MULTIMUSE

It’s in one of the last rooms he’s checking that he finds the expectation of relief. Doing exactly what he expects.

The other man’s not paying him any attention. He's focused on his pipe, probably filled with some fancy shit Brandon has no taste for, but he must feel it in the air as he lingers nearby because soon he turns, must see the itch in his eyes too because then he’s shifting, wordlessly opening his shoulders to make room.

He steps in easily.

The first time they had done this it had been messy, all teeth and angles and competition. Now it’s easy, comfortable even, as Pipe’s hand comes to his neck to pull him in, and easy in the way he lets him. They press kisses into each other like hands sliding into a pair of well worn gloves. His fingers trail down sides, tracing from vest to shirt, coming to rest like a whisper just above belt.

Of course they don’t talk about it. He wouldn’t do this if they did.

> " trying to get a little something for the road, eye ? "

His lips curl upwards to match the ones they were pressed against. Maybe I am, they say. It's teasing, but the easy kind.

He takes pipe leaving hand as his cue to press forward. Closer. Harder. Hands dip lower until they trace hips, fingers curl through belt loops, he resists the urge to pull and he lets himself get a real taste instead. He indulges for a moment. Tongue slips past lips and its smoke, like always.

When he pulls back there's a heady weight to his gaze. There's no hiding the hungry predator he is but there’s an answering playfulness too. A challenge. He runs his tongue across his top lip like he's licking it clean. “What- you complaining?”

a problem, perhaps, for survival - if that happened.

" me ? complaining ? c'mon now. " his laugh is rich, even between his lips - effortless, even from beneath the weight of body armor and loaded mags. there's a certain droll to making a game out of these things, it's an easy encounter that becomes more comfortable every time. means of survival, like food and water - something to keep the mind grounded, the hands steady. intimacy could be argued as a civilized world's luxury, marcus couldn't quite agree. what was more basic in motor function than fucking and fighting ? damn near nothing ! anyone who thought otherwise hadn't retained a goddamn thing from firefights and the ongoing surge of adrenaline.

arm stretches, he pushes rifle aside just enough - never completely out of grasp, but enough to toe the line of danger. you carry one long enough and it becomes an extension of you anyway, marcus had learned it like a fifth fucking appendage. wasn't a way in hell he'd be caught without it, even in what one would consider a more compromising position.

" i'm just tryin' to gauge what you're cravin'. " tone is casual despite the crass nature of conversation; marcus is shameless in every regard imaginable. " can't go leavin' a man yearnin' while on the road around these parts. we need your head in the game, y'know. " mouth tips into a crooked, idle kind of grin; tobacco embeds itself into the corners of his very existence, vaguely masks the smell of firefights and sweat. not that he notices either half the time.

He was usually better at keeping this- the itch- under wraps. It wasn’t new to him by any means, but what kind of operative would he be if he couldn’t stop thinking about getting laid long enough to get a job done. Life or death on a battlefield tended to be a good motivator for keeping his thoughts in order, but Tarkov had worn him down. Parts of him, the ones made for a polite society, rules, laws, command, had been slipping away. Piece by piece. A little bit more each day they were trapped in this place.

But it was hard to really care in a permanent state of lawlessness.

What he cared about now was Marcus deciding to indulge him. He leaned into the fingers that slipped under his plate carrier, craving the heat, trying to press their bodies closer together, but finding it a mostly useless endeavor. The gear that kept him alive, helped to keep him on top of the food chain, quickly became nothing but a nuisance when he had only one thing on his mind.

He let his rifle drop to the side, not completely out of reach, never completely out of reach, but enough to free his hands to wander. What did he need from Marcus? His fingers moved from belt loops to belt and danced along the edge there contemplative. Fuck- anything. Him. A little private time. A bed, a couch, a mattress on the floor- whatever. Just a hell of a lot less gear, no immediate threat of attack, and little bit of peace and quiet so he could take a moment to just fuck until he was full. This thing they were doing was a hell of a lot better than going solo but it didn’t scratch the itch all the way. Pretty soon given the opportunity he’d be happy to take Pipe however he wanted; under him, over him, didn’t matter.

But the impracticality of their situation made what he felt he needed impossible. Like a sigh his fingers reluctantly left the belt and came up to rest at the base of Pipe’s neck instead. He couldn’t do things in halves, couldn’t start things he couldn’t finish, so instead of answering he pressed their lips back together and focused on putting his tongue to good use.

He let it linger. What did he want… fucking anything. Marcus said he needed his head in the game. Lips quirked upwards. That sounded good. He pulled back and exhaled, like the decision was something that weighed on him when in reality he was getting excited just thinking about it. He grinned, sly.

“I’ll settle for head.”

Sometimes he couldn’t help but think Russia had its charms. Walking through a rich deciduous forest with a lovely green canopy shading his head and an assortment of trees (of which he recognized mostly spruce and pine) flanking his left and right- it was kind of beautiful. Peaceful, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was armed to the teeth, ears peeled for the sudden sound of gunfire that could signal the end his life, he could almost imagine himself taking a walk somewhere nice back home. He had heard these woods were part of some nature preserve, and he supposed that made sense. They walked alongside what looked like a long overgrown hiking trail. He took a deep breath in to gather all those lovely earthy smells into his nose. Unlike some of the other places they roamed, this one hadn’t been tainted by the smell of rot and blood. Plus, any bodies lying forever beneath these trees were likely because of him. The dense tree line was hell to navigate. Even he knew how easy it was to suddenly look up and realize he was lost in the middle of all the green; but the trees also made an excellent tapestry for an experienced sniper to weave himself into. A prime hunting ground. That's why when scavs and PMCs made the mistake of wandering into the woods the usual peaceful forest sounds were punctuated by a sudden bang! and then the resounding echo. Just one bang of course. He knew what he was doing. And then maybe the additional sound of the bullet blowing through the meat and bone of someone’s head. Kind of a gross crack and squish. Right now though the trees were quiet. The creaks of his gear fell louder than his footsteps. He loved that. A sniffle and then a cough sounded off to his right. “Shut up, Pipe.” He said without turning to look at his traveling companion. There was a lace of irritation both faux and real in his voice. “I’m trying to enjoy nature.”