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Cullen Got a Handjob for His Birthday

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“In conclusion,” Garrett proclaims, ignoring the other men’s bemused faces. “The boy has become a man.” He takes a swig from his makeshift shot glass and the others follow suit, grimacing at the quality of the gin. They don’t have any proper glasses, so they’ve cut down empty half-liter bottles and divided the gin between them. As they’ve been drinking, the toasts have gotten longer and longer. The men applaud as Garrett sits down, smacking Cullen on the shoulder. He grins.

“‘Boy has become a man.’ Seriously?” Barr laughs, poking at Garrett with the toe of his boot.

“Not yet he hasn’t,” Henn says, rising and jerking his head to the flap of the tent. “I haven’t given him my present yet.”

“What?” Cullen sputters around a mouthful of gin. Henn winks and slips out into the sunshine. Cullen stares. Hinde is the first to laugh, covering his mouth and dissolving into giggles. The others are right behind him, following the wave of gin-flavored hilarity. Even McMath drops his disapproving expression when he catches sight of Cullen’s face, spraying gin out of his mouth with a raucous howl. 

“Oh Jesus, Cullen. You’re killing me,” Blackwood wheezes. “Your face. Your fucking face.”

Henn pokes his head back into the tent. “Cullen! What the fuck?”

“What?” Cullen says again. Henn stomps over to him and hauls him up by the front of his shirt. 

“I haven’t,” Henn says, giving him a little shake, “given you,” he shakes again, “your present yet. Come on.”

He drags Cullen behind him out of the tent. Cullen casts a bewildered look behind him, and McMath falls off his chair, grabbing onto Barr’s boots and shaking silently. Garrett throws his head back and actually booms out a belly laugh, which starts all of them off again. The tent flap falls shut.

Henn spins him around once they get to the Bravo fire-team tent, immediately going to work on his combat pants.

“Henn—” Cullen gasps out, but Henn shushes him.

“Shut up and enjoy your present,” Henn grins, shoving one hand down the front of Cullen’s underwear. “Jesus. Doesn’t take much to get you going, does it?” he teases and begins to move more deliberately.

Cullen sucks in a quick breath and exhales, “—the fuck?” His hands scrabble and Henn’s sides for a moment before he manages to plant them flat on Henn’s chest.

“Henn,” he says, but Henn just smiles again and starts working the other hand up the back of Cullen’s shirt. “Henn,” Cullen says more forcefully, and shoves Henn sharply backwards into one of the cots. Henn stumbles slightly, hand slipping off Cullen’s cock, and Cullen takes advantage of his momentary imbalance to twist him around, sinking down onto the cot and pulling Henn on top of him. Henn spreads across him somewhat inelegantly, laughing until Cullen brackets his face between his hands and leans up to kiss him. Henn’s mouth falls open just a fraction in surprise, and Cullen slips his tongue inside, just barely. One hand moves around the back of Henn’s head, fingers trying and failing to grip the short hairs. Henn starts to respond, breathing loudly through his nose, and Cullen gives a little whimper. When he pulls back at last, Henn pants into the side of his neck.

“Oh,” Henn says breathlessly. “Okay then.” He yanks Cullen’s pants down a few necessary inches and grabs his cock again, taking a moment to lick messy stripe down his own palm.

Cullen huffs a laugh and pulls him back in, shifting his legs so that one thigh is pinned against Henn’s crotch. Henn takes the hint and starts moving his hips in time with his own hand, leaking little groans into Cullen’s mouth. Cullen’s hands move from Henn’s face down his shoulders and back up into his hair. He jerks his face away for a moment, throwing back his head and gasping.

“Jesus, Henn,” he mutters, sliding one hand under the waistband of Henn’s pants. He starts to shift his legs in counterpoint to Henn, driving a whine up the back of Henn’s throat. He bites at Henn’s mouth again with a muffled grunt, breath speeding up. 

Henn gives up any pretense of control and starts rocking faster, shifting them both dangerously close to the edge of the narrow cot. He’s a few centimeters away from overbalancing and tumbling them both onto the floor; the only thing keeping them in place are the muscles in Henn’s left arm, which is braced against the edge of the cot, fingers white-knuckled against the metal. Cullen doesn’t seem to notice. He’s moving his hands again, one kneading at Henn’s arse in time with his furious rocking, the other scratching along the back of his scalp to his ear. As Cullen rubs the curve of Henn’s ear between his fingers and blows a hot breath across his cheek, Henn’s hips stutter and both hands fly to the buttons on his pants, shoving his shoulder and knee against the cot to keep them from falling. He manages to get his pants open to a chorus of “Oh shit, oh shit, oh fuck, oh shit” from both of them. Cullen replaces his fingers on Henn’s ear with his tongue and Henn jerks helplessly as he comes. He rides out the aftershocks with a few hard pulls on Cullen’s cock, his face shoved into the sleeping bag and sweat running down his neck. Cullen muffles his own cry against the side of Henn’s face, spattering the front of his still-buttoned shirt. 

As they both begin to relax, their awkward balance fails and they tip halfway off the cot. Cullen readjusts on top of the sleeping bag, grabbing a boneless Henn before he slides off and smacks his face on the floor. Henn shifts back on top of him, sticking his face into his shoulder and laughing.

“Oh God. That was ridiculous.”

Cullen grins and turns a little pink. Henn presses a sloppy kiss to the side of Cullen’s neck. 

“It’s always the quiet ones,” he teases against Cullen’s flushed skin. 

Cullen shrugs, as much as he can with Henn pinning his shoulders. “I’m not really that quiet,” he says mater-of-factly. “It’s just nobody ever fucking listens.” Henn snorts, which tickles the sensitive skin on Cullen’s throat. He squirms and shoves Henn onto the floor. Henn looks up at him with a smile that perfectly matches his semen-stained shirt. 

“You’re fucking filthy,” Cullen says, pointing to the wet patch on Henn’s shirt while pulling off his own. Henn wrinkles his nose and wipes at it with the edge of the sleeping bag. 

“This is your cot, right?” he asks.

Cullen shrugs. “Is now, I guess.” Henn snorts.

“Happy birthday, little brother,” he says, stretching and rising to his feet.

“Shut the fuck up,” Cullen responds happily, flopping back on the cot. 

“You coming back? There’s probably some gin left.” 

“In a bit. I’ll be right behind you.” 

Henn flicks his ear as he turns to leave the tent, winking at Cullen’s indignant squawk. The tent flap falls shut behind him and Cullen turns over onto his stomach on the cot, hiding his face in the folds of the sleeping bag and grinning wide enough to split his face in half.