It's the ears that finally sink Brad's battleship.
His resolve.
He's been jacking off thinking about the LT's mouth since day one. That's a given with a mouth like that. Soft, plush lips. Pink. Constantly being bitten, being sucked into the LT's mouth like the way he's going to suck on Brad's cock. The way he going to work Brad with his mouth. When Brad thinks of Nate's mouth his mind automatically supplies the word 'cocksucker'.
Cock. Sucker.
Sucking cock.
Brad's cock.
It's the kind of mouth that Brad can just feel sliding along the length of his dick. The way Nate's tongue would lave at the underside, the spit that would smear over that mouth, run down his chin. Yeah, the LT's mouth is just too obvious.
Anybody could fall for that.
Or those hands.
The LT's hands are perfect. Long, strong fingers. Square nails that Brad would happily wrap his to tongue around when there's dirt and god knows what else trapped under Nate's fingernails. Brad can just imagine: MREs, gun lube, sweat from Nate scratching the back of his neck, his balls, whatever. Brad would taste it all, suck Nate's fingers just to feel them in his mouth, feel the pads of Nate's fingers stroking his tongue. Watch those green eyes go wide as Brad dragged his teeth along their length, let the LT get a hint of what Brad has in store for him.
But again, that's obvious. The LT is covered up all the time, the only parts of him ever exposed to common view are his hands and above the neck.
God, the marks Brad's going to leave on the LT's neck. Sucking bruises, holding Nate's hands above his head, feel him rut against Brad's thigh, cock dragging along, leaving streaks and smears and wet heat. Listen to the gasps out of the pornographic mouth as Brad sucked right at that juncture of neck and shoulder. The way Brad would graze his teeth over that spot over again. Suck, lick, bite, rinse, repeat. Mark, own, rinse, repeat.
Sometimes Brad finds himself standing next to Nate, words coming out of those cocksucker lips, green eyes wide and expressive, the LT's hands moving as he points out something. Describes something he's talking about and it's so much overstimulation that Brad has to smile. Has to let out all of that need and want, has to show just that little bit that he's got the LT's number and when it comes up, Brad's not letting it go.
Brad knows these things, he minds them, observes them like a good Devil Dog should. He bides his time. Waits. Listens to his LT, looks after his men, and thinks about what's going to come when this is all over.
And it's on a day like any other when Brad's sitting in the Humvee, doors open so he can stretch out while they wait, that the LT comes by. Ray's napping beside him, Reporter's off wherever, Trombley's cleaning his saw in his grave. Walt's off playing with Poke's kids, and Brad's just there, playing with his Blue Force tracker, just killing time.
They know this dance by heart.
The LT greets him, Brad smirks, the LT says something, maybe points to something on Brad's screen, Brad reaches for it at the same time and their hands brush. There's a frisson of electricity, end of story, and everything goes on.
But this time things change up.
This time instead of going the laptop route, the LT crouches down on his knees. Bends down to tie his shoelace. And he's there, on his knees, right by Brad's hip, head bowed, and Brad's hand does it all on it's own, just sort of reaches out and traces the shell of the LT's ear.
Nate's head snaps up, holding perfectly still under the pad of Brad's finger. Watching Brad's eyes as Brad watches him. And then Ray farts in his sleep, and it's all over.
Spell broken, time to move on.
Nate stands up, clears his throat, moves off. But this time, Brad's resolve wavers. Grumbles. Makes itself very clear that this can't go on.
It's the smallest thing that breaks him wide open. Like a surging dam.
Re: I POSTED THIS IN MY JOURNAL BUT IT BARES REPEATING
His resolve.
He's been jacking off thinking about the LT's mouth since day one. That's a given with a mouth like that. Soft, plush lips. Pink. Constantly being bitten, being sucked into the LT's mouth like the way he's going to suck on Brad's cock. The way he going to work Brad with his mouth. When Brad thinks of Nate's mouth his mind automatically supplies the word 'cocksucker'.
Cock. Sucker.
Sucking cock.
Brad's cock.
It's the kind of mouth that Brad can just feel sliding along the length of his dick. The way Nate's tongue would lave at the underside, the spit that would smear over that mouth, run down his chin. Yeah, the LT's mouth is just too obvious.
Anybody could fall for that.
Or those hands.
The LT's hands are perfect. Long, strong fingers. Square nails that Brad would happily wrap his to tongue around when there's dirt and god knows what else trapped under Nate's fingernails. Brad can just imagine: MREs, gun lube, sweat from Nate scratching the back of his neck, his balls, whatever. Brad would taste it all, suck Nate's fingers just to feel them in his mouth, feel the pads of Nate's fingers stroking his tongue. Watch those green eyes go wide as Brad dragged his teeth along their length, let the LT get a hint of what Brad has in store for him.
But again, that's obvious. The LT is covered up all the time, the only parts of him ever exposed to common view are his hands and above the neck.
God, the marks Brad's going to leave on the LT's neck. Sucking bruises, holding Nate's hands above his head, feel him rut against Brad's thigh, cock dragging along, leaving streaks and smears and wet heat. Listen to the gasps out of the pornographic mouth as Brad sucked right at that juncture of neck and shoulder. The way Brad would graze his teeth over that spot over again. Suck, lick, bite, rinse, repeat. Mark, own, rinse, repeat.
Sometimes Brad finds himself standing next to Nate, words coming out of those cocksucker lips, green eyes wide and expressive, the LT's hands moving as he points out something. Describes something he's talking about and it's so much overstimulation that Brad has to smile. Has to let out all of that need and want, has to show just that little bit that he's got the LT's number and when it comes up, Brad's not letting it go.
Brad knows these things, he minds them, observes them like a good Devil Dog should. He bides his time. Waits. Listens to his LT, looks after his men, and thinks about what's going to come when this is all over.
And it's on a day like any other when Brad's sitting in the Humvee, doors open so he can stretch out while they wait, that the LT comes by. Ray's napping beside him, Reporter's off wherever, Trombley's cleaning his saw in his grave. Walt's off playing with Poke's kids, and Brad's just there, playing with his Blue Force tracker, just killing time.
They know this dance by heart.
The LT greets him, Brad smirks, the LT says something, maybe points to something on Brad's screen, Brad reaches for it at the same time and their hands brush. There's a frisson of electricity, end of story, and everything goes on.
But this time things change up.
This time instead of going the laptop route, the LT crouches down on his knees. Bends down to tie his shoelace. And he's there, on his knees, right by Brad's hip, head bowed, and Brad's hand does it all on it's own, just sort of reaches out and traces the shell of the LT's ear.
Nate's head snaps up, holding perfectly still under the pad of Brad's finger. Watching Brad's eyes as Brad watches him. And then Ray farts in his sleep, and it's all over.
Spell broken, time to move on.
Nate stands up, clears his throat, moves off. But this time, Brad's resolve wavers. Grumbles. Makes itself very clear that this can't go on.
It's the smallest thing that breaks him wide open. Like a surging dam.