Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/414620.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Deathwatch_(2002)
  Relationship:
      Bradford/his_hand, (fantasy)_Bradford_(Hugh_O'Conor)/Charlie_Shakespeare_
      (Jamie_Bell)
  Additional Tags:
      Masturbation, Fantasy, Blowjobs, Rimming
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-05-28 Words: 2818
****** Trench of Evil ******
by lulahbelle
Summary
     After Starinsky has been killed and Bradford is put on lookout he
     takes the time to 'think' about Charlie.
Notes
     More Bradford wanking himself insane over Charlie Deathwatch fic,
     again written in comments in September 2011
Ever since Starinsky they each took their turn, for three hours a night, on
lookout. At first, Bradford, unable to leave the radio, in case it allowed them
to contact the help they now so desperately needed, had been given special
exemption from this duty, but then Tate decided that as Charlie wasn't trusted
as lookout, but had evidently dealt with the radio whilst Bradford slept, that
whilst Bradford watched the trench, Charlie could watch the radio until he
returned.
Bradford was not at all happy with this.
*
Strings of lamps, lit up most of the lines of trench below, although not all.
The lookouts were mainly there to keep their ears open. It had been twenty
minutes or so since Bradford relieved MacNess, no sounds so far, apart from his
heart beating mildly panicked by his isolation in darkness. It had been a full
still, silent three hours the same the previous two nights and Bradford had no
reason to suspect anything otherwise for this one.
Boredom sensitised him. 
The sentry point was high and the midnight wind colder, shivering ice across
him. He contemplated wrapping himself in Starinsky's bedding, which Tate had
put at the sentry post for all of their use, but then decided he liked being
cold. As he scanned the unchanged, empty geography of the trench lines, his
fingertips drifted idle across his chest, brushing with false disinterest
across his hard nipples beneath his jumper.
The jolt to his groin, as he made un self-conscious contact with himself was
nothing as subtle, he was instantly burning hard. 
Charlie.
An infuriatingly arousing image of him down on his knees on the ground of the
sentry post at Bradford's feet lisped in slowly. Bradford could imagine
pressing a hand to the back of the his neck, bringing his face in between his
legs, into where he throbbed, against it's hardness. Charlie's soft face,
precious mouth, open lips, close, but not quite upon, his filthy, despicable
cock. So close to just enveloping it. The mere thought made his face flush
hot. He had to sink his hand inside his trousers.
*
Bradford had many thoughts against Charlie. 
How the other sinners all seemed to dance to his tune, he saw the boy as
scheming for his position with the radio and thus for his ear in receiving the
voices, his distrust entangled with the lust, and made the images against
Charlie.
*
Bradford had seen Charlie. Whenever he could escape MacNess' fervent attention,
the boy would slope off and wait in a certain corner of the trench for the
coast to be clear before visiting the German prisoner Friedrich. The voices had
told Bradford that the German was evil, how could Charlie not be to show him
such concern? He decided that they were no doubt conferring, devil to devil on
how to bring down the rest. 
Bradford looked down at that place now, empty, just outside of the pool of
light surrounding a lamp. He had a mind that he'd meet Charlie there one day.
Take him by surprise. For all his impact on the others, his apparent power,
Charlie was at the same time just a boy, and Bradford had seen time and again
that he was easily intimidated. So Bradford would crowd him, pushing against
him until he was backed into the hollow of the corner, until he could not move
for the earth. 
He would not initially suspect harm, might smile out a friendly attempt at
greeting.
"Bradford?"
Bradford could see himself grabbing him by the white of his throat, holding
tight to the sharp edge of his jaw, clamping hard, viscious. Fingers seriously
indenting the soft skin taut over his jaw. Charlie's eyes shocked and glassy,
swivelling toward him.
"Bradford what are you doing?" 
Charlie would sound a little put out, as if he had the right to know. 
Insolent fucking child. 
Bradford's grip on himself got tighter, slower, squeezing minimally, a little
afraid now that he might be caught - stranger things had happened than Quinn
showing up early. His grip on Charlie's throat in his mind also got tighter.
Charlie's voice came thinner, through the tiny o of his mouth.
"Bradford?"
Charlie would sound pleasingly apologetic, equal parts confusion and intrinsic
fear - little would be needed to make him beg. Bradford would refuse to speak
at first, refuse to explain, heightening the confusion, the fear. Charlie's
panting breath would exhale quickly without his choice, every autonomic blip of
him raised to high dread.
He would almost whimper. 
Bradford enjoyed the thought of punishing him, of making him taut, tense,
helpless, forcing him to wait in trepidation for what he would get. It made
Bradford so hard, and his heart jumped around in his chest.
Gradually he would loosen his grip but kept pressed close against him.
"You shouldn't be scared." Bradford reassured the boy. "Not unless you've done
something wrong."
Charlie stared, eyes fixed on his as if trying to intuit a reason for this,
unable to find it in the non verbal, he would ask.
"What do you mean?" 
Bradford imagined himself staring deep into Charlie's eyes with a peace that
concealed intent. He would fool him in those few seconds, into imagining that
he was ok, that things could be.
"You always wait here."
Shakespeares eyes were wide with incomprehension, as though he really did not
know what Bradford was asking about.
"Does Captain Jennings know you visit the prisoner? He's our enemy, but every
day I see you here, sneaking off to him as though he were your secret beau."
Charlie could deny what is said, so he just impotently shook, so afraid, so
weak, ashamed to be caught.
"MacNess as well."
"What?"
Charlie would ask mournfully, his mouth as much of a pout as he could muster,
confusion, knotting the area between his eyes.
"MacNess touches you and you encourage him."
Bradford gripped Charlie's throat again as he slowly moved in closer to him.
This time Bradford meant him less threat, and coercion with the hold, he
touches him soft instead, feeling the hardness of his throat with his stroking
thumb. Rubbing, spidery, up and down just below his chin.
Charlie's head was whirring with ultimately futile thoughts.
Bradford leant in to tightly squeeze his arse. Soft as it looked to Bradford
from a distance it filled his hand effortlessly. The physical gesture so easily
cut off the efficacy of any resistance and it made Bradford's stomach burn with
want to spill, his back arching.
"He touches you, here."
Charlie squirmed deeply out of his grip.
"Get off me." He began to wriggle spastically but despite only being a bit
older and taller, Bradford's determination gave him force that could not be
pushed off.
*
Bradford imagined sliding a hand around to Charlie's front. Charlie was young,
his blood was high, there was little chance he would be able to prevent a surge
of responsivenesss to such a touch. It would distract him, even if he were a
good boy, and Bradford knew for sure that he isn't.
Overwhelmed and panicking, Charlie squeezed his eyes shut behind Bradford's
thoughts regretting his arousal, as if he might banish it out of existence by
ignoring it. Tugging at himself softer now, as though he were Charlie, the
thrill of imagining such control creating sparks all over his body, Bradford
wanted to lean his mouth against his ear, wanted to tell him disapproving.
"It's sin Charlie." 
Bradford felt the righteous satisfaction of this swell him, his cock pushing
hard into the friction of his hand. To punctuate what he said, he would stop
tracing that perfect thing of his, straining to be touched under his clothing,
he would regard Charlie Shakespeare's body, especially his erecting penis in
his trousers with the utmost disdain. 
"Bradford." Charlie would mew in a sickly voice, eyes wide and blue and fixed
prone upon him - breathtakingly beautiful for the face of a youth. 
His hand would come like a flash, impulsively grabbing to Bradford's, putting
it back between his legs. Bradford would refuse to allow his hand to be dragged
there, no matter how they both burned with want for it.
"God made us all infinitely sinful creatures Charlie, but you are the worst. I
speak of your dishonour and you compound it."
Bradford could imagine the boy looking duly afraid at him for a second, but not
for long, soon his eyes were shut with pain and he gasped.
"Please, Bradford, please." 
His voice was sobbing, his hips were bucking unconsciously toward Bradford.
Having no choice Charlie sunk his own hand downwards, humping his cock into it,
mindlessly shivering, a tight look of utmost pleasure and agreement owning his
features.
*
Having led the boy to this, Bradford would spit.
"You're disgusting!"
Afraid that Bradford was leaving him, Charlie's hand might still or snap away
from himself. Either way his eyes would open, plaintive and shiny and his gaze
would turn up obediently to Bradford's like a dog's upon his master, appraising
his mood, determining what was expected of him, what would happen.
Still so entirely helpless.
"I'm sorry."
The boy would whine.
"It's rather late for that now Charlie." Bradford would say sternly, the
register of his voice finally evincing harsh, pure, utter, disappointment,
intense enough to affect the boy. 
Charlie would not expect the magnitude of his reaction. Forehead creased in
lines up from his worried eyebrows, Charlie looked like he might cry and being
simple, knowing nothing of God's disapproval of him, he would believe that it
was Bradford he needed to appease. 
He would be clueless as to how to do it, conscious only of the burning need to,
and would probably revert to schemes learnt in the nursery. Like a younger boy
he would reach arms out to Bradford's retreating form in an awkward attempt to
mollify him with a hug. 
Bradford himself would be too shocked to bat him away if he did that. His heart
jumped hard in his chest at the thought of it, he was unable to slow the
fluttery beating at his core, it made him feel sick, and it's more his stomach
that ached than his cock now, even as he pulled hard on its plumpness, now
slick in his hand.
Bradford swept his eyes down the trench aware that they were watering, needing
some stabilising image lest he locate the source of this strange emotion. The
trench lines were still lit, and he comes to reality for long enough to note
that noone watches him and that there are still no noises, before plunging
deeper, past that moment without interest in it.
Their difference in height is not as pronounced as it is between Charlie and
some of the others, but it would be enough to make the hold precarious, and
Bradford would step away from him. He wanted to push him away, to call him
names, to pull his hair, but every strand and every pore of his memory of him
is now so beautiful, fragile and wondrously pure, so as his whole body tingled
with the beginnings of the end he stared at him only.
Soft, smooth, young face, hard mud starched uniform, frail, skinny body and
then the look of devotion and focus in his eyes.
Charlie wanted to be good even though he wasn't. He would lean in on his
tiptoes, the forelock of his hair and his nose shiny in the light and kiss
Bradford softly on the cheek. Then he would say.
"You don't need to do this. You don't need to. Just tell me what you want?"
*
Bradford would kiss back, splaying the softness of his lips minimal as they
were. Opening up the warmth of his mouth against his face. Then, wanting to
consume him, badness, goodness, all, Bradford would pull away, eager to begin.
"Turn around Charlie."
Entirely lustful the boy would do as he was told immediately, nose and forehead
lightly contacting the mud that was once at his back in the small space
Bradford allowed him from where he stood.
His trousers down, the pink curves of his backside would peak from beneath his
uniform. Bradford wondered whether MacNess had ever fucked him, would he know
if he ever bent Charlie over? Would the truth of his violation be just obvious
for all to see? The thought fought to make him cold but he's too far gone now,
and the powerful sensation of utter revulsion just fed into his excitement.
Strokes were fast now, each one bringing him along closer to what he wanted,
then leaving him stranded.
The thought of palming his arse wasn't enough, Bradford wanted to spread his
cheeks apart, to plunge his fingers hard inside of him, but although the
thought of this made him jerk harder, this wasn't what he would do either.
"Lean forward."
Bradford would sink to his own knees and lick up the back of his thigh and over
his buttocks. The thought was as revolting as it was compelling, so as its
possibility teased his mind, making his cock burn with want for it, he, his
eyes opened, fixating at the same time on the absence of stars in the sky. The
cold darkness, the empty indifference of it, removed some of the threatening
heat from the thought of how he would then slide his tongue over to delve into
the clammy warmth between Charlie's arse cheeks. 
Charlie would instinctively arch his back out and make such a tight noise of
shocked pleasure. Bradford would have to fuck him then. Bending Charlie over,
Bradford would push right up inside him hard. Tightness, and there could be
little withdrawl before he was quickly pushing back up into him again. 
Every thrust in would be met by guttural, pressed out moans in his throat, also
tight beneath his hand. He would barely be able to thrust in him half a dozen
times like this, his grip on his neck pulling him back, before the friction
made him come off.  Charlie, with all of it inside him, absolutely all of it.
"Fuck." Bradford hissed as he came hard over his fist. 
Committed to obscenity for the initial second, he imagined himself rubbing
Charlie's arse, plunging fingertips into the place where he'd come and it gives
him the most base shiver. 
He quickly snapped his head down, seized by cooling waves of self disgust and
fear of discovery.
He crouched down small, able to imagine Quinn coming to relieve him, catching
him, him being spat on, hit, kicked, and it made the aftershocks of his arousal
intense.
When finally he can stop shaking, white splashes the ground. He rubs it in with
his boot. It had bothered him so much the first few times he did this, that
things were left so dirty afterwards, needless to say those concerns had been
lost. So much about him had been. Grime coated him everywhere now, especially
his soul.
__
Silence, and it was still so long until Quinn was due. 
__
Bradford heard a massive crash of static and a voice after saying.
"We have him in our sights now. We have them all now."
The him they were speaking about seemed obviously to be Bradford, and he was
ages away from where the others are sleeping. Afraid he quickly scanned the
scene around him but there was nothing there, no change within the trench, no
invasions from outside it. 
It was not the first time Bradford had heard something he could not have, so he
tried to ignore the sound, to tell himself he imagined it, but all the same he
could feel the possibility that there was something real and evil in the
trench, tampering with him, with real dread. He remembered Starinsky's flesh,
cut by barbed wire as it had been when they found him. Bradford had once caught
just a thumb on the stuff and that pain had been so intense, the agonies, the
suffering Starinsky must have endured.
The trench was full of death.
Perhaps, Bradford thought to himself, there was evil in it too, soaked from the
bodies alive and dead that occupied it. Evil that corrupted everyone who sat in
it. This tentative theory began to make sense. Bradford himself had changed
negatively on so many levels, he was almost unrecognisable to the man he had
been before they had captured the trench.
Bradford was panicking.
The endless black of sky, and the flames dotted through the trench pressed in
on him. Burning. Hell. His soul felt cold and he shivered as the pinpricks of
tears in the corners of his eyes were highlighted by the viscious wind. For the
next half and hour, until Quinn arrived, he sat with his hands over his ears,
breathing hard.  Although the trench was mercifully silent again, it was still
the longest watch of his entire life.
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