Work Text:
There was no name for it, the thing that happened.
Trapper called it battle fatigue but it wasn’t battle fatigue; battle fatigue was what Hawkeye had, where sometimes he’d overprepare for shelling that didn’t come or wake up sobbing from dreams that felt more real than his peaceful Maine coast surroundings.
B.J. called it fucking annoying and this ruined my life, Hawkeye, I’m not doing scientific inquiry about it.
What bothered Hawkeye the most was that it had happened to both of them, even though they’d barely overlapped in Korea by at most a half an hour. It was hard not to think of himself as the common denominator, even if both just blamed it on the waves of change that sometimes came through the camp when all of Korea was lit up bright like a movie set and you could hear something else whining under the insects.
As for why it only manifested itself when they came home?
That’s why Trapper called it battle fatigue.
“Sidney says it really starts to get to you when you feel safe,” Trapper said. “After you’ve gone through all the trauma, your brain is finally relaxed enough to unclench and then all the garbage falls out.”
They were sitting, the three of them, in the patch of woods directly behind Hawkeye’s house on lawn chairs, where no one would really be able to see them. As the only one of the three men who hadn’t recently manifested an extranormal ability to see in the dark, Hawkeye probably should’ve felt nervous, but despite everything, he felt entirely safe with them.
“I still can’t believe you went to see Sidney,” B.J. said.
“I was desperate!”
“So was I, so I did the normal thing and flew out here to see Hawk.” He let go a bleak laugh. “Was half convinced it’d happen on the plane the whole flight, I was so keyed up they kept offering me drinks.”
“I think that’s what saved you,” Trapper said. “You were freaking out so bad you couldn’t relax.”
B.J. kicked out, his foot hitting the remains of the fire they weren’t lighting that evening. “Is that also what Sidney said?”
“It’s the best explanation he could give for why it only happened around my daughters and not my wife.”
B.J. snorted. “Lucky.”
There was a brief moment where Hawkeye wondered if they’d attack each other. For the most part, since they’d decided to stay with him for a while, they’d become something between friends and lovers, even if he, Hawkeye, was still the primary focus of both their regards. Then something would boil over, and he’d have to sit there, waiting, hoping he wouldn’t have to step in.
Trapper exhaled. “He thought I was being metaphorical, of course.”
“Of course,” B.J. said, and they were back on even ground. “The metaphorical turning into a semifluid pile of limbs.”
“I used the word ‘collapse’ a lot,” Trapper said.
The purpose of this exercise had been to get them to relax, because that was the real kicker in all of this. It wasn’t until B.J. or Trapper felt okay with themselves or the world that they’d—
This was something else that was hard to find words for. Dissolve? Melt? Change? Melting implied more fluidity than there really was, but wasn’t wrong, either.
B.J.’s right hand dropped flat on the ground, his arm over-extending. He looked over at it with an expression of resigned consternation. “I wish it didn’t feel so relaxing,” before the rest of him transformed.
Trapper followed soon after, leaving Hawkeye the only one of them with the expected body plan.
They were doing this in the dark not only so they couldn’t be seen, but because both of his guys refused to believe Hawkeye when he said he honestly was not that scared. He’d been more than a little freaked out initially, when B.J. had shown that he could effectively snap himself in half and climb directly up the nearest wall, but he prided himself on being a pervert of eclectic, confusing tastes, and what good would that be if he couldn’t be into guys who sometimes got a bit… off.
It was also hard not to let it stroke his ego a bit that the first thing they always did when they got like this was wrap themselves around him like a pair of freaky octopuses.
You could read some of what happened metaphorically, of course. Trapper was in the process of manifesting about two or three dozen more eyes over his body as Hawkeye watched, and B.J. grew an extra set of hands, but for the most part he was pretty sure it was just random.
He always ended up thinking about dogs, looking at the pair of them. It wasn’t just because they’d both become partially quadrupedal, but because they followed him around. It was like a biologically enforced sex game, which was another thing that probably benefited from Hawkeye being a pervert.
Trying to describe them coherently was difficult, especially since their forms weren’t always static, but Hawkeye could always tell the difference between them because there were clusters of traits that stuck with one or the other.
Trapper grew eyes all over his body, though never the same place twice. They weren’t as sophisticated as the eyes he had all the time, but it meant that he could be hurt by too many bright lights. He could walk on two legs, but preferred to crawl around on all fours, and his face would grow extra mouths if he wasn’t paying attention. He could talk, technically, Hawkeye had checked, but he usually didn’t or just used the same pre-set series of vaguely medical words he’d clearly developed so he’d still be able to talk in the OR.
B.J. on the other hand sort of flipped over, though Hawkeye had a hard time really describing it in any useful detail. It wasn’t that he walked like a crab—he wasn’t going side to side or anything—but if he wasn’t standing, he was on what was usually his back, using his hands, feet, and additional set of hands to move around. He could talk but didn’t like to. The freakiest part of his transformation was that his head would turn a hundred and eighty degrees, so that he wasn’t looking upside down when he faced forward.
Apparently, the first night he spent with Peg, he’d unconsciously moved his head around too far on his neck so he could watch her around the room.
What they had in common was what they always had in common; their dicks were usually around the same size, whatever happened to them, which if this was supposed to represent traumas they’d experienced oversea had implications that even Sidney would probably consider too Freudian.
Trapper grabbed Hawkeye first, throwing him onto the ground with surprising gentleness, and crawled on top of him. Hawkeye felt, more than saw, his penis transform from something that looked surprisingly like a normal human penis into something that was both surprisingly tail-like and oddly slippery. He chirped something, which Hawkeye couldn’t interrupt, and started to kiss Hawkeye’s face with whichever mouths were there, the force and location of the kisses changing depending on which mouths opened and which mouths closed.
This made kissing back a little bit difficult, though Hawkeye did his best. It was also difficult because he could feel what he was still thinking of as Trapper’s cock wrap around his leg around the thigh and start to probe at his anus.
“If you have enough control to make the damn thing self-lubricated, that’s—I think that counts as progress,” Hawkeye panted into Trapper’s mouth. The tip, which still felt like a cockhead, pushed into and then through the tight ring of Hawkeye’s anus, forcing a punched-out noise from his mouth. “Fu-uck, Trap, that’s—”
Trapper hit his prostrate, but the tail-cock was still long enough to then loop around both Hawkeye’s cock and his balls, squeezing along his whole length like a hand. Trapper’s actual hands were clawing at Hawkeye’s body, sending little strange shocks of pain through him that only complimented how good being fucked open felt.
This was already dangerous close to “too much” and B.J. hadn’t even involved himself yet.
Speaking of B.J., for once he hadn’t actually tried to match Trapper and his cock was still (relatively) cock-shaped, though it had become what Hawkeye could only describe as blunter. He crawled on top of both Trapper and Hawkeye—or maybe he and Trapper were on the same level, it was hard to say when he could sometimes swear the two of them would partially fuse together—and, the moment Trapper moved his head to the side, rested his cock on Hawkeye’s mouth.
It was all Hawkeye could do to take it into his mouth as best he could, given how distracted he otherwise was. It was so strange, feeling it on this side of B.J.’s body, but it was nice to be so full.
That was the reason he hadn’t admitted to either of them for why he was more than happy to incorporate sex, if this was sex, into their attempts at practicing control. They could now go for however long Hawkeye wanted, in whatever positions Hawkeye wanted, and they could never leave him, because who else would want them like this?
Even Hawkeye was self-aware enough to know that these weren’t the kinds of things you said out loud.
Thankfully, it wasn’t like he could talk right now.
Even he had to admit it was a little unsettling, knowing that B.J.’s face was in the wrong orientation, but he couldn’t actually see much of what was going on, just feel a long tongue swirl around his glans in tandem with Trapper squeezing his dick.
He let himself float like that, speared on the two writhing masses of flesh he loved most dearly in the world, and barely paid attention to his own body, instead listening to how good they both clearly felt.
He understood their own fear and revulsion at themselves, and also why it felt like such a betrayal that this is what happened when they were safe, when they were happy. But it was like one of those octopus prints Henry had liked so much come to life, and it was hard not to enjoy that.
B.J.’s cock his the back of Hawkeye’s throat, making him briefly choke, dislodging the last of his thoughts. They were, somehow, moving in tandem, so that every take Trapper pulled out B.J. thrust in.
Hawkeye came with a muffled scream, and both creature followed soon after. The semen was, absurdly, still completely human, with no change in taste or anything, and B.J.’s cock was just as sensitized as Hawkeye’s throat spasmed around him to try and swallow it all down.
When they were done, Trapper and B.J. both retreated, briefly, from Hawkeye’s body, leaving him feelings strangely bereft. Orgasm hadn’t made either of them change back, but it did make them more relaxed, and Hawkeye’s own brief spike of fear was soothed when he was gathered up in two many arms and held against a part of the grass that wasn’t completely covered in unspeakable fluids.
It was hard for him to tell in this dim light whose hand or leg was whose, but that didn’t matter. They were here, they were alive, and they were all his. Forever.