Military
It happens sometimes, they're sprawled in front of the tv, playing the current game du jour and Justin's losing. So he's trying distraction tactics again, nuzzling his shaven head against Chris' arm as he tries to navigate a particularly difficult corner. JC snorts in the background and Chris fumbles, cursing as his car spirals off the track and explodes in a digital fireball, while Justin's spins past and slides through the finish line.
Chris rolls over and slaps an arm across his eyes, as Justin does a victory jiggle, head scratching across Chris' arm again. The feel of the baby-spikes, soft-hard against his skin as Justin jiggles makes the hair on Chris' body stand up on end and a lot of the blood in his body to flee downwards towards his cock.
Sometimes, at night or in the bathroom, cramped in his bunk or the shower, he goes through his fantasies adding tactile memories to them as he goes. Justin's buzz-cut. Oh. It has a whole fantasy to itself, the one Chris is currently adding touches to as everyone else shifts in the bunks around him. It's quite simple really, Justin in combat gear, head buzz-cut and sleekly sharp against Chris' hand. He's on his knees in front of Chris, hands at his sides just looking up at him. Chris has a hand on the back on Justin's head, curled around the curve of his skull, feeling the bristles brush against his palm. Trails his other hand across Justin's babyfaced cheek and chin, the stubble there, not nearly tough enough against his skin. Rubs a finger across Justin's lips and watches as they part, sucking his finger into his mouth.
Pulls his hand away and just watches Justin watch him, mouth still slightly open, sulkysoft pouting on the edges. Pulls him closer - Justin's hands already sliding up from his ankles and coming to rest on Chris' hips, fingers curled around his hipbones - and listens to the harsh crack in his own breath as Justin's mouth leaves wetwarm trails on the cloth of his trousers, two layers' worth slowly dampening. Lets Justin tug down the zip and take him in, tongue flicking across the head.
Chris always ends up shifting uncomfortably at this point because it's so fucking cheesy, but sometimes fantasy-Justin murmurs something against his cock, something muffled. And only Chris knows what he says because he can feel the word again his skin. It doesn't happen very often, though. Chris isn't sure if he likes that or not.
It's when he comes and Justin pulls away, lips bee-stung and darker than usual, that he slides out of his bunk and stumbles to the bathroom. Maybe adding tactile touches was a bad idea when it's night and he's in his bunk, only an arm's length away from the person he's fantasising about. Jerks off quickly and quietly; he's spent enough time on the buses -- they all have -- to master the art of the quiet jerk off. Crawls back into bed.
The image of post-blowjob fantasy-Justin still sharp in his head.