer it goes on, the louder he gets, until Church can hear the tremble in his breath, the desperation that underlies it. He lets out a pained whimper and Church finally cracks.
Nearly knocking the chair over as he stands, datapad clattering to the floor, Church spins around, mouth full of venom, lungs full of curses, ready to hurl it all at Tucker until he drowns out Tucker’s godforsaken noises, only for every word to fly out of his head unspoken. Tucker is splayed out like an offering and Church freezes, all his anger and scorn and frustration turning to ice at the sight of Tucker on the ground, body arched and head thrown back. He’s a temptation, a torture, a thorn in Church’s side. He’s goddamn motherfucking beautiful and Church can’t look away.
Tucker whimpers again, biting his lip, one hand frantically jerking himself while the other skates across his chest to tease his nipples. He’s hurting and helpless, on the verge of tears, aching for release, and Church is definitely going to hell because goddamn is he into this. Tucker is mesmerizing, hypnotizing, his smooth, dark skin glistening with sweat, the jut of his hips straining upwards, the muscles in his arms flexing with every fluid stroke. Church can see the moment his rhythm stutters, when he freezes, every muscle tense, like glass ready to shatter, except he doesn’t break. This time the whimper sounds more like a sob, and something inside Church breaks open instead.
He’s kneeling next to Tucker before he even realizes he’s made the decision to move. “Hey,” Church says softly - too softly, if he wants to come out of this with his pride intact - smoothing a hand over Tucker’s ridiculous (amazing, and completely against regulation) hair. “Hey,” he says again, rougher, when Tucker finally realizes he’s there. “It’s ok.”
“Church?” Tucker says with a sniffle, and his eyes are wet with unshed tears, and Church knows he’s on the edge of destruction, on the precipice of making a terrible decision, but he’d give Tucker the world right now if he could.
“Please?” The wobble in Tucker’s voice erases the last of Church’s resolve and crumbles any remaining resistance. He’s already screwed, may as well make it literal.
“Yeah.” Fuck. “Yeah, Tucker. Let’s go.”
—-
Church drags Tucker into a shower first.
Privacy isn’t really a thing in the military, and it’s not like Church is ashamed of how he looks or anything (at least he’s not the shortest person on the team). It’s just that he knows Tucker (and Tex, obviously) are out of his league. Tucker belongs on a glossy magazine cover somewhere, not buried in a canyon in the middle of nowhere, and Tex…. Well. That one goes to eleven. Church is very conscious that his own appearance, at best, can be summed up as “dorky nerd.”
So yeah, they’ve all seen each other naked before, but seeing and looking are entirely different things and Church has never really looked before. Neither has Tucker (the man is practically aggressively heterosexual) as far as Church knows. Tucker has an excuse for his reactions, but Church doesn’t, and he will die before he lets Tucker find out exactly how appealing Church finds every inch of Tucker’s body. His coffee-dark skin is smooth and sleek, begging for Church’s fingers to reach out and touch. For how much they all just stand around talking, Tucker is somehow in much better shape than Church. Maybe all that swinging around of his sword is good for something, because the definition in Tucker’s arms and chest gives way to the bumps and dips of his abs, and the curve of his butt leads to strong things and killer calves, and Church can’t wait to have those legs wrapped around him and his hands on that ass.
He strangles that line of thinking before it gets him in trouble.
Church keeps the water as cold as it ever gets, and he’d like to pretend that’s out of concern for Tucker, but it’s really because he’d like not to lose control and embarrass himself in front of his self-appointed sex god teammate, thanks.
Before ruthlessly shoving his own head under the cold water, Church gives himself just a second to appreciate the sight of the water running down Tucker’s body, from the tense lines of his throat, down his chest and past his tight nipples, into the dip of his hips and along his erection, which is still doing it’s best to defy gravity. On its own, Church doesn’t generally find another man’s junk all that attractive, but Tucker’s dick is as pretty as the rest of him and Church wants it in his mouth.
God, just the thought of him on his knees in front of Tucker, mouth stretched around Tucker’s cock, Church’s hands on that magnificent ass, encouraging Tucker to go deeper until Church is almost choking, the water running over both of them. Tucker’s hand in Church’s hair, pulling just the right amount as Tucker groans and comes in his mouth, finally letting Church touch himself. Licking Tucker clean as Church frantically jerks himself off, panting desperately against Tucker’s thigh and finally, finally coming, painting lines of white across the floor of the shower as he shakes with the force of it, Tucker’s hand in his hair the only thing keeping Church from collapsing.
Fuck. Fuck. He is so fucked.
—-
They choose Church’s room, because Church is not having sex on the floor of a common area where Caboose could pop in at any time, no matter how much Tucker begs, and Tucker’s room is still a disaster. Also, Church’s room has condoms and lube.
“Why do you have that?” Tucker asks.
It should be obvious, and Church shoots him a scornful look, but Tucker just keeps glancing back and forth between Church and the condoms, like the concepts of Church and sex can’t possibly exist in the same universe. It’s not like Church is a robot, and he’s getting tired of the unflattering implications of Tucker’s expression. “Tex and I didn’t exactly want kids,” Church says flatly, and he’s completely taken aback when Tucker leaps off of him and scrambles away in panic.
“Oh fuck. Oh shit,” Tucker mutters, starting to pace, looking frantically around the room.
“What?”
“Tex!” Tucker says, like he expects her to jump out of a closet or materialize at the sound of her name, like summoning a demon. “She’s going to fucking murder me, isn’t she,” he moans.
“She’s always a hairsbreadth away from killing you, what’s different about now?”
“This!” Tucker says, gesturing between them emphatically, and Church sighs.
“Tucker, Tex and I… we’re not together.” He frowns. “Also, she knows I’m bi. She won’t be surprised. Well, not about that part.” Under his breath he adds, “about it being you, she will be.”
Tucker still looks a little dubious.
“Look, do you want to do this or not?” Church asks, more frustrated than he has any right to be over the thought of getting this far, of getting so close to Tucker, and then stopping, but this is about Tucker. About helping his friend and teammate, no matter how badly Church wants it for himself. He sighs. “I promise, Tex won’t care, and we’ll stop whenever you say the word, ok?”
“Thank Christ,” Tucker says, the panic visibly draining out of him, leaving nothing but arousal in its wake, “because I am dying here.” He hops onto Church’s bed enthusiastically. “Alright dude, get over here and sex me. I’m ready.”
“No,” Church counters, “you’re not.”
“I am,” Tucker insists, and the whiny note from earlier is back in his voice. “Please Church, it‘s been days since I’ve gotten off, I’m ready. I need it. C’mon dude!”
“Have you ever even had anal sex before?”
Tucker sputters. “Uh, of course! Sexpert over here, I’ve done it all.”
Church barely resists the urge to smack his head against something. Or to smack Tucker’s head against something.
“Fine. Have you ever bottomed before?” Tucker opens his mouth, and then closes it. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Oh please, like you have.”
“Yes,” Church grits out between clenched teeth, “I have. Which is why we are going to do this my way, at a speed that I choose.”
Tucker huffs out a breath but doesn’t actually protest, which Church figures is as good as he’s going to get. Tucker is mouthy and pushy, but Church is not going to let himself be rushed into fucking this up, when it’s the one and only chance he’ll ever get. He’s going to do this right, because it’s Tucker, because Tucker doesn’t deserve the way he’s been forced into this, because Church will be damned if he doesn’t try his hardest to make this satisfying for Tucker. Maybe quick and painful, getting it over faster, would be the noble or right thing to do, but Church isn’t a particularly charitable example of humanity. He’s a selfish and disagreeable person, and he’s absolutely not above taking advantage of the situation.
He’s going to fuck Tucker good and he’s going to enjoy every second of it.
——
Church doesn’t have a lot of memories of his early time in the canyon. What he does remember is blurry, a mess that doesn’t make much sense, pieces that don’t fit together. He remembers snow (when has it ever snowed in this canyon?) and an array of colorful soldiers he thinks were his team (his family? his responsibility?), and Tex, always Tex. Even when he didn’t know who he was, or where he was, or even why he was, there’s always Tex, the one constant, the one fixed point in his memory he keeps coming back to, even if he knows he isn’t remembering her quite right.
His first really clear memory in the canyon, though, is Tucker. It’s the sight of Tucker, that first glance at him out of armor, the striking image he made, that cut through Church’s pain. Tucker was a vision that had pierced through his confusion, infiltrated the jumbled mess of his mind, and disrupted the sense of abandonment that had always lingered with him back then, had made him feel awake, feel alive, for the first time since… well, since he could remember. Tucker had been young, and full of energy and curiosity, and just so, so gorgeous, and Church had been captivated. It felt like his heart had both stopped and started at the same time, like it had both jumped to his throat and fallen to his boots, like it was beating a thousand beats per minute and also not at all.
And then Tucker opened his mouth and words came out. By the sixth one, Church had decided it was better (and safer) to hate him. He’s been sticking to that decision ever since. It was easy at the beginning. Tucker was (still is) immature, misogynistic, borderline homophobic, hypersexual, and self-centered, not to mention selfish. Church is still holding a grudge over Tucker nearly letting him die, just so Tucker could have Church’s sniper rifle (fuck sharing, this isn’t fucking preschool).
Hating Tucker isn’t so easy anymore. He’s just as much of a dumbass, but now Church knows what’s underneath. He knows Tucker gets sarcastic when he thinks somebody’s being dumb, but also when he’s hurt. He knows Tucker can be both genuinely funny and fun to work with. He knows Tucker grew up without any sort of male role model and that the bragging and the come-ons are his way of handling that insecurity. He knows how self-deprecating Tucker can be, how honest he is about almost everything, how easily he can admit to faults that Church would never let see the light of day. He knows how, honestly, Tucker is a better person than Church is now (or ever was). He’s seen how Tucker cares about all of them, even the Reds, including how ridiculously invested he is in whether or not Grif and Simmons will ever figure their shit out. There’s just something about Tucker that’s won them all over, even Tex, though she’ll never admit it, and it’s made it hard, so hard, for Church to keep pretending to hate him.
Well or ill, out of the canyon or in it, for better or for worse, Tucker’s his friend.
The first one Church ever remembers having.
——
“Church, come on, fuck me already.”
“I’m trying, stop fucking squirming.”
“I thought you said you knew what you were doing here. Get on with it.”
Church stops and glares at Tucker. “I am going to leave you here to die.”
Tucker is spread out on top of the sheets on Church’s bed, and that alone is hot enough that Church thinks he might die, never mind whatever’s going on with this alien shit. It feels like he’s wanted this forever, and Church is half certain he’s dreaming, except hopefully if he was dreaming, Tucker would be slightly more cooperative. He won’t stop moving, his hands skating over his body, fidgeting with the sheets, stroking his cock, but most of all, getting in Church’s way.
“Stop moving,” Church grits out in frustration, and the next time Tucker’s hands drift south Church grabs both of them and pins them above Tucker’s head. He ends up stretched out over Tucker, chest to chest, looking right into Tucker’s gorgeous face as Tucker wiggles beneath him, the soft skin of Tucker’s dick brushing Church’s hip as Tucker arches upwards against him.
Even that slight touch has Church gasping in a surprised breath, Tucker echoing him. They’re nearly nose to nose and Church is struck with the sudden and ridiculous desire to brush the tip of his nose against Tucker’s. There’s a name for that, Church thinks wildly, eskimo kisses or whatever, but that isn’t Church, he isn’t soft or sweet like that, so he settles for cataloging everything he’s never allowed himself to notice about Tucker’s face.
There’s a little scar across his right eyebrow, a mark above his left that looks like it might have been an old piercing, and his eyelashes are long and dark, framing his eyes perfectly. There’s an astonishing variation of browns in his irises and Church doesn’t know how he could have ever found brown boring, when it’s really shades of gold and earth and coffee and chocolate. He could get lost forever in the details of Tucker’s face.
Tucker looks incredible underneath him, just like Church imagined he would, but better because it’s more real, unadulterated, undeniably Tucker. Church has never wanted to kiss this infuriating, irresistible man more than he does right now. That’s a stupid thing to want, but it’s so similar to (so, so much better than) all his unacknowledged fantasies, all of his dreams. His imaginary world, where he’s above (on top of) Tucker, kind of like this (exactly like this), where he kisses Tucker’s exasperating mouth, slowly, just a brush at first, just breathing into his space, barely skimming his sarcastic lips. Soft, featherlight touches, back and forth, until Tucker is panting and quivering beneath him.
In his dreams (in his delusions), Church nips Tucker gently, little bites with teeth and flicks of his tongue, teasing Tucker until neither of them can put words together anymore, until Tucker is straining up to kiss Church back like his life depends on it, desperate for more. Until Church is just as desperate, lost in the sensations of Tucker’s lips against his, unable to remember all the reasons why kissing Tucker is a bad idea.
Tormenting Tucker is nice, but Church has been dying to properly kiss him for years, to collide their mouths together until neither of them can taste anything but each other, breathe anything but each other, until they’re both so wrapped up in each other they forget the need for air. It hurts somewhere in Church’s chest, and maybe it’s his lungs, but it’s a physical pain, like he’ll die without this, if he doesn’t kiss Tucker. Really kiss Tucker. It’s idiotic and gives too much away, but it hurts too much not to, so Church stops dallying and melds their lips together.
Tucker tastes hot and sweet and kissing him feels like a detonation, like an inevitable explosion that will destroy them, igniting something inside of Church, sending off sparks, lighting fires, setting him alight. Every stroke of his tongue against Tucker’s adds fuel to the fire burning in his gut, heat gathering in his belly and spreading until his whole body is flush with Tucker’s, pressed against him, searing his skin. It must be Church that has a fever, because he’s flush with it, and his chest still hurts, except now that hurt is unbearably hot and terrifying.
With a gasp, Church tears his mouth from Tucker’s. He can feel the blood rushing, pounding through his body, can see from the pulse in Tucker’s throat that he’s experiencing the same thing, and fuck, that’s so fucking hot. He trails his mouth down Tucker’s neck, feeling the pounding of Tucker’s heart through his skin, every shiver as Church finds a sensitive spot, the way his whole body trembles when Church drags his teeth across those same spots. He kisses his way across Tucker’s collarbone, leaving Tucker gasping and squirming beneath him. Tucker strains upwards to catch Church’s lips again, but Church still has Tucker’s hands in his, Tucker’s arms pinned above his head, and Church won’t let Tucker reach him. He wants to hear all of Tucker’s noises, every moan, every whimper, every sharp intake of breath, every sigh of pleasure, and he can’t do that if Tucker’s got his mouth on Church, hiding each sound in a desperate kiss. Instead of letting Tucker kiss him back, Church does his best to suck a mark onto Tucker’s dark skin, and the deep groan he wrings from Tucker is worth everything.
Church licks his way down Tucker’s chest, kissing every scar, biting the places that make Tucker gasp and cry out. Tucker’s nipples are dark and puckered, and Church knows they’re sensitive, Tucker whines about it every chance he gets, like he lives to drive Church crazy. Church has been dying to get revenge for that, for all the fantasies Tucker has forged in Church’s head. It’s Church’s chance to drive Tucker crazy, so he does, and it’s amazing. A lick to one of Tucker’s nipples pulls a gasp from deep in his throat and when Church nips the other he gets a series of whimpers. A soft bite makes Tucker moan, a harder one makes him sob, and every noise, every sound, every cry is the best thing Church has ever heard. Tucker’s whole body strains up against Church, and he can feel how hard Tucker is, Tucker’s dick leaking precome against Church’s hipbone as he thrusts upwards, desperate for some sort of friction, and Church has the fleeting thought that Tucker might actually be able to come from just this. Leaving one hand where it is, Church uses the other to pinch and tease one of Tucker’s nipples, sucking hard on the other, and he can feel Tucker break beneath him. He’s babbling, a string of words coming out of his mouth that make no sense, a string of fucks, and pleases, and don’t stops, and Church’s name, over and over, as if Church had any intention of stopping this, ever. The feel of Tucker shaking, trembling and desperate underneath him is intoxicating, and Church doesn’t let go of Tucker’s nipples until his babble becomes nothing but a stream of desperate cries, endless whimpers, until Tucker is nearly sobbing in sensitivity and how badly he needs to come.
Tucker, needy and desperate, is the stuff of Church’s teenage dreams (and maybe more recent dreams, but he’ll never admit it), and he wants to see Tucker come, wants them to come together, so he kisses his way down Tucker’s abs, sucks another mark onto the dark skin of Tucker’s hip, nips at all the sensitive places he finds until Tucker is boneless and quivering and helpless in Church's bed. Tucker has never made anything easy for Church, so Church doesn’t make this easy for him, breathing onto his cock, teasing him with little licks, short and sweet and not nearly enough, until Tucker is pleading for more.
Only then does Church take Tucker’s dick into his mouth, sucking him down all at once with a deep swallow as Tucker arches off the bed with a cry. Church sucks him off relentlessly, unmercifully, the throb of Tucker’s dick perfect against Church’s tongue, the taste of precome salty in his mouth. He keeps licking and sucking, unwaveringly, eyes locked onto Tucker’s face, drinking in every expression Tucker makes. He finds the places that really drive Tucker crazy, that make him defenseless, that make him vulnerable, until Tucker’s almost there, until he’s so close, until he’s right on the edge.
Church doesn’t let him come.
He stops, pulls his mouth off Tucker’s cock, leaves Tucker begging again, and it sounds like music. Church lubes up his own dick, slides it into Tucker with no resistance, nothing between them, skin against skin. It’s amazing, incredible, superlative, better than every word Church can think of to describe it. Tucker is warm and tight around his dick, and they groan together when Church brushes against his prostate. He stretches out above Tucker again, and it’s perfect that he’s taller than Tucker, because he can bury himself deep inside of Tucker and still brush their chests together, still brush his lips against Tucker’s, still watch every expression flying across Tucker’s face.
Church stays still for as long as he can, wants to memorize the sight of Tucker underneath him, his dick in Tucker’s perfect ass, but it’s too good, too much, so he starts to move, sliding in and out of Tucker, slowly at first, and then faster as they both grow desperate again. Church is powerless against Tucker, against the feel of Tucker shaking and tightening around him, against his pleas for more, more, for harder, faster, and Church gives Tucker everything he has, sliding in and out, brushing Tucker’s prostate each time, over and over, until Tucker is keening beneath him, crying and begging to come. He’s close, but not close enough, so Church keeps fucking him, driving in smooth and deep, pounding him hard, until Tucker can’t speak. Until Tucker’s eyes are squeezed shut, his ridiculously long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Until his face is screwed up in pleasure, until he’s gasping for breath, until every inch of Tucker’s skin is pressed against his and they’re breathing in tandem, sucking in air in desperate gulps, and Church can’t tell the difference between where he ends and Tucker begins.
They’re so close, they’re right there, on the edge, and Church thrusts deep into Tucker as Tucker comes undone around him, shaking and shuddering, coming all over his own chest, and Church can feel each pulse of Tucker’s climax in his own dick, still deep inside of Tucker. He can feel Tucker clench around him, and Church’s dick is throbbing as Tucker’s orgasm reverberates through both of them, as Tucker falls apart underneath him, and he’s close, god, he’s so close -
“Church? Church! Hey, Earth to Church!”
Church’s brain screeches to a halt.
Fuck.
How long has he been staring off into space (staring into Tucker’s face)?
Church still has Tucker’s arms pinned over his head, and Tucker’s big brown eyes staring up at him, like Church has lost his mind (maybe he has), and he needs a minute, just a minute, to get himself under control, so he closes his eyes and lets his forehead rest against Tucker’s for a second, just one second.
He can’t kiss Tucker. He should know better than to even think about kissing Tucker. Tucker isn’t into men, as far as Church can tell, and he’s spent enough time with Tucker that he should be able to tell. The only thing, the only thing that will happen, if he kisses Tucker, is that his insufferable teammate, his illogical crush, his too-clever best friend, will find out that Church doesn’t hate him. That the way Church feels about him is so far from hate that he’s approaching it from the other direction.
There’s no scenario in which that ends well.
—-
Church opens his eyes to Tucker’s beautiful face, a question in Tucker’s eyes that Church can’t answer. He’s still gorgeous, spread out under Church, quieter, calmer, his body finally relaxing although his dick’s just as hard as ever. Church’s own need is a secondary thing, buried under the wonder of having Tucker here, just like this.
“Keep your hands there,” he tells Tucker, and surprisingly Tucker does. “I’ll take care of you, ok?” Tucker swallows and nods, and Church thinks that maybe, maybe, this might be ok. That he might be able to get through this without damaging something (himself, Tucker) irreversibly.
There’s a list Church is keeping in his head of the things he can and cannot do to Tucker. Kissing is not on the list - having seen an alien, it’s hard to imagine kissing is a required part of their weird mating rituals - and even touching his lips to Tucker’s skin is too revealing. He wants to make this good for Tucker though, wants to drown out any doubts or hesitations, wants to make Tucker forget this is something he has to do, and make it something Tucker wants to do, even if he’ll never want to do it with Church again.
Fortunately, touching is still on the list of things he can do, and since he’s seen firsthand the abuse Tucker has put his own dick through over the last few days, Church decides to start there. Who doesn’t like a handjob, right? He slicks both his hands up with lube, and it’s a mess he’ll have to deal with later, but Tucker’s dick has been rubbed almost raw and the relieved sigh Tucker makes as soon as Church’s hands are on him is entirely worth it.
He starts slow, keeping it wet and gentle, massaging Tucker’s dick, teasing his slit, giving him enough pressure to take the edge off, but nowhere near enough for him to come, even if he could. Tucker stays still, exactly where Church put him, even if he isn’t quiet, and it turns out Tucker following his orders in bed is going to be a new feature in Church’s dreams.
Tucker’s dick is gorgeous - even though he knows he shouldn’t, Church still wants it in his mouth. It’s perfectly proportioned - god, seriously, Church needs to stop thinking about blowing him, there’s lube everywhere, it would taste awful if he did it now - and rock hard, Tucker’s skin dark and smooth and tight, and he sighs as Church gets two hands on him. Since he can’t use his mouth, Church uses every trick he knows with his hands, twisting gently as he moves them up and down, squeezing a little at the top, applying firm pressure with one hand while rubbing softly with the other, alternating between soft slow strokes and firm hard ones, establishing a solid and steady rhythm but backing off when it gets to be too much for Tucker, teasing his balls and cupping them gently, finding each place that drives Tucker wild and keeping his eyes on Tucker’s face through it all.
Church shifts until he’s kneeling between Tucker’s legs, and Tucker’s arms are still stretched above his head, just where Church told him to keep them, and it’s still one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. Twisting his wrist, Church drags his hand up and around the head of Tucker’s cock in the way he’s learned makes Tucker hum with satisfaction. With his other hand, Church lightly touches Tucker’s perineum, rubbing gently, stroking with his fingertips together, pressing against it. Most of all, making sure there’s plenty of lube, trying to figure out exactly how much Tucker is going to freak out over having something in his ass.
Not at all, it turns out, as Church adds more lube and slowly works a finger into Tucker, and he sincerely hopes it’s because Tucker is actually enjoying this and not because of the alien sex shit messing with Tucker’s body. He keeps up a steady rhythm, stroking Tucker’s dick in one hand, and begins gently sliding his finger in and out of Tucker in time with each stroke, moving his finger a little deeper each time, until he finally gets deep enough to rub against Tucker’s prostate.
Tucker shudders, letting out a cry and nearly throwing himself off the bed, only his hands above his head and Church’s hand on his cock keeping him anchored to the bed, and Church’s heart leaps into his throat. If this is something Tucker doesn’t like, if he doesn’t enjoy this -
“Church,” Tucker gasps, still keeping his arms above his head but craning his neck to look down towards where Church is slowly rubbing circles inside him, “holy fucking Christ, Church, do that again. Keep doing that!”
His whole body shivers and Church huffs out a laugh.
“Seriously, man, do that forever. I will stay right here if you just. Keep. Doing. That.” Tucker lets his head fall back with an exhale and a groan.
It turns out that when Church is the cause of them, he loves Tucker’s sex noises even more. For now, he’s content to follow Tucker’s orders, circling his prostate, stroking his dick, working him up from a sigh here, a hum there, to a steady purr that shifts into a pattern of moans that Church can’t get enough of. He can see the tension in Tucker ramping back up, see him struggling to stay still, the aborted movements as he tries to get more, each twitch and tremor that he can’t hold in.
Easing a second finger into Tucker gets Church an obscene moan, almost pornographic, and Church is surprised how well Tucker is taking to this, although in retrospect it’s absurd to think there’s any sex act that Tucker wouldn’t be into. He looks wanton and desperate, taking two fingers easily and straining for more, so Church slowly adds a third. He does his best to stretch Tucker out gently, adding more lube - probably too much lube, honestly, it’s not exactly easy to get in this godforsaken canyon, but he wants this to be so good for Tucker - as he slides his fingers in and out, getting Tucker used to the feel of it.
This would be so much easier if he could have gotten Tucker off first, gotten him worked up and driven him crazy, made him come, and then made him relax. He’s heard Tucker jerking off enough to know that his refractory period is sinfully short, and it would be so easy to tease him, to get him turned on again. To make him desperate for Church’s dick, just like he is now, but with the worst of the edge taken off, just Tucker, open and abandoned and begging for it.
Tucker is clearly primed to orgasm, has been on edge for hours, and with one hand on his dick and the other massaging his prostate, Church is sure Tucker’s about to come. He can feel Tucker clenching and shaking around him, can feel the blood throbbing in Tucker’s cock, can recognize it in the tension in his body, the expression on his face, the cadence of his moans, but it never happens. The moans turn into whines, which turn into whimpers, which turn into sobs, and Church wants to kiss him, wants to soothe him, wants to brush back Tucker’s hair and whisper into his ear until everything gets better, but he can’t. He can’t, because kissing isn’t on the list, because this isn’t like that, because Tucker wouldn’t want him to, because Tucker doesn’t want him, just wants to get this alien mojo off of himself, and to get off.
“Please Church,” Tucker begs him, and it’s twisted that he still finds Tucker just as stunning as ever, that he wants to make Tucker beg again, make him plead for Church to let him come. There’s something wrong with Church, that he’s relieved that Tucker can’t come like this, that Church will have to fuck him, that sticking his dick in Tucker is a necessity, that there’s a reason, an excuse, for Church to have this, this thing he’s been avoiding thinking about since they met.
Grabbing a towel, Church wipes the lube off his hands so he can open a condom. He’s been hard since the shower, it’s not like he really needs to wait to put it on, he may as well do it now. Who was he even trying to fool, waiting?
“Church,” Tucker groans, “please. Fuck me. Please, please fuck me.”
He sounds so desperate, so needy, like he’s dying for it, and Church has to pinch himself hard, remind himself that Tucker is dying for it, literally.
“Please, Church,” Tucker says again, and Church is sick, so sick for loving this as much as he does, for savoring each plea that drops from Tucker’s mouth. “Fuck me, please, I need it.”
Each word drives Church crazy, because Tucker doesn’t need to beg, doesn't even need to ask. As if there was some universe where this didn’t happen. As if Church could ever have resisted him, when Tucker is gorgeous and smart and perfect in all the ways Church isn’t. As if there was some other reality where Church doesn’t long for this, where he doesn’t burn for Tucker, where he doesn’t crave the sight of Tucker’s skin, the timbre of his voice, the rumble of his laughter. Like there could possibly be another world where Tucker’s alien quest turns out differently, where Church doesn’t (can’t) save his best friend, where they don’t come together, where they end up alone, apart, separated.
Church pinches himself again, rolling on the condom and making sure Tucker is ready for him (lube, always more lube), pinching himself one more time, reminding himself that he can’t come now, not when they’ve made it this far, not when he’s so close to having this, when it’s so good. It’s so, so good, and it’s important that this is good for Tucker too, because god knows it’s perfect for Church.
—-
Hearing Tucker moan his name in bed is a kink Church didn’t realize he had. Every gasp, every cry that he wrings out of Tucker is like a drug, and Church is the worst kind of addict, because he would do anything, absolutely anything, for more.
“Fuck, Church, that’s good,” Tucker pants, as Church slides into him, and it is, it’s good, it’s better than good, better than Church ever dreamed. Even with the condom between them, Tucker feels amazing.
“Fuck, man, that’s your dick.” Tucker looks wide-eyed and surprised, but not scared, not afraid, and Church can’t decide where to look, at Tucker’s face, at the bewitching sight of his own dick sliding into Tucker, at the ceiling (which may be necessary, because he is not going to come this quickly, goddamnit), at the length of Tucker’s body beneath him, at Tucker’s arms still above his head.
“Ohhh fuck,” Tucker moans as Church’s dick brushes his prostate, “fuck, Church, you feel so good, holy shit.”
Church lets himself sink deeper into Tucker, and it’s amazing, Tucker is amazing, everything is amazing. Tucker is tight and hot around him, and every twitch, every shake goes straight to Church’s dick, and he can’t stop the gasp that leaves him when he finally slides all the way into Tucker.
“Oh, god,” Tucker pants, and Church can feel each breath. “Fuck, Church. Your dick. Fuuuck. Fuck me. God, you gotta move man, fuck. Oh my god, that’s so much.”
It is, it’s so much, and Church means to start slow, to go gently, but he can’t help it, and before he knows it he’s speeding up, sliding in and out of Tucker, the angle perfect, Tucker groaning at the drag of Church’s dick against his prostate, shaking against Church, demanding more, always more.
“Fuck me, fuck me. Oh my god, Church, harder, that’s amazing. Shit, do that again, oh my god.” Tucker is babbling, and Church is so far gone he can barely make sense of the words, but he gets the message anyway. “Please Church, god, fuuuck.”
Tucker trembles underneath him, gasping at each thrust, whining when Church pulls out, whimpering when he pushes back in, arching his back against the bed, and throughout the whole thing pleading and begging. He’s so good, doing just what Church asked, keeping his arms above his head even as he’s keening and clearly aching for more.
“God, Church, that’s so good,” Tucker moans, and even with his arms against the bed he’s lifting his head up, straining to watch Church, meeting Church’s rhythm perfectly. “Fuck, you’re really fucking me, holy fuck. Please don’t stop.”
Church doesn’t, snapping his hips against Tucker, pounding into him, hard and fast, and Tucker’s words get faster until he’s chanting in rhythm with Church’s thrusts, his words slurring together.
“Fuck. Fuck, Church, ‘s good, fuck. Fuuuck.” Church can’t resist anymore and reaches up to thumb one of Tucker’s nipples and Tucker nearly jolts off the bed again. “Oh, shit. Fuck, Church. Tha’s sens’tive.”
Church’s rhythm stutters for a second as he laughs. “I know, you idiot,” he tells Tucker, his voice fonder than he means it to be. “You complain about it all the time.”
“Keep doin’ it,” Tucker pants, “’s good, keep going.” So Church does, teasing his nipples, pulling at them gently, each touch getting a whimper or a sob out of Tucker, and Church wants to wreck him. He wants to just utterly destroy Tucker, ruin him, until Tucker’s sobbing and crying, until he breaks underneath Church. He wants to shatter Tucker into a billion little pieces, and then put him back together and do it all over again, and again, and again, until they’re both so worn out they sleep for days, curled up in each other, never moving.
“Fuck, Church, I need to come,” Tucker moans, and he does, he really does. Church can’t imagine how uncomfortable, how excruciating, it would be, to be hard for days, unable to get off, and how incredible it would feel to finally come. He wants to watch Tucker come, wants to see every expression that flashes across that irresistible face, wants to be there, be inside him when Tucker finally falls to pieces.
“Touch yourself,” he whispers softly to Tucker, and to his surprise both of Tucker’s hands go straight to his nipples, not his dick, pinching and twisting and tickling. Church will never get over how beautiful this man is, how impossibly stunning, the way he steals Church’s breath from his lungs.
Tucker really is crying beneath him now, tears slipping from the corners of his dark eyes, reduced to gasping sobs and desperate whimpers, aroused beyond words. He’s tight, so tight around Church, and Church can feel the blood throbbing in his own cock, feel how close he is as he plunges into Tucker again and again, closer and closer to the edge.
When Church finally comes, buried deep inside of Tucker, crashing into him and exploding apart, it feels like he’s on top of the world. Not the world, just on top of Tucker, he thinks a little bit hysterically, but really, it’s the same thing.
He rides the orgasm out inside of Tucker, braced on top of him and gasping for breath, every quiver Tucker makes driving him closer to annihilation. He can feel when something inside Tucker snaps, finally lets Tucker go, releases whatever has had a hold on him these past few days, and Tucker reaches both hands down to stroke himself. He’s resplendent beneath Church, the muscles in his arms taut, his chest heaving, his nipples swollen, and, in a burst of reckless insanity, Church leans down and bites one.
Tucker climaxes immediately, clenching down on Church’s oversensitive dick, coming all over Church’s belly, over his own chest, shaking, vibrating with the force of his climax. He shivers as Church licks the nipple he’d bitten, gently, soothingly, until Tucker squirms away from his mouth. He runs his hands up and down Tucker’s body, not really sure what he’s doing, if he’s trying to calm Tucker, or comfort him, reassure him or please him. He’s not really sure if he’s even doing it for Tucker, or for himself, if he just wants to touch Tucker one more time, keep touching him. If he’s reassuring himself that Tucker’s alive, that he’s still here, that they did it.
Church eventually pulls out of Tucker reluctantly, tying off the condom and wrapping it in a tissue before tossing it in the trash. Tucker looks nearly comatose, but the rise and fall of his chest is reassuring. Church is loath to leave him alone, but he does want to clean them up, so he slips quietly out of the room, checking the hallway before shuffling to the bathroom to grab some clean towels.
When he comes back, Tucker’s asleep on his bed. Using a warm, wet towel, he cleans Tucker off gently, careful of his sensitive places but thoroughly enough that there’s no sign of anything sticky or slippery left. The marks he put on Tucker are still there though, and he’s sure Tucker will be sore in the morning, if not for longer. He brought some cold towels too, in case Tucker is still feverish, but, for once, he’s disinclined to wake Tucker up with the shock of cold water. Church lays the back of his hand against Tucker’s forehead, and it’s a relief that his temperature feels back to normal. He gets a reprieve from the cold water for now.
Balling up the used towels together, Church grabs a loose shirt and some fatigues from his tiny set of drawers. He’s leaving the room, headed for his own cold shower, and then to sleep on the sofa, when Tucker stirs behind him.
“Hey, Church,” Tucker says sleepily, his eyes still closed. “You take my ass-virginity an’ I don’ ev’n get a kiss?”
Church lets his head bang against the door - god, it is so Tucker, to put it that way, but he turns around anyway.
“That’s not a thing, you idiot.”
“I know,” Tucker mumbles, “v’rgin’ty‘s a cons’ruct ‘n all tha’ nons’nse. Wha’ever.” He still doesn’t have his eyes open, and Church feels a pain spike in his chest, as he watches Tucker lie there, breathing slowly, so close to sleep. He looks young, and sweet, and Church could never resist him. Can never resist him. Will never be able to resist him. He leans down and brushes his lips against Tucker’s forehead in a gentle kiss, featherlight and bittersweet.
“Go to sleep,” he murmurs in Tucker’s ear, and he’s halfway across the room again before Tucker speaks.
“Hey, Church?” It’s a question this time, and Church needs to get out of here before he gives something else away, before Tucker asks him for something else that will drive another splinter into Church’s heart.
“Yes, Tucker?”
“Than’s f’r savin’ me.”
Church doesn’t know how to answer that, so he doesn’t. He sneaks out of the room quietly, leaning his back against the door before sliding to the floor, the concrete cool against his skin, burying his face in his knees and wrapping his arms around his legs. He’ll get up in a minute. Clean himself off, put on clean clothes, go to sleep on the sofa. He will, in a minute, but right now, in this second, he lets himself just sit on the cold, empty floor and shake, and shake, and shake.
Fuck. He is so fucked.