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Title: Merry Crapmas
Author: Haleth
Fandom/Pairing: Kelly’s Heroes, Oddball/Moriarity
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Has the same lingo anomalies as the source material. (Yes, this really is the way Oddball and Moriarity talk in the movie.)
Disclaimer: Uhh, well, it’s the way they talk in the movie, but it’s not claiming to be them or anything.
Setting: WWII, European Theater of Operations, Christmas Eve.
Note: If anyone had told me a year ago that I would be slashing Donald Sutherland and Gavin MacLeod, I would have laughed my ass off. Hopefully, someone out there will get this and laugh their ass off…
Merry Crapmas
It’s cold, it won’t stop snowing, the wind is whistling at the exact right pitch to drive a man to distraction, and they’re low on ammo.
“Crap!”
The tall, lanky figure in the corner rolls off his cot and tugs his leather duster closer around his chest. “Always with the negative waves, Moriarity.”
Moriarity closely examines the carburetor he’s been working on. “Don’t start with me, Oddball.”
“I’m not starting anything, baby. I’m making a helpful suggestion; lighten up and dig how beautiful the scenery is.”
Moriarity looks up through the cracked window pane. “Crap!” he repeats. “I can’t see past the sentry post. What’s so beautiful about that?”
Oddball sweeps his hand in the general direction of the outdoors. “What are you complaining about? The snow is purifying, baby. It’s, like, baptizing the world with its cleanliness. It’s all Christmassy and it’s a beautiful mother’ winter wonderland out there, so knock it off with them negative waves, will ya?”
Moriarity watches a sentry, who winces in pain from the bite of sharp snow on his face and ducks behind the guardhouse. “Maybe you should lay off the booze,” he suggests. The carburetor slips in his hand and rattles to the makeshift work bench. “Aw, crap. It’s so freakin’ cold I can’t even work.”
“So take some well-earned time off, man. I scrounged a little fuel for the heater and a spare blanket. We can make ourselves a private little interior winter wonderland,” Oddball says, offhandedly. Casually. Wickedly.
“Oddball, we’re in the middle of a damn war!”
“Aw, for cryin’ out loud, Moriarity, it’s a stinkin’ most awful stupid attitude and you’re always pulling the same stinkin’ awful stupid attitude. You don’t want in this thing, you don’t get in this thing. Someone to share my cot I can find anywhere.”
“Aw, come on. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…” Moriarity thinks it over for a few seconds. “Just the two of us?” he asks.
“You bet, baby. You, me and a bottle of red,” Oddball assures him.
“Far out.”
Oddball grins. “So many positive waves, we can’t lose, right?”
Within minutes, he’s got Moriarity under the blankets on the cot. It’s too cold to remove much clothing, but between the heater, the blankets and Oddball, Moriarity’s starting to warm up. Moriarity just hopes he won’t leave too much of a grease stain when he fumbles with his fly.
Oddball's hands have incredibly long fingers. Fingers long enough to wriggle through two layers of uniform and stroke just where they’re needed.
Oddball is hot and hard. But then, Oddball’s always hot and hard, unless he’s been smoking that shit with the Turk. Then he's hot and sort-of-hard, and he tends to get very… oral.
Moriarity wonders if the Turk has any of that shit lying around.
Oddball rolls against him and they’re facing each other, touching where it counts, fingers, intertwined, around each other. Much better. It’s so crowded here, they hardly ever get any time alone anymore, but now it really is just the two of them and the heater is fantastic and Moriarity isn’t looking at the snow anymore, or the carburetor, but at the way Oddball’s beard fades as it travels down his neck, and how his throat stretches out when his whole body stretches out, boots off the end of the cot. Oddball grinds against his hip.
They’re stroking each other faster and faster, and Moriarity is ready to burst. Oddball growls and Moriarity chortles, because it’s a funny sound. Oddball shifts against him and growls again, only this time it’s like a fake growl you’d hear from a cartoon dog.
“That’s my other dog imitation,” Oddball says in his ear, and Moriarity lets out an all-out laugh. Oddball loves making people laugh. But Moriarity’s laugh turns to a moan when wet heat spills on his bare skin, and then everything goes white for a second and he forgets where he is or why he’s there or that bad things could happen at a moment’s notice.
“That's what I wanted. What you needed.” Oddball pulls the blanket over them and reaches for the wine bottle. He drinks, offers some to Moriarity, takes a second for himself. He pulls Moriarity against his chest. “No more negative waves, okay? Just lie back, relax, and say something righteous and hopeful for a change.”
Moriarity rests his head on Oddball’s shoulder and sighs. “Merry Crapmas,” he says.
End
Back to Soldier Porn.
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