Fandom: Generation Kill
Word Count: 2,032 words
Summary: Written for this prompt on the kink meme.
Notes: De-annoning from the kink meme because the typos were killing my soul. It's cleaned up now.
He's shaking and wired--clattering around in the back of the vehicle like he's been dipping into Person's stash of ephedra. He doesn't move even after Gunny rolls them to a halt--like the truck bed is keeping him anchored together so he won't fly apart. Stafford pretends not to notice. Christeson hates being reminded of how green he is, and there are some battles that just aren't worth fighting.
The LT walks around to the back of the vehicle and taps the siding. "You did good, Private," he says with a crooked smile. It's meant to be reassuring but Christeson barely notices it.
Stafford sighs and jumps to the ground. The LT catches his eyes and then purses his lips before nodding once. Stafford doesn't know if he means anything by it, if he's endorsing what Stafford was already thinking, but either way, he knows what he's going to have to do before Christeson shoots his own fucking foot off.
He waits until the oppressively black night has fallen. Usually squinting into the darkness makes his eyes hurt from the strain and he complains about it bitterly, but for what he intends to do tonight, it's welcome. They've been set to 25% watch. Stafford waits a few moments as Christeson starts to settle in his grave and then when he's sure everybody is otherwise occupied, Stafford grabs his elbow and drags him off into the scrub. They need to have a chat.
"What are you doing?" Christeson asks, not quite struggling.
"Shut up, B," Stafford replies, shaking his arm a little. "Don't want nobody to know we're out here, aight?"
Christeson sighs and Stafford drags him down to a crouch about fifty meters away from the closest Victor. Stafford can't be sure that some shitsucking officer won't wonder off into the dark and stumble over them, but it's the best privacy he's going to find.
"You been takin' care of business?" he asks.
"You know..." he pumps his fist up and down in the empty air, hoping Christeson'll get the hint.
Christeson scrambles to his feet, backing away. "What the fuck do you care? You think I'm some kind of--"
"Whoa whoa whoa, slow your roll, I was just tryin' to help--"
Stafford rolls to his feet and raises his hands in supplication. "Okay, peace, catch you when we're oscar mike." He turns around to go.
"Wait!" Christeson whispers furiously.
Stafford looks back over his shoulder. He can only barely make out Christeson's shape from this distance. He has no idea what expression he's wearing, no idea what's going through his head. He doesn't say anything, just waits for Christeson to talk.
"It's been..." a frustrated breath "...not since Matilda."
Stafford. "Holy! That long, homes? Jeee-sus."
"Shut up!" comes the furious response. Stafford shrugs even though he knows Christeson can't see it and turns to go again. He doesn't know what Christeson's waiting for...a turn with Reporter's laminate girlfriend or the LT to come along and order him to jerk off. He wants to point out that Christeson's not going to get a signed invitation from Bravo telling him the wheres and the whens and the no needs to RSVP. Stafford can't believe he's going to have to say it out loud.
"You don't want that shit getting backed up, you know?" he says authoritatively. "Nobody's going to care if you...ruin your eyesight," he finishes lamely, not quite sure why he's self-editing in this already awkwardly laden moment.
Christeson sighs and slumps back down to the ground, MOPP suit scraping over gravel and telling Stafford exactly where he is. "I know that! I just...can't..."
Stafford shakes his head in frustration. "Can't what, B?"
Christeson huffs. "Fuck you! Can't get it up. Christ."
There's a long pause. Neither of them quite know what to do with that information now that it's out in the open. Stafford clears his throat. "Don't...don't say I never did nothing for ya, homes," he says, going to sit by Christeson.
"What? I don't under--"
"Get it out."
"Q-tip, what shit are you smoking, man?"
"Get. It. Out." he repeats, trying to channel all of the Iceman's steal in his voice.
He knows it works when he after a brief horrifying pause he hears Christeson's shaky breath and the sound of his hands fumbling with the rubbery waist band of his pants. The elastic makes a slapping noise against his stomach. Stafford has a moment of doubt, but he's already ordered Christeson to pull his dick out, not like he can take that back now.
"What's the deal, homes," he asks, lying back against the ground and staring up at the sky impersonally. He gets himself comfortable. "You sufferin' for lack of material?"
"I don't know, I don't know!" Christeson replies, voice fraught with tension like he's worried he's going to fail some kind of test. "I've tried, I told you I just can't."
"Would you lie back already?" Stafford growls. "You're all stiff and shit. It's makin' me nervous."
Christeson snorts ruefully--the only acknowledgment Stafford gets out of his unintended pun. Nevertheless, he hears Christeson slump back to the ground. Christeson's breaths come rapid-fire--not like he's hot under the collar but like he's nervous.
"First, you gotta calm down, or you're gonna to break something," he says, folding his arms underneath his head and settling in. "And then you gotta find some material. Think of some bitch with perfect titties on her knees for you, pussy shaved all pink and clean. She's got her fingers pushed up inside, just two, moving in and out while she tells you how much she wants you to break her open."
Christeson lets out a long slow breath and Stafford hears the slow gradual motion of his hand moving up and down on his dick. He smiles up at the sky and continues, "She pretends to be all hard-to-get and virginal, but then she's got you on the bed, lips wrapped around your dick and sinking down, down, down. Spit getting fucking everywhere. You know she's down this before."
Christeson shudders and his hand speeds up. "She licks down over your balls, jerking you nice and slow, humming and moaning, small hands making your dick look so huge."
There's a pebble digging into his back and something spiky and uncomfortable just under his ass, and he takes a minute to shift around.
"Go...on," Christeson says brokenly, hand thwap thwap thwapping away. Stafford darts a quick look over but all he can make out is a shifting dark shape.
"By the time you finally get your cock inside her, that bitch is so ready for it. Her wet is all over your dick and her thighs, like she can't handle it, but her pussy is still so tight, sucking you in, stretching wide around your cockhead every time you pull back. She begs you for it, harder and harder, holding onto to you so tight and shivering every time you lick her nipples or bother to flick her clit."
"Oh god, what does she taste like," Christeson mutters, sounding like he's muffling his face into his shoulder.
"She tastes like vanilla," Stafford says brusque and offhand, humoring him a little. "And she comes just like, from you fucking her tight pussy. But it's not enough for this girl, she's so hungry for it. Next she's asking you to stuff it in her ass."
Christeson groans deep in his chest, hand stuttering on his dick and then continuing. Stafford stops for a breath and then says, "You slick her up with her own wet and push in slow, so slow. She wants you to shove it all in, really give it to her, but she's got to earn it."
"Is that...is that how you'd do it?" Christeson asks, voice shivery and weak, like his brain is having difficulty supplying the necessary words. Stafford has got to pat himself on the back.
"Yeah, that's how I'd do it, straight up," he replies gruffly.
"I'm not sure I can..." Christeson says, hand slowing.
Stafford rolls onto his side, squinting at Christeson's shape in the dark. "Yes you can. It's fine, it's all good," he tries to say as soothingly as possible.
"I've just...never fucked a girl like that," Christeson says softly, but his hand is still moving. "I think if you keep talking, I can...I can maybe..."
"Yeah, aight, I getcha," he says, leaning his head on his hand. "I fucked a shorty like that once, just before basic."
"Ye--ah?" he asks, prompting for more. Stafford bites his lip against a smile as he hears Christeson's hips shift on the ground. He's rocking up into his hand now, back in the game.
"Mmm," Stafford replies. "Her name was Helena, and she had a tattoo of a daisy on her left tit. She clawed my back up so bad, I couldn't sleep on it for a couple of days."
Helena was amazing. They'd fucked so many times, he wasn't sure his dick would work afterward. Just as well, because it was the last sex he'd had for a long time after that.
"Why'd you let her?" Christeson mutters.
"I dunno, man, when we was going at it, I didn't even feel it. All I was thinkin' about was how hot her pussy was, how much she was fuckin' beggin' me for it. Sometimes all that other shit falls by the wayside." Stafford knows that Christeson isn't a virgin, but he seemed to have an indelible attraction to apple pie nice girls, even if he'd be embarrassed as fuck to admit it.
"I'm...almost there..." Christeson says to him, hoarse. He digs his feet into the gravelly scrub, like he's trying to get some leverage to fuck his own fist.
"Good," Stafford says, and he feels like a fucking school teacher congratulating a student on a macaroni art project. It's not a bad feeling though. Just odd. He knows he's helping out a buddy. Doing his due diligence, but he's got half a chub in his MOPP suit. He's pretty sure he's not supposed to be getting off on it.
Christeson fills the sudden silence between them with, "Best blow job I ever had was when this chick stuck her finger up my ass. I thought I was going to fucking explode."
"Yeah?" Stafford asks, picturing it: Christeson laid out on his back, some anonymous girl, probably a sweet little blonde going down on him, her head bobbing up and down between his thighs. Christeson probably thinking she's such a good little girl, and then she's shoving his thighs wider, and thumbing open his asshole. He crosses his legs and takes a breath.
"What are you...thinking about?" Christeson asks him. His breaths are coming in regular puffs, like he's at the tail end of a marathon and he's not sure he can go any further.
Stafford pauses and then says, "Just wondering how much you lost your shit afterward."
"F--fuck you," Christeson replies. "I'm not fucking gay."
Stafford rolls back flat against the earth. "I know you aren't, B," he says softly.
Christeson curses, feet kicking out over the dirt, juddering so hard against the ground Stafford hears it. He's impressed. "Shit, shit, shit," Christeson says, before his hand finally stills and he lets out a long moan.
It's quiet for a long time. Stafford's not really sure what to do now now that the goal has been accomplished. He hadn't thought that far ahead. He hadn't really thought at all.
Christeson coughs superficially and says, "Thanks, man." He sounds a little pained.
"Don't worry about it, homes," Stafford says, rolling up into a sitting position. "Maybe next time you'll be ready to take the training wheels off."
Christeson makes a noise of disgust. "Man, I hate you!"
Stafford laughs. "Hey youngin', I wouldn't be needing to drag you out into the desert, if you could handle your damn self."
"Oh shut up," Christeson says, getting unsteadily to his feet. He hovers a little bit over Stafford, like he's not sure what to say or do now, but finally he walks back towards camp. Stafford lets out a sigh and doesn't move for a long time.