Generation Kill; Garza/Chaffin
3 July 2009 12:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wrennetteTitle: Dog Country
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Gabe Garza x James Chaffin
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Generation Kill is the property of Evan Wright and HBO, and not copyright infringement is intended. Author makes no profit.
Summary: They circle one another like a pair of hungry desert dogs, spiraling closer and closer...
Notes: Short, and mostly to prove I'm not dead.
He can see the short blonde hairs on Chaffin's thighs this close, catching the light against his pale skin, refracting it until even up inside his shorts it seems like Chaffin is glowing. He exhales sharply, pushing the bar up, and the little golden hairs move. Chaffin takes the weight with a slight grunt, helps settle it into the cradle. Gabe sits, legs straddling their cobbled together bench, and Chaffin's tobacco dark spit arcs over his shoulder, lands with a splat on the desert sand and will be burned away to nothing within a few minutes.
Standing, Gabe goes around to the head of the bench. He grins at Chaffin as they switch places, Chaffin laying down now, sunburned shoulders glistening with precious moisture. Gabe extends his hands under the bar, watching it lower to the starkly black tattoos on Chaffin's chest. Chaffin's exhalation brushes across his thigh, and then Chaffin is pushing the bar up as Gabe steadfastly thinks about the clusterfuck that is OIF to keep from hardening.
They circle one another like a pair of hungry desert dogs, spiraling closer and closer until they are back home, sitting side by side in some bar where the lap-dances are cheap and the beer is cheaper. It's good in it's way, because they can pretend it's the over-tanned, over-peroxided, over-worked dancers that have both of them tenting the fronts of their jeans. They don't talk about the attraction, just keep circling closer and closer, until they finally meet, sloppy drunk and snarling into each other's mouths, teeth snapping and hands clawing under unfamiliar civilian clothes.
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Gabe Garza x James Chaffin
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Generation Kill is the property of Evan Wright and HBO, and not copyright infringement is intended. Author makes no profit.
Summary: They circle one another like a pair of hungry desert dogs, spiraling closer and closer...
Notes: Short, and mostly to prove I'm not dead.
He can see the short blonde hairs on Chaffin's thighs this close, catching the light against his pale skin, refracting it until even up inside his shorts it seems like Chaffin is glowing. He exhales sharply, pushing the bar up, and the little golden hairs move. Chaffin takes the weight with a slight grunt, helps settle it into the cradle. Gabe sits, legs straddling their cobbled together bench, and Chaffin's tobacco dark spit arcs over his shoulder, lands with a splat on the desert sand and will be burned away to nothing within a few minutes.
Standing, Gabe goes around to the head of the bench. He grins at Chaffin as they switch places, Chaffin laying down now, sunburned shoulders glistening with precious moisture. Gabe extends his hands under the bar, watching it lower to the starkly black tattoos on Chaffin's chest. Chaffin's exhalation brushes across his thigh, and then Chaffin is pushing the bar up as Gabe steadfastly thinks about the clusterfuck that is OIF to keep from hardening.
They circle one another like a pair of hungry desert dogs, spiraling closer and closer until they are back home, sitting side by side in some bar where the lap-dances are cheap and the beer is cheaper. It's good in it's way, because they can pretend it's the over-tanned, over-peroxided, over-worked dancers that have both of them tenting the fronts of their jeans. They don't talk about the attraction, just keep circling closer and closer, until they finally meet, sloppy drunk and snarling into each other's mouths, teeth snapping and hands clawing under unfamiliar civilian clothes.
