thewordofweb | (no subject)

With one free hand, Joe can tug the mask off and shove it in his pocket. With one hand free, Joe can reach out and thread his fingers with Web's. They're alone, but its something.

"Who's gonna tell him? You?"

I shake my head at that, my fingers tightening their grip on his and I catch his eye, prying my mask off with the whiskey-burdened hand, leaning in and tipping my head to one side to start giving Joe a very distinctive, very loud hickey on the side of his neck.

Joe groans softly, head falling back against the tree as Web sucks on his neck hard enough that he's surely has to be leaving a mark.

"And you wanna know what I do to you?"

There's no time for talking now that Joe's set me off like this with permission and a need for more and I nearly drop the whole bottle of whiskey in my attempts to get him undone, clasping his hip with my free hand, biting down on a fold of skin at Joe's neck (the opposite of the scarred side).

"You don't get to be anyone else's," I mutter heavily.

"Here?" says Joe, breathlessly, but he ain't fighting too hard against him. He groans softly when Web bites down on his neck.

"You're arguing with yourself," he points out, almost goading Web at this point, unable to avoid how hot all this is getting him.

"You have somewhere else to be?" Maybe this is the best way. I don't hurt him, but I claim him as mine where anyone can see and it's not a far bend to set the bottle of whiskey to the ground, doing the same with the beer in Joe's hands. My mask is littered now on the dusty paths and I push him up against the thickest tree branch I can find, my hips on his. "You didn't seem to remember who brought you to the party all night."

"No," says Joe breathlessly. "No-where else to be."

The truth is that, for every girl Joe looked at, he looked at Web twice. The truth is that he never lost sight of Web, not really, not the whole night. One hand pushes into Web's hair and Joe twists, looking for a kiss.

I indulge him with it, pausing in my teeth's scraping against his neck to lightly brush at his lips, deliberately not giving quite enough before I push him with a hard 'thump' against the tree branch, taking what I want from him now that we're alone. My hand cups his crotch with no gentleness and I part his lips to kiss deeper.

And then, just like that, my hand slips lower inside his pants. It's so easy.

It's not enough, and Web knows it, but something stops Joe from chasing after more. Maybe it's Web's hand on his dick. He rocks up into Webster's fist and moans softly.

"Wouldn't this be better at home?"

While I'm in a contrary mood, I certainly can't argue hard facts like that and I step back only long enough to take my hand off his dick and grab hold of his free hand, yanking him off with me. With nearly everyone at the party, we can be as loud as we like and I can say whatever I please without Skinny picking up too much German.

"You gave away your option to be with them the night you decided you wanted to stay with me," I say, turning to walk backwards and keep my eyes on him, wrapping an arm around his waist and bringing him in close. "And I intend to remind you why."

Joe leans in, his lips ghosting against Web's.

"I remember," he murmurs. "I remembered this morning, and I remember now. And I didn't miss one fuckin' thing you did all night, no matter what you fuckin' think."

My fingers are already undoing each and every button on his shirt, attempting to throw it all away on the path like morsels for Hansel and Gretel. I cup his neck and bring him in for a harder kiss than before, trying to lay reminders of me all over Joe, from his neck to his lips to his torso. "Fuck you for winding me up, Joe, Jesus," I nearly hiss against his lips.

He didn't see it. He never saw the worst of it, when everything unleashed just before Landsberg, just after. "I have anger issues, Joe," I say, though he doesn't know, couldn't know. "You might have been the one who wanted that trigger pulled, but I was the one who nearly did it in Buchloe, happily so, too."

Joe's shirt is hanging open and he cups Web's face with both slender hands. He's shot his share of Nazis, including the one he shot point blank with someone else's gun in Carentan.

He doesn't want to talk about it now.

"Don't," he says. "I'm fuckin' here now. And there's nobody here but you."

It doesn't take much more than a haul of hands in the fabric of Joe's loosened shirt for me to pull him along with me, still staggering backwards over the path as I watch him (eyes focused on his mouth) and I keep him going, careful not to trip until we reach our destination and I unscrew the whiskey and take a long sip, extending it out to him to take before sealing whiskey-stained lips over his, the burning at the back of my throat a pleasing reminder of stolen merchandise.

"I don't want to lose you," I admit finally, eyes dropping to avoid his gaze. "Not to anyone else. Not to anything."

"Shut up," murmurs Joe, which is a song he's song to Webster before, his own hands fisting in Web's shir tto haul him forward, kissing him hard.

"Just shut up."

It's a challenge to me and I won't take it as it is, and I just stare at him before shoving him and pushing, kissing all the whole and trying to breathe through him like this, kissing everywhere I can and biting down, drifting to start giving him yet another hickey. "I'm no good at shutting up," I mumble, distantly.

"I hadn't noticed," says Joe, almost absently, his head tipped back to give Web as much room as he needs.

"One day I'm gonna gag ya."

We've still yet to arrive and I grab his wrist to tug him along, ceasing the touching for a moment while I help him to pull into my room, the one that's hardly ever occupied by just one person, anymore. And I doubt it will be in the future if this is how we're going to play at it.

"No, you won't," I say, confidently. "If you do, I can't tell you this." Leaning in against his ear, I mumble quietly in German exactly what I'm going to do to him. And none of it is really good and tame.

Joe can feel his face flush, both eyebrows raising. Web's got this way of putting things into words and just making it filthy in a way that Joe's never experienced before.

He squares his shoulders, cheeks burning but still grinning.

"Go on then," he says, almost teasing. "Come on."

"What happened to this being better done at home?" I suggest, nodding to the house in the clearing. I suck heavily on my thumb, on two fingers, then circle them around his body and shove them down his pants, lower and lower until I can push them just barely inside, hardly caring how filthy or improvised I'm being.

He's right up against me, what with my arrangements of our angles and I stare him right in the eye, almost challenging him. "Tell me you want this."

It's probably, in thirty one years, the dirtiest thing that anyone's ever done to Joe, that he's ever let be done to him and, God, he loves it.

"I want this," he murmurs, suddenly still, torn between willing Web to do more and just wanting to be in the house so he can do it properly.

I fist his shirt with my free hand and give him a hard yank right up against me, lips to lips in a convoluted version of CPR as I press a knee forward to apply pressure while my slick with saliva fingers are doing their best to prepare him. "I want to fuck you, standing up, against the door. Until you scream."

There's no getting away from the fact that Web's bigger than Joe and, right now, he feels it, the way Joe's shoved right up against his chest, not sure whether to rock forward or push back.

"So do it," he manages to get out, breathless, and he didn't know his face could feel this hot.

If he wants to make the demand, I will happily follow and I let go of his body, let go of every touch we have and I drift, yanking along on his wrist again, smelling of him, pulling him into the Homestead and past the locks of the rooms. Soon, Grant will be here with us, but right now, it's quiet but for the small sounds of those who didn't attend the party.

I nearly push him into my room, slamming the door behind me and advancing on him until I can pin him against the wall, stripping him with sharp, hard tugs and yanks, pulling off every thread of clothing while doing the same for myself, spinning him around and pushing him up against the wall while lowering to my knees and levelling small bites at his hips, around, until the only pressure I'm applying to him is my tongue.

He wanted to know what was left to learn. And I figure he needs a practical explanation of rimming if nothing else.

It's all happening so fast, making Joe's head spin, and then Webster's mouth his there, his tongue in the last place Joe was expecting it and all he can do is moan, hands and forehead pressed against the door, dick twitching, hips rocking back almost beyond his control to do anything about it.