by Kass

Thanks to Dira for beta!

In Brad's currently most reliable jerkoff fantasy, Lieutenant Fick's been shot. Not badly. His left shoulder's just grazed. He's bandaged but refusing painkillers because he wants to stay lucid.

(Brad recognizes that there is something tremendously fucked-up about this. But a minor bullet wound is the easiest way he can imagine being able to lavish the kind of cocksucking attention which this fantasy crucially involves. And as much as Brad feels a vague kind of guilt around imagining his platoon commander injured, the resulting orgasms are pretty spectacular.)

Lt. Fick -- Nate -- doesn't say anything about it hurting. Marines make do. But Brad can see it in the clench of his jaw and the way he lets his lashes drift down, as though he could escape from the pain by closing his eyes.

So Brad tells him to lie still, to let Brad do everything. And his fingers make fast work of Nate's cammies, and he bends and breathes through the cotton of Nate's underwear, nuzzling a little. In the fantasy this isn't the first time they've done this, so he knows what Nate likes.

Nate is silent, except for a fast indrawn breath, but his right hand comes down to rest lightly on Brad's buzz cut, thumb rubbing over his hair as though he were petting a dog. The touch to the back of Brad's head feels good, but not nearly as good as Nate's dick hardening under his mouth.

And then he reaches into Nate's underwear and pulls out his naked dick (uncut, unlike his own, which Brad in both imagination and real life never fails to find arousing) and sucks him down. Nate bites back a groan, and Brad feels the quiet thrill of succeeding at the mission he's set for himself. At making Nate forget everything that hurts, giving him the gift of inhabiting his aching cock instead of his aching shoulder. This is the good kind of ache, and Nate knows Brad wouldn't leave him hanging.

And then Brad gets to lose himself in the imagined feel of Nate's cock filling his mouth, the scent of him at the crease where his groin meets his legs, the way his thigh muscles quiver under Brad's big hands. The little hitch in Nate's breathing as he surrenders to it and lets himself thrust up.

By this point in the fantasy Brad's got himself in hand, jerking himself with tight sharp strokes. His eyes are closed and he's imagining Nate's mouth opening on a gasp. It's a fantasy; he can see it from every angle. From above, he gets to see Nate's face transfigured by pleasure. From straight ahead, he gets to see himself kneeling between Nate's spread legs. He gets to imagine what it would feel like to suck Nate Fick's cock like he's desert-thirsty and Nate is his drink of water.

And Nate has entirely forgotten that his shoulder was hurting. He's fucking up into Brad's mouth, trying to stifle his desperate little whimpers as Brad sucks him, palms his balls, takes him all the way in, fuck, fuck --

It doesn't take long before Brad comes. He wipes himself off with a bandanna that's only slightly gritty from the everpresent sand, and tucks himself back into his cammies and walks back to camp.

And next time somebody offers him a turn with the picture of Rolling Stone's girlfriend, he'll say yes. Because otherwise they'll want to know what kind of porn he's keeping to himself, and that is not a conversation he is interested in having with anyone. Arguably especially not with Ray, who would intuit that he's keeping something back and would dog him about it.

And next time he sees First Lieutenant Fick, he'll nod and offer a tight smile, and Nate will do the same. Because they're in this clusterfuck of a war together, and they trust each other, and they both know they're lucky to have that.

Sometimes he thinks he sees more than brotherly cameraderie in Nate's face when he looks at Brad. It has occurred to him that perhaps, when they get out of this hellhole, assuming they both survive the unending parade of inept decisions that is this operation, he might try to figure out whether in fact his interest is reciprocated. But not now.

For now, it's jerking off in the desert, and bullet wound fantasies he keeps to himself.

The End