Generation Kill - I Donated Myself to the Mexican Army (Colbert/Fick, R)
I've got new fandoms to try out and rusty porn kinks to work through. Bear with me here.
Generation Kill
Brad Colbert/Nate Fick
Rated GH for Going to Hell
Please note that this is all fiction all the time. No harm or offense intended.
I Donated Myself to the Mexican Army
Brad Colbert is like all the other boys. He likes tits. He likes ass. His girlfriend -- ex-girlfriend -- was this running fiend, and she had a great ass, like two cantaloupes. You could bounce a quarter off of her ass; he actually did once when he was half-drunk. It must've been the sober half that miraculously got him laid that night.
Or maybe it was just a pity fuck.
It doesn't really matter anymore, because Brad's runner girlfriend ran off with his best friend. Brad, however, is in the Middle East, 20 miles outside Iraq, hanging around Camp Mathilda, killing time, getting sand in bad places, hiding behind a Humvee and rutting against his lieutenant like friction might save them all from this assbackward war.
Brad couldn't tell you how it happened. Who started it or who said "sure" or what the fuck ever or put your fucking leg between my thighs so I can rub my cock against your hip, and jesusfuck, don't move.
Yeah, Brad's sure they were never that explicit. That they never asked or told, they just did. That's what he and Fick do, they fucking do. They don't fuck, they're not gay, they're just making do, because that's something else Marines do.
No batteries? Steal'em from somewhere else.
No turret for your gunner? Order it on-line.
No pussy? Go hide behind convenient obstacles with Nate Fick.
Yeah, don't worry about it.
They average two hours of sleep a night if they're lucky. If anybody's lucky. Except Marines aren't lucky, they're fucking Marines, they don't have to be lucky. They get some, and in no part of the phrase "get some" are the words "get some, if you're fucking lucky."
Except that "get some" is about honor and glory and fucking moto, and tonight, Brad's going for that more hometown version of "get some." The one where he's magically got the same patrol as Nate, and Nate seems really interested in whatever's going on in the supply tent.
Brad could follow him; Brad should follow him. No telling what might happen to Nate in there by himself. He might trip over something and hurt himself. He might end up under an avalanche of MREs. Hell, he might even get accosted by some horny sergeant or something.
Nate's back is to the flap opening and Brad's got him pinned against a box of artillery shells before Nate can even say, "what the fuck?" Not that Nate would say that. Nate's a good boy; he doesn't curse much, except around Brad. Nathaniel Fick does all kinds of things around Brad that he probably doesn't do anywhere else.
"If I get fucking splinters in my hands, I'm kicking your ass." Nate bitches while Brad dry humps his ass through six thousand layers of clothing.
They have two minutes, maybe three. Just enough time for a reach-around that's going to have to do the job through cotton and camo and boxers and fuck all. But. It's what they do.
Marines make do.
Right now, Brad's got one hand on Nate's hip and the other palming Nate's dick through his pants. The appeal of friction when you can't get your clothes off should never be underestimated.
Nate's got both of his hands on the boxes of artillery shells and Brad's teeth biting his neck. A few inches to the right and Brad's teeth will be on Nate's shirt, and that would leave marks.
They can't leave marks, at least not there.
"Do I need to check you for pussy, sir?" Brad grits out between thrusts. Nate's got a perfect ass; Brad's ex-girlfriend would cry in envy.
"No, you just want to fuck me that bad," Nate replies, arching back hard.
If Brad were gay, that might actually be true.
Marines don't have sex. Marines jerk off. Sometimes they jerk off together. There's nothing wrong with that. Except that when you're invading a foreign country, your timetables get all FUBAR and people don't get to jerk off, and then they get irritable because they can't get off. It's just facts. People need sex to release tension. First Recon Marines are more stressed out than anybody else; they need to fucking get off. When they don't get to get off, they get real pissy, and then they start talking shit to their superiors, even when the XO is wrong.
When Brad hears that Nate mouthed off to Encino Man, he knows he deserved it, but a hand job probably could've kept that shit from happening. No doubt.
"Got me looking so crazy right now, your love's got me looking so crazy right now!"
Ray's singing. It's what he does when he's bored. Or when he's happy. Or when he's awake.
They're sitting in the Hummer, waiting for someone to pull their finger out of their asshole. This happens more than Brad would like, but there's nothing he can do about it.
Brad's paying attention to Ray's warbling, but not really. When you spend most of your day squinting through an eye opening, the rest of your brain tends to riot and then shut down in protest.
"Looking so crazy in love!" Apparently Ray's got Reporter working the backing vocals. Great. Just fucking fabulous.
"Got me looking, got me looking so crazy in love!" And now Trombly's joined in. It's the most ear-shattering white-boy racket Brad's heard from them all day. Not that he's not white too, but he knows to leave Beyonce alone. If only because he's way more into Air Supply, but he doesn't think Ray'll be serenading him with that any time soon.
"Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, oh no, no!" they sing in unison.
"LT's got me so crazy in love!" Ray's warbling falsetto is so piercing, it takes Brad a minute to process what he's saying.
"Thank you for the sentiment, Person," the Lieutenant says from somewhere near Brad's right shoulder, and when Brad's glances over, there's Nate, squinting in the window, and maybe smiling, but definitely not as bitch ass pissy as he's been lately.
Thank somebody for that. Except Brad knows that he's not the one having a circle jerk with Nate, so who the fuck put that smile on his face?
Brad's not like the other boys. Back home he pays thousands of dollars a month for car insurance because he's got this "need for speed" thing happening and all the tickets to show for it. He's also got this encyclopedic knowledge of radios and artillery, and all kinds of random ass shit that keeps him happy when everybody else is talking about bitches and hoes and rap and whatever else.
Brad's also got this thing happening with Lieutenant Nathaniel Fick, and he's not going to give it a name or think real hard about it, but he'll be damned if somebody else is going to get in there and take it away from him.
War's not really that great for down time, but every now and then you get a few lulls. The next time the company actually gets time to dig a hole to take a shit, Brad wanders off. He's not really looking for Nate, but if he finds him talking to his boys or going over maps, or hey, hiding under a Humvee, Brad'll take it where he can get it.
"You hiding out here for a reason?" Brad asks, scooting underneath the truck and getting sand all down the back of his pants. Fuck, he never should've taken off his jacket, but all they do all day is sweat and get dirty and he was starting to self-marinate.
Fick turns his head and gives Brad this grin, like this is vacation and he's got nothing but time to kill. "I'm not hiding, I'm resting."
"Your new grave is under this piece of shit?"
Nate snorts softly. "That's very observant of you."
Brad blinks. "So, shit's all fucked up."
Nate's face shuts down. "I don’t want to talk about it."
"All right, you want to fuck around?"
Nate's eyebrows climb for his hairline. "That’s not even funny, Brad."
Brad smirks. "Yeah, but you're not worried about the captain's bullshit anymore, are you?"
Nate turns his head away. "Anything else, Sergeant?"
Brad thinks about it for a moment, looking around underneath the Hummer for spying feet. "Yeah, are you fucking somebody else?" Fick makes this sort of choking sound and Brad whacks him on the arm. "Don’t die on me, shit."
Nate looks back over at Brad. "What the hell are you talking about?" he hisses in a low voice. "I'm not even fucking you!"
Brad smirks. "Yeah, but we aren't gonna be here forever," he says, beginning to wriggle out from underneath the truck. "I plan to get some, and I'm not talking about some Hajis either."
He's stopped by Fick grabbing his shirt. "Are you trying to insinuate something?" Nate asks, green eyes sharp.
Brad leans forward and gives Nate his brightest smile and his lowest voice. "I'm not queer, but I'm going to fuck you, Lieutenant. You should probably get used to the idea."
Nate blinks owlishly once, twice, and then lets Brad go. It's nice when everybody agrees on something. They both look around at the sound and earth-shaking feel of several pairs of boots stomping their way. "Hoo-rah," Nate says in agreement over the approaching din.
Brad finishes extracting himself from underneath the Hummer, stands up, and slaps the side of the vehicle. "Hoo-rah," he says, smiling over at Pappy, Doc and Rudy.
Pappy eyes Brad curiously. "Why're you so fucking happy? Who the hell sucked your dick?"
"I did," Rudy says with a crooked smile.
Brad laughs as Nate's head pops up from the other side of the Hummer.
"You did what?" Fick asks smoothly.
"Never mind," Doc laughs.
"You are some of the most homo-obsessed motherfuckers, ever," Pappy says dismissively.
Brad just shakes his head; they don't even know.
-end-
Title from the song by Joseph Arthur.
Generation Kill
Brad Colbert/Nate Fick
Rated GH for Going to Hell
Please note that this is all fiction all the time. No harm or offense intended.
I Donated Myself to the Mexican Army
Brad Colbert is like all the other boys. He likes tits. He likes ass. His girlfriend -- ex-girlfriend -- was this running fiend, and she had a great ass, like two cantaloupes. You could bounce a quarter off of her ass; he actually did once when he was half-drunk. It must've been the sober half that miraculously got him laid that night.
Or maybe it was just a pity fuck.
It doesn't really matter anymore, because Brad's runner girlfriend ran off with his best friend. Brad, however, is in the Middle East, 20 miles outside Iraq, hanging around Camp Mathilda, killing time, getting sand in bad places, hiding behind a Humvee and rutting against his lieutenant like friction might save them all from this assbackward war.
Brad couldn't tell you how it happened. Who started it or who said "sure" or what the fuck ever or put your fucking leg between my thighs so I can rub my cock against your hip, and jesusfuck, don't move.
Yeah, Brad's sure they were never that explicit. That they never asked or told, they just did. That's what he and Fick do, they fucking do. They don't fuck, they're not gay, they're just making do, because that's something else Marines do.
No batteries? Steal'em from somewhere else.
No turret for your gunner? Order it on-line.
No pussy? Go hide behind convenient obstacles with Nate Fick.
Yeah, don't worry about it.
They average two hours of sleep a night if they're lucky. If anybody's lucky. Except Marines aren't lucky, they're fucking Marines, they don't have to be lucky. They get some, and in no part of the phrase "get some" are the words "get some, if you're fucking lucky."
Except that "get some" is about honor and glory and fucking moto, and tonight, Brad's going for that more hometown version of "get some." The one where he's magically got the same patrol as Nate, and Nate seems really interested in whatever's going on in the supply tent.
Brad could follow him; Brad should follow him. No telling what might happen to Nate in there by himself. He might trip over something and hurt himself. He might end up under an avalanche of MREs. Hell, he might even get accosted by some horny sergeant or something.
Nate's back is to the flap opening and Brad's got him pinned against a box of artillery shells before Nate can even say, "what the fuck?" Not that Nate would say that. Nate's a good boy; he doesn't curse much, except around Brad. Nathaniel Fick does all kinds of things around Brad that he probably doesn't do anywhere else.
"If I get fucking splinters in my hands, I'm kicking your ass." Nate bitches while Brad dry humps his ass through six thousand layers of clothing.
They have two minutes, maybe three. Just enough time for a reach-around that's going to have to do the job through cotton and camo and boxers and fuck all. But. It's what they do.
Marines make do.
Right now, Brad's got one hand on Nate's hip and the other palming Nate's dick through his pants. The appeal of friction when you can't get your clothes off should never be underestimated.
Nate's got both of his hands on the boxes of artillery shells and Brad's teeth biting his neck. A few inches to the right and Brad's teeth will be on Nate's shirt, and that would leave marks.
They can't leave marks, at least not there.
"Do I need to check you for pussy, sir?" Brad grits out between thrusts. Nate's got a perfect ass; Brad's ex-girlfriend would cry in envy.
"No, you just want to fuck me that bad," Nate replies, arching back hard.
If Brad were gay, that might actually be true.
Marines don't have sex. Marines jerk off. Sometimes they jerk off together. There's nothing wrong with that. Except that when you're invading a foreign country, your timetables get all FUBAR and people don't get to jerk off, and then they get irritable because they can't get off. It's just facts. People need sex to release tension. First Recon Marines are more stressed out than anybody else; they need to fucking get off. When they don't get to get off, they get real pissy, and then they start talking shit to their superiors, even when the XO is wrong.
When Brad hears that Nate mouthed off to Encino Man, he knows he deserved it, but a hand job probably could've kept that shit from happening. No doubt.
"Got me looking so crazy right now, your love's got me looking so crazy right now!"
Ray's singing. It's what he does when he's bored. Or when he's happy. Or when he's awake.
They're sitting in the Hummer, waiting for someone to pull their finger out of their asshole. This happens more than Brad would like, but there's nothing he can do about it.
Brad's paying attention to Ray's warbling, but not really. When you spend most of your day squinting through an eye opening, the rest of your brain tends to riot and then shut down in protest.
"Looking so crazy in love!" Apparently Ray's got Reporter working the backing vocals. Great. Just fucking fabulous.
"Got me looking, got me looking so crazy in love!" And now Trombly's joined in. It's the most ear-shattering white-boy racket Brad's heard from them all day. Not that he's not white too, but he knows to leave Beyonce alone. If only because he's way more into Air Supply, but he doesn't think Ray'll be serenading him with that any time soon.
"Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, oh no, no!" they sing in unison.
"LT's got me so crazy in love!" Ray's warbling falsetto is so piercing, it takes Brad a minute to process what he's saying.
"Thank you for the sentiment, Person," the Lieutenant says from somewhere near Brad's right shoulder, and when Brad's glances over, there's Nate, squinting in the window, and maybe smiling, but definitely not as bitch ass pissy as he's been lately.
Thank somebody for that. Except Brad knows that he's not the one having a circle jerk with Nate, so who the fuck put that smile on his face?
Brad's not like the other boys. Back home he pays thousands of dollars a month for car insurance because he's got this "need for speed" thing happening and all the tickets to show for it. He's also got this encyclopedic knowledge of radios and artillery, and all kinds of random ass shit that keeps him happy when everybody else is talking about bitches and hoes and rap and whatever else.
Brad's also got this thing happening with Lieutenant Nathaniel Fick, and he's not going to give it a name or think real hard about it, but he'll be damned if somebody else is going to get in there and take it away from him.
War's not really that great for down time, but every now and then you get a few lulls. The next time the company actually gets time to dig a hole to take a shit, Brad wanders off. He's not really looking for Nate, but if he finds him talking to his boys or going over maps, or hey, hiding under a Humvee, Brad'll take it where he can get it.
"You hiding out here for a reason?" Brad asks, scooting underneath the truck and getting sand all down the back of his pants. Fuck, he never should've taken off his jacket, but all they do all day is sweat and get dirty and he was starting to self-marinate.
Fick turns his head and gives Brad this grin, like this is vacation and he's got nothing but time to kill. "I'm not hiding, I'm resting."
"Your new grave is under this piece of shit?"
Nate snorts softly. "That's very observant of you."
Brad blinks. "So, shit's all fucked up."
Nate's face shuts down. "I don’t want to talk about it."
"All right, you want to fuck around?"
Nate's eyebrows climb for his hairline. "That’s not even funny, Brad."
Brad smirks. "Yeah, but you're not worried about the captain's bullshit anymore, are you?"
Nate turns his head away. "Anything else, Sergeant?"
Brad thinks about it for a moment, looking around underneath the Hummer for spying feet. "Yeah, are you fucking somebody else?" Fick makes this sort of choking sound and Brad whacks him on the arm. "Don’t die on me, shit."
Nate looks back over at Brad. "What the hell are you talking about?" he hisses in a low voice. "I'm not even fucking you!"
Brad smirks. "Yeah, but we aren't gonna be here forever," he says, beginning to wriggle out from underneath the truck. "I plan to get some, and I'm not talking about some Hajis either."
He's stopped by Fick grabbing his shirt. "Are you trying to insinuate something?" Nate asks, green eyes sharp.
Brad leans forward and gives Nate his brightest smile and his lowest voice. "I'm not queer, but I'm going to fuck you, Lieutenant. You should probably get used to the idea."
Nate blinks owlishly once, twice, and then lets Brad go. It's nice when everybody agrees on something. They both look around at the sound and earth-shaking feel of several pairs of boots stomping their way. "Hoo-rah," Nate says in agreement over the approaching din.
Brad finishes extracting himself from underneath the Hummer, stands up, and slaps the side of the vehicle. "Hoo-rah," he says, smiling over at Pappy, Doc and Rudy.
Pappy eyes Brad curiously. "Why're you so fucking happy? Who the hell sucked your dick?"
"I did," Rudy says with a crooked smile.
Brad laughs as Nate's head pops up from the other side of the Hummer.
"You did what?" Fick asks smoothly.
"Never mind," Doc laughs.
"You are some of the most homo-obsessed motherfuckers, ever," Pappy says dismissively.
Brad just shakes his head; they don't even know.
-end-
Title from the song by Joseph Arthur.