nursedarry (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nursedarry) wrote2012-09-18 10:35 pm
nursedarry) wrote2012-09-18 10:35 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Back to Life, Rated R, Generation Kill
What? I hear you say. Fic? It's badfic, but it's fic. And not HP. I KNOW! And there's more; I've written in a couple different fandoms recently. Obviously I must be coming down with something.
For those of you who know GK, I hope you enjoy this. It's no secret (especially to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lijahlover and naturegirlrocks) I'm a fan of Askars. And Pawel is just too cute for words! Actually, I did have some words for him - I randomly tweeted "Who do I need to blow to get Pawel Szajda onto Twitter?" only to have him reply to me that he was already there! *facepalm x a billionty*
Anyway, here's some fic with them in it. Stay frosty.
Title: Back to Life
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Brad/Walt
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 1200
Disclaimer I don't own dick.
Notes: Future AU. Written as a gift for a lovely lady who read for Semper Hi-Fi, a GK Podfic fest. Thanks togroolover for the beta and the leap into an unknown fandom, and to noeon for enabling me. I really wish I had the time to play in this fandom, but two is enough atm, if you don't count all the RL people I've been swooning over all summer. I had a great time writing this, and even have an idea for a sequel. When there are 30 hours in a day, I'll get it written.
This was still pretty new.
What had started as a solid goodbye-clasping-of-hands had ended with a surprisingly emotional clinch.
In the field, even at Mathilda, they’d never been that chatty, Walt preferring to listen to the banter thrown back and forth, like watching a game of profane tennis. He rarely started conversations and, aside from one or two occasions, he and Brad had had few discussions about anything other than the business of war.
It was only after they’d got back to the States and had met again at a VFW function – the only two from the unit available to attend at short notice aside from Godfather and Nate (it was still weird to call him that, though not so much now with Brad) – that they said more than ten words to each other.
But they were important words. They were words about feeling uneasy and out of place in their skin, about the departure of those they’d considered loved ones, and, most importantly, about getting a drink together in the hotel bar.
Conversation naturally shifted to the abundance of alcohol after so many months of living dry. One drink led to two, which led to three or four more. Ever sensible, Brad had suggested stopping after that. After all, they had the public reputation of the Corps to preserve, and bodies still re-learning how to cope with excess.
It was Walt, though, who for whatever reason – Dutch courage, a reluctance to break the new-found dynamic, or maybe just wanting to keep the high going for as long as possible – suggested moving on to the minibar in his room.
They found themselves lounging on one of the two queen-sized beds (easier for pouring the mixers into each other’s cups), Walt teasing Brad about his feet hanging off the edge, and Brad calling Walt a short-ass. Across the room, the television spewed out late-night movies which they’d long since stopped watching. Walt said they needed more ice and Brad went to scrounge some up.
Hours had passed since they’d sat in the bar, and any buzz Walt might have had peaked about eleven o’clock. Now pushing two, Walt turned off the unnecessary overhead light, leaving the lamp on the far side of the empty bed as the only illumination by which to see the label of the latest bottle he was drinking from.
Brad returned, holding the plastic bucket full of ice in one hand and easing the heavy door closed behind him with the other. It looked like he was walking a little less evenly than usual but, then again, that could just be Walt’s head slowly listing to the side as he watched Brad cross the room. Walt had thought to make a joke about the Iceman living up to his name, but all ideas he had for saying anything disappeared when the bucket and its contents and then the Iceman himself fell solidly on top of him.
Walt had the wind knocked out of him when Brad’s chest landed on his. The bottle of whatever it was he’d been holding was knocked out of his grip and ice cubes rained over him and across the mattress.
“You turned out the light,” was all Brad said by way of explanation.
Walt struggled to take a breath. He smelled bourbon on the bedspread and on Brad’s breath in his face.
Walt had never seen Brad’s eyes so dark. In the field, the sun had shone too brightly, reflecting off the sand and the dirt and washing the colour out of anything. But now, Brad’s cornflower-blue irises had turned to cobalt. In Walt’s current state, he thought he could stare into them forever. That was the colour he’d missed the most: the blue of the ocean at sunset.
He was brought back to reality as Brad shifted above him. He didn’t move away, just shifted awkwardly, reaching out a long arm above Walt’s head then bringing his hand to his own mouth. Walt saw him slip an ice cube into it.
Walt wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he smiled tipsily, because it seemed a good idea. He went to reach up in the same fashion, but Brad brought his hand down lightning-quick, and grasped Walt’s wrist before he could locate an ice cube of his own. Brad shifted again, this time bringing his face to Walt’s. Walt automatically closed his eyes, the proximity of their faces engaging some kind of optic instinct, as Brad pressed his mouth against his. After a moment, he felt the ice cube slide against his lips as Brad pushed it, and his tongue, into Walt’s mouth.
Walt was too drunk to react with much surprise, regardless of how he felt. Brad’s mouth was warm and demanding, almost as if he wanted to retrieve the cube of ice which Walt had hastily swallowed to make room for Brad’s tongue. When Brad finally withdrew and gave Walt a chance to breathe, Walt shifted around, and his un-trapped arm wrapped itself around Brad’s long torso. He squeezed, holding Brad in place, daring him to sit up or take Walt with him if he did. Instead, Brad rolled them over and Walt found himself straddling the tall man.
He leaned down and kissed Brad hard amongst the messy bedclothes and the melting ice.
Neither spoke much after that; there was no need to shatter the mood with explanations or excuses. All they needed was their hands, and lips and teeth and tongues were used for less prosaic things than speech now. Besides, they’d been talking all night. As before, when shipping out, this coming together of bodies conveyed more than anything else they could have said to each other.
Walt wasn’t naïve enough to think this was something it wasn’t. But it was hard not to, especially with Brad’s gentle nuzzling as they wound down. Walt hoped he was wrong, if only for the feeling of peace and security he felt now, like in the desert when Brad assured him that it was safe to sleep, or that everything was all right, that terrible things could happen to anyone in wartime.
Dawn found them in the other bed, Walt still sprawled along Brad's body, his mouth around Brad's cock and Brad's long fingers pulling through his hair. At the last minute, Brad yanked him forward, twining their tongues together, and those long fingers now wrapped around them both, stroking and pulling, squeezing in all the right places until they erupted onto Brad's belly. Walt collapsed against him, cementing himself to Brad, as if afraid to let go, but mostly because he was exhausted.
When Walt woke up later, he found the room empty, and no trace of Brad except for the half-crumpled Program of Events which both men had been carrying around since the conference's end the evening before. It was left at the foot of Walt's bed, folded over with the back page facing upwards. There was little printed on it, save for a brief comment thanking the participants and expressing hope that they would return next year.
~*~
Walt walked into the hotel bar and found Brad waiting for him.
This was still pretty new.
The End
For those of you who know GK, I hope you enjoy this. It's no secret (especially to
lijahlover and naturegirlrocks) I'm a fan of Askars. And Pawel is just too cute for words! Actually, I did have some words for him - I randomly tweeted "Who do I need to blow to get Pawel Szajda onto Twitter?" only to have him reply to me that he was already there! *facepalm x a billionty*Anyway, here's some fic with them in it. Stay frosty.
Title: Back to Life
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Brad/Walt
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 1200
Disclaimer I don't own dick.
Notes: Future AU. Written as a gift for a lovely lady who read for Semper Hi-Fi, a GK Podfic fest. Thanks to
groolover for the beta and the leap into an unknown fandom, and to noeon for enabling me. I really wish I had the time to play in this fandom, but two is enough atm, if you don't count all the RL people I've been swooning over all summer. I had a great time writing this, and even have an idea for a sequel. When there are 30 hours in a day, I'll get it written.This was still pretty new.
What had started as a solid goodbye-clasping-of-hands had ended with a surprisingly emotional clinch.
In the field, even at Mathilda, they’d never been that chatty, Walt preferring to listen to the banter thrown back and forth, like watching a game of profane tennis. He rarely started conversations and, aside from one or two occasions, he and Brad had had few discussions about anything other than the business of war.
It was only after they’d got back to the States and had met again at a VFW function – the only two from the unit available to attend at short notice aside from Godfather and Nate (it was still weird to call him that, though not so much now with Brad) – that they said more than ten words to each other.
But they were important words. They were words about feeling uneasy and out of place in their skin, about the departure of those they’d considered loved ones, and, most importantly, about getting a drink together in the hotel bar.
Conversation naturally shifted to the abundance of alcohol after so many months of living dry. One drink led to two, which led to three or four more. Ever sensible, Brad had suggested stopping after that. After all, they had the public reputation of the Corps to preserve, and bodies still re-learning how to cope with excess.
It was Walt, though, who for whatever reason – Dutch courage, a reluctance to break the new-found dynamic, or maybe just wanting to keep the high going for as long as possible – suggested moving on to the minibar in his room.
They found themselves lounging on one of the two queen-sized beds (easier for pouring the mixers into each other’s cups), Walt teasing Brad about his feet hanging off the edge, and Brad calling Walt a short-ass. Across the room, the television spewed out late-night movies which they’d long since stopped watching. Walt said they needed more ice and Brad went to scrounge some up.
Hours had passed since they’d sat in the bar, and any buzz Walt might have had peaked about eleven o’clock. Now pushing two, Walt turned off the unnecessary overhead light, leaving the lamp on the far side of the empty bed as the only illumination by which to see the label of the latest bottle he was drinking from.
Brad returned, holding the plastic bucket full of ice in one hand and easing the heavy door closed behind him with the other. It looked like he was walking a little less evenly than usual but, then again, that could just be Walt’s head slowly listing to the side as he watched Brad cross the room. Walt had thought to make a joke about the Iceman living up to his name, but all ideas he had for saying anything disappeared when the bucket and its contents and then the Iceman himself fell solidly on top of him.
Walt had the wind knocked out of him when Brad’s chest landed on his. The bottle of whatever it was he’d been holding was knocked out of his grip and ice cubes rained over him and across the mattress.
“You turned out the light,” was all Brad said by way of explanation.
Walt struggled to take a breath. He smelled bourbon on the bedspread and on Brad’s breath in his face.
Walt had never seen Brad’s eyes so dark. In the field, the sun had shone too brightly, reflecting off the sand and the dirt and washing the colour out of anything. But now, Brad’s cornflower-blue irises had turned to cobalt. In Walt’s current state, he thought he could stare into them forever. That was the colour he’d missed the most: the blue of the ocean at sunset.
He was brought back to reality as Brad shifted above him. He didn’t move away, just shifted awkwardly, reaching out a long arm above Walt’s head then bringing his hand to his own mouth. Walt saw him slip an ice cube into it.
Walt wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he smiled tipsily, because it seemed a good idea. He went to reach up in the same fashion, but Brad brought his hand down lightning-quick, and grasped Walt’s wrist before he could locate an ice cube of his own. Brad shifted again, this time bringing his face to Walt’s. Walt automatically closed his eyes, the proximity of their faces engaging some kind of optic instinct, as Brad pressed his mouth against his. After a moment, he felt the ice cube slide against his lips as Brad pushed it, and his tongue, into Walt’s mouth.
Walt was too drunk to react with much surprise, regardless of how he felt. Brad’s mouth was warm and demanding, almost as if he wanted to retrieve the cube of ice which Walt had hastily swallowed to make room for Brad’s tongue. When Brad finally withdrew and gave Walt a chance to breathe, Walt shifted around, and his un-trapped arm wrapped itself around Brad’s long torso. He squeezed, holding Brad in place, daring him to sit up or take Walt with him if he did. Instead, Brad rolled them over and Walt found himself straddling the tall man.
He leaned down and kissed Brad hard amongst the messy bedclothes and the melting ice.
Neither spoke much after that; there was no need to shatter the mood with explanations or excuses. All they needed was their hands, and lips and teeth and tongues were used for less prosaic things than speech now. Besides, they’d been talking all night. As before, when shipping out, this coming together of bodies conveyed more than anything else they could have said to each other.
Walt wasn’t naïve enough to think this was something it wasn’t. But it was hard not to, especially with Brad’s gentle nuzzling as they wound down. Walt hoped he was wrong, if only for the feeling of peace and security he felt now, like in the desert when Brad assured him that it was safe to sleep, or that everything was all right, that terrible things could happen to anyone in wartime.
Dawn found them in the other bed, Walt still sprawled along Brad's body, his mouth around Brad's cock and Brad's long fingers pulling through his hair. At the last minute, Brad yanked him forward, twining their tongues together, and those long fingers now wrapped around them both, stroking and pulling, squeezing in all the right places until they erupted onto Brad's belly. Walt collapsed against him, cementing himself to Brad, as if afraid to let go, but mostly because he was exhausted.
When Walt woke up later, he found the room empty, and no trace of Brad except for the half-crumpled Program of Events which both men had been carrying around since the conference's end the evening before. It was left at the foot of Walt's bed, folded over with the back page facing upwards. There was little printed on it, save for a brief comment thanking the participants and expressing hope that they would return next year.
Walt walked into the hotel bar and found Brad waiting for him.
This was still pretty new.
The End