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[bybartle-by.livejournal.com]

Title: A Warm Kind of Numb
Author: Bartleby
Fandom: Full Metal Jacket
Pairing: Pvt. Joker/Pvt. Cowboy
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Joker doesn't give a shit
Feedback: Yes, please
Series: No
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Stanley Kubrick, Gustav Hasford and Warner Brothers, not to me.
Warnings: Racial slurs, het, drug use, blood, rough sex, hookers
Dedication: _simbelmyne_ who made sex in Vietnam sound so good


A Warm Kind of Numb

No one really knows where the junk comes from, gooks, I guess, but no one'll say when I ask. Not that I care in any real way. I just want more. In a place where numb is de rigueur, a needle full of that shit sure makes a guy feel better. Not less numb, but a different kind of numb, a warm kind of numb.

There's a whore sitting on me right now that I managed to somehow forget about, and Cowboy is laying next to me on the sweaty, cum-streaked sheets, hooker riding his own lap and she looks bored. And mine looks bored and I shove her off, pressing her money into her hand and telling her to get lost; take her friend with her. And it takes some shoving and prodding to get her out. She looks slightly affronted, and she tosses her hair and pouts at us as she and her partner redress. But the rest of our Platoon is outside and they'll both be more than occupied soon enough.

Cowboy gives me an irritated look, dick bobbing against his stomach and a lit cigarette with at least a half-inch of ash hanging off the edge of the bed. He takes a drag and looks at me reproachfully, eyes on my prick. And as I heave myself back up the mattress he reaches for me.

He can't feel pussy, but he feels me just fine. Getting caught could get us both a section eight, if we're lucky; get us dead if we're not. Or maybe I've got that backwards, but I'm not thinking straight with Cowboy's tongue in my mouth and his hands on me and my hands on him. He has a talent for finding all my small hurts and prodding them and breaking them open, a bruise here and a shrapnel nick there so that my nerves are singing and I'm bleeding like it's murder. I do him the same favor, but it's more work for me, and his wounds are worse, popping stitches sometimes.

We wear the blood like war paint, smearing it everywhere and handprints on the sheets and on the wall above Cowboy's head. Our dry fucking is no longer dry, sweat slicking us up and blood and cum, bleachy and hot even in the humidity.

And we stink so bad.

But that doesn't matter. Not a lot of shit does when there's bullet holes in the wall behind you and shells exploding just outside the blown out windows, nothing matters when you count on every move being your last.

~Fin