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They were grating on his nerves, each and every one of them. Schofield’s best and only friend just fucking died in his arms a few minutes ago, he felt he was justified in his anger.
Sure, maybe, theoretically, grabbing the scarf of the soldier beside him (the loudest one; he thinks his name is Cooke) and yanking it hard enough to choke him wasn’t the best way to go about expressing his grievances, but it didn’t kill him. In fact, the noise that was ripped from the little bugger sounded far from displeased.
Of course, Cooke rushed to hide his incredibly obvious arousal underneath a strangled cough as he loosened his knotted up scarf and immediately cranked his anger up to ten.
Schofield didn’t even hear any part of the rant that he was spouting, having reverted back to the shell of a man he felt like after outwardly expressing a single emotion for the first time in years.
For a few blissful minutes, the truck was stunned into silence after Cooke’s manufactured rage petered out.
“Kinky bastard, are you?” Is the first thing that was spoken. One of the soldiers—Schofield couldn’t quite remember what they called each other—stretched his leg out to shove at Cooke, who had gone back to adjusting his scarf and radiating nerves.
Cooke gaped at him in disbelief, as if everyone in the truck hadn’t clearly heard his shout of surprise taper off into a needy whine at the impromptu session of autoerotic-asphyxiation. “Wh— th— fuck off, Butler!”
This guy was absolute shit at hiding things. Distantly, Schofield wondered how he’d ever kept that little tidbit of information from his comrades, who all seemed pretty comfortable with roughhousing. Surely someone had done that before, right?
Should he be feeling this proud that he’d uncovered it so quickly?
The soldier on Schofield’s other side barked out a laugh (he thinks that one is Rossi), but the way that he kept smoothing invisible wrinkles on his trousers down with his hands betrayed something deeper than amusement. “So he’s always just walking around with a hands-free wank bank?”
“You fuck off too!” Cooke’s face burned with frustration and overwhelming shame. “What I get up to is none of your business!”
“Could be.”
The truck was silent again, but the shock had been replaced with a heady tension, one that everyone was now fully aware of but was choosing to ignore.
The Sikh soldier at the very back of the truck loudly cleared his throat and made a big show of pulling a book out of a pocket in his jacket and flipping to a dog-eared page in the middle, cleaning his hands of the situation. Schofield was just beginning to appreciate the silence again when, out of the corner of his eye, he watched the one who’d first piped up (was it Butler?) slowly lean over and reach out towards Cooke. Very slowly, obviously giving him every single opportunity to slap the offending hand away, or to lash out aggressively.
He didn’t.
Instead, Cooke lifted his chin up and held direct eye contact, bold and challenging, as if silently daring the man to really go through with it. ‘Go on, do it, I bet you won’t’.
“You’re into this, eh?” Butler’s gaze flickered briefly down to his scarf, grabbing hold of it and tugging it far more gently than Schofield had. Cooke visibly swallowed, but then scoffed.
“Not whatever that was.” His words were mocking, but his voice was tight with anticipation. “What are you, picking flowers for your nan? You’ll have to try harder than that t—“
Either satisfied with the consent that he’d been granted or annoyed at his goading, Butler proper yanked it. Cooke was clearly not expecting this, because it completely knocked him off balance. He barely had time to put his hands out to catch himself on either side of the man across from him.
Open-mouthed and panting now, he glanced up to recapture that defiant eye contact again. Even with his head between another man’s legs, Cooke was determined to still be in control. It was admirable, in a way.
“Lucky shot.” Cooke grit through his teeth, holding his own despite some pretty clear signs of submission. Butler tilted his head, schooling his expression into one of boredom, then took the helmet off of Cooke’s head with his free hand.
“Well, you’re already down there.” He muttered. “Get on with it.”
The other men watched with bated breath (except for the Sikh soldier, of course. Schofield wondered what that book he was reading was about), as if Cooke was a rabid animal and Butler was walking straight towards him with a net over his head.
Cooke narrowed his eyes dangerously, kept pushing further. “With what?”
Butler tugged sharply on his scarf again, both a warning and a direction. “Try doing something useful with that mouth of yours and suck me off.”
His breath audibly caught on the exhale, and after a few moments of tense silence, he dropped his gaze. Cooke didn’t move another muscle for a good ten seconds, either considering his options or purposefully being obtuse, until he finally relented.
He braced himself up on his elbows, trying to undo Butler’s uniform without falling flat on his face. Cooke managed to fumble his way through the worst of it, apparently too prideful to ask for help, and freed the man from the confines of his trousers, earning a grateful sigh. He crudely spat on his palm and jerked Butler off with a curiously practiced hand.
“‘S not what I told you, is it?” He said simply. Cooke glared up at him, but there was no real fire behind his eyes.
Just to be spiteful, he lazily slowed his strokes. “Keep your fuckin’ panties on, I’ll get to it.”
With the hand that wasn’t holding Cooke’s scarf like a leash, Butler secured a tight hold on the hair at the back of his skull and pulled his head back. In that second of eye contact, it seemed like a silent exchange occurred—one that asked if this was okay.
“What did I tell you, eh?”
Though obedient he was anything but, Cooke wheezed out a quiet “to suck you off”. Apparently, having his throat bared to the world was some kind of off-button to his attitude. Butler nodded and released him.
With no more room to fuck around, Cooke did as he was told almost the instant he was able to. His technique was about as erratic as his personality, but it seemed strangely honed.
Butler’s head dropped back with a strangled little groan, muttering unintelligible encouragement under his breath and letting go of his scarf to rake his fingers through Cooke’s hair.
Schofield shifted in place on the bench, tapped his fingers together, his own personal sense of shame preventing him from doing much to “ease his discomfort”, so to speak. There was an already existing level of familiarity between the other men that he couldn’t match—it allowed one of them to read a book a foot away from where two of them were noisily messing about and the other was jacking himself off.
“Oi, you,” Schofield startled a bit when Butler addressed him, his mind somewhat glazed over at the spontaneous live pornography he was viewing. It’d been a long time, alright? “Get in on this.”
He blinked, the cogs in his brain having to take a second to sweep the cobwebs off. Intelligently, Schofield managed a single “Huh?”
“Greedy little cunt won’t be happy with just a cock down his throat,” He pulled Cooke up by his hair, speaking to him condescendingly. “Will ya?”
Coughing and drooling, Cooke shook his head the best he could. “So do him one better.”
Schofield felt a bit put on the spot, wondering why the hell he was now a part of this, wondering why the man to his right wasn’t the one invited.
He spared a glance towards Rossi at that thought, who’d hardly moved an inch since the whole thing spiraled out of control. In fact, it seemed the only reason he’d moved at all was to undo the front of his own trousers.
Well, why the hell not?
Schofield took another moment to consider how exactly to go about this before wrapping one hand around the side of Cooke’s waist and just saying “Up”.
It took a bit more maneuvering than just “up”, but they managed eventually. With one hand holding Cooke still on his lap, Schofield finally, blessedly, undid his trousers.
At the first roll of Schofield’s hips, Cooke audibly choked—a real, genuine choke, not the fun kind. The vice-like grip of Butler’s oppressive hand in his hair was immediately removed, allowing him to pull back and breathe for a second.
He turned his head to spit a mouthful of saliva out the back of the truck, his shoulders heaving as he tried to work through that unfortunate gag reflex of his.
“Are you alright, Cooke?” The Sikh soldier in the back asked absentmindedly.
“Alright.” Cooke managed to answer after another minute of hacking up his lungs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Got nothin’ in me to throw up anyways.”
Not really what the issue was, but if he was alright...
Cooke scrambled to hold onto the bench when Schofield bucked up again, startling an embarrassing squeak out of him. His boots slipped uselessly on the floor when he tried to plant them as Schofield pressed his hand hard on the low of Cooke’s spine to hold him down and continued grinding their hips together.
The man visibly melted into a noisy moaning mess, no longer physically able to finish his original order—didn’t seem able to even lift his head from where it was lying heavily on Butler’s thigh.
Limply, Cooke used the hand that was not clawing paint off of the bench to blindly finish the job. This was, of course, not completely satisfactory for Butler, who picked the poor soldier’s head up by his hair again and gritted out a strained “open up”. The guy seemed like he couldn’t close his jaw even if he wanted to.
Butler’s hand joined Cooke’s on his dick just long enough to ensure that he finished across his face with a low groan deep in his throat. Cooke flinched his eyes closed just in time (he had one hell of a death glare when they opened up again).
“You won’t be needing this anymore, then?” Schofield had already made to haul the man’s body up when his hair was released. With both eyes still closed, Butler waved his hand dismissively.
He anchored his arm across Cooke’s chest to keep him from (probably) falling flat on his face on the filthy floor. Schofield buried his face against the skin that showed on his neck, biting marks purposely just above his scarf. Cooke whined, grabbing at his arms, at the bench, anywhere.
He had to snatch those hands up when Cooke tried to touch himself, though.
“Fuck,” He hissed, a feral animal writhing in his tight grasp and kicking at the floor, desperate for release. “Fuck you, you fucking bastard—”
Schofield was more than happy to ignore him in pursuit of his own orgasm, which was fast approaching. It didn’t take much more than three sloppy grinds before he was groaning his relief into Cooke’s neck.
It had been a long time.
The poor soldier to Schofield’s right did eventually get his roll in the hay when Cooke was carelessly released from Schofield’s grip. He took a second to regain his bearings before stumbling over on trembling legs, utterly wrecked and still not allowed to cum “until everyone had their fun”. The way they interacted was surely meant to be behind closed doors; it suddenly felt like the other men were intruding.
Of course they wanted Cooke to enjoy himself, they cared about him well enough (well, Schofield couldn’t say much on the matter personally). Nobody had put him through what he couldn’t handle, they let him up if he needed a break—it was all in good fun, just a group of lads fucking around to relieve stress and tension.
When Cooke found his way onto Rossi’s lap though, he was treated like he was made of glass. He supposed that’s why Butler chose Schofield to be the other half; no way in hell would this soldier match the wild energy. Of his own accord as well, he’s sure.
Rossi touched him reverently, no roughing around or manhandling. He spoke quietly, only for the other man to hear. Before Schofield had to turn away out of some burning need to reserve their privacy, Cooke looked both irked and bewildered at the sudden change of pace. Rossi wasn’t putting on a show like the rest of them, and the guy sure seemed like he thrived on attention.
Schofield thought it right to wait until the stifled laughter from Butler faded out and the recognizable sound of shifting fabric began to look back.
Cooke had gone completely docile in a matter of seconds, had his arms thrown loosely around the other soldier’s neck and had hidden his face there as well. He accepted the slow, over-the-clothes bump-and-grind now, the mumbled words of intimacy in his ear, the roaming hands gentling down at his hips.
Schofield looked away again, just as Cooke’s groaning began again—much softer this time. This wasn’t his business anymore. He reached into his uniform for that tobacco tin on his breast, rested his hand there mindlessly, and turned his head toward the open back of the convoy truck.