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"Well, this feels familiar, doesn't it?" Hawk drawls, hands on the table, his back arched.
With the sound of the lock being pulled behind him, he fights the burst of anticipation right under his skin. Margaret's mildly impatient voice cuts through the air. "What are you talking about?"
"You know." Hawk peeks over his shoulder with a smirk, a quick wiggle of his rear. "You remember, don't you? A long stroll to a desk, the heat of frustration, my beautiful ass on full display, the charming interloper. Don't tell me you haven't fantasized about it."
"You're ridiculous. What my nurses see in you, I'll never know."
Hawk quirks a brow, his lips spreading further, exposing a few more teeth. "You're the one who's about to fuck me. You tell me."
He sees it, then, that moment of hesitating stride, the slight flush stirring on her neck. Not for the first time, he wonders how far down it wanders. Hawkeye catches his bottom lip between his teeth, feeling the answering heat in his own gut. Adrenaline. The collision he's been craving for a hell of a lot longer than he'd own up to.
See, it's one thing to prod at Margaret, to antagonize her like a little boy pulling her pigtails, and it's another to remember those low, throaty moans he'd coaxed out of her months ago in the middle of hell itself. Of course she's never taken his flirting seriously—why would she? In what world would she ever make a go of things with him again? They'd crashed and burned harder and faster than a shotgun wedding due to their complete lack of romantic compatibility. There's not a cell in his body that wants her for keeps, and there's not a single piece of her that could tolerate him.
And that's why that night was a one-time thing. Until it wasn't.
Margaret finally huffs and rolls her eyes as she goes for her locker. "Don't try to get cute with me, Pierce."
"Difficult ask, when that's my normal state of b—"
"We're burning off steam," she says, speaking over him. "That's all it is."
Hawk chews on the inside of his cheek, listening to her root around in her belongings, his chest going tight for a long moment. "I mean, yeah, sure, of course."
She doesn't seem willing to let it lie. "I'm fully aware of your current batting average, trust me. If you make a fourth ring around the camp, with the amount you've been drooling over my nurses, Father Mulcahy won't have to water his garden for a month."
His brows spring upward. As entertaining as it is to bat around comments like that with, say, Beej, hearing it come out of her mouth douses him with vinegar. "Ohh, and I'm sure you're just giving me a pity fuck out of the goodness of your heart. How many people are knocking down your door?"
Margaret tips her head back as she all but slams her locker shut. "Out. Get out."
"Hey." Hawk lifts his hands in the air, facing her like she's a firing squad. "Okay, too far, I get it. Sorry. I didn't..." All at once, the reality of his snapping sets in. Yeah, sure, he's been going a bit...unfulfilled lately. But he's not the person who had his ex-husband cheat on him for no reason at all. He's not the person who got strung along by possibly the most obnoxious man on the face of the planet for months and months even though he deserved so much fucking more.
Hawk breathes out all his air at once, then cycles through some fresh humid oxygen. "I'm sorry. Really. Maybe I'm on edge, but that doesn't mean I've gotta take it out on the only person who'll have me, huh?"
Margaret has her arms crossed, it looks like, her shoulders so tight and tense that he instinctively feels his fingers start to tingle. But when she turns to face him, she's holding what is frankly an overwhelming phallic object, and Hawk's eyebrows make their second leap of the night, this time practically into his hairline. "Then I suppose you can let me take my frustration out on you in a more productive way, hmm?"
"That's..." He doesn't realize he's gawking until he's almost drooling. Hawk blinks rapidly just to make sure he's seeing the thing right, but yeah, no, the longer he stares, the more confident he is in the toy being real. Long. Ridged. Thick. "Jesus, Margaret, how many times have you used that?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" But her tone's less dead now, warmed ever so faintly at the edges. They're getting back on track—and, by the smoldering fire in her gaze, fast. Margaret moves forward with that same commanding energy she always has at reveille, chin up, hips swaying just so. "Forgive me if I don't give you any additional material for your late-night fantasies."
"Au contraire, I think you're about to give me enough for a fucking month," Hawk drawls.
She tries to hide it, but the edges of her lips twitch, almost a smile, yet so far away. "You're going to want to turn around for this, I imagine."
His eyes widen. "What, I don't get to lay down, anything?"
"You're not making a mess on my cot, Pierce." Her alto voice drops just a touch further, breathier. "I already know you wouldn't clean it up. Turn."
He's not sure he's ever followed an order from her, but he spins on his heel like he's skating on a frozen lake back home.
"Besides." Margaret gently touches his back, lovely pinpoints of warmth right against his bathrobe, and nudges him until he slams his hands down on the table again. "You're the one who started this all those months ago in the CO's office, weren't you?"
The rush of overwhelming heat douses him like lava. He'd said a lot of things to her. Done a lot. Hoped for a hell of a lot more. He licks his suddenly very dry lips. "When I did all that, I-I was just kidding."
"Were you, now?"
"No," he replies just as quickly.
"Mm-hmm." Margaret thumbs slowly up his spine, vertebra after vertebra, sending goosebumps exploding over his entire body. They're followed by the warmth of arousal—a shot, a chaser—until it all starts to gather right in his slacks, becoming tighter by the second. "Pierce?" she asks one more time, heady, erotic.
He hadn't realized he had started to pant. Hawk gulps. "Yeah, yeah?"
"Take off your clothes."
"Uh-huh." All at once, he throws himself into the task, managing the robe with relative ease and letting it pool around his ankles. But one of his arms gets stuck in its shirtsleeve, which is ridiculous—he's learned how to take a bra off one-handed without so much as a fumble, and he can't even get his own top off right now? "God, what the fuck do they..."
"Struggling?" Margaret teases. She's already gathered his bathrobe up, tossed it gently over the back of the nearest chair.
"I think they starched this with their whole supply." Finally he gets it off, then goes for his belt. It rattles enough to humiliate him before he finally gets it open, gets his zipper down, and shoves his pants and boxers down all at once. It's only then that he realizes he'd forgotten his boots.
Calling it a loss, Hawk slaps his hands back down and sticks his ass out as far as he can go. "Okay, so—"
"Not winning any awards for speed, but there's something to be said for enthusiasm, isn't there?" Margaret draws just the edge of one nail over his waist, and when Hawkeye starts to bob away, she catches him on the opposite hip with her palm. "Ticklish?
"I'm not answering that," he murmurs.
She actually laughs, low and sweet, and as it always does when he makes her giggle, he feels something bloom in his chest. She's a hard woman to get to loosen up. She's been doing it more and more these days now that Trap's not here to antagonize her, now that Frank's off swanning around and enjoying a promotion he never fucking earned.
But there's something special about him being the one to do it. It almost makes him wish things had gone...differently. That maybe the two of them could've...
There's a familiar click behind him. They both know it well. The whole camp does. "What'd Potter say when you requisitioned the surgical lubricant?" Hawk asks.
"That's above your pay grade." In the quiet of Margaret's tent, the sound of her dispensing the product seems louder than a grenade.
"You didn't ask, did you?"
"I don't have to answer that."
Hawk grins, wide and mischievous. "Look at you. Major Margaret Houlihan, stealing from supply. I never thought I'd see the day."
Margaret tuts. "I'm about to fuck you senseless, and you still can't help but run your mouth."
"No, seriously, Margaret, I'm fascinated. Don't tell me this is all my doing." Hawkeye peeks over his shoulder, but he's so tight from the long shifts in OR that he can turn barely enough to see a hint of her hair. "Did me and Beej finally corrupt you the way we've been trying? We could always use a third, you know."
He catches the jerk of her head upward.
The words circle back to him. Instantly, he verbally pivots. "It's easier to get away with a petty prank or two if you've got three people, ah, executing it, y'know."
Margaret makes a quiet, contemplative hum. Whatever's going on in her head, it's a hell of a lot more interesting than what's actually happening in Hawk's life. Why does she think he's here, again? There's only so much pining a guy can go through before he goes out of his goddamn mind, and if he was getting anything more than a long stare and bumping shoulders from BJ, he certainly wouldn't need Margaret's cock in his ass.
Not need. Now that he's seen it, maybe still want. And once he sees it on her...well.
God, he really wishes she'd put him on his back for this. Fucking shit.
The silence stretches out long enough that when a digit touches his hole, Hawk tries to jolt away, but he's already trapped against the table. The lube's warm and Margaret's touch is practiced in a way that sends his mind racing away. When he closes his eyes, he can remember her halo of golden hair fanned across the dirt, the way she arched beneath his touch, how quietly but firmly she commanded his movements. "Right there. A little slower. Yes, good, now harder, fuck, Pierce..." She's a woman who knows what she likes. Who's probably more used to this as a solo act than she'd like to be.
"How much do you usually need?" Margaret asks, the words tinged with a hint of uncertainty.
Despite himself, he grins, tipping his head back. "What exactly are you suggesting?"
Her tone's a little tight as she goes on. "No matter what was said to get us here, I'm not under the slightest impression that this is your first time being... Receiving," she seems to settle on.
It's incredibly interesting, how she'll slide between pointing out that she's going to fuck him senseless, then appear to need a mental step back from the proceedings. God, he wants to bury right behind her eyes, lay a hand on her brain, be sucked into her neural pathways. She's a fascinating puzzle in one of the most gorgeous bodies he's ever seen.
"Between you and me, Margaret, I'm not entirely convinced this is your first time giving," he drawls.
The dildo appears on the table right by his hand, and he eyes it for a long moment, practically drooling, while Margaret grabs his ass with her other hand and opens him up a little further for her perusal. "I'm not at liberty to discuss my previous affairs with you."
Practically confirmation, really. What does a woman need with a toy like this and the harness he's betting is going to come into play if she wasn't flirting with deviance?
"Maybe we keep ourselves in the present?" Margaret asks, tinged with a million unspoken questions.
I won't squeal if you won't, he wants to say, but he's toed enough lines with her already tonight, and Hawk's not entirely confident that if he opens up the door to further emotional intimacy that she won't kick him out and bar him from entering forever. There's a tenderness in her that's always existed, but the first buds are finally coaxing further into bloom, and the last thing he wants is to rip the petals off the stem before they really flourish.
Instead, he peeks over his shoulder with a smirk and gives a bastardized, limp salute that has her shaking her head with mirth in her eyes.
And then she eases inside.
Hawk hums, draping more inelegantly over the hard surface under him. "Don't give me as much as you think I need," he finally advises. One finger doesn't usually cause him any trouble, but it's been so fucking long since he's been thoroughly ruined that just the feel of her gently rotating her digit in a small circle is enough to shower him in tingles. "If you're gonna use a monster like this on me, I wanna fucking feel it."
"Hedonist." But it's fond. She can't hide that from him.
He preens in response.
One of Hawkeye's favorite things is to sync himself up to the energy that his partner for the evening is giving him, to mesh with them so intimately that he feels as though there's no separation between them. If they're nervous and careful, he softens himself, turning into the seductive coaxer with a million questions in his eyes. If they're frantic, he loosens every muscle in his body as best as he can, making himself more than easy to throw around, pin down, and devour.
With Margaret, there's a silent intensity that's building with each passing second. She opens him meticulously, taking care with the curve of her nails in a way that he can't help but admire, though his brain cells are one by one dropping into a faint. And though she's not saying a word, his breath hitches under the heat of her gaze, viscerally drawn all over his skin, until the slow press of a second finger inside of him begins pulling almost inaudible moans from his lips.
It's like she's grabbed a switch, flipped it, and made sure that every part of his body is primed and ready to experience as much sensation as humanly possible. Everything is amplified.
And she's barely laid a fucking hand on him.
"You're tight," she observes, but her voice is...different. Huskier.
God, he's been hard for what feels like a decade, but that roughness makes a fresh, hot bead of arousal swell on the tip of his cock. "You like it?" he teases.
A pause. "Shut up." And then the third digit comes, almost tentatively so.
At that point, Hawkeye gives up on any concept of politeness. Hedonist? Yeah, fine, so he is. So what? What's wrong with drinking up sensation to the last drop in the cup? Why shouldn't he drop down to his elbows and feel the long stretch through his tired back and groan out his relief when Margaret slips just that bit deeper inside him? He's not here to be elegant or polite or collected or controlled. He's been dragged here to bleed a little bit of his own life into every patient, and if he needs the excuse to open himself up and be filled by whoever will have him just to regain his strength, what's it matter?
Time fuzzes over a bit. It's just him, just Margaret, just this little slice of relief in the middle of a war zone.
"Do you think you're ready?" Margaret prompts gently.
It's the softest he's heard her speak tonight. Hawkeye forces his swimming brain to reoccupy space and time, but it fights him valiantly. "Yeah, c'mon, let's try it."
"Are you sure?"
"Have me. I want you to have me."
Silence.
Her fingers withdraw and Hawk groans, resting his forehead on his joined fists. "C'mon, c'mon," he whispers senselessly, almost antsy in his skin. He barely realizes he's tapping his boot while he waits until the clink of buckles catches his attention and the toy disappears from his peripheral vision.
A click. A squeeze. More lube. The quiet sound of skin against a fair substitute, not quite as alive as a hand on a flesh-and-blood cock but still erotic enough to make him press back toward her.
"Easy." Margaret chuckles. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah. Just need..." Hawk tries to weigh the million aches inside his chest, but they all amplify into a shriek from a very deep void. "...just need."
"Hmm."
The sudden pressure against his hole is blunt and cold, and his breath catches in his throat.
"Easy," she whispers one more time before she enters him.
It's a long, slow process, and just as he opens his mouth to demand that she give him more, the words get choked into fragile sound as he feels the first real stretch from her cock. Okay, yeah, no, on second thought... But Margaret moves with confidence and care, her other hand resting on his hip and tightening in a way that strikes him almost as possessive.
Apparently he's thinking crazy. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, but it's too late. The yearning's there. To be taken, to be kept.
Hawkeye can explain to his heart day in and day out that this will never work, but every time she gets a fucking hand on him, he always loses the reasons why.
"That's it." She pets slowly up and down his back as though she can't stop, these long strokes that soothe the fact that she's still working herself inside of him little by little. "Almost there."
He lets out a high whine in the back of his throat, one that he knows he should be humiliated by, but it makes her other fingers bruise into his hip, so he really can't bother to give a shit. "Please..."
"That's it," she repeats. "Good."
He grins like a schoolboy, rolls his forehead against his fists.
Her thrusts are shallow to begin with, just tiny rocks that force him to focus on the shape of her cock inside of him. Really, he's always thought there's nothing like a hot dick that can fill him up the way he begs for every time, but he's starting to see the appeal of something ridged and textured like this as well. It keeps him guessing, rubbing his walls in just the right way.
"More?" he finally breathes.
"Yes," she murmurs back, an affirmation and a praise all in one.
The lush haze returns the moment she grazes over his prostate. As his nerve endings sing and drug him all at the same time, Hawkeye dribbles another rush of precum.
Deeper, deeper, more, more, and when she begins to pick up speed, a broken sound rushes out of him. Her hips slow again, and he pounds the table. "D-Don't stop, c'mon."
"You..." There's a pregnant pause, and Hawk white-knuckles his fists and tries not to whimper. "You really enjoy taking cock, don't you?"
"Oh, fuck..." The interplay between Margaret's hesitation and the filthy words—another brief moment of uncertainty—strikes another match that plumes into a bonfire. He grabs the base of his hardness and hums out a whine. "God, I fucking need it, Margaret."
"Do you?" Her fingers span almost delicately around his waist on the right side, a grounding presence.
"I do, I need it, I-I... God, it feels good. D'you know what you're doing to me?" All at once, the dam's fallen, and he babbles without screening a single word, letting them form like the sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Love your cock, it's fucking huge, I-I need you to use me, okay? Need—"
In one fluid movement, she slips out of him, then thrusts hard.
"Yes, fuck!"
She slaps a hand over his mouth and he leans into it, practically shouting against her palm.
"You want the whole camp to hear you?" Margaret asks as she resumes her pace, starting to pant.
Hawkeye nods furiously. Of course he fucking does. Why the hell should that be a problem? In what universe wouldn't Margaret want the whole camp to know that Hawk moans like a little bitch for her cock? That she fucks him better than all the MPs in the whole goddamn country?
Very possible that there's something about this insistent prostate stimulation that's just about turned his brain into mush, but it's fine, he can sieve it through a cheesecloth later, if that's what it takes, as long as she doesn't stop.
Hawk drags his nails down the table so he can grab the edge of it, and as muffled as his cries of ecstasy are, the way the table thuds as she fucks him into it probably isn't doing much to keep this a dirty little secret. He's just too caught up in her—the smell of her arousal, the taste of her skin, the way she groans out a low, "Jesus Christ, Pierce," as he starts to rock his hips back to meet her halfway.
He tries to tell her that he's close to the edge of overwhelm, but the mumbling against her hand is more a pleading, desperate kind of senselessness.
"So good," Margaret grits out in response, and he comes instantly.
As Hawk goes completely boneless against the table, he's vaguely aware of Margaret fucking him through the orgasm, of how she pulls out with a few shocked curses of her own, but all he can really think is a dizzied, must've been more pent up than I thought. It's been ages since he came untouched, since he—
Margaret splutters for a moment. "Y-You've ruined my table."
He drowsily lifts his head. Yeah. Yeah, looks like it.
"Lemme make it up to you." Hawk sinks down to his knees, rotates around like a drunkard with barely any sense of balance, and reaches out, but she's already opened the buckles of her harness and stepped out of it. She still has her shirt on, which is a shame, but the thatch of dark curls between her legs glistens, and Hawkeye closes his eyes as he grabs her by the hips and pulls her in.
"Oh!" Margaret sinks fingers into his hair for stability, and as he parts her pussy lips with one hand, he takes a long and greedy slurp. Her tangy musk coats his tongue, enough to restart the feedback loop of his own arousal. What he wouldn't give to get hard again. What he wouldn't pay to fuck her when she's just like this.
"God, yes, right there, Pierce," she breathes, starting to rock her clit over his tongue. "Right there, right there..."
He moans. Quick as his brain is shutting off, he'll still happily turn off all the other activity in his body so he can focus the last tiny bit of energy on nothing but his mouth. He follows her guidance, chases her pleasure.
In the end, it takes almost no time at all. Margaret comes hard, all quivering thighs and rolling moans, and Hawk tips his head so he can lap up every drop of her slickness that he can find.
The next thing he knows, he's flat on his back, sprawled across her floor like the fucked-out mess he is. Margaret nudges him with her foot and he mumbles, batting weakly at her leg.
"You can't just sleep there."
Hawk opens his eyes and smirks up at her. God. She's gorgeous. He's not gonna complain about what the hell she just did to him, but there's a certain part of himself that's overly grateful to get to look at her now. She's all pink cheeks and ruined hair, and her eyes are glowing with an affection she rarely shows anymore. No wonder. She's had her heart broken so many times. Why would she risk it for anybody? Especially for...
The edges of Hawkeye's eyes crinkle as his grin widens. "You wanna bet?"
"Pierce—"
"You can't fuck a guy that well and expect him to walk back to his tent, Margaret. By all means, I'll give crawling a chance, but if I pass out ass-up in the middle of the camp, you're responsible for my virtue."
She sighs as she sinks down to her knees, but she's not even trying to hide her own smile. "Is this your aim? Flatter me enough and maybe I'll let you sleep in my cot—which you'll probably also ruin?"
"I won't ruin your cot," Hawk murmurs patiently. He grabs a piece of her hair between his fingers, rubbing it, enjoying the soft texture. "Of course, if you let me sleep long enough, I might wake up and help you ruin your own cot, but..."
Though he expects her to, she doesn't pull away. "...what am I going to do with you, Pierce?"
His smile fades slightly. "That's up to you." Always is.
In the end, she lets him lean on her, and they make it inch by inch to her bed. She has every right to unceremoniously dump him in, but with more strength than she seems to have, she tips him in gently. He's content with that. Really. But when she not only covers him with her blanket but smooths it down into place, he goes completely breathless, gazing up at her with uncertainty dueling with guarded hope in his chest.
"I need to get some water so I can clean things up around here. You just..." She pauses. "I'll be back."
Hawkeye fights with all his might to keep his eyes open, but his cheek is on one of her several soft pillows, and they all smell like her incredible perfume, and he can still taste her on his tongue, and the world is fuzzing over at breakneck speeds, and before he knows it, he's out cold, dreaming of nothing but what life might be able to be like if his heart was a little smaller, a little hardier.
He stirs once in complete darkness with silky hair tickling his cheek. And though he knows what he's doing to himself, he wraps his arms around her and drops off once more.