[fic] we can't afford this luxury [so let's steal it]; the pacific, chuckler/leckie
we can't afford this luxury [so let's steal it]; r
the pacific, chuckler/leckie; 384
for-slybrunette; prompt-linen; beta-gigglemonster
Leckie dreams of clean white sheets. He dreams of hot showers and skin scrubbed clean and towel dried, slipping naked between the linens and drifting off to the sound of gunfire.
He always wakes at this point, this time on a rusty tin can floating somewhere in the pacific on their way to yet another island he can't pronounce.
He doesn't remember screaming, but Chuckler's crouched low and crawling into his bunk - a comfort they have not always been allowed - his hands going to Leckie's shoulders and neck, words of concern on his lips.
"Shit, sorry," Leckie manages, and is aware of two things in this moment: the proximity of Chuckler's mouth to his own, and the fact that the door is closed and they're alone.
"Jesus fuck," Chuckler says, releasing his grip, dropping his forehead to Leckie's shoulder. "You scared me right out of my bunk."
Leckie laughs, his hands resting easily along the back of Chuckler's neck, and then gripping hard. He gives a look and Chuckler's voice drops low, almost to a growl.
"Won't have much time," he tells Leckie, but by then Leckie's already covering Chuckler's mouth with his.
It is a momentary luxury, as are the bunk and the scratchy, not-quite-white sheets beneath them. Leckie silently thanks whoever the fuck it was that shut the door when he feels Chuckler's cool fingers ghost over the exposed skin at his waist and dip below his trousers.
"Fuck," he gasps, thrusts his hips when Chuckler wraps his fingers around his cock.
He does his best concentrate enough to get Chuckler's pants undone, knows that there won't be time for proper fucking, just a couple of quick hand jobs and messy kisses. Chuckler's mouth breaks with his when Leckie finds him hard and squeezes roughly.
The two soldiers move in a hurried frenzy, their hushed grunts and whispers growing almost too loud until they both come, bottom lips bitten, spilling hot into each other's hands.
Chuckler is the first to recover, and he stands, tossing Leckie something to clean up with. He does the same, dresses himself and sits back down on the edge of Leckie's bunk. "That'll keep me going for weeks," he tells him, a whisper.
Leckie sits up, pulls Chuckler into a kiss.
"Oh, it better."
-fin
the pacific, chuckler/leckie; 384
for-slybrunette; prompt-linen; beta-gigglemonster
Leckie dreams of clean white sheets. He dreams of hot showers and skin scrubbed clean and towel dried, slipping naked between the linens and drifting off to the sound of gunfire.
He always wakes at this point, this time on a rusty tin can floating somewhere in the pacific on their way to yet another island he can't pronounce.
He doesn't remember screaming, but Chuckler's crouched low and crawling into his bunk - a comfort they have not always been allowed - his hands going to Leckie's shoulders and neck, words of concern on his lips.
"Shit, sorry," Leckie manages, and is aware of two things in this moment: the proximity of Chuckler's mouth to his own, and the fact that the door is closed and they're alone.
"Jesus fuck," Chuckler says, releasing his grip, dropping his forehead to Leckie's shoulder. "You scared me right out of my bunk."
Leckie laughs, his hands resting easily along the back of Chuckler's neck, and then gripping hard. He gives a look and Chuckler's voice drops low, almost to a growl.
"Won't have much time," he tells Leckie, but by then Leckie's already covering Chuckler's mouth with his.
It is a momentary luxury, as are the bunk and the scratchy, not-quite-white sheets beneath them. Leckie silently thanks whoever the fuck it was that shut the door when he feels Chuckler's cool fingers ghost over the exposed skin at his waist and dip below his trousers.
"Fuck," he gasps, thrusts his hips when Chuckler wraps his fingers around his cock.
He does his best concentrate enough to get Chuckler's pants undone, knows that there won't be time for proper fucking, just a couple of quick hand jobs and messy kisses. Chuckler's mouth breaks with his when Leckie finds him hard and squeezes roughly.
The two soldiers move in a hurried frenzy, their hushed grunts and whispers growing almost too loud until they both come, bottom lips bitten, spilling hot into each other's hands.
Chuckler is the first to recover, and he stands, tossing Leckie something to clean up with. He does the same, dresses himself and sits back down on the edge of Leckie's bunk. "That'll keep me going for weeks," he tells him, a whisper.
Leckie sits up, pulls Chuckler into a kiss.
"Oh, it better."
-fin