satyricon au go go

Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of These)

Mike Pinocchio sat by the window, tired, almost to the point of dozing, his head nodding forward now and then, but still watching, MP5 resting across his lap, ready. He hadn't slept in days, but there was nothing unusual about that, not any more.

He and Hobbes were holed up in an old, long deserted farmhouse, with nothing around for miles but fields that had become overgrown with weeds. Yet he still did not feel safe, not enough to let his guard down entirely and sleep.

He couldn't sleep, not while Hobbes still lay on the bed where he'd dumped him several days ago. They'd been in a fire fight, another skirmish with Santiago's men, and this time a grenade had landed too close to Hobbes. Not close enough to kill him, but that had been three days ago and Hobbes still hadn't woken up yet.

Pinocchio was worried, not just because Hobbes was his friend, one of his few allies in this place, but because a small part of him believed. A part of him still had to believe in something. Was Hobbes the one? The man who would kill Santiago and bring freedom back to this land? What was freedom anyway? And was Hobbes, stupid, muleheaded Hobbes really the one?

Mike Pinocchio didn't know, but a part of him had to believe.

Right now Hobbes was fretting away feverishly, mumbling to himself. Mike was sure he could hear Hobbes murmur the name of Sophie, his girl, several times, and Mike scowled out of the window, biting down on his resentment. Damn bloody Hobbes and that photo in his wallet, that damn photo that he still took out and looked at every other night.

Hobbes' muttering became louder and more insistent until Mike finally pulled himself up wearily from his chair and stalked over to the bed, desperate to shut him up in case anyone heard them.

Hobbes was starting to really thrash about, working himself into a state with his constant whimpering, calling out that name, over and over, louder and louder. Mike climbed onto the bed, grabbing Hobbes by the shoulders, shaking him hard to try and make him shut up.

That was when Hobbes suddenly reached up and grabbed him, pulled him down and kissed him. Mike tried to resist for a moment, tried to turn his head away, then his will just fell away like a crumbling wall, and he turned back, giving into the kiss, opening his mouth and letting Hobbes breathe her name over his lips. It was a stolen kiss, a kiss that wasn't his, but Mike was willing to take what he could get. Hobbes tongue followed his breath into Mike's mouth, darting in and around, his arms pulling Mike down further with him.

The feverishly hot tongue swirled around his mouth, then slipped away, the kiss breaking off to be replaced with a low whimper and blind, half feeble clutching at his clothes and a loose press of Hobbes' hips against his.

He felt it again, Hobbes' erection rubbing up against him. He'd felt it before, rubbing up against him as they'd huddled together in some damp hole, trying to warm each other, and he'd always dismissed it. Even now he knew it wasn't for him. Even now, with Hobbes fumbling at his clothes and muttering over and over. It wasn't his name that Hobbes was whispering, lost in a fever dream.

Mike could stop it, he could give Hobbes what he wanted, make him quiet again. Delirious like this, Hobbes would never know, never remember, never sort out what was real or unreal.

He watched the sweat that beaded on Hobbes' skin, skin that was far too warm to the touch as he traced the red lines that the cracks of shrapnel had left all over Hobbes. Yeah, he do this, just to shut Hobbes up, he told himself, his hand hovering above Hobbes erection, hesitating still, knowing in the back of his mind that what he was about to do was wrong, yet still unable to stop himself.

Holding his breath, he let his hand drop to touch it and stroke it through the cloth of Tom's trousers, waiting for Tom's eyes to snap open and glare at him in ice cold fury.

Instead, Hobbes just made an odd little noise and pushed into Mike's hand, hips rising and twisting slightly with the motion.

Steeling himself to his course of action, schooling his face to betray no emotion if he was caught, Mike pulled up Hobbes' grimy t-shirt up a little, brushing the arrow of dark blond hair gently with his lips, breathing in Hobbes' scent, not daring to kiss the skin that fluttered just beneath his lips. Slowly, he popped the top button of Hobbes' trousers, then the second, then the third, and still Hobbes never woke up, never did anything more than twitch and moan.

Bolder now, Pinocchio pulled Hobbes free. This wasn't the first time he'd seen it. Hell, he'd even had to piss for Tom after a couple of nights when he'd got the kid entirely legless on some powerful moonshine, the kid so far gone he couldn't point or shoot by himself.

He'd never touched it like this before. At least, not on purpose, carefully feeling the smooth papery skin that throbbed and hummed under his fingertips. He wrapped his hand around it and held it firmly brushing his thumb over the head and Tom hissed out a breath, rising his hips again.

Watching Hobbes closely for any betrayal of consciousness, Mike began pumping him, slowly at first, up and down, then, as his own dick grew hard and demanding and pounding between his legs with terrible need, he started pulling Hobbes faster and faster.

Without thinking, because he needed to, he was down, tasting Hobbes, licking the musky sweat off his skin, swirling the head of Tom's cock in his mouth, rubbing his tongue all over it and through the groove over and over as he pumped harder and harder and Hobbes' breath hitched and he trembled and he shot his hot seed into Mike's mouth.

Pinocchio snapped back, swallowing some, spitting out the rest, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, half shamed, half thrilled. He hadn't meant to go that far, but he had.

He glanced at Hobbes, half expecting those pale blue eyes to be watching him, but Hobbes was quiet, eyes closed, breathing easily, asleep at last.

Well, it had worked, if nothing else. Hobbes was resting easier now. Mike pulled the stained sheets over Hobbes, picked up his MP5 and quietly left the room.

 

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," Mike Pinocchio muttered to himself over and over as he did his regular sweep of the land surrounding the old deserted farmhouse, here where he'd brought Hobbes, unconscious and bleeding, all those days ago. It felt like a year, just sitting and waiting for Hobbes to wake up, but time was like that in the Realm. Who knew how much time had really passed here, or whether they were living their entire lives in the blink of an eye.

It would have been a lovely old farmhouse in it's day, sitting atop a gentle hill, surrounded by rolling fields. The fields had lain fallow for a long time now, overgrown with weeds, but their gentle roll down the hill was all the better to see the approach of any of Santiago's men. All the land around the house was cleared, except the small copse of trees that stood at the back, which Pinocchio was patrolling now between the dark shadows.

Though his mind wasn't on the job at hand. He'd just needed to get out of the house, to get some fresh air, walk amongst the trees and scream silently at himself.

Fuck, what was he thinking? Not just what he'd done, which was tantamount to rape, but why he'd done it. As if Hobbes could or would ever return the sentiment. If Hobbes knew what he'd done, he'd look at Pinocchio with disgust and loathing. He'd make him go away, because he couldn't bear the sight of him any more.

And Hobbes didn't even know the real Mike Pinocchio. Then, Hobbes' eyes filled with fear, disgust and loathing could be guaranteed.

Pinocchio had never really told Hobbes all of it, and Hobbes might guess at it, or imagine, why Pinocchio was here, why he had volunteered, why he had no plans of ever going back. Hobbes had never seen Pinocchio, the real Pinocchio, and if he had, it was a sight that he wouldn't soon forget, a sight that would revisit him in his nightmares.

He'd told Hobbes he'd been wounded, but Hobbes could never, would never guess at the broken lump of flesh that had begged to be hooked up into the Realm. That was Mike's deal with the devil: make me whole again. Make me a man again. And his life here, this was his penance, his purgatory.

He'd never expected this, not now, falling for someone, so instantly, so completely, like some dazzled little virgin. He'd said he'd gotten a measure of the man at first glance, and that was true, it was what he was trained to do, but he'd gone and fallen for Hobbes at first sight, if he was really honest with himself. Putting up with the bastard's righteous zeal that always got them into trouble, trouble that galled him after years of keeping his head down, well, if that wasn't love, what was?

Mike Pinocchio had been living as quietly as he could until Hobbes had dropped into his life. Now he was on the run again, and loving every minute of it, living from moment to moment - those moments when Hobbes would look at him and smile, like they were a couple of kids with a secret.

His own secret abolished the smile that had crept over his face. Hobbes would never smile at him like that, not if he knew. Hobbes would run a mile and remember him in his nightmares. How could anyone, even Hobbes, care for this? He scraped roughly at his stubbled covered cheek. It wasn't real. None of this was real. Not even Hobbes. In the real world, Hobbes would have nothing to do with him. In the real world, Mike Pinocchio would be all alone. Unlike Hobbes, Mike had nothing to go back to, he wasn't going back.

That was the problem. Pinocchio didn't want to leave the Realm. He had nowhere else to go, nothing else to live for.

Tom Hobbes did. At least, he used to. Who knew if Hobbes hadn't been on the receiving end of a Dear John letter by now. Hell, it wasn't as if the Realm received regular mail deliveries. Even now he could see Hobbes' girl slipping from his mind, day by day, as Hobbes got on with the business of just surviving from day to day, until she was just a photo in his wallet, a promise of something more, a better life, half remembered, a dream, but nothing more.

Dreams died hard, here in he Realm. All Tom had wanted to do was complete his mission and get back to his girl. Well, that wasn't so easy, and with each chance that slipped through his fingers, each opportunity that failed, those dreams slipped away just a little more.

Every day became a little less about Hobbes trying to escape this place, and a little more about making a life for himself here. Maybe one day he'd wake up and realise he was never getting home. And maybe the next day he'd accept his life here.

Maybe, maybe it could happen. Because Pinocchio knew he didn't have a chance with Hobbes, with a tiny piece of happiness, anywhere else. This was Pinocchio's home. He wasn't going anywhere. If only he could give Hobbes a reason to stay.

He scrubbed at his face again. It felt real. All of it felt real. What he felt for Hobbes was real. Real in his gut, his groin, his heart. It gnawed and tore and taunted him inside. It twisted inside him because he knew, knew that Hobbes would never, could never be more than a friend to Pinocchio. Wasn't that enough? Wasn't a smile more than Pinocchio had ever dreamt of having? Isn't that exactly what he'd sold his soul for?

He leant against a tree and contemplated a smoke but thought better of it. No need to give anyone a fix on his exact location.

Pinocchio was exhausted. He'd spent several long nights and days watching over Hobbes, waiting for him to wake up, kicking himself, and that didn't take into account the days and weeks beforehand.

The exact reason he was here, and not out on the road somewhere, kicked at him again. Damn, he should be more careful of the kid, look out for him more. Not that you could tell Hobbes anything, or stop him, even by sitting on him.

People thought Hobbes was the one, the one to stop Santiago, to stop this nightmare. Santiago believed it. Hell, even Pinocchio found himself believing it. Hobbes, folks whispered, was the one, though whether he brought salvation or death, sometimes Pinocchio had to wonder. What would happen if Hobbes won the game?

But a part of him had to know. When that grenade had gone off, raining down debris, and he'd seen Hobbes, after the smoke had cleared, lying there all bloody, Pinocchio had just felt the world drop out beneath him. At least until he'd found a pulse, then his own heart had started beating again, hurrying to catch up. He thought he'd lost Hobbes from the Realm. That would have been bad enough, but he'd also thought he'd lost Hobbes from himself, and that had ripped him up inside.

 

He shouldered his rifle and moved silently back into the old house. It was quiet now, apart from the whispering and settling of old timbers. Twilight was falling and the darkening lilac light cast long shadows down the hallway.

As softly as he could he walked up the creaky old wooden staircase, across the landing to ease open the door to the first room, where Hobbes slept.

Hobbes was still there, lying in the old wrought iron double bed. He was lying so completely still that Pinocchio stopped breathing when he saw him. He clattered over to the bed in a rush, stopping at the very edge for one long, heartbreaking moment, but when he touched Hobbes' skin, the skin was cool. His fever had broken at last. Hobbes was just in a deep sleep.

Breathing again at last himself, Pinocchio carefully hung his rifle from the nearest bedpost and inched onto the bed. He perched there awkwardly at first. Unwilling, unable to get comfortable, feeling the metal grilling of the bedhead pressing hard metal fingers into his back. As the light dimmed and faded though, so did his will to stay awake and stay on guard. Listening to the wind gently rustling the leaves in the trees, or the soft in and out of Tom's breathing, his eyelids finally closed and he slept, for the first time in days.

 

The pale yellow morning light was already slanting across the floor when Pinocchio woke with a start. His first thought was to berate himself for falling asleep. His second realisation was that there was no one there in the room but himself and Tom. The third was that Tom Hobbes was curled up against him, as comfortable as could be. Tom's eyes were open, he was smiling at him, and as Mike tried to open his mouth to speak, Tom's mouth was already upon it.

"You little bastard," Mike spluttered between mouthfuls of Hobbes' tongue. "You knew, the whole time, didn't you."

Hobbes just answered that with another kiss, rolling Pinocchio under him, straddling him, pinning him, and then fixing him with those steely blue eyes.

"Fuck me," was all he said.

Pinocchio just blinked at him like a simpleton.

"Fuck me," Hobbes demanded again, and there was no doubting the intent in those eyes.

"Yes, Sir," Pinocchio agreed, and Hobbes let him up.

Pinocchio rolled to the side of the bed, fumbling through his kit for something, anything that would get the job done. Finally he found an old half empty jar of Vaseline. Perfect.

He unscrewed the top and started unbuttoning himself until Hobbes stopped him.

With his eyes never leaving Pinocchio, Hobbes dug his fingers deep in the jar of Vaseline, clawing free large gobs of the stuff which he then smeared single handed down the length of Mike's shaft in long, slow strokes, up and down, getting him nice and slick, and oh god, Pinocchio was going to lose it.

He grabbed Hobbes and rolled him half on his side on the bed, pulling down his pants and smearing another gob of Vaseline down between his arse cheeks. Oh, fuck, it was so warm and nice. Mike Pinocchio bit down on the throb that thudded though him like a heavy motor turning over. He pressed up against Hobbes' back, slinging one leg over his hips and grabbing hold of Hobbes' shoulders hard.

"Do it," Hobbes ordered, sensing a momentary hesitation, pushing back against Mike to prove his point.

Pinocchio stroked up and down at first, finding his way, making Hobbes sigh. Then he pushed forward and pushed in, piece by piece, feeling Hobbes groan and tighten, until he was all the way in, with Hobbes flexing and enveloping him. He buried his face deep against the crook of Hobbes' neck and shoulder, shuddering, suppressing a sob. He'd wanted this so badly.

He pushed forward again and Hobbes eased up. Letting him move back and forth more freely. It was easier than he thought, but of course, with a pretty boy like Hobbes, he shouldn't be surprised.

In and out, in and out, up and down back and forth, faster and faster.

"Harder," Hobbes demanded of him, his hands digging into Mike's flesh like hard little pinches. Hobbes groaned, pushing back and twisting.

Pinocchio wasn't surprised by Hobbes demands, there had always been a hard, cruel edge to Hobbes, just under the surface. It's what made him a good soldier, a killer, when he had to be.

Pinocchio, he was all bluster on the surface, and Hobbes knew it. Now Mike had to prove himself, taking them both up to the very edge and tumbling over the top of it, rolling and tumbling down into each other's arms, kissing greedily, hungrily, with hot mouths and tongues that duelled each other for submission.

Mike gave in, letting Hobbes pin him again and grind into him with hip bones and teeth, until Hobbes drew back, becoming as playful and licky as that damn mutt of his.

"Quit it," Mike cried, not entirely sincerely, and Hobbes chuckled, a rumbling Pinocchio could feel through his own chest.

Their eyes met again. It sure felt real.

He held Hobbes still for a moment, cupping his chin in one hand, staring closely into Hobbes' eyes. Yeah, the kid was concussed alright, and more than a little punch drunk, but otherwise he seemed fine. Bloody hard-headed hard to kill little bastard.

"Who am I?" he asked.

"Mike Pinocchio, and what sort of a name is Pinocchio, anyway?" Hobbes taunted.

"Well, what sort of a name is Hobbes?" Mike groused back at him.

"Yeah, but Pinocchio..."

Mike ignored him, refusing the bait.

"Hey, moron, how many fingers am I holding up?" he asked.

Hobbes answered him by holding one up, backed up by a shit-eating grin.

"Do you know where you are?"

"Harsh Realm," Hobbes answered, a little more sullenly this time, as if the ugly realisation had only just reacquainted itself.

"And who's the president?"

"Santiago, and are we going to be playing twenty questions all day?"

"I'm just trying to make sure you're all right."

"First you jump my bones, then you ask if I'm all right?" Hobbes drawl was annoyed, but his eyes were still lit with amusement.

"Hobbes, I -" Pinocchio was stuck on the crux of an apology.

"S'alright," Hobbes shook his head slightly, waving it off. "So long as you promise to blow me again like that sometime. Best I've had in a long time. You've got a talent there."

Pinocchio was staring at the dirty bed sheets, not knowing where to look.

"Hey," Hobbes darted into his space. "I'm just teasin'." He matched the sentiment with a dopey grin.

"Hungry?" Mike asked, and Hobbes nodded.

 

Hobbes watched as Pinocchio went from cupboard to cupboard looking for the basic needs of crockery, cutlery and pots and pans, looking for anything that might be worth stealing and selling or for now, making a meal on the old woodfired stove.

In all the days they'd been there, Pinocchio was embarrassed to admit that he hadn't left Hobbes side once to do a proper inventory of the house or the barn where his car was hidden, other than a quick sweep of the place to make sure it was unoccupied.

He was sorting through the one time rat infested top cupboard when he felt Hobbes arms encircle him, Hobbes' mouth sear over the back of his neck in a hard, burning kiss and Hobbes' erection press firmly between the groove of his backside.

Minutes later the cupboards were rattling slightly as Pinocchio was braced against them, pants down round his knees and himself sweating and grunting as Hobbes was deep inside him, thrusting long and hard in a very determined fashion. It was almost as if Hobbes was counting them off, until lust got the better of him and then his thrusts were fierce and uncontrolled and the plates were banging together until he finally fell against Mike's back, spent, and Mike's own seed swelled out to spill over his trousers, his fingers and the floor.

Breathing hard, they pulled themselves free and kissed again, an almost bruising kiss.

Damn, if he'd known the kid had been this up for it Mike would have nailed that sweet little arse a long time before now. But right now, they had other hungers to feed.

Some bacon that Pinocchio had been saving for a special occasion, and he could think of none more special than this, was sizzling and crackling away in a big old cast iron fry pan on the stove.

There was a surprising air of calm both inside and outside the house, a stillness, as though waiting for something to happen. It still all felt faintly dreamlike and unreal, even in their gameworld.

What they had here was impossible in the world outside, outside the old wooden farmhouse, outside the Realm. Never mind that a lowly corporal could never, should never fraternise with a Lieutenant, and certainly not in the way they were planning on fraternising.

Hobbes was standing bedside him, just leaning up against the bench. They hadn't spoken but for the most mundane things, yet their eyes spoke constantly, and the touched each other, on occasion, very selfconsciously, which was silly compared to what they'd done earlier, yet nevertheless it was like a first date as they experimented with just being close, touching one another's clothes, holding hands, brushing the tips of their fingers together in a surprisingly tender gesture.

Pinocchio looked to Hobbes again but Hobbes said nothing. He just turned to Pinocchio, cupped his face in his hands and bestowed the sweetest kiss upon him.

Pinocchio's arms enfolded Hobbes and they turned slightly, deepening the kiss, and that's when the bullet slapped into the kitchen wall exactly where Hobbes' head had been just a second before.

Pinocchio pushed Hobbes free with one arm, reaching for his sidearm with the other, as he looked up from the barrel of the gun into the smiling eyes of Waters. And then he watched Waters pull the trigger.

 

 

 

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