Open Like a Bank Vault Door (Ethan/Brandt, NC-17)
Title: Open Like a Bank Vault Door
Warning: gun!kink. RACK: consensual gunplay between adults
Word Count: ~1.7K
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit
a/n: for this prompt on ghotocol_kink and originally posted anonymously there.
Summary: When Ethan unbuckled the last strap of his thigh holster and gave in to the impulse, you couldn’t exactly say it was out of the blue.
Ethan watched the gun slide out of Brandt’s mouth and wondered how they’d ended up like this.
He thought it might have started the day he’d laid a rogue Chechen in the dirt with a knee to his solar plexus and a Beretta to his jugular—the moment when he’d turned and found Brandt watching him with something less than his usual analyst’s detachment.
“Leave some for the rest of us,” Brandt had said, eyes shuttering closed again, and walked away.
It had certainly been brewing when he’d offered to help Brandt with the armed combat hours he’d needed for field recertification. By that point they’d embarked on whatever it was they were doing, and so by the third time he’d caught Brandt’s lean body in the same hold he’d used on the burly Chechen, knee to his chest, gun under his jaw, he’d known what it was that flooded Brandt’s eyes.
They hadn’t done anything about it then, though what they had done later under the sharp spray of the gym’s showers had been fiercer and more desperate than usual.
And so when Ethan unbuckled the last strap of his thigh holster and gave in to this impulse, you couldn’t exactly say it was out of the blue.
He and Brandt were alone in one of the bedrooms of the suite they shared. Jane and Benji had already drifted off somewhere, wearing a pair of knowing grins. Ethan was going to have to have a team summit about that sometime in the near future. Right now he was just grateful for the privacy.
It had been a bitch of a mission. Not because it had been physically strenuous or dangerous--that he would’ve welcomed. But because it’d involved a long triple—no, make that quadruple—cross, all hinging on the innocence and sympathy of a girl far too young to mixed up in this kind of thing. Or at least she’d been young enough to make him feel truly old, jaded, worn almost to numbness. Now, in the aftermath, he felt not numb but twitchy, skin crawling with broken promises, lies itching under the skin.
He shook his head to clear it, and noticed Brandt watching him from the bed. Brandt was already down to jeans and shirtsleeves, openly leering as if watching Ethan disarm were the best floor show he’d ever seen.
It suddenly seemed no risk at all to step in between Brandt’s knees and press the muzzle of the gun to his lips.
If Brandt was surprised, he didn’t show it. He didn’t flinch as Ethan increased the pressure, easing the gun between his teeth. He even helped, sucking the barrel in hard enough that it tugged in Ethan’s hands like a live thing. Brandt’s cheeks hollowed around it, his mouth red and wet against the steel.
Post-mission adrenaline sliding sharply, irrevocably, into lust, Ethan resisted the suction, shivering at the tiny, exquisite moment when Brandt relinquished control. When the gun came free, he ran the edge, slick now with saliva, along the line of Brandt’s jaw and under his chin, exerting just enough force to tip his head back in the perfect angle of surrender.
Croatia flashed between them, as it so often did—there, like a ghost, in the intensity of Brandt’s submission, as if even now that he knew the truth he was still bent on discharging a debt that could only be paid with flesh. It was there, too, Ethan was prepared to admit, in his own shameful need to exact payment where and when he could. Surely the world owed him something for the mess it had made of his life? If William Brandt wanted to step up for that, who was he to turn him down?
Most days, Ethan would have shied away from such desires. Today, he rode them like a wave.
“Lie down,” he growled, pushing Brandt backwards onto the bed with the nub of the barrel. “Undress.”
Brandt did, fingers steady on the buttons of his shirt though Ethan could see how quickly his chest rose and fell, the erection beginning to tent out his trousers. Propped on one elbow, the Beretta pressed lightly to the hollow of Brandt’s throat, he watched Brandt unzip himself, free his cock—as compact and perfect as the rest of him—arch his back to push his trousers and briefs past his hips.
The play of muscle across Brandt’s stomach was mesmerizing and the musk and salt scent of his skin went right to Ethan’s dick. On top of the tension of the day, it was almost too much. He closed his eyes for an instant, trying to get a grip.
The next thing he knew Brandt was straddling him; the gun that had been in his hand was digging into his temple.
It was a move he had taught Brandt himself, Ethan realized, though he doubted even he could have performed it with quite that speed. Admiration vying with fury at having been so neatly overturned, he pushed back a little against Brandt’s hold—though whether he was struggling or rutting helplessly he couldn’t have said. The friction felt good, and that was probably all that was important.
“Uh-uh,” Brandt said, settling himself more firmly against Ethan’s crotch in a way that could only have been deliberate. “Your turn now.”
And if Brandt’s submission had lit sparks in Ethan’s blood, his seizing control fanned those sparks into a blaze. He looked a little debauched, sitting astride Ethan like that: naked as a jaybird, cheeks flushed, eyes half-hooded. His hair stood up in disheveled points, his dick was red against his belly, and the gun was dark in his hand.
And Brandt must have exorcised his ghosts exorcised for the time being, because he nudged the gun under the hem of Ethan’s shirt with a confident smirk that said, do this for me, or maybe, you know you’ll only do this for me.
Ethan sucked in a ragged breath around the truth of that. He was a man who could explain just about anything, but he wasn’t sure he could explain why Brandt’s narrow fingers, still smooth from too many years behind a desk, could take him apart in so many ways. His hands shook, as Brandt’s had not, when he pulled his shirt over his head.
The metal was warmer now, with so much handling, but the gun still seemed to harbor a secret coldness as Brandt plotted an intricate course down Ethan’s torso. He bit his lip with concentration, as though he were working through some complex algorithm--small circles around each nipple, touching each pebbled point in turn--or mining some foreign data base--counting the ladder of Ethan's ribs, sliding into the curve his pelvis.
Or maybe something more arcane than that, Ethan thought, watching his stomach muscles start to tremble under Brandt’s attentions. Maybe some ancient ward against our demons, the gun a conductor drawing out the guilt, the regret, the pain of too many lost things. He though he might feel the gritty emotional residue of the day dissolving, as if the gun were a scour for his soul.
“Look at you,” Brandt breathed, and Ethan wondered what he saw—Brandt who had never known him when he was young, before he bore these scars, before his muscles were these sinewy ropes, iron beneath ever softer flesh. He wished he knew.
Brandt’s free hand was busy now with the zip of Ethan’s jeans, tugging until Ethan arched and wiggled and pushed to help. Ethan couldn’t help moaning a little as his aching cock came free and Brandt smiled as he grazed it once lightly with the gun’s barrel. If he had done it even once more, even touched it again, Ethan knew he would’ve come with a shout.
But Brandt didn’t. No--the gun was suddenly between Ethan’s legs, heavy against the inside of his thighs, and then, incredibly nudging behind his balls, and then farther back, tracing along his perineum.
If there was a sound in the room other than their harsh breathing moving in and out of sync, Ethan couldn’t hear it.
A frown of concentration between his eyes, Brandt bent Ethan’s leg, got him to cant his hips for a better angle, and nudged the barrel, very gently, into his anus.
Ethan clenched involuntarily. It wasn’t that the gun was big—but it was alien: slick and cold and deadly in a way that nothing human could be. Before he knew it, he had pushed himself up, ready, without thinking, to fight Brandt off.
But Brandt wouldn't let him. He smoothed a firm hand down Ethan's belly, cupped his hipbone. “Hey,” he said, “you with me here?”
Ethan held his gaze—he couldn’t have said what he was looking for, but after a moment he found it. He lowered himself onto the bed, propped on his elbows so he could keep his eyes locked on Brandt.
It was like a long jump, he thought, as Brandt eased the gun in again, a little deeper this time, letting him feel the stretch, get used to the burn. The bed was under him, he knew that, and Brandt's hands were on him, but there was still that sensation of falling, of empty space all around--only the frail certainty of the harness keeping you from panic. It was the best feeling in the world.
Brandt pushed in again, once, twice, deeper each time, and Ethan let himself relax into it, even want it, pushing up into the incursion. He hardly noticed when Brandt curled his free hand around Ethan’s cock, stripped him in rhythm to his thrusts, but before he could even prepare himself his own climax hit him like the onrush of approaching earth.
He was dimly aware of Brandt abandoning the gun, of him gathering Ethan into his body, as if he could no longer stand the distance. All he knew was that he finally got to put his hands on Brandt—fingers on his dick and pushing into his ass, lips on his lips, tongue pillaging his mouth, something flaring in him more savage then desire.
When they finished, when Brandt had come too, and they’d collapsed sticky and exhausted onto the rumpled sheets, there wasn’t a millimeter of space between them.
This was it, Ethan thought, this was it: the long jump, the safe landing, and someone to pull you in.