Fic: "Trigger Finger" (Generation Kill)
Brad/Ray, NC-17. Gunplay.
This is irredeemable filth. Also, it's for romanticalgirl.
Rule #1--this is strictly a stateside game, only to be played very very far away from the AO.
Who the hell needed it, inside the wire--jacked up on adrenaline and terror and the pumped-up overplayed Corps-imposed need to get some, where even the sitting around and waiting had a frantic edge? Only a genuinely and irredeemably sick fuck, that's who.
Brad and Ray are sick and twisted fucks, no question, but they weren't that bad. They only do this to recapture a little taste of what that jacked-up AO adrenaline tastes like.
Rule #2--Brad had better be pretty goddamn sure.
"If I'm going to die while engaged in deviant homosexual activities," Ray said the one and only time they talked about it, "it had better be because you're just that amazingly fucking good, Colbert, not because you're an unbelievable dumbass."
Thereby reminding Brad of one of the other virtues of the game, that being that it shut Ray the hell up for a decent stretch of time, longer or shorter depending on how nice Brad was feeling.
Brad doesn't usually feel all that nice, stateside. Being there makes him itchy.
Rule #3--they don't talk about it. There was the one exception mentioned above, but they both quickly realized that that was a mistake.
From then on, it was all signal and counter-signal, no words needed. They were goddamn recon Marines, after all. Words were for reservists and civilians and assholes in the fucking Air Force or something.
So. no direct references. Ray usually made his inclination known by being as unbearably fucking annoying stateside as he usually only was on active duty. Brad accepted the offer by grabbing Ray by the shirt collar and hauling him off somewhere private.
If Brad was doing the initiating, he generally just stared at Ray until Ray caught on. Response time varied, but once stuff clicked into place, Ray would start acting like even more of a horny meth-addled barn cat in heat than usual in no time flat.
Rule #4--doors that lock, no windows.
Better not to even risk any questions about why that fine upstanding Sergeant Colbert was shoving that nice Corporal Person down to his knees, Person fighting for every inch, punches landing solid and heavy anywhere but the face. Brad always shoves him down the last bit hard enough for Ray's teeth to click as they hit together a split second after his knees hit the floor. That's a split second of stillness while Ray's nerves are too stunned to respond, and that's when Brad can reach for his nine mil.
Every time, every fucking time, Ray's mouth opens on a sharp huff of air, like he's surprised, lips parted and wet and red. Brad drags the muzzle across Ray's lower lip, pushing it down away from his teeth, exposing all that pretty flesh inside, and Ray shifts a litle on his knees, closer, because he's an orally-fixated fellatio-hungry little shit, and Brad tells him so.
"C'mon," Ray says, and licks the end of the barrel. It's got to taste awful, like steel and gun oil, but Ray never seems to care, he fucking loves it, as the hard-on in his pants like a nine mil of his own makes clear.
"Ask nicely," Brad says, and Ray rolls his eyes, so Brad smacks the gun barrel against his neck. Right across his jugular, just once, fast, just a warning, and it makes Ray's eyes go so damn wide. Makes him look almost fucking innocent for just a minute.
"I said ask nicely," Brad repeats, while Ray remembers how to breathe and think and swallow. "What the hell is the matter with you?"
"I'm sorry, sir," Ray says, but he sounds more pissy than sorry, so this time Brad lets the butt of the gun catch him in the jaw. Not a full-on pistol-whip--he doesn't want Ray unconscious--but hard enough that Ray fucking feels it.
"I'm sorry," Ray says, and this time, yeah, he might mean it. Brad cocks an eyebrow and lifts the nine again, just a little, until Ray spits out "sir."
"Now say please, goddamn it."
"Please, sir," Ray says, and there's an edge there, or maybe it's a hollow--an absence of the usual sarcasm and irony that animate every word that comes out of Ray Person's mouth. There's no room for irony here, or humor of any kind, not right now. Deadly serious.
Brad runs the muzzle along Ray's lower lip again, and this time Ray opens his mouth easily, just parts his lips pretty and lets Brad slide the nine right in.
Say one thing for Ray's oral fixation, he sucks like a champion, just as messy and enthusiastic as he eats and drinks and runs his fucking mouth. All spit and wet, sloppy sounds around the barrel, plus all those little gasps and groans that hit Brad like fingernails sliding along his skin, setting his nerves on fire. He thrusts the nine a little more, harder, deeper into Ray's throat until he gags.
Brad pulls the gun away and wipes the barrel on his pants, catching his breath roughly before he speaks. "Hands and knees."
Ray rubs the back of his hand across his mouth. His eyes are glassy and only half-focused, his mouth's all swollen and fucked-up looking, and Brad can't wait another minute.
"I said get on your hands and fucking knees." He grabs the back of Ray's head and shoves him down, hard, and Ray goes, catching himself on his hands with a low groan. Brad reaches down and around, finding Ray's fly and stripping the button and zipper fast, efficient, just like they teach all good Marines to be. He yanks Ray's fatigues down his thighs, leaving his ass exposed and pushed up in the air.
Ray's saying something, but Brad isn't really listening; it's Ray's usual stream-of-consciousness improv poetry bullshit backwoods rambling, and Brad doesn't give a shit about any of it as long as nothing sounds like Ray wants him to stop. Rule #5.
Given that what he does catch sounds more like if he stops, Ray will kill him, he's pretty sure the rules are still intact.
He smacks Ray's ass with the flat of his hand. "Shut the hell up."
"Make me," Ray says, and Brad smacks him again before setting the gun on the floor and getting his own fatigues out of the way.
Condom and lubricant are produced from his jacket pocket--rule #6, if whoever's turn it is to remember those forgets, an ass-kicking of epic proportions from the other party is mandatory--and taken care of with the same brutal-fast efficiency. Ray's talking again, of course, some profanity-filled rant about how if Brad doesn't fucking fuck him right fucking now, Ray is going to tell everyone in the batallion that Brad's parents didn't just circumsize him, they castrated him, and his whole life has been an elaborate performance-art piece of overcompensation.
Brad grabs Ray's hip with one hand and guides his dick with the other, pushing into Ray with one thrust. "Will you shut the fuck up," he gasps in Ray's ear. Ray's answer is a noise Brad didn't think he could make. Learn something new every day.
Brad scoops the gun up off the floor, the grip as comfortable and familiar as the rhythm his hips are finding. His other hand holds Ray's hip hard, keeping him steady. He draws the muzzle down Ray's spine, the metal sreaking the sweat on Ray's skin, and Ray's whole body jerks in reaction.
Brad tightens his hand on Ray, enough that it'll probably bruise. "Person, if you blow your load now I'm gonna tell everybody in Bravo that--"
"Shut up," Ray gasps, "shut up and fucking fuck me, Brad."
It's an order. From a subordinate, but still, Brad likes orders, and this one he's especially fond of. He settles the gun against the back of Ray's head, right against the base of his skull, and gives him everything he's got, driving into him and digging his fingers down into skin and bone.
He doesn't touch Ray's dick until he feels himself getting close, his stomach tightening and heat crawling up his spine toward his brain. He lets the gun fall to the floor again and wraps his hand around Ray, jerking him off fast and tight, no hesitation.
Ray comes over his hand in a hot rush and Brad bites him on the shoulder, burying himself as deep as he can and shuddering through his own orgasm.
Rule #7--post-fucktual tenderness is strictly forbidden.
"You stupid goddamn braindead reject from the Aryan Nations," Ray says, standing in front of the bathroom mirror. "You fucking bit me. It left a mark. How the fucking fuck am I supposed to cover that up?"
"The same way you covered up the hickeys your buck-toothed four-legged girlfriends gave you in high school, Ray."
"You're the worst stealth homosexual ever, Colbert."
Brad rolls his eyes and slides the nine back into its holster. He checks the safety by reflex, even though his isn't even his actual sidearm. It's an out-of-the-box virgin specimen he lifted from supply that has never known the touch of ammo, yet he checks every time. Some habits are beaten into the DNA.
Rule #8, copied from rule #1 of gun safety--the only safety is the one between your ears. The question of if that's good enough is what they're getting off on.
This is irredeemable filth. Also, it's for romanticalgirl.
Rule #1--this is strictly a stateside game, only to be played very very far away from the AO.
Who the hell needed it, inside the wire--jacked up on adrenaline and terror and the pumped-up overplayed Corps-imposed need to get some, where even the sitting around and waiting had a frantic edge? Only a genuinely and irredeemably sick fuck, that's who.
Brad and Ray are sick and twisted fucks, no question, but they weren't that bad. They only do this to recapture a little taste of what that jacked-up AO adrenaline tastes like.
Rule #2--Brad had better be pretty goddamn sure.
"If I'm going to die while engaged in deviant homosexual activities," Ray said the one and only time they talked about it, "it had better be because you're just that amazingly fucking good, Colbert, not because you're an unbelievable dumbass."
Thereby reminding Brad of one of the other virtues of the game, that being that it shut Ray the hell up for a decent stretch of time, longer or shorter depending on how nice Brad was feeling.
Brad doesn't usually feel all that nice, stateside. Being there makes him itchy.
Rule #3--they don't talk about it. There was the one exception mentioned above, but they both quickly realized that that was a mistake.
From then on, it was all signal and counter-signal, no words needed. They were goddamn recon Marines, after all. Words were for reservists and civilians and assholes in the fucking Air Force or something.
So. no direct references. Ray usually made his inclination known by being as unbearably fucking annoying stateside as he usually only was on active duty. Brad accepted the offer by grabbing Ray by the shirt collar and hauling him off somewhere private.
If Brad was doing the initiating, he generally just stared at Ray until Ray caught on. Response time varied, but once stuff clicked into place, Ray would start acting like even more of a horny meth-addled barn cat in heat than usual in no time flat.
Rule #4--doors that lock, no windows.
Better not to even risk any questions about why that fine upstanding Sergeant Colbert was shoving that nice Corporal Person down to his knees, Person fighting for every inch, punches landing solid and heavy anywhere but the face. Brad always shoves him down the last bit hard enough for Ray's teeth to click as they hit together a split second after his knees hit the floor. That's a split second of stillness while Ray's nerves are too stunned to respond, and that's when Brad can reach for his nine mil.
Every time, every fucking time, Ray's mouth opens on a sharp huff of air, like he's surprised, lips parted and wet and red. Brad drags the muzzle across Ray's lower lip, pushing it down away from his teeth, exposing all that pretty flesh inside, and Ray shifts a litle on his knees, closer, because he's an orally-fixated fellatio-hungry little shit, and Brad tells him so.
"C'mon," Ray says, and licks the end of the barrel. It's got to taste awful, like steel and gun oil, but Ray never seems to care, he fucking loves it, as the hard-on in his pants like a nine mil of his own makes clear.
"Ask nicely," Brad says, and Ray rolls his eyes, so Brad smacks the gun barrel against his neck. Right across his jugular, just once, fast, just a warning, and it makes Ray's eyes go so damn wide. Makes him look almost fucking innocent for just a minute.
"I said ask nicely," Brad repeats, while Ray remembers how to breathe and think and swallow. "What the hell is the matter with you?"
"I'm sorry, sir," Ray says, but he sounds more pissy than sorry, so this time Brad lets the butt of the gun catch him in the jaw. Not a full-on pistol-whip--he doesn't want Ray unconscious--but hard enough that Ray fucking feels it.
"I'm sorry," Ray says, and this time, yeah, he might mean it. Brad cocks an eyebrow and lifts the nine again, just a little, until Ray spits out "sir."
"Now say please, goddamn it."
"Please, sir," Ray says, and there's an edge there, or maybe it's a hollow--an absence of the usual sarcasm and irony that animate every word that comes out of Ray Person's mouth. There's no room for irony here, or humor of any kind, not right now. Deadly serious.
Brad runs the muzzle along Ray's lower lip again, and this time Ray opens his mouth easily, just parts his lips pretty and lets Brad slide the nine right in.
Say one thing for Ray's oral fixation, he sucks like a champion, just as messy and enthusiastic as he eats and drinks and runs his fucking mouth. All spit and wet, sloppy sounds around the barrel, plus all those little gasps and groans that hit Brad like fingernails sliding along his skin, setting his nerves on fire. He thrusts the nine a little more, harder, deeper into Ray's throat until he gags.
Brad pulls the gun away and wipes the barrel on his pants, catching his breath roughly before he speaks. "Hands and knees."
Ray rubs the back of his hand across his mouth. His eyes are glassy and only half-focused, his mouth's all swollen and fucked-up looking, and Brad can't wait another minute.
"I said get on your hands and fucking knees." He grabs the back of Ray's head and shoves him down, hard, and Ray goes, catching himself on his hands with a low groan. Brad reaches down and around, finding Ray's fly and stripping the button and zipper fast, efficient, just like they teach all good Marines to be. He yanks Ray's fatigues down his thighs, leaving his ass exposed and pushed up in the air.
Ray's saying something, but Brad isn't really listening; it's Ray's usual stream-of-consciousness improv poetry bullshit backwoods rambling, and Brad doesn't give a shit about any of it as long as nothing sounds like Ray wants him to stop. Rule #5.
Given that what he does catch sounds more like if he stops, Ray will kill him, he's pretty sure the rules are still intact.
He smacks Ray's ass with the flat of his hand. "Shut the hell up."
"Make me," Ray says, and Brad smacks him again before setting the gun on the floor and getting his own fatigues out of the way.
Condom and lubricant are produced from his jacket pocket--rule #6, if whoever's turn it is to remember those forgets, an ass-kicking of epic proportions from the other party is mandatory--and taken care of with the same brutal-fast efficiency. Ray's talking again, of course, some profanity-filled rant about how if Brad doesn't fucking fuck him right fucking now, Ray is going to tell everyone in the batallion that Brad's parents didn't just circumsize him, they castrated him, and his whole life has been an elaborate performance-art piece of overcompensation.
Brad grabs Ray's hip with one hand and guides his dick with the other, pushing into Ray with one thrust. "Will you shut the fuck up," he gasps in Ray's ear. Ray's answer is a noise Brad didn't think he could make. Learn something new every day.
Brad scoops the gun up off the floor, the grip as comfortable and familiar as the rhythm his hips are finding. His other hand holds Ray's hip hard, keeping him steady. He draws the muzzle down Ray's spine, the metal sreaking the sweat on Ray's skin, and Ray's whole body jerks in reaction.
Brad tightens his hand on Ray, enough that it'll probably bruise. "Person, if you blow your load now I'm gonna tell everybody in Bravo that--"
"Shut up," Ray gasps, "shut up and fucking fuck me, Brad."
It's an order. From a subordinate, but still, Brad likes orders, and this one he's especially fond of. He settles the gun against the back of Ray's head, right against the base of his skull, and gives him everything he's got, driving into him and digging his fingers down into skin and bone.
He doesn't touch Ray's dick until he feels himself getting close, his stomach tightening and heat crawling up his spine toward his brain. He lets the gun fall to the floor again and wraps his hand around Ray, jerking him off fast and tight, no hesitation.
Ray comes over his hand in a hot rush and Brad bites him on the shoulder, burying himself as deep as he can and shuddering through his own orgasm.
Rule #7--post-fucktual tenderness is strictly forbidden.
"You stupid goddamn braindead reject from the Aryan Nations," Ray says, standing in front of the bathroom mirror. "You fucking bit me. It left a mark. How the fucking fuck am I supposed to cover that up?"
"The same way you covered up the hickeys your buck-toothed four-legged girlfriends gave you in high school, Ray."
"You're the worst stealth homosexual ever, Colbert."
Brad rolls his eyes and slides the nine back into its holster. He checks the safety by reflex, even though his isn't even his actual sidearm. It's an out-of-the-box virgin specimen he lifted from supply that has never known the touch of ammo, yet he checks every time. Some habits are beaten into the DNA.
Rule #8, copied from rule #1 of gun safety--the only safety is the one between your ears. The question of if that's good enough is what they're getting off on.