#genkill bingo

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Bingo 2: The Son of Bingo

1) BradNate + Roomates

2) Qtip + Vulnerability

3) Ray Person + Perfume or cologne

4) BradNateRay + Makeover

5) NateRay + Cuddling

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Gen Kill Bingo - BradNate + Roommates

“Well, it looks like we’re roommates now!” Ray said expansively, swinging his arms out wide to encompass Brad and Nate, and the weird kid from down the hall who had bitched about the tornado sirens all the way down to the basement, and was now curled up in the corner with his hoodie over his face, presumably asleep.

“Choose your roles now, so we can get everything straight right off the bat. James here has clearly already chosen his role as the weird, scary one, so that leaves the loveable goofball, the neurotic one and the responsible one.”

“Ray,” Brad snapped, ready to cut him off at the pass, when Nate interrupted,

“The average tornado warning is only thirty to sixty minutes long, so I doubt we need to move out of our dorm rooms just yet.”

Brad goggled at him, and before he could think the better of it asked, “Aren’t you from Virginia? How do you know about tornados?”

“Maryland, actually. And I looked it up before I came out to college here. I wanted to be prepared.”

Ray’s face lit up! “You two know each other already, excellent! This is an excellent start to our forced imprisonment and subsequent bonding. Because some people might think they know everything there is to know about everything after a little research, but some of us are Missouri-trailer-park born and bred, and have a leetle bit more experience in this particular subject, thank you very much. But seriously, how do you know each other? Brad hates everyone who isn’t a soccer player, and most of the guys who are.”

They’d hooked up last Fall, as part of a series of post-breakup bad decisions that Brad had been making, and continuing the streak of bad decision making, Brad had never called and had ignored Nate when Nate called.

“We have mutual friends,” Nate said quickly, “we ended up at some of the same parties last year. My roommate was one of the second stringers - did you know Dave McGraw?”

“McGraw? Yo, that dude sucked.”

“I am well aware,” Nate said, grinning.

“Nate and I have Russian lit together,” Ray said to Brad, not that he’d asked.

This was just great. Stuck in a basement supply closet with his irritating yet perceptive best friend and the one person out of the string of hook-ups who had seemed like he might actually be interesting. Definitely what Brad needed on a Thursday night. The econ paper he’d left behind was looking better and better by the minute.

When Brad looked up, Nate was watching him with a quiet, self-assured gaze. When he saw Brad notice him, he didn’t look away. Brad had always liked that about Nate, when he’d known him only as that guy who showed up at Soccer House parties sometimes. Nate said what he thought, and he didn’t back down. He seemed to know who he was, when the rest of them were flailing around in a sea of newfound responsibility and freedom and hormones and booze, just trying to stumble their way into an identity.

“Hey, Colbert! Silent and fucking creepy was not on the list of possible identities. Pipe the fuck up!”

Something flashed quickly across Nate’s face.

“Your last name is Colbert?”

Brad frowned. “Yeah?”

“I never knew it. It seems like you and I are going to be roommates after all. You’re my room draw partner for the semester after I return from studying abroad.”

Shit. Brad hadn’t even open the email assigning him a random roommate for second semester next year. Whoever it was probably going to suck, and he planned to spend most of the time in the lab or the library anyway. Besides it was months away.

A brilliant smile spread across Ray’s face

“Homes! Did I tell you or did I tell you? Who knows everything? Your pal Ray-Ray, that’s who!”

Fuck.

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GenKill Bingo: Bradnateray + Makeover

In my head, this is a follow up to the fic I wrote where Brad and Nate pick up Ray at a wedding, but it also stands alone. It’s under the cut for canon appropriate slurs and swearing.

From: Ray Person

To: Brad Colbert

Subject: I Fucked Up

But it totally wasn’t as bad as the thing you thought when you read the subject line, so keep that in mind while you’re sharpening whatever medieval torture devices you ordered off of eBay this time, you sick motherfucker.

You remember the last time you were here and you left me your credit card information to order a pizza while you went on a beer run because Nate wouldn’t get his lazy ass out of bed? Well it turns out I memorized it. I tried to tell you that you shouldn’t leave me to my own devices when I was sex-drunk, but you told me you weren’t in the mood for my bullshit, which, by the way, you’re never in the mood, so I don’t know why you bother.

Brad laughed to himself. Not being in the mood had not been what Ray was complaining about the last time they’d visited.

You just made a sex joke, didn’t you? Seriously,that is some low hanging fruit. Even I am above that joke. Even Trombley is above that joke.

Anyway, when I was actually drunk last night I might have used your credit card to buy Nate a new wardrobe.

Brad choked on his cofee. Whatever he’d expected Ray to admit to doing with his credit card, clothes shopping was definitely not it.

In my defense, Nate’s wardrobe is a fucking crime. He’s the dirtiest motherfucker I have ever had the pleasure of servicing and he dresses like he walked into Dads ‘R Us and purchased everything in his size in the color blue. It’s a nightmare.

Upon reflection, Nate did wear a lot of blue. Brad hadn’t noticed it before, but now that Ray pointed it out, it was true.

He’s walking around in khaki shorts that the pastor at my mother’s church would deem “too conservative” and if a trailer-park living, kumbaya singing Baptist won’t wear them, then what the fuck is Nate doing?

I am like 90% sure that the last time I visited him someone mistook him for an actual Mormon. A Mormon, Brad! Does he just not know? Does he enjoy walking around looking like the fresh meat in every single porn dedicated to wrecking some underage virgin? Does he not know that there are colors other than blue? Is he allergic to patterns? Is he just pretending to be the Virgin Mary every fucking time he gets dressed in the morning?

And how have you let this go on so long? I mean, you are a hopeless case clotheswise, but at least your complete lack of fashion sense is true to form. Your clothes say exactly what you want them to, specifically that the rest of the world can fuck right off.

The shit is being shipped to you, so you can return it if you want, but if you at least keep the black v neck and convince Nate to wear it, I will give you the sloppiest blow job you can imagine next time I visit, if you even still need a reward, which I don’t think you will once you see him in any of it.

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Gen Kill Bingo: NateRay + Cuddling

This is sappy af. I have no regrets

One of the reasons Ray loved Nate Fick was that when he came home from work and found Ray sitting on the floor in between their bed and the wall in a pile of blankets and laundry, he didn’t immediately assume it was some PTSD psycho thing.

Instead, he looked down at Ray and said “Cool fort. Can I come in?”

Ray scoffed, “Look again, this is clearly a nest, motherfucker.”

Ray had come into the bedroom with every intention of putting away the clean laundry that he’d dumped on their bed this morning, when he’d noticed the book Nate was reading on Nate’s nightstand. The bits Nate had told him about had sounded interesting, so he picked it up and opened to a random page.

It was interesting, and soon Ray had sunk to the floor, engrossed. After a bit, he realized he was uncomfortable, so he reached up to pull down a pillow. Some of the laundy had fallen when he’d reached up, so he’d used it as a backrest. It had to be washed again anyway, didn’t it?

Anyway, one thing had led to another and now three pillows, their comforter, a sheet and most of the laundry were arranged around him to create the perfect reading spot.

Nate kicked off his shoes and crawled in, using his arms to rearrange the fabric until he had a suitable pillow. He sprawled out as best he could.

“There are socks in your nest, did you know that?”

Ray ignored him.

“Also, you stole my book.”

Ray put his entire hand over Nate’s face, “Shhhh. You’re so fucking spoiled. You come home from work and find clean laundry and this sweet-ass nest, and all you do is bitch because you don’t like my building materials and I happen to be reading a book that maybe I found on your side of the bed. You can’t own literature, Nate. It belongs to the people.”

Nate raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Okay, so usually it was Ray trying to distract Nate from his reading, but Ray didn’t see how that was relevant to their immediate situation. If he didn’t pull Nate out of his books sometimes, Nate would probably never see the sun again, and then he’d get rickets, and die, so basically Ray was doing him a favor.

“How far did you get?” Nate asked. Ray showed him the page, and he nodded. “Read it to me.”

Ray resisted the command for a moment, on principle, but it was a logical way to keep Nate from ruining nest time with more observations.

Ray shifted his legs, trying to reclaim some of the territory he’d lost to Nate. Nate was unavoidable in the small space, so Ray changed strategies and sprawled his legs over Nate’s prone torso. Interlopers in the nest did not require consideration.

Ray read a chapter or two out loud with his fingers stroking through Nate’s hair, Nate’s arm wrapped around Ray’s legs. After that, it was clear that Nate was dozing off, so Ray began reading silently again.

After a few minutes of silence, Nate murmured, eyes still closed, “We could win gold.”

“What?”

“If they had cuddling Olympics,” Nate said into Ray’s thigh “we could win gold. We’re good at this.”

“The cuddling Olympics?” Ray was aghast at this soppy fucker, or wanted to be. The warmth in his chest was not because he thought this was charming. He probably just had heartburn.

“Yeah, we could get points for coziness. Interesting positioning. For building a nest. It would be good.”

“You are a Marine officer,” Ray said, “this is disgraceful.”

“A Marine officer who deserves a gold medal,” Nate said, and then promptly fell the rest of the way asleep.

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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Generation Kill Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Evan Stafford, Nate Fick, Mike Wynn, John Christeson Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy Summary:

Evan had stepped forward on impulse to save the man's life. He hadn't planned on signing up for months of fighting to save an entire country, but here he was.

Gen Kill Bingo Prompt: Qtip +Transformation

Nate is full of stupidly noble self-sacrifice. Evan is full of magic and doubt. Mike is determined not to let any of these idiots kill themselves or plunge the country into ruin, and John is full of placid good cheer. This is my first au, my longest fic ever and I still don’t know how it happened, but I love it and I hope you will too.

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Gen Kill Bingo: Qtip + Soulmate

Spoiler alert: They’re all soul mates. Every single dang one of them.

Qtip’s mom hated it when he pointed to things that weren’t there. When he was in his crib, before anyone called him anything but Evan, he’d reached for the sparkles around her and she’d flinched back as he were going to strike her with his little toddler hands.

His Grammy told him he was seeing god’s lights. His mom said that auras were “holler bs” and she didn’t want to hear anything more about them. She said that she’d moved them away from her hometown to Nashville, because she didn’t want her kids growing up with “any of that small town nonsense.”

Qtip stopped talking about them, but he didn’t stop seeing them. Everyone had a glow around them, brighter around their faces and hands. When his mother wasn’t listening, Grammy told him that seeing auras was a special talent that people in their family had, and that you could use the lights to tell things about a person. Their colors, the shapes, and how clear or muddy they were could tell you what someone had in their heart and how they felt about you.

His Grammy’s lights were green like the lilac bush outside her house. They flowed freely in a wide circle around her. Qtip’s mom’s lights were harder to see. They were tucked in close to her skin, but sometimes, when she was relaxed, a warm violet floated free. His own aura was as yellow as a dandelion. To match his hair, Grammy said.

He was so used to seeing auras that he’d never thought about what it might mean for him as a Marine. It wasn’t until he was in training that he realized that it could be a liability. Guys were under so much stress that their auras were endlessly shifting. He quickly had to train himself not to flinch when he saw bursts of black bloom out of the corners of his eyes as someone else fucked up and was roundly corrected.

It the civilian world, personal space was important, respected. What Qtip could see, even if most couldn’t, was that personal space was people protecting their auras from the energy of others. But in the Marines, personal space was a luxury no one could afford, and he had to get used to the feeling of people moving through his space continuously. Soon, it felt weirder when someone wasn’t in his space.

At first, Bravo was no different. He immediately scanned his platoon and his team and was pleased with what he saw. Unsurprisingly, a lot of the officers, his platoon commander included glowed a bright, steady blue in his vision. Many of the others were varying shades of purple and indigo. Person was a bright spot of chaotic orange shaking things up, and keeping people on their feet. It was good to have another warm aura around.

But then something happened which Qtip had never seen before. Their auras started to change, together. Everyone’s auras changed sometimes - sometimes fucked up things happened or you grew up some or something. The people around you could change your aura - make you optimistic or more defensive or full of sorrow. But the shifts always reflected changes in the person whose aura it was.

The first time Qtip noticed it was in Kuwait. He was cleaning his weapon and looked down, and there was a ring of dark purple around his normal sunny yellow. He didn’t think much of it, until Gunny crouched by his side and he noticed that Gunny had a edge of purple too.  He kept his eyes open, and noticed that he could catch glimpses of the same color around all of them, even around people whose auras were normally pulled in tight like Doc and T.

When they crossed the LOD, it became more pronounced, all of them wearing rings of orange so bright that he thought they should short out the nvgs. When things began to go wrong, the Qtip tried not to notice how the color was muddied and muted. He didn’t have time for their grief. He didn’t have time for his own.

The fucked up thing was that this was happening the same way to everyone, like it wasn’t showing things in each Marine, but reacting to external things happening to them as a group. This was a separate, unit aura, that spread among them and between them. An additional color. They had their selves, untouched, and then they had their platoon, as much a part of them as their essential self, but also apart from them and connected with others.

He knew that it should freak him out, but it was hard to be bothered by something that felt as natural as checking his sector or knowing how pissed off the LT was by looking at the backs of his ears. It felt as right as finishing Christeson’s sentences or knowing which song Gunny was going to sing right before he started. How could he be bothered by something that was as comfortable as his own skin?

(I know literally nothing about the art of reading auras. I mashed together some  things from here and here. The orange is for courage. If other color meanings aren’t clear, let me know. <3)

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I think my next Qtip gen kill bingo square fill is becoming “What if that boring part of Harry Potter where they morosely wandered around the forest, but with Qtip?”and I genuinely do not know if it is entertaining or simply words on a page, but I’m 2,000 words in, and I’m not turning back now!

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Gen Kill Bingo: Qtip+ Rivalry

“There’s something morbid about a battalion having a newspaper,” Nate said as he sat down near where Mike was perusing Qtip’s latest edition.

Mike shrugged. The LT wasn’t wrong, but the thing of it was, this thing wasn’t half-bad. The kid could be pretty funny once he settled down and spoke in complete sentences.

“It’s going to get us all written up if the wrong person sees it,” Nate fretted.

“Mebbe so,” Mike said “But scrounging for gossip and paper to write it on keeps him out of trouble.” He nodded significantly in the direction of the patch in the tarpaulin that resulted from  Qtip trying to teach Christeson knife throwing.

Nate sighed. “How bad is it this time?”

Mike shuffled through the MRE wrappers which Qtip used as pages. “Well, here’s a cartoon of that Lieutenant from Alpha as a mole. He’s wearing dark glasses and his eyes are little Xes, just in case you didn’t get the joke about him being blind.”

Nate groaned and shut his eyes. “Don’t tell me anything else. I can’t know about this.”

Mike snorted, imagining Nate trying to explain to Godfather with a straight face why his Marine was drawing caricatures of Patterson’s Marines and distributing them around camp. God, but he was glad he didn’t have Nate’s job.

                        The Morning Report

                              All the news that’s fit not to print

(“Get it?” Qtip had asked “because I ain’t printing it! It’s freehand!”)

Weather:

Today: Hot as Balls  Tonight: Cold as Balls Air Quality: Sand

Tomorrow: Hotter than today, chance of fuckups. Tomorrow night: Nah, son.  Air Quality: Toxic gas.

News:

Cpt. Schwetje takes a listening tour of the battalion. Reports “I hear my Marines. They are angry." No word if he also heard that they are hungry.

Unnamed marine has trouble aiming his shit. “Just wipe it off,” he says, when confronted. Can he be trusted with a weapon?

Marines fixing their radios with scraps accidentally summon demon; Demon takes one look at Iraq and asks to be sent back home.

Translator enjoys creative writing, has a new story every day. Marines wonder if he will ever try his hand at telling the truth.

Local Marines concerned about combat stress instructor; Concerned about when will he leave them alone.

Cpl. Stafford, set a new battalion record by correctly producing 14 movie quotes in a row before getting stumped. Says witness, PFC Christeson, “Screwby.” 

JLo Watch 2003 - No updates. Is it time to give up hope for Jenny from the Block?

Stats:

Tanks reported which did not exist: Alpha:140, Bravo: 0, Charlie: 0

Charms thrown at Redman before he woke up: Alpha:0, Bravo: 0, Charlie: 6

Dogs fed: Alpha: 1, Bravo: ½*, Charlie: 3

Airfields unsuccessfully reconned: Alpha: 1, Bravo: 0, Charlie: 0

Airfields seized like a motherfucker: Alpha: 1, Bravo: 1, Charlie: 1

Haji goats seized and roasted: Alpha: 0, Bravo: 0, Charlie: 0, Meesh: 1

Ethnicities claimed by Sgt. Espera: 6

* Food was thrown but not observed to be eaten because Sgt. Colbert got mad.