Generation Kill fic: da bigga, da blacka mustache
First tentative dip of my toe in the waters in this fandom - just a wee fic, dedicated to everyone who's made me feel so welcome in the fandom. Thank you!
Title: da bigga, da blacka mustache
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters: ensemble, sort of Brad/Nate
Rating: R is for Ray, NC-17 for porn
Word count: 1,782 words
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: Beta thanks to the lovely romanticalgirl, who saved me from a heinous Chef Boyardee error. Title from Mia Carlotta by T. A. Daly.
"Bravo Two. Listen up."
The L.T. announces himself quietly at the mouth of the enlisted tent. His voice is soft, but the marines to a man drop what they're doing and turn to listen. Brad doesn't move from his rack, but he opens his eyes and gives the L.T. his full attention. He always does.
"Three things. First, I have been assured that a sufficient stock of triple A batteries will be arriving on the next transport. We won't be going in blind."
He looks like he believes it. Brad respects Fick, more than any other officer in the Corps - hell, more than anyone else in the Corps, officer or grunt - but sometimes his naïveté shows through. There's a soft cheer from the men, more for politeness sake than because they actually believe it.
"Second, we have a date scheduled for a live fire training exercise, in two weeks time. Tuesday the eleventh. This might be our only chance before we step off, so make the most of it."
This time the cheer is genuinely enthusiastic.
"And finally, Godfather has declared a competition among the line companies." He pauses, a mere glint of humor. "A mustache growing competition."
The L.T. isn't catching anyone's eye even though he's looking around the tent. Brad's already learned what that means - Fick is trying not to laugh out loud. He keeps it in admirably, just the faintest crinkle at the corner of his eyes, nothing else, not even his mouth, though Brad's seen how expressive that can be, amusement and frustration and anger all, even though they're not even in the war yet. Right now, his stance is square, his face impassive apart from that hint in his eyes, and Brad doubts anyone else would notice that. There's no one else who watches the L.T. the way he does. Not even Gunny, and it's his job. Brad thinks maybe he ought to question his own motives, but he doesn't, not now, not ever if he can help it. Some things don't bear questioning.
Hector coughs. "Isn't that a violation of the grooming standard?"
"Are you questioning Godfather's order, Corporal?" Still no hint of a smile, but Brad knows the L.T.'s amused. He's not even certain how he knows anymore, because even that slight giveaway around his eyes has gone. But Brad's as sure of it as he's sure J. Lo's ass is big and round and luscious.
"No, Sir."
"What's the prize, Sir?" Pappy asks, as cocky as a little Phuket boy whore with his mouth full of dick. Thinks he's got the prize already, before the competition's even begun.
"Godfather hasn't apprised me of that information as yet. I'll be sure to inform you as soon as I know."
The L.T. ducks his head in dismissal at the end of his little speech, sticks his soft cover back on, and turns sharply out of the tent. Brad watches him for a moment, imagining that he can see the blossoming grin on the L.T.'s face as soon as he's out of view of his platoon.
"Fuck, yeah, dawg." The moment the L.T.'s out of hearing range, the tent erupts. Brad closes his eyes and lets it wash over him.
"You gonna take part?" Q-Tip asks, his voice close enough that he must be talking to Brad. Brad opens one eye, gives him a look that he trusts conveys his complete and utter lack of need to prove his manhood by taking part in any such competition, and closes his eye again.
"I'll look miiiighty fine with a moostache," Manimal drawls.
There's a choked laugh from the entrance. Brad doesn't have to check to know it's Ray, back from a leisurely jerk. Very leisurely-he's been away close to an hour. "What's up?" Ray asks. "And why the fuck is Manimal gonna grow a mustache?"
"Mr. Potato Head is going to be throwing a shit fit, that's what up," Doc informs him.
Brad lets loose a little smile at the thought of Sergeant Major Sixta's reaction to the news. He sits up and swings his feet onto the deck. "Mustache growing competition, decree from Godfather," he says succinctly.
"Fuck me," Ray exclaims, throwing a well-thumbed and moderately stained copy of Juggs down on his rack. "No, no, no, that's all kinds of wrong."
"What's wrong?" Walt asks before Brad gets a chance to glare him into silence. Ray doesn't need encouraging.
Ray wraps an arm around Walt's shoulders and addresses him gravely. "Why not, my man? You ask why not? Hitler, that's why not. Mussolini. Robert Mugabe." His voice rises with every name. "Saddam fucking Hussein. Colonel Sanders."
Brad raises an eyebrow at the last one, but doesn't bother interrupting.
"Mustaches are evil," Ray continues, warming to his subject. "We're fighting a war against evil, mustaches are evil, ergo we are fighting a war against mustaches. This is our war, and we don't want no fucking mustaches in our ranks."
Brad laughs, more air than sound, a soft puff of amusement. "An excellent piece of reasoning, Ray."
"What's ergo mean?" Q-Tip asks. Nobody bothers to answer him.
Trombley looks puzzled. "How're mustaches evil?" he asks.
"They're not," Walt answers. "Hitler was one evil bastard, but his mustache was just-"
Ray slaps a hand over Walt's mouth, effectively gagging him.
Brad groans and waits for the inevitable.
"Why do you think those hippy, mustache wearing motherfuckers were evil?" Ray asks Trombley. Trombley just stares at him, bug-eyed and silent. "You think they were born evil? That they dropped out of their mothers' wombs all squinty-eyed and fucked up and evil? Hell, no. Hitler's mother thought his shit fucking smelled of sunshine and daisies and rainbows. Pedro Alonzo Lopez had nothing worse than a fucking milk mustache from sucking his mother's big titties. But then they grew up and, like fucking morons, thought they'd grow some face fungus and they turned evil overnight. Bam." Ray lets go of Walt and punctuates his point by slamming his fist down on a case. "And do you know why they suddenly turned evil the moment their faces sprouted fucking fanny dusters?"
"We don't want to know, Ray," Brad interjects. Brad doesn't normally jump into a hopeless cause, but sometimes with Ray he at least has to appear to make the effort.
Ray ignores him. "Because of pussy. The second that crumb catcher appears, they've lost all chance at decent pussy. All they get is the dregs, the smelly cunts or stitched up bitches and dried out whores no one else wants, because no self-respecting woman wants a toothbrush rubbing up her cunt when she can have smooth ass skin like this." He pouts his lips and rubs his finger lovingly above his upper lip. "So they're all pussyless or making doing with cut-price pussy or nasty, sloppy seconds, and it turns them crazy, and they go all hating on everyone who's getting the good pussy. Mustaches make them crazed motherfucking killers."
Brad could point out that everyone in the tent is either a crazy motherfucking killer or wants to be a crazy motherfucking killer. He doesn't.
"So everything comes down to pussy?" Walt looks impressed by the idea.
"Too right, motherfucker. Pussy is what makes the world go round, and lack of pussy is what makes the world go wrong."
"What about porn 'staches?" Gabe asks.
"Only motherfucking faggots grow porn 'staches. For when they're licking assholes, so they can brush the shit chute first. This whole competition, it's motherfucking gay, that's what it is."
"I used to have a mustache," Rudy points out.
"You prove my point, brother."
"You are so fucking retarded, Ray," Brad says mildly.
Ray shrugs carelessly, steam vented, then wanders off, probably to go hit up Rudy for some coffee.
"You think the lieutenant is going to try and grow a 'stache?" Walt asks, and a rise of laughter rounds the tent, strong enough to halt the training fights and the squabbling over a porn mag. Brad feels a matching rise of something like anger in his gut.
He recognizes anger. There's no 'like' about it. He's angry.
"Bet the L.T. ain't go no fluff on his balls," Poke says.
"If they've even dropped." Brad doesn't try to identify that voice from across the tent in case he's tempted to pick up his M-4 and do some damage.
"He could try to grow a little porn 'stache, though," Hector suggests. "To go with those fucking gorgeous cock-sucking lips of his."
"That's a superior officer you're talking about." It comes out sharper than Brad intends, less of a joke.
He's got to stop this now, getting all protective over the L.T..
Brad's mouth, like the rest of him, is on permanent red-con one. If he's awake, he's alert. Hell, if he's asleep, he's still ready. And he always has an exit strategy. He never walks into anything without one. Except, apparently, this. Because he has no idea how to clear his head of the image of the L.T.'s lips wrapped around his dick or how to quell the fucking traitorous reaction of his body to the idea, but he has to do both fast and shut this down.
He stands up.
"If, gentlemen, the number of hairs on a devil dog's nuts equated in any way to his manhood, Corporal Leon here would be the shining, hairy example for us all to aspire to. As we know that's bullshit, and Corporal Leon's an ass-munching bumfuck, it's patently clear that there is no correlation between number of ass hairs, or, equally, amount of facial hair that can be grown in a specified period, and manliness."
Trombley looks confused-probably still trying to work out the meaning of correlation. Brad likes to think he's educating the younger generation, in more ways than one.
Rudy, the smoothest-assed motherfucker in the Corps, punches the air and starts talking about the benefits of shaven balls. "Makes them much more sensitive," Brad hears before he tunes him out.
"Suck my hairy balls," Ray shouts, for no apparent reason.
Conversation over.
It isn't over for Brad, though, not when he heads straight for the relative privacy of a portaloo and jerks off without any aid from a magazine, just the image of his commanding officer sprawled over the hood of a Humvee. As he comes, harder than he has in months, he imagines it hitting Nate's face. He pictures the splatter on Nate's cheeks, a trail running down onto his lips, and he groans as he imagines Nate licking his lips, licking Brad's come off his lips and smiling that little, quirky smile that he seems to save for Brad.
Definitely not over.
//
Title: da bigga, da blacka mustache
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters: ensemble, sort of Brad/Nate
Rating: R is for Ray, NC-17 for porn
Word count: 1,782 words
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: Beta thanks to the lovely romanticalgirl, who saved me from a heinous Chef Boyardee error. Title from Mia Carlotta by T. A. Daly.
"Bravo Two. Listen up."
The L.T. announces himself quietly at the mouth of the enlisted tent. His voice is soft, but the marines to a man drop what they're doing and turn to listen. Brad doesn't move from his rack, but he opens his eyes and gives the L.T. his full attention. He always does.
"Three things. First, I have been assured that a sufficient stock of triple A batteries will be arriving on the next transport. We won't be going in blind."
He looks like he believes it. Brad respects Fick, more than any other officer in the Corps - hell, more than anyone else in the Corps, officer or grunt - but sometimes his naïveté shows through. There's a soft cheer from the men, more for politeness sake than because they actually believe it.
"Second, we have a date scheduled for a live fire training exercise, in two weeks time. Tuesday the eleventh. This might be our only chance before we step off, so make the most of it."
This time the cheer is genuinely enthusiastic.
"And finally, Godfather has declared a competition among the line companies." He pauses, a mere glint of humor. "A mustache growing competition."
The L.T. isn't catching anyone's eye even though he's looking around the tent. Brad's already learned what that means - Fick is trying not to laugh out loud. He keeps it in admirably, just the faintest crinkle at the corner of his eyes, nothing else, not even his mouth, though Brad's seen how expressive that can be, amusement and frustration and anger all, even though they're not even in the war yet. Right now, his stance is square, his face impassive apart from that hint in his eyes, and Brad doubts anyone else would notice that. There's no one else who watches the L.T. the way he does. Not even Gunny, and it's his job. Brad thinks maybe he ought to question his own motives, but he doesn't, not now, not ever if he can help it. Some things don't bear questioning.
Hector coughs. "Isn't that a violation of the grooming standard?"
"Are you questioning Godfather's order, Corporal?" Still no hint of a smile, but Brad knows the L.T.'s amused. He's not even certain how he knows anymore, because even that slight giveaway around his eyes has gone. But Brad's as sure of it as he's sure J. Lo's ass is big and round and luscious.
"No, Sir."
"What's the prize, Sir?" Pappy asks, as cocky as a little Phuket boy whore with his mouth full of dick. Thinks he's got the prize already, before the competition's even begun.
"Godfather hasn't apprised me of that information as yet. I'll be sure to inform you as soon as I know."
The L.T. ducks his head in dismissal at the end of his little speech, sticks his soft cover back on, and turns sharply out of the tent. Brad watches him for a moment, imagining that he can see the blossoming grin on the L.T.'s face as soon as he's out of view of his platoon.
"Fuck, yeah, dawg." The moment the L.T.'s out of hearing range, the tent erupts. Brad closes his eyes and lets it wash over him.
"You gonna take part?" Q-Tip asks, his voice close enough that he must be talking to Brad. Brad opens one eye, gives him a look that he trusts conveys his complete and utter lack of need to prove his manhood by taking part in any such competition, and closes his eye again.
"I'll look miiiighty fine with a moostache," Manimal drawls.
There's a choked laugh from the entrance. Brad doesn't have to check to know it's Ray, back from a leisurely jerk. Very leisurely-he's been away close to an hour. "What's up?" Ray asks. "And why the fuck is Manimal gonna grow a mustache?"
"Mr. Potato Head is going to be throwing a shit fit, that's what up," Doc informs him.
Brad lets loose a little smile at the thought of Sergeant Major Sixta's reaction to the news. He sits up and swings his feet onto the deck. "Mustache growing competition, decree from Godfather," he says succinctly.
"Fuck me," Ray exclaims, throwing a well-thumbed and moderately stained copy of Juggs down on his rack. "No, no, no, that's all kinds of wrong."
"What's wrong?" Walt asks before Brad gets a chance to glare him into silence. Ray doesn't need encouraging.
Ray wraps an arm around Walt's shoulders and addresses him gravely. "Why not, my man? You ask why not? Hitler, that's why not. Mussolini. Robert Mugabe." His voice rises with every name. "Saddam fucking Hussein. Colonel Sanders."
Brad raises an eyebrow at the last one, but doesn't bother interrupting.
"Mustaches are evil," Ray continues, warming to his subject. "We're fighting a war against evil, mustaches are evil, ergo we are fighting a war against mustaches. This is our war, and we don't want no fucking mustaches in our ranks."
Brad laughs, more air than sound, a soft puff of amusement. "An excellent piece of reasoning, Ray."
"What's ergo mean?" Q-Tip asks. Nobody bothers to answer him.
Trombley looks puzzled. "How're mustaches evil?" he asks.
"They're not," Walt answers. "Hitler was one evil bastard, but his mustache was just-"
Ray slaps a hand over Walt's mouth, effectively gagging him.
Brad groans and waits for the inevitable.
"Why do you think those hippy, mustache wearing motherfuckers were evil?" Ray asks Trombley. Trombley just stares at him, bug-eyed and silent. "You think they were born evil? That they dropped out of their mothers' wombs all squinty-eyed and fucked up and evil? Hell, no. Hitler's mother thought his shit fucking smelled of sunshine and daisies and rainbows. Pedro Alonzo Lopez had nothing worse than a fucking milk mustache from sucking his mother's big titties. But then they grew up and, like fucking morons, thought they'd grow some face fungus and they turned evil overnight. Bam." Ray lets go of Walt and punctuates his point by slamming his fist down on a case. "And do you know why they suddenly turned evil the moment their faces sprouted fucking fanny dusters?"
"We don't want to know, Ray," Brad interjects. Brad doesn't normally jump into a hopeless cause, but sometimes with Ray he at least has to appear to make the effort.
Ray ignores him. "Because of pussy. The second that crumb catcher appears, they've lost all chance at decent pussy. All they get is the dregs, the smelly cunts or stitched up bitches and dried out whores no one else wants, because no self-respecting woman wants a toothbrush rubbing up her cunt when she can have smooth ass skin like this." He pouts his lips and rubs his finger lovingly above his upper lip. "So they're all pussyless or making doing with cut-price pussy or nasty, sloppy seconds, and it turns them crazy, and they go all hating on everyone who's getting the good pussy. Mustaches make them crazed motherfucking killers."
Brad could point out that everyone in the tent is either a crazy motherfucking killer or wants to be a crazy motherfucking killer. He doesn't.
"So everything comes down to pussy?" Walt looks impressed by the idea.
"Too right, motherfucker. Pussy is what makes the world go round, and lack of pussy is what makes the world go wrong."
"What about porn 'staches?" Gabe asks.
"Only motherfucking faggots grow porn 'staches. For when they're licking assholes, so they can brush the shit chute first. This whole competition, it's motherfucking gay, that's what it is."
"I used to have a mustache," Rudy points out.
"You prove my point, brother."
"You are so fucking retarded, Ray," Brad says mildly.
Ray shrugs carelessly, steam vented, then wanders off, probably to go hit up Rudy for some coffee.
"You think the lieutenant is going to try and grow a 'stache?" Walt asks, and a rise of laughter rounds the tent, strong enough to halt the training fights and the squabbling over a porn mag. Brad feels a matching rise of something like anger in his gut.
He recognizes anger. There's no 'like' about it. He's angry.
"Bet the L.T. ain't go no fluff on his balls," Poke says.
"If they've even dropped." Brad doesn't try to identify that voice from across the tent in case he's tempted to pick up his M-4 and do some damage.
"He could try to grow a little porn 'stache, though," Hector suggests. "To go with those fucking gorgeous cock-sucking lips of his."
"That's a superior officer you're talking about." It comes out sharper than Brad intends, less of a joke.
He's got to stop this now, getting all protective over the L.T..
Brad's mouth, like the rest of him, is on permanent red-con one. If he's awake, he's alert. Hell, if he's asleep, he's still ready. And he always has an exit strategy. He never walks into anything without one. Except, apparently, this. Because he has no idea how to clear his head of the image of the L.T.'s lips wrapped around his dick or how to quell the fucking traitorous reaction of his body to the idea, but he has to do both fast and shut this down.
He stands up.
"If, gentlemen, the number of hairs on a devil dog's nuts equated in any way to his manhood, Corporal Leon here would be the shining, hairy example for us all to aspire to. As we know that's bullshit, and Corporal Leon's an ass-munching bumfuck, it's patently clear that there is no correlation between number of ass hairs, or, equally, amount of facial hair that can be grown in a specified period, and manliness."
Trombley looks confused-probably still trying to work out the meaning of correlation. Brad likes to think he's educating the younger generation, in more ways than one.
Rudy, the smoothest-assed motherfucker in the Corps, punches the air and starts talking about the benefits of shaven balls. "Makes them much more sensitive," Brad hears before he tunes him out.
"Suck my hairy balls," Ray shouts, for no apparent reason.
Conversation over.
It isn't over for Brad, though, not when he heads straight for the relative privacy of a portaloo and jerks off without any aid from a magazine, just the image of his commanding officer sprawled over the hood of a Humvee. As he comes, harder than he has in months, he imagines it hitting Nate's face. He pictures the splatter on Nate's cheeks, a trail running down onto his lips, and he groans as he imagines Nate licking his lips, licking Brad's come off his lips and smiling that little, quirky smile that he seems to save for Brad.
Definitely not over.
//