Generation Kill; Doc/Fick
30 November 2008 08:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wrennetteTitle: Ash and Dust
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: HM2 Robert "Doc" Bryan x Lt. Nate Fick
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Characters are the property of Evan Wright, HBO, and whoever else has the right to Generation Kill, which is most certainly not this author. No profit is generated from the writing of this fic.
Summary: Set very close to "Bomb in the Garden". Doc and Nate try to forget a bad day in a crap command. Not much plot in this here fic.
He sidles silently up to the lieutenant, the tension humming along his bunched shoulders and crackling in his spine. That spot between his shoulder blades that he can't quite reach is itching and the hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end in nameless paranoia. His fists are white knuckled, and he shoves them into his pockets so he doesn't have to see the evidence of his anxiety. Distant gunfire pops and hisses like corn kernels in a too hot pan, and the lieutenant shifts slightly, not a perceptible motion really, just a silent acknowledgment that he has company.
"We should be out there," he finally says, low and gruff, the anger and frustration of the past few days coiling around his throat and making his voice sound almost foreign. The lieutenant answers in another shift, this one the slow turn of his head, pale eyes sliding up to his face. He can see the pain buried there, frozen into the ice of Fick's irises. He dips his head in silent acquiescence. He knows very well that their impotency here is not Fick's fault. Fick turns back to the city of grey ash and dust that sprawls around them, and the unseen sun must be sinking past the horizon, because the grey thickens and darkens, until it is black that sparks and blazes sharply with death.
A mortar falls close enough for them to hear the screaming of air displacement. It explodes in the shattered concrete somewhere close enough that fine grey grit settles over their faces. Neither of them so much as blinks. Eventually he shifts, away from the wall, and Fick looks over at him, eyes glittering in the low light like a cat's. Arousal hits him like a punch in the gut, not totally unexpected, but still nearly enough to knock the breath from his lungs. It isn't the first time he's been taken with the sudden realization of just how pretty Fick is, but he pushes it aside, because he respects Fick too damn much to day anything about it.
"Walk with me a moment," Fick says, and he nods, follows the lieutenant away from the others. They end up deep in the cigarette factory, and the vague smell of tobacco clings to the air, even through the heavier scents of death and burnt steel and stone. Fick turns, and again he pushes down the curl of arousal that warms in his gut. It's impossible to read Fick's expression in the thick shadows of the interior of the factory, and he holds his breath as Fick takes a step into his personal space. If he had dared to breathe, he knew he would smell the acrid stench of gunpowder residue and earthier under-note of gun oil, the heavy musk of unwashed man and the sweetness of the dessert from the dinner MREs.
There's a long moment of uncertainty, and he has his mouth half open to ask what the fuck is going on, but then Fick's mouth is against his, hot and moist. Fick breathes into his mouth, and he closes his eyes, angles that last little bit down. Fick's lips are rough with exposure, but still soft and full, and he moans into the officer's mouth, hands unclenching and reaching up to curl in the straps of Fick's vest. Fick's leg slides between his thighs, hard muscle and harder gear. "Sir," he breathes as they part, his forehead resting against Fick's, but he doesn't get a chance to say any more, because Fick's mouth is against his again, this time harder, more insistent, silently quelling any argument.
"I'm sorry about today Doc," Fick whispers against his mouth when they part again, and he just pants in response, hands still fisted in Fick's uniform, eyes still shuttered against the reality of this surreal situation.
"Is this an apology then?" he has to ask, voice sounding small, almost wistful in the heavy darkness.
"No," Fick breathes against his face, and then Fick was kissing him again, tongue flickering at the seam of his mouth, urging him to open. He groans softly, giving way, and Fick's tongue slips into his mouth, tracing along the backs of his teeth and soft palate. The kiss deepens slowly, and he begins to respond more aggressively, hitching Fick closer, reaching up to cradle his head. Fick's hands span his lower back, one worming up under his vest, the other wrapping around his belt, grinding their hips together.
"Nate," he gasps, arching up into the pressure against his groin, and Fick's teeth scrape down his throat, make him groan deeply with want. The hand on his belt lets go, finds its way between their stomachs and fumbles with his buckle. He pulls away insistently, leaving Fick gasping, reaching for him, but he's already sliding to his knees. His deft hands, steady as a surgeon's, reach for Fick's buckle, ease it open blind. Fick gasps as hot moist breath ghosts across the wet patch on the front of his standard issue shorts, one hand pushing the bandana off his head to scrub through his dirty hair.
He leans up and in, mouths Fick's hard cock through his shorts, tasting sweat and pre-come and ashes. Fick's hand fists against the curve of his skull, looking for something to hold onto. He pulls away, peering up, trying to pierce the darkness. He can't see much of Fick other than what's right in front of his face, the pale band of skin along the top of his shorts, the thick cock straining against the wet fabric. Gently he pulls the elastic down, and Fick chokes back a groan as his erection is freed.
"Doc," Fick gasps, and then nothing but a strangled cry as he licks up the vein that throbs on the underside of Fick's cock.
The lieutenant must have been close to the edge, because almost as soon as he slips the head of Fick's cock into his mouth and sucks, Fick is thrusting against his palms, trying desperately to stay quiet. He swallows convulsively, Fick's cum thick and salty on his tongue, coating the inside of his mouth. By the time Fick is finished, the lieutenant is doubled over, both hands on his shoulders, panting next to his head. His own erection is painful in his shorts, and he tries to be subtle about adjusting the bulge, but he knows it hasn't worked when Fick drops to the floor as well, reaching for his crotch.
"You don't have to," he gasps as Fick palms him through his BDUs, and his eyes have adjusted enough that he can make out the smirk on Fick's pretty face.
"Believe me Doc," Fick says softly. "I want to. Been wanting to." Doc nods, mouth falling open as the heel of Fick's hand grinds the head of his cock firmly against his belly. He fumbles his pants open and stands, shoving them past his hips. Fick's ears are in just the right place for him to cup a hand around one, and so he does, guiding the officer to his cock. Fick's mouth is just as hot and wet as he's imagined in some of his combat jacks, and it feels so good to be thrusting into something other than his spit slicked hand that he nearly comes just from that.
With the last of his coherence he reaches down to tug on his balls, delaying orgasm for a few moments more. It's obvious that this isn't the first time that Fick's sucked cock, and he staunchly refuses to wonder who else has already been here. Instead he braces one hand against the concrete wall, the other holding Fick in place. He thrusts shallowly, and Fick allows it, opens his throat and takes him in. He thrusts more deeply, and Fick takes that too. After that it's a blur, the soft rasp of Fick's buzz cut under his hand, the cool solidity of the wall against his forehead, the intense heat of Fick's mouth around his cock, and then he's coming, biting his lip to keep from screaming, and shooting down Fick's throat.
Slowly Fick stands, slithering up between him and the wall. Fick's lips move wetly over the line of his jaw, and he turns just slightly, mouth already open. Their lips meet, then tongues, and each of them can taste himself on the other. They kiss feverishly, until they can't taste the difference any more, and then they kiss a while longer. Tongues twine together sinuously, and finally they draw apart, panting, breathless.
"I'm sorry about today too," he breathed against Fick's ear. "But it isn't either of our faults Sir. It's this entire fucked up situation". He knows he sounds defeated, but for once, he doesn't care. If there's anyone in their unit who understands how impossible it is to be moto all the time, it's Fick. He feels Fick's smile against his neck, then a soft, lingering kiss.
He leans like that, like a human blast wall between Fick and the world, for a few more minutes. Fick curls his hands around his hips, kisses up and down his neck, all over his face. Finally though, Fick leans back against the wall, and despite the dim light he could swear he can see Fick's ice chip eyes, see the weariness, but also that spark of idealism that refuses to die, no matter how fucked they are.
"Get your self together," Fick suggests gently. "I'll wait here a few minutes, take one of the other routes out." He nods, steals one last kiss, and then he's smoothing his uniform, not that it will make any difference, feeling blindly for his bandana and pulling it back on, and walking away. He looks back, just once, but the shadows have already swallowed Fick, and the room is empty but for the ghosts.
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: HM2 Robert "Doc" Bryan x Lt. Nate Fick
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Characters are the property of Evan Wright, HBO, and whoever else has the right to Generation Kill, which is most certainly not this author. No profit is generated from the writing of this fic.
Summary: Set very close to "Bomb in the Garden". Doc and Nate try to forget a bad day in a crap command. Not much plot in this here fic.
He sidles silently up to the lieutenant, the tension humming along his bunched shoulders and crackling in his spine. That spot between his shoulder blades that he can't quite reach is itching and the hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end in nameless paranoia. His fists are white knuckled, and he shoves them into his pockets so he doesn't have to see the evidence of his anxiety. Distant gunfire pops and hisses like corn kernels in a too hot pan, and the lieutenant shifts slightly, not a perceptible motion really, just a silent acknowledgment that he has company.
"We should be out there," he finally says, low and gruff, the anger and frustration of the past few days coiling around his throat and making his voice sound almost foreign. The lieutenant answers in another shift, this one the slow turn of his head, pale eyes sliding up to his face. He can see the pain buried there, frozen into the ice of Fick's irises. He dips his head in silent acquiescence. He knows very well that their impotency here is not Fick's fault. Fick turns back to the city of grey ash and dust that sprawls around them, and the unseen sun must be sinking past the horizon, because the grey thickens and darkens, until it is black that sparks and blazes sharply with death.
A mortar falls close enough for them to hear the screaming of air displacement. It explodes in the shattered concrete somewhere close enough that fine grey grit settles over their faces. Neither of them so much as blinks. Eventually he shifts, away from the wall, and Fick looks over at him, eyes glittering in the low light like a cat's. Arousal hits him like a punch in the gut, not totally unexpected, but still nearly enough to knock the breath from his lungs. It isn't the first time he's been taken with the sudden realization of just how pretty Fick is, but he pushes it aside, because he respects Fick too damn much to day anything about it.
"Walk with me a moment," Fick says, and he nods, follows the lieutenant away from the others. They end up deep in the cigarette factory, and the vague smell of tobacco clings to the air, even through the heavier scents of death and burnt steel and stone. Fick turns, and again he pushes down the curl of arousal that warms in his gut. It's impossible to read Fick's expression in the thick shadows of the interior of the factory, and he holds his breath as Fick takes a step into his personal space. If he had dared to breathe, he knew he would smell the acrid stench of gunpowder residue and earthier under-note of gun oil, the heavy musk of unwashed man and the sweetness of the dessert from the dinner MREs.
There's a long moment of uncertainty, and he has his mouth half open to ask what the fuck is going on, but then Fick's mouth is against his, hot and moist. Fick breathes into his mouth, and he closes his eyes, angles that last little bit down. Fick's lips are rough with exposure, but still soft and full, and he moans into the officer's mouth, hands unclenching and reaching up to curl in the straps of Fick's vest. Fick's leg slides between his thighs, hard muscle and harder gear. "Sir," he breathes as they part, his forehead resting against Fick's, but he doesn't get a chance to say any more, because Fick's mouth is against his again, this time harder, more insistent, silently quelling any argument.
"I'm sorry about today Doc," Fick whispers against his mouth when they part again, and he just pants in response, hands still fisted in Fick's uniform, eyes still shuttered against the reality of this surreal situation.
"Is this an apology then?" he has to ask, voice sounding small, almost wistful in the heavy darkness.
"No," Fick breathes against his face, and then Fick was kissing him again, tongue flickering at the seam of his mouth, urging him to open. He groans softly, giving way, and Fick's tongue slips into his mouth, tracing along the backs of his teeth and soft palate. The kiss deepens slowly, and he begins to respond more aggressively, hitching Fick closer, reaching up to cradle his head. Fick's hands span his lower back, one worming up under his vest, the other wrapping around his belt, grinding their hips together.
"Nate," he gasps, arching up into the pressure against his groin, and Fick's teeth scrape down his throat, make him groan deeply with want. The hand on his belt lets go, finds its way between their stomachs and fumbles with his buckle. He pulls away insistently, leaving Fick gasping, reaching for him, but he's already sliding to his knees. His deft hands, steady as a surgeon's, reach for Fick's buckle, ease it open blind. Fick gasps as hot moist breath ghosts across the wet patch on the front of his standard issue shorts, one hand pushing the bandana off his head to scrub through his dirty hair.
He leans up and in, mouths Fick's hard cock through his shorts, tasting sweat and pre-come and ashes. Fick's hand fists against the curve of his skull, looking for something to hold onto. He pulls away, peering up, trying to pierce the darkness. He can't see much of Fick other than what's right in front of his face, the pale band of skin along the top of his shorts, the thick cock straining against the wet fabric. Gently he pulls the elastic down, and Fick chokes back a groan as his erection is freed.
"Doc," Fick gasps, and then nothing but a strangled cry as he licks up the vein that throbs on the underside of Fick's cock.
The lieutenant must have been close to the edge, because almost as soon as he slips the head of Fick's cock into his mouth and sucks, Fick is thrusting against his palms, trying desperately to stay quiet. He swallows convulsively, Fick's cum thick and salty on his tongue, coating the inside of his mouth. By the time Fick is finished, the lieutenant is doubled over, both hands on his shoulders, panting next to his head. His own erection is painful in his shorts, and he tries to be subtle about adjusting the bulge, but he knows it hasn't worked when Fick drops to the floor as well, reaching for his crotch.
"You don't have to," he gasps as Fick palms him through his BDUs, and his eyes have adjusted enough that he can make out the smirk on Fick's pretty face.
"Believe me Doc," Fick says softly. "I want to. Been wanting to." Doc nods, mouth falling open as the heel of Fick's hand grinds the head of his cock firmly against his belly. He fumbles his pants open and stands, shoving them past his hips. Fick's ears are in just the right place for him to cup a hand around one, and so he does, guiding the officer to his cock. Fick's mouth is just as hot and wet as he's imagined in some of his combat jacks, and it feels so good to be thrusting into something other than his spit slicked hand that he nearly comes just from that.
With the last of his coherence he reaches down to tug on his balls, delaying orgasm for a few moments more. It's obvious that this isn't the first time that Fick's sucked cock, and he staunchly refuses to wonder who else has already been here. Instead he braces one hand against the concrete wall, the other holding Fick in place. He thrusts shallowly, and Fick allows it, opens his throat and takes him in. He thrusts more deeply, and Fick takes that too. After that it's a blur, the soft rasp of Fick's buzz cut under his hand, the cool solidity of the wall against his forehead, the intense heat of Fick's mouth around his cock, and then he's coming, biting his lip to keep from screaming, and shooting down Fick's throat.
Slowly Fick stands, slithering up between him and the wall. Fick's lips move wetly over the line of his jaw, and he turns just slightly, mouth already open. Their lips meet, then tongues, and each of them can taste himself on the other. They kiss feverishly, until they can't taste the difference any more, and then they kiss a while longer. Tongues twine together sinuously, and finally they draw apart, panting, breathless.
"I'm sorry about today too," he breathed against Fick's ear. "But it isn't either of our faults Sir. It's this entire fucked up situation". He knows he sounds defeated, but for once, he doesn't care. If there's anyone in their unit who understands how impossible it is to be moto all the time, it's Fick. He feels Fick's smile against his neck, then a soft, lingering kiss.
He leans like that, like a human blast wall between Fick and the world, for a few more minutes. Fick curls his hands around his hips, kisses up and down his neck, all over his face. Finally though, Fick leans back against the wall, and despite the dim light he could swear he can see Fick's ice chip eyes, see the weariness, but also that spark of idealism that refuses to die, no matter how fucked they are.
"Get your self together," Fick suggests gently. "I'll wait here a few minutes, take one of the other routes out." He nods, steals one last kiss, and then he's smoothing his uniform, not that it will make any difference, feeling blindly for his bandana and pulling it back on, and walking away. He looks back, just once, but the shadows have already swallowed Fick, and the room is empty but for the ghosts.
