149
built to hold and fit
Generation Kill (Christeson/Stafford)
1,518 words. Rated NC-17 for, uh, porn. Takes place sometime after episode five, A Burning Dog. Many thanks go to denialgreen and citrus_vanille for the cursory read-through. Any remaining errors are mine, and feel free to point out anything I've missed. Title is from the song Good Arms Vs. Bad Arms, by Frightened Rabbit.
This was written for Get Some: A Generation Kill Porn Skirmish, for the prompt "Christeson/Stafford: in the back of the humvee."
Fuck, yo. Getting hit motherfucking hurts.” Stafford grins at Christeson in that wide, loose-jawed way that he has, pushing the rag back up his forehead. His helmet is discarded by his side, but they’re stopped for the moment, so it doesn’t really matter.
“Fuck, yo. Getting hit motherfucking hurts.” Stafford grins at Christeson in that wide, loose-jawed way that he has, pushing the rag back up his forehead. His helmet is discarded by his side, but they’re stopped for the moment, so it doesn’t really matter. He leans back against a crate and checks his gun. Christeson knows that Stafford isn’t complaining because he can’t take the pain or some pussy shit like that. He’s complaining to remind everyone in hearing range that he’s a tough-ass motherfucker, sticking it out even after taking a hit.
Of course, several feet in front and to the right of the truck, the LT and Gunny Wynn aren’t going to be impressed, if they can even hear Stafford talking - the LT is still angry and guilty that anyone got hit at all, and Wynn isn’t the type to care about that moto bullshit. Both of which Stafford is completely aware of. This probably means that Stafford is trying to impress him, which is pretty fucking weird.
“Shit, Q-Tip,” Christeson says, lowering his voice, ”what’re you going mentioning that for? You know it makes the LT all twitchy and upset.” Christeson sneaks a glance through the front window but neither Wynn nor the LT seem to have noticed, thankfully. Christeson hates it when the LT is twitchy. He always tries to hide it, but it’s just no use. They all know his tells by now - the way he presses his lips together, or picks at the dirt caked into his MOPP suit.
“I’m jus’ sayin’,” Stafford says, shrugging affably. Stafford’s, like, the most affable hajji-killing marine Christeson knows.
“’You just sayin’’? You’re a cold-blooded killer, bro.”
“An’ I’m jus’ askin’ if, you know, you could help me out, yo. Bein’ that I’m a casualty of the war an’ all.” Stafford is utterly relaxed, checking his sector and then glancing at Christeson in his peripheral vision. Christeson snorts, and rolls his eyes. Stafford’s probably just going to get him to rap Tupac’s greatest hits and hand over all his pop tarts - even though the sly little shit was catching dogs and cooking them just yesterday.
“Whatever, man. What’d you need, exactly?”
‘Jus’ thought you might be able to, you know, give me a hand, basically.” Christeson jerks his head up at the emphasis on give me a hand, and sees Stafford waggling his stupid blond eyebrows, shit-eating grin on his stupid pointy face. When Stafford catches him looking, he thrusts his hips up a little, movement only slightly hindered by his MOPP suit.
Christeson sneaks a glance over his shoulder, but Wynn and the LT are still paying them no attention, deep in conversation about tactics, or karaoke, or whatever the fuck. “Are you fucking serious?” he asks, incredulous. His voice is a loud whisper, and he catches himself leaning forward before he can think about it.
Stafford laughs. “What, yo? I’m a fuckin’ war hero, don’t I deserve a reward?”
Christeson snorts again. How fucking like Stafford - kind of sly and kind of simple at the same time. Plus, it’s not like they haven’t screwed around before. Sometimes you got tired of your own right hand.
“You’re a whiny bastard, you know that?”
“Whatever.” Stafford is obviously aware that the insult is acceptance, and wraps his hand around Christeson’s wrist. His palms are dirty and calloused - Christeson wouldn’t be surprised if there was still some of his own blood caked on there, under his cuticles, or dried beneath his fingernails. His skin is still warm, though, and almost a shock against Christeson’s.
“The LT and Gunny are right there. I can’t believe you.” It’s pretty audacious, actually. Christeson is sort of impressed, despite himself.
“Guess I’ll have to be quiet, then,” Stafford says, and slumps down a little, hiding further behind the stacks of crates. It’ll shield him from the LT and Wynn, mostly, but the back is open to anyone who happens to walk by. His grip tightens on Christeson’s wrist, but he’s still grinning. He’s an asshole, definitely, but he does keep things interesting.
“You better be,” Christeson says, though he’s reaching out to palm the back of Stafford’s head, fingers brushing over the buzz of his hair. “I’m not getting kicked out of the marines for your skinny white ass.”
“Sure,” Stafford says easily, tugging Christeson forward. “Whatever you say.”
Stafford gets the last word, because he kisses Christeson then, probably more to shut him up than anything else. Still, Christeson grips the back of Stafford’s head, fingers pressing too hard, and that’s enough to assert some dominance over the situation. Stafford’s mouth is almost unpleasantly hot after days baking in the sun, and his lips are chapped, but Christeson can’t claim to mind much - he’s used to jerking off dry, sand still lodged under his fingernails. He likes the shape of Stafford’s lips, the catch and press of them against the corner of his mouth, then more centered and confident.
They’re definitely not functioning within the grooming standard at the moment - Stafford shucked the top half of his MOPP suit an hour ago, and now he’s pulling away to tug the suspenders down off his shoulders, letting the bottom half sag around his hips. Christeson’s rolling in his t-shirt, happy to let Stafford palm the left side of his rib cage with his free hand, the other leaving Christeson’s wrist to slide up to his shoulder.
It doesn’t take much effort for Christeson to slip his hand past the too-loose waistband of Stafford’s pants - and, seriously, fuck these ill-fitting uniforms - fingers skating immediately onto the bare, sweaty skin of Stafford’s lower belly.
“Of course you’re free-balling,” Christeson says, amused.
“Nothing wrong with easy access,” Stafford says, and then hisses quietly, fingers clutching at Christeson’s thigh, Christeson’s hand on his dick interrupting whatever smug shit he was about to spout.
Stafford’s half-hard, skin slick and tacky, and Christeson is seriously not going to smell his hand later, but the easy slide of his fingers around Stafford’s cock is powerful in a way that a gun isn’t. It only takes a few strokes for Stafford to get hard, and Christeson thinks I did that, even though it’s the stupidest thing he’s thought in a long time. He can see the tan skin of his arm disappear into Stafford’s pants, and the suppressed shudder of Stafford’s hips. When he looks up, he can’t help watching the way Stafford’s eyes are half-lidded, the way he licks his lips, breath panting just slightly audible.
Christeson slides his fingers down under the head of Stafford’s cock, movement only slightly hampered by the waistband. He brushes his thumb over the slit once, then twice, just to see the way Stafford tenses to keep from shifting, and then risks a glance over his shoulder. From what he can tell, crouched behind one of the stacks of crates, their COs are still talking shit about papayas or pussy or some shit - hopefully not about the two marines getting off in the back of the truck.
“C’mon, Q-Tip,” Christeson says, voice low, and he has to resist the urge to say my arm’s getting tired, because it’s not, he’s just an asshole. He speeds his hand up, tightens his grip almost painfully, and nearly laughs at the way Stafford holds in whatever sound he wants to make. His throat works, and he bites the inside of his cheek.
“Shut up,” Stafford bites out, and curls forward to lean his forehead on Christeson’s shoulder, fingers still clenched into Christeson’s thigh, tightening spasmodically. Christeson can feel the humid heat of Stafford’s breath through the thin cotton, Stafford’s fingernails through the tough fabric of his MOPP suit, and twists his hand on the down stroke. “Fuck.”
Stafford’s hips stutter once, and then he’s coming, biting into Christeson’s shoulder hard enough that it will probably leave a mark. Christeson palms the back of Stafford’s head again before he can think about it, waiting through the pulses until Stafford’s finished. He gives them both fifteen seconds of total quiet - gives Stafford the time to pull himself together - and then tugs his hand out of Stafford’s pants and looks at it. Predictably enough, it’s covered in come. Stafford tugs his suspenders up, and shrugs. He’s still flushed, lips bitten red from holding in sound, but he’s already controlling his breathing. Their training is definitely good for more than one thing.
“Wipe it on the outside of the truck. No one’ll care - if they even notice.”
Christeson laughs, and wipes it on Stafford’s pants. They’re still sitting too close, pressed shoulder to shoulder, Stafford’s fingers curled against Christeson’s thigh like he’s forgotten they’re there. “Nah, man, it’s yours. You keep it. My present to you.”
Stafford rubs it in with the heel of his hand. “Thanks, man. I ‘ppreciate the sentiment.”
“Anytime,” Christeson says. He wonders if he means that more globally, but it doesn’t really matter. The LT is on the move, which means they’re oscar mike in a few. Just in time. He rubs at the bite on his shoulder, where he can still feel Stafford’s teeth.
Generation Kill (Christeson/Stafford)
1,518 words. Rated NC-17 for, uh, porn. Takes place sometime after episode five, A Burning Dog. Many thanks go to denialgreen and citrus_vanille for the cursory read-through. Any remaining errors are mine, and feel free to point out anything I've missed. Title is from the song Good Arms Vs. Bad Arms, by Frightened Rabbit.
This was written for Get Some: A Generation Kill Porn Skirmish, for the prompt "Christeson/Stafford: in the back of the humvee."
Fuck, yo. Getting hit motherfucking hurts.” Stafford grins at Christeson in that wide, loose-jawed way that he has, pushing the rag back up his forehead. His helmet is discarded by his side, but they’re stopped for the moment, so it doesn’t really matter.
“Fuck, yo. Getting hit motherfucking hurts.” Stafford grins at Christeson in that wide, loose-jawed way that he has, pushing the rag back up his forehead. His helmet is discarded by his side, but they’re stopped for the moment, so it doesn’t really matter. He leans back against a crate and checks his gun. Christeson knows that Stafford isn’t complaining because he can’t take the pain or some pussy shit like that. He’s complaining to remind everyone in hearing range that he’s a tough-ass motherfucker, sticking it out even after taking a hit.
Of course, several feet in front and to the right of the truck, the LT and Gunny Wynn aren’t going to be impressed, if they can even hear Stafford talking - the LT is still angry and guilty that anyone got hit at all, and Wynn isn’t the type to care about that moto bullshit. Both of which Stafford is completely aware of. This probably means that Stafford is trying to impress him, which is pretty fucking weird.
“Shit, Q-Tip,” Christeson says, lowering his voice, ”what’re you going mentioning that for? You know it makes the LT all twitchy and upset.” Christeson sneaks a glance through the front window but neither Wynn nor the LT seem to have noticed, thankfully. Christeson hates it when the LT is twitchy. He always tries to hide it, but it’s just no use. They all know his tells by now - the way he presses his lips together, or picks at the dirt caked into his MOPP suit.
“I’m jus’ sayin’,” Stafford says, shrugging affably. Stafford’s, like, the most affable hajji-killing marine Christeson knows.
“’You just sayin’’? You’re a cold-blooded killer, bro.”
“An’ I’m jus’ askin’ if, you know, you could help me out, yo. Bein’ that I’m a casualty of the war an’ all.” Stafford is utterly relaxed, checking his sector and then glancing at Christeson in his peripheral vision. Christeson snorts, and rolls his eyes. Stafford’s probably just going to get him to rap Tupac’s greatest hits and hand over all his pop tarts - even though the sly little shit was catching dogs and cooking them just yesterday.
“Whatever, man. What’d you need, exactly?”
‘Jus’ thought you might be able to, you know, give me a hand, basically.” Christeson jerks his head up at the emphasis on give me a hand, and sees Stafford waggling his stupid blond eyebrows, shit-eating grin on his stupid pointy face. When Stafford catches him looking, he thrusts his hips up a little, movement only slightly hindered by his MOPP suit.
Christeson sneaks a glance over his shoulder, but Wynn and the LT are still paying them no attention, deep in conversation about tactics, or karaoke, or whatever the fuck. “Are you fucking serious?” he asks, incredulous. His voice is a loud whisper, and he catches himself leaning forward before he can think about it.
Stafford laughs. “What, yo? I’m a fuckin’ war hero, don’t I deserve a reward?”
Christeson snorts again. How fucking like Stafford - kind of sly and kind of simple at the same time. Plus, it’s not like they haven’t screwed around before. Sometimes you got tired of your own right hand.
“You’re a whiny bastard, you know that?”
“Whatever.” Stafford is obviously aware that the insult is acceptance, and wraps his hand around Christeson’s wrist. His palms are dirty and calloused - Christeson wouldn’t be surprised if there was still some of his own blood caked on there, under his cuticles, or dried beneath his fingernails. His skin is still warm, though, and almost a shock against Christeson’s.
“The LT and Gunny are right there. I can’t believe you.” It’s pretty audacious, actually. Christeson is sort of impressed, despite himself.
“Guess I’ll have to be quiet, then,” Stafford says, and slumps down a little, hiding further behind the stacks of crates. It’ll shield him from the LT and Wynn, mostly, but the back is open to anyone who happens to walk by. His grip tightens on Christeson’s wrist, but he’s still grinning. He’s an asshole, definitely, but he does keep things interesting.
“You better be,” Christeson says, though he’s reaching out to palm the back of Stafford’s head, fingers brushing over the buzz of his hair. “I’m not getting kicked out of the marines for your skinny white ass.”
“Sure,” Stafford says easily, tugging Christeson forward. “Whatever you say.”
Stafford gets the last word, because he kisses Christeson then, probably more to shut him up than anything else. Still, Christeson grips the back of Stafford’s head, fingers pressing too hard, and that’s enough to assert some dominance over the situation. Stafford’s mouth is almost unpleasantly hot after days baking in the sun, and his lips are chapped, but Christeson can’t claim to mind much - he’s used to jerking off dry, sand still lodged under his fingernails. He likes the shape of Stafford’s lips, the catch and press of them against the corner of his mouth, then more centered and confident.
They’re definitely not functioning within the grooming standard at the moment - Stafford shucked the top half of his MOPP suit an hour ago, and now he’s pulling away to tug the suspenders down off his shoulders, letting the bottom half sag around his hips. Christeson’s rolling in his t-shirt, happy to let Stafford palm the left side of his rib cage with his free hand, the other leaving Christeson’s wrist to slide up to his shoulder.
It doesn’t take much effort for Christeson to slip his hand past the too-loose waistband of Stafford’s pants - and, seriously, fuck these ill-fitting uniforms - fingers skating immediately onto the bare, sweaty skin of Stafford’s lower belly.
“Of course you’re free-balling,” Christeson says, amused.
“Nothing wrong with easy access,” Stafford says, and then hisses quietly, fingers clutching at Christeson’s thigh, Christeson’s hand on his dick interrupting whatever smug shit he was about to spout.
Stafford’s half-hard, skin slick and tacky, and Christeson is seriously not going to smell his hand later, but the easy slide of his fingers around Stafford’s cock is powerful in a way that a gun isn’t. It only takes a few strokes for Stafford to get hard, and Christeson thinks I did that, even though it’s the stupidest thing he’s thought in a long time. He can see the tan skin of his arm disappear into Stafford’s pants, and the suppressed shudder of Stafford’s hips. When he looks up, he can’t help watching the way Stafford’s eyes are half-lidded, the way he licks his lips, breath panting just slightly audible.
Christeson slides his fingers down under the head of Stafford’s cock, movement only slightly hampered by the waistband. He brushes his thumb over the slit once, then twice, just to see the way Stafford tenses to keep from shifting, and then risks a glance over his shoulder. From what he can tell, crouched behind one of the stacks of crates, their COs are still talking shit about papayas or pussy or some shit - hopefully not about the two marines getting off in the back of the truck.
“C’mon, Q-Tip,” Christeson says, voice low, and he has to resist the urge to say my arm’s getting tired, because it’s not, he’s just an asshole. He speeds his hand up, tightens his grip almost painfully, and nearly laughs at the way Stafford holds in whatever sound he wants to make. His throat works, and he bites the inside of his cheek.
“Shut up,” Stafford bites out, and curls forward to lean his forehead on Christeson’s shoulder, fingers still clenched into Christeson’s thigh, tightening spasmodically. Christeson can feel the humid heat of Stafford’s breath through the thin cotton, Stafford’s fingernails through the tough fabric of his MOPP suit, and twists his hand on the down stroke. “Fuck.”
Stafford’s hips stutter once, and then he’s coming, biting into Christeson’s shoulder hard enough that it will probably leave a mark. Christeson palms the back of Stafford’s head again before he can think about it, waiting through the pulses until Stafford’s finished. He gives them both fifteen seconds of total quiet - gives Stafford the time to pull himself together - and then tugs his hand out of Stafford’s pants and looks at it. Predictably enough, it’s covered in come. Stafford tugs his suspenders up, and shrugs. He’s still flushed, lips bitten red from holding in sound, but he’s already controlling his breathing. Their training is definitely good for more than one thing.
“Wipe it on the outside of the truck. No one’ll care - if they even notice.”
Christeson laughs, and wipes it on Stafford’s pants. They’re still sitting too close, pressed shoulder to shoulder, Stafford’s fingers curled against Christeson’s thigh like he’s forgotten they’re there. “Nah, man, it’s yours. You keep it. My present to you.”
Stafford rubs it in with the heel of his hand. “Thanks, man. I ‘ppreciate the sentiment.”
“Anytime,” Christeson says. He wonders if he means that more globally, but it doesn’t really matter. The LT is on the move, which means they’re oscar mike in a few. Just in time. He rubs at the bite on his shoulder, where he can still feel Stafford’s teeth.