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The barracks are quiet—too quiet—which means someone's bound to be snooping. But Beetle doesn't care. Not tonight. Not with Sarge sprawled belly-down on his bunk, thick thighs trembling as he hikes his knees up, presenting himself like an offering. The sheet sticks to his skin where sweat glistens in the dim glow of a single flickering bulb. Beetle sinks to his knees, palms sliding up the backs of Sarge’s legs.
"Easy, big guy," he murmurs, but his own breath hitches when Sarge arches, ass lifting higher.
The musky scent of him—hard work and heat—hits Beetle square in the chest. He doesn’t hesitate. Leaning in, he drags his tongue flat and broad from the very base of Sarge’s crack all the way up. Slow. Purposeful. Like he’s savoring every inch. Sarge chokes into his pillow, fists twisting the fabric. Beetle doesn’t let up—his tongue doesn’t leave skin for a second. When he reaches the top, he teases just inside, a fleeting press before gliding back down, relentless. Up. Down. Up again. A rhythm so steady it’s hypnotic, the wet slide of his tongue the only sound louder than Sarge’s stifled groans.
"Christ—fuck..." Sarge’s hips jerk, grinding back against Beetle’s face.
His thighs shake, muscles taut as bowstrings. Beetle grins against him, drunk on the power of it. He knows exactly how to make Sarge unravel—how the constant, unbroken pressure drives him wilder than any fancy tricks. And god, does it work. Sarge muffles another broken noise, his body coiled tight, riding the edge just from this—just from Beetle’s mouth on him, relentless and perfect. Beetle’s own cock throbs in his fatigues, precome soaking through the fabric. He doesn’t touch himself. Doesn’t need to.
The ragged way Sarge gasps his name does it for him, sending him spurting untouched into his shorts, shuddering against Sarge’s thighs. Sarge finally comes untouched too, his hips stuttering as he spills into the sheets.
Beetle licks his lips and grins. "Did make ya proud?"
Sarge, boneless and wrecked, just groans.