Summary: "When she receives her draft letter in the mail, Brittany Pierce thinks her life can't get worse- until she meets Drill Commander Lopez." EXTRA-smutty fill for the GKM. Brittana. AU. G!p. FINAL SUMOSMU! D:
Warning: This story involves Brittany having, for whatever reason that makes sense in your sweet little brain, an average-sized penis. Which means there will be a lot of sex with it. If you don't like dicks, well, might I point you over to the entire rest of the Summer of Smut? ;)
A/N: YOU ASKED FOR IT. IT'S HERE. (Did anyone actually ask for it?) This will be the one and only Girl Wang story I ever write, so it will be a small multi-chapter fic while I get all of my awful autoandrophilia feels out. Because apparently, Girl Wang is a thing, so. Yeah. Here! There isn't sex in this first part, because I'm doing this weird thing called plot (GASP!) but don't worry, the next chapter will fulfill your wildest Girl Wang dreams. Or something. I didn't make the prompt, okay? I'm only filling it. (Waaanky! ;)
The setting of this story can be one of two things- you can imagine it taking place on some weird retro-futuristic world, or, if that's not for you, you can imagine it's sometime in the far future after like, World War 5 when Pangea consumes all the continents or whatever, idk. I don't go into too much detail about that. That's where your imagination comes in. CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE!
Also, since the setting is entirely fictional, all of the military shit is not 100% based in reality, either. I did do a lot of research to give it some realism, but if it was perfect then really the prompt I am filling would never even be possible in the first place. So suspend your disbelief. This ain't the US military. And- being in the military is not the point of the story. Brittana is. And dirty sex. If you want super-detailed, accurate military fic, go read I Need A Medic or something.
Thanks to Lighthouse (NegativeSpaces) for absolutely nothing. I asked her to help me come up with titles- you should have read some of her useless suggestions. Useless, I say! So if the title of this story is lame? Well, it's her fault, because she didn't pick a better one. Still love her, though, don't we?
Anyways. Happy wanking!
You never thought you'd ever be drafted.
Sure- you'd registered for selective service like Big Brother required, but that was years ago, when you'd first come of age, and you'd long since forgotten about it. You had other things to worry about- dance, your job assignment, and trying to meet a girl who'd want what you had to offer. (It's not like you didn't like boys, but there weren't exactly a whole lot of them that were open to your unique body- you'd dated a nice boy named Kurt once, but it had quickly dissolved when you realized he was far too needy and clingy. It's not like your situation is uncommon; in fact, a good percentage of the population is just like you. But it takes an uncommon type of girl to be totally okay with it, and so far, you'd only found- and dated, and fucked- a handful of them.) So why would you worry about being drafted? It's not like it was going to happen anytime soon.
But then the War happened, and you'd never hated equal rights more. Equality meant that women were just as capable as men on the battlefield, and with the world at war- and your country right in the middle of it, in particular- the draft suddenly became a reality you thought you'd never have to face.
And as you'd opened that letter on Friday that called you to arms, demanding your compliance the following Monday, you quickly realized, with a sinking feeling in your stomach, that it had become your personal reality. You'd been drafted. And there was nothing, nothing you could do about it. You could run away- but where would you go? You'd never left your small town. Finding a job would be impossible without the right transfers and approvals, and your name was officially on Big Brother's list. It was as bad as being a wanted criminal.
You had no escape.
Feeling sick, you'd trudged back up the steps to your parents' house, clutching the crisp, textured paper printed with a fancy, official-looking letterhead. Your parents owned a huge plantation-style house out in the country, complete with newly-refurbished wrap-around deck, painted sky blue. The house itself was eggshell white, and the front porch had a porch swing. You'd looked at the house and felt bile rising in your throat- you'd always thought you'd live there forever, and, being an only child, inherit the house, grow old and die there- not in some foreign land fighting a battle you didn't believe in. Not like that. You'd thought you'd stay in this town all your life, and you were fine with it. You'd never wanted anything more.
But the paper in your hand reminded you to do your patriotic duty- there's just one problem the government must not have known about when they picked your name:
You're a pacifist.
Your girlfriend, Sugar, didn't take it so well when you told her you were leaving.
"You're breaking up with me?" you'd said in shocked disbelief. You thought she'd take it bad, but not that bad. You wonder if maybe giving her flowers might've helped soften the blow. What were her favorites again? Petunias? No, those were your Great Aunt Mildred's. Maybe-
"Sorry," Sugar had said, sounding almost bored, and her disinterested tone completely surprised you. "I just don't want to deal with the distance. I need someone who's here. And besides, there's like a ton of statistics that prove that military relationships don't work out, anyways. I'm actually doing you a favor, Britt. Sayonara."
You'd stood, stunned, as she'd left abruptly, without even a hug or a kiss good bye. Granted, you'd only been dating her for a few months, and hadn't even had sex with her yet- she'd been giving you the runaround, and only committed to a few handjobs- but her casual severance of your relationship still hurt. And you wondered if you'd ever get the sweatshirt you'd loaned her last month back.
You're kind of glad you didn't buy those flowers.
Your parents took it a lot better, but there wasn't a whole lot they could say to comfort you.
"We are so sorry, honey," Your mother had told you, stroking fingers through your hair as you sat on the couch and let her cradle you against her. You liked being comforted by your mom- she smells like lavender, which is a whole lot better than your Great Aunt Mildred, who smelled like moth balls-
"Really, Tanny, we are," Your dad had said, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "If there's anything we can do, just tell us."
"And we'll write to you every day," your mother added sweetly, petting your bangs back from your face and kissing your forehead. You smelled lavender. You tried to smile.
You appreciated them trying, but it didn't exactly reassure you. They had accepted your leaving easier than you had, which made you feel even more helpless.
You were going off to war.
"GET- THE FUCK- OFF THAT BUS- NOW!"
You snap out of your memories and scramble, along with the other girls seated around you, to unload from the bus as quickly as possible. You hadn't been on a bus since summer cheer camp twelve years ago, and the musty, brown, cracked leather seats beneath you had lulled you into a nostalgic calm.
"FASTER, YOU LITTLE MAGGOTS!"
Which didn't last long. You're really regretting being so in shape from dancing for years- you'd unfortunately passed all your pre-qualifying physicals, and despite your extra appendage, you'd been assigned to the girls' training camp after a minor two-day delay at the sterilization office during Reception. The doctor there had assured you the procedure was one-hundred percent reversible, but while you were property of the USN military, you had to follow their sterilization rules. You'd told him that you'd been drinking Mountain Dew all your life, but you don't think he got the joke. Then, after a quick thirty-minute procedure, you were a little sore and also feeling a little emasculated. Is this what Lord Tubbington felt like when you'd had him neutered?
Once you'd been cleared, you'd been jostled along to various stations. You'd filled out your paperwork which included who you wanted your dead body sent to (your parents) and received your uniforms and boots, and then, packed in like little sardines with the other girls on the old bus, you'd arrived at the camp where'd you'd be doing your basic training. The bus hadn't even come to a complete stop when a woman's voice began screaming at you through a megaphone.
"PICK YOUR BAG UP AND CARRY IT! GET THE HELL OFF THE BUS!"
You try to a catch a glimpse of the woman screaming at you, but all you manage to see is short blonde hair as you snatch up your tightly-packed, dark blue, military-issued bag and lift it as instructed, running in a line behind the girls ahead of you while the drill instructors shout abuse at you.
"THAT'S PATHETIC, ROSE! YOU'RE PATHETIC! DID THEY TEACH YOU THAT IN FINISHING SCHOOL, YOU UGLY SHIT-TWIG?"
"CHING-CHANG, MAYBE IF YOU WEREN'T ASIAN YOU COULD SEE WHERE THE HELL YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE GOING- GET BACK IN LINE, HARLOT!"
Your bag isn't all that heavy, really, but the girl beside you seems to be struggling with it. She's shorter than you, younger-looking, but pretty, and you feel bad- her blue bag looks almost bigger than her. You're about to offer her a tip on how to hold it more securely when another woman screams in your direction.
"WILDE, GET- YOUR FUCKING- BAG UP- THIS AIN'T A PAGEANT. HOLD IT UP!"
The blonde girl- Wilde, you suppose- shoots you a dirty look, and you're taken aback by her sudden ferocity towards you, especially since you did absolutely nothing to deserve it. You're so taken aback, however, that you stumble a little as you're moving, and that draws the attention of the drill instructors. Two of them swoop down on you like vultures.
"PIERCE! YOU GOT A PROBLEM, OR ARE YOU TOO STUPID TO WALK PROPERLY?!"
"THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, PIERCE?! FUCKING MOVE!"
The insults burn through you, and you feel your ears turning pink. You're slightly angry at Wilde for distracting you. You've been out of place your whole life, and if you had to be here, you were hoping to blend in- you don't want to make any waves or get noticed. You just want to get through your training quietly, serve your time, hopefully survive, and go home. In fact, you wouldn't mind skipping straight to the go home part-
"HEY, IDIOT- I'M TALKING TO YOU. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
You raise your eyes slightly, and catch just a glimpse of curly brown hair and a very large frame, before you're being yelled at again.
"WHO ARE YOU LOOKING AT, PIG? YOU LOOK SOMEWHERE ELSE, YOU HEAR ME?"
You're about to respond, when a third voice, beautiful and smoky despite its sharpness, cuts through you, making you shiver involuntarily at its coldness.
"What the fuck is going on here?"
She's not screaming, but the commanding, frigid tone in her voice is enough to put more fear in you than everyone who's yelled at you so far.
"DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE?" the tall, older blonde woman with the megaphone shrieks at you, directly in your face. "YOU'VE PISSED OFF THE COMMANDER, STUPID."
"STUPID," the other woman echoes, and you swallow, your throat feeling tight, because you're completely unsure how you could've done such a thing, when really, you haven't actually done anything. You start to wonder if you did do something, because the older blonde woman is glaring at you over her megaphone, and the curly-haired bull of a woman- actually, she looks more like a bison, if you had to choose- is, too, and now there's a third angry person that you're unaware of, and you're also pretty sure that everyone in the company- it is called a company, right? They told you that at Reception, but you really hope you remembered right- is staring at you, and you can feel the tips of your ears burning, and-
A sneer from your left makes you shiver again, and then that cold voice is taunting, "What, are you gonna cry? Are you gonna cry?"
You shake your head, clenching your jaw and averting your eyes to the rough canvas bag in your arms. You're startled when strong, tan fingers grip your jaw tightly and yank your head up, and your eyes meet hers for the first time.
Chocolate. That's all you can think of. Not the cheap kind, like Hershey's bars or whatever, but that good, expensive chocolate they have boutiques for that you could never even afford but still longingly looked at through the shop window in your town.
Or maybe her eyes are more like coffee beans. The good roasted kind shipped in from the feral colonies or wherever, that smell amazing- though you're sure her eyes probably don't smell.
Or maybe chocolate coffee, like coffee with chocolate in it-
"What the fuck are you looking at, Stupid?" The Commander barks, and you're instantly reminded that you aren't home, and definitely not anywhere near those ancient, familiar shops. Fingers tighten almost painfully on your jaw and you wince. "Did you even hear anything that I said?"
You try to shake your head before you remember that you can't, because she's gripping your face so tightly. So you say, "No," instead, and drop your gaze.
"Did I tell you to look away?" the Commander demands, and obediently, you lift your eyes back up. Your eyes meet again, and this time, you feel a hard throb of heat shoot straight to your groin, and your dick twitches in you tight, constricting shorts.
You bite your lip and swallow, hoping against hope that whatever your Commander is going to do is over with quickly, because being so close to her is affecting you in adverse ways you've never felt before, and if she keeps looking at you as intensely as she is, even your painful compression shorts aren't going to be able to hide your secret-
Sneering, the Commander releases your chin, and you snap to attention as she turns away to address the rest of your small company. "Listen up, Ladies," she says harshly, her strong voice carrying over the fearful silence. "I know many of you don't want to be here- but I'm going to tell you right now- get the fuck over it. You're not leaving. And if you don't make it, then you'll die on the battlefield. Simple as that. I'm not playing with you and I don't fuck around. You've all probably heard a lot of things about me- that I'm a bitch, that I'm cruel, that I will humiliate you and hurt you. All of those things are true. Do not cross me. You will be sorry. Now get the fuck out of my sight."
There's a slight, half-second pause before the blonde-haired older lady screams, "YOU HEARD COMMANDER LOPEZ! ONTO THE FIELD! NOW!"
You clutch your bag tighter to your chest and pick up your pace. Commander Lopez shoots you another glare, and you feel a tingle of both fear and arousal ripple through your body. You've already made two enemies within minutes of arriving. And somehow, you know that you're in for it- that your punishment hasn't even begun.
As you make your way back to your place in line, you wonder just what the hell you did to deserve this.
So, yeah, Britt's probably not going to have a good time at Basic… or is she? I guess you'll have to keep reading, idk.
All of the chapters of this story, however many there will be, are going to be short, and from here on, smutty.
Hang tight, Girl Wang is on the way! XD
Review if you feel like it. But it not, then don't. It's all gravy.
AND NOW A WORD FROM ~OFFICER SAFETY:
Vasectomies are a good, safe option for sterilization- if you are a man, or have a Girl Wang. The procedure also has a reversal success rate of anywhere between 70-99 percent, depending on how long it's been since you had the original procedure. :)
However, vasectomies do not stop the transmission of STDs, so if your partner is a man, or someone with a Girl Wang, then consider the use of condoms, anyways. Plus, what if that shitsack is lying to you or whatever, and then you get pregnant and have to drag the fucker on Maury to tell him he's the baby daddy?
The good news is, though, unless you are an old hag, or dating a man (or person with a Girl Wang) that is significantly older than you, the likeliness of you having to deal with someone who's had the procedure is probably extremely rare.
But still use condoms. Seriously.
STAY SAFE AND PLAY SAFE! :D
See you soon, pals!