(no subject)
TITLE: our bodies become arsonists to will
PAIRINGS: Brad/Nate, Poke/OFC
RATING: NC14
WORDCOUNT: 1774
SUMMARY: AU. Bravo 2 are cold-eyed killers, the only werewolf platoon in the USMC. It's a thing Brad Colbert's had to learn to live wtih in a variety of ways.
A/N: The blame for this lies at a variety of doors; a request by marycontraire, a list of words from traveller, a fantastic vampire!AU by kitsunejin which made me incredibly jealous. A taste of what I expect will be a bigger universe. Title from the song Cascades by Horse Feathers.
we seldom speak and we will rarely talk
your secret's known
Two feet never really feels right to him again but his bike helps. Sometimes, it just feels like he's desperately racing to keep up with the beating of his own heart. Sometimes, he just has to separate himself from the rest of them to prove that there's still a part of him that knows how to be alone even now his heart feels at least two sizes bigger in his chest.
Another thing not easily forgiven: he can't see colours anymore.
Nate's eyes used to look so green.
*
“He hates it, you know.”
Years of sitting beside Ray in a humvee and Brad's still never entirely gotten used to the way Ray will sometimes start a conversation from a standing start. He moves in the seat that feels like it's moulded to the sweaty lines of him, and he shifts his weapon in his lap against his shoulder. At his six, he can hear Walt snoring softly, moonlight slanting in through the nets. In profile, Ray's single eye is dark and unreadable.
“Hates what?” he asks. He doesn't need to ask who they're talking about; they both know who they're talking about.
A smile twitches in the corner of Ray's mouth.
“You,” he says, the hook humming against his shoulder. “He can't stand that he finally lost it and it was you.”
Somewhere near by, Rudy chants peace, om mani padme hum.
*
“We're stone cold fucking killers,” says Doc Bryan, head bowed, dark shadows pressed thumb-print deep under his eyes. “And Godfather knows this. And so, like the cognizant motherfucker that he is, he passes on the onerous task of real war-making to us. And then he lets us bleed for it.”
Poke grins, showing even white teeth.
Reporter takes his notes.
*
There's an alarm bleating somewhere in the dark outside the open window and Brad sits with his back to the cistern and watches Nate through the steam. They've been fucking for a week and he's still looking for the scar; Nate won't tell him the story of how he turned. Brad's not sure that he wants to know but he still looks for the scar.
Nate turns his head and Brad notes the hunger in the spare lines of his face. He sees it more often in Poke's face. It's always there in Ray's. He just catches flashes of it in Nate and, somehow, it's all the more terrifying because it's not always present. Brad tries not to think about what comes of hunger like that but still he gets flashes of carcasses and sharp, sharp teeth.
Since he was a kid, Brad's been unable to resist things that scare him.
“You shouldn't be here,” says Nate. It's the third time tonight that he's said it. He doesn't even open his eyes. Brad's already slipping down onto his knees, leaning forward to catch Nate's jaw with his fingers and pull him into a kiss.
He must be imagining the taste of blood under the espresso that Nate drank in the kitchen.
He should be here.
He's already decided that he has nowhere else to go.
Not anymore.
*
In the distance, a fire-strike glows dully against the dark and he leans there against the hood of the humvee and Nate leans beside him. There are certain things that Brad misses: clarity of colours, not being able to smell Ray Person, feeling comfortable when he's away from everybody else (they're not good at being alone). He could settle, though, for leaning there and closing his eyes and listening to Nate's heartbeat in the greenish light.
“Stop,” he says. “Don't.”
He doesn't need to look at Nate to know what he's feeling; the guilt is always there. It's not something he sees in Poke when he's watching Gina with her strapless shirts and tattoos and the long silver earrings that brush her brown shoulders. Gina and Poke make this look so easy, fallen so deeply in love. Nate isn't always easy to be with because, sometimes, the guilt gets in the way; he's never said it, but Brad knows that Nate blames himself because,while Poke found it in him to fall deeply in love and still control himself, somehow Nate did not.
Sometimes, Nate looks so tense and so sad and Brad doesn't know how to say we wouldn't have lasted without this.
He never knows what to say.
“I've ruined your whole life, Brad,” says Nate, jaw tense. Brad tilts his head slightly and listens to how Nate's rhythms change.
“You haven't ruined anything,” he says. “I wanted this.” I wanted you. “I never could have kept up with you, otherwise.”
He knows that it won't help. He knows that Nate will still look at him with that deep, sinking sorrow in his eyes and he knows that he'll spend his life falling over himself to try to prove to Nate that this couldn't have unfolded any other way.
He shifts the weight of his weapon in his arms.
“I trust your judgement, Nate,” he says and then he walks away and leaves them.
In theater, he constantly reminds himself that Nate is more than the Alpha.
They never touch.
*
Sometimes, they fuck slowly and gently, sweaty limbs entwined and lips lingering against skin but, more often, it's push and shove; Nate growls and fingertips leave bruises on tan skin. Brad pushes back but it's mostly for the thrill of Nate pinning him to the bed, the touch of teeth on his shoulder. He groans and spreads his knees as wide as he can, pushing into the mattress with the heels of his hands.
He lets his head drop down as Nate pushes slick fingers inside him, his hips bucking as he fucks himself back and wishes that he could get Nate deeper. He presses a moan into the pillow and reaches back with one hand, his fingertips grazing against Nate's bare thigh.
No bite mark there.
“What is this?” asks Nate, pulling out his fingers achingly slowly. Brad closes his eyes and breathes through the loss as he kneeels there, exposed and lonely, ass in the air.
“This is your about to fuck me.”
The head of Nate's cock nudges against him, slick and swathed in latex. Brad feels his hips buck with eagerness but Nate stills him with one hand on his hip and, listen: he might miss seeing the exact colour of Nate's eyes but how strong Nate is (and how willing he is to feel that strength, how much he wants it, how much he craves it?) never gets old.
“Why?” asks Nate, and he begins to slide into Brad's body one inch at a time. The bitemark on Brad's thigh beats in time with his heart.
“Because I want it,” breathes Brad, rocking back onto Nate's cock as he starts to thrust. “And you fucking love me.”
And it's true, it's all so true.
He might never get to be alone again, not really.
It's worth it.
*
It's so hot in the club that his shirt is sticking to him but leather breathes and his boots scuff against the concrete floor as he crowds Nate into a corner and presses a hand to the wall on either side of his head.
“This is a bad idea, Brad,” says Nate. In the low light, his eyes are dark and unreadable. Brad's drunk enough not to care; he's drunk enough that he's tired of looking at Nate's mouth and wanting to kiss him and never kissing him. Nate's bottom lip has been distracting him for months.
He slips closer with his hands on Nate's hips and bends his head. There's a couple of inches difference. He feels the press of Nate's teeth against his lip before they get the angle quite right.
*
He was always good at being on his own but now he finds that there's a nagging feeling at the back of his mind while he's surfing or on his bike. He feels like he's missing something, like he's left behind a limb. The ocean isn't enough; he longs for closeness. He finds himself day-dreaming about skin pressed against skin, about fingers in his hair and his lips against someone's pulse. Nate's out of town for a few days but he can't stay still and he can't be on his own.
He finds himself at Ray's door and Ray smells of dip and soap and beer. He holds the door open with one hand and offers Brad a drink with the other.
And the beer goes down really smoothly and it's easy not to feel so alone, especially when they're sitting so close on the couch that his arm is pressed against Ray's and Brad can feel the heat pouring off him. It's like the echo of what he feels for Nate, and Brad realises that he can't get close enough. He's lost count of how many beers he's had (enough that he won't be getting back on his bike tonight) but it's alarmingly easy to turn towards Ray and land a kiss against Ray's jaw. His hand skims across Ray's belly, squirming between his t-shirt and his pants, fingertips grazing against bare skin. His mouth finds Ray's, a deep, warm kiss and he's aware of the way that Ray's head falls back even as Ray's fingers are closing around his wrist.
“I totally get it, Brad,” he says, voice low in a way that Brad rarely hears. “But no.”
It's a pack thing: this need to be close and it's not the same thing as being with Nate, not just wanting to fuck Nate but being with him, being with him like Poke and Gina are together. Being with him forever or whatever that means. And Ray grins and says that isn't the same as this, Homes, but it is the pack and he's never going to be happy being alone again.
He crawls into bed with Ray but stays fully clothed. He ends up with his head on Ray's skinny chest, his ear pressed close and listening to their hearts trying to fall into rhythm with each other.
*
The thing snarls and bites, teeth sinking through leather over his thigh. He can't shake the feeling of recognition, even as he starts to slip; he can't shake the feeling that he recognised the look in its green eyes the moment before it was on top of him and he fell. He's had nearly ten years in Recon without a scratch.
He never thought that he was going to die like this.
He's a Recon Marine. He never really thought that he was going to die.
PAIRINGS: Brad/Nate, Poke/OFC
RATING: NC14
WORDCOUNT: 1774
SUMMARY: AU. Bravo 2 are cold-eyed killers, the only werewolf platoon in the USMC. It's a thing Brad Colbert's had to learn to live wtih in a variety of ways.
A/N: The blame for this lies at a variety of doors; a request by marycontraire, a list of words from traveller, a fantastic vampire!AU by kitsunejin which made me incredibly jealous. A taste of what I expect will be a bigger universe. Title from the song Cascades by Horse Feathers.
we seldom speak and we will rarely talk
your secret's known
Two feet never really feels right to him again but his bike helps. Sometimes, it just feels like he's desperately racing to keep up with the beating of his own heart. Sometimes, he just has to separate himself from the rest of them to prove that there's still a part of him that knows how to be alone even now his heart feels at least two sizes bigger in his chest.
Another thing not easily forgiven: he can't see colours anymore.
Nate's eyes used to look so green.
*
“He hates it, you know.”
Years of sitting beside Ray in a humvee and Brad's still never entirely gotten used to the way Ray will sometimes start a conversation from a standing start. He moves in the seat that feels like it's moulded to the sweaty lines of him, and he shifts his weapon in his lap against his shoulder. At his six, he can hear Walt snoring softly, moonlight slanting in through the nets. In profile, Ray's single eye is dark and unreadable.
“Hates what?” he asks. He doesn't need to ask who they're talking about; they both know who they're talking about.
A smile twitches in the corner of Ray's mouth.
“You,” he says, the hook humming against his shoulder. “He can't stand that he finally lost it and it was you.”
Somewhere near by, Rudy chants peace, om mani padme hum.
*
“We're stone cold fucking killers,” says Doc Bryan, head bowed, dark shadows pressed thumb-print deep under his eyes. “And Godfather knows this. And so, like the cognizant motherfucker that he is, he passes on the onerous task of real war-making to us. And then he lets us bleed for it.”
Poke grins, showing even white teeth.
Reporter takes his notes.
*
There's an alarm bleating somewhere in the dark outside the open window and Brad sits with his back to the cistern and watches Nate through the steam. They've been fucking for a week and he's still looking for the scar; Nate won't tell him the story of how he turned. Brad's not sure that he wants to know but he still looks for the scar.
Nate turns his head and Brad notes the hunger in the spare lines of his face. He sees it more often in Poke's face. It's always there in Ray's. He just catches flashes of it in Nate and, somehow, it's all the more terrifying because it's not always present. Brad tries not to think about what comes of hunger like that but still he gets flashes of carcasses and sharp, sharp teeth.
Since he was a kid, Brad's been unable to resist things that scare him.
“You shouldn't be here,” says Nate. It's the third time tonight that he's said it. He doesn't even open his eyes. Brad's already slipping down onto his knees, leaning forward to catch Nate's jaw with his fingers and pull him into a kiss.
He must be imagining the taste of blood under the espresso that Nate drank in the kitchen.
He should be here.
He's already decided that he has nowhere else to go.
Not anymore.
*
In the distance, a fire-strike glows dully against the dark and he leans there against the hood of the humvee and Nate leans beside him. There are certain things that Brad misses: clarity of colours, not being able to smell Ray Person, feeling comfortable when he's away from everybody else (they're not good at being alone). He could settle, though, for leaning there and closing his eyes and listening to Nate's heartbeat in the greenish light.
“Stop,” he says. “Don't.”
He doesn't need to look at Nate to know what he's feeling; the guilt is always there. It's not something he sees in Poke when he's watching Gina with her strapless shirts and tattoos and the long silver earrings that brush her brown shoulders. Gina and Poke make this look so easy, fallen so deeply in love. Nate isn't always easy to be with because, sometimes, the guilt gets in the way; he's never said it, but Brad knows that Nate blames himself because,while Poke found it in him to fall deeply in love and still control himself, somehow Nate did not.
Sometimes, Nate looks so tense and so sad and Brad doesn't know how to say we wouldn't have lasted without this.
He never knows what to say.
“I've ruined your whole life, Brad,” says Nate, jaw tense. Brad tilts his head slightly and listens to how Nate's rhythms change.
“You haven't ruined anything,” he says. “I wanted this.” I wanted you. “I never could have kept up with you, otherwise.”
He knows that it won't help. He knows that Nate will still look at him with that deep, sinking sorrow in his eyes and he knows that he'll spend his life falling over himself to try to prove to Nate that this couldn't have unfolded any other way.
He shifts the weight of his weapon in his arms.
“I trust your judgement, Nate,” he says and then he walks away and leaves them.
In theater, he constantly reminds himself that Nate is more than the Alpha.
They never touch.
*
Sometimes, they fuck slowly and gently, sweaty limbs entwined and lips lingering against skin but, more often, it's push and shove; Nate growls and fingertips leave bruises on tan skin. Brad pushes back but it's mostly for the thrill of Nate pinning him to the bed, the touch of teeth on his shoulder. He groans and spreads his knees as wide as he can, pushing into the mattress with the heels of his hands.
He lets his head drop down as Nate pushes slick fingers inside him, his hips bucking as he fucks himself back and wishes that he could get Nate deeper. He presses a moan into the pillow and reaches back with one hand, his fingertips grazing against Nate's bare thigh.
No bite mark there.
“What is this?” asks Nate, pulling out his fingers achingly slowly. Brad closes his eyes and breathes through the loss as he kneeels there, exposed and lonely, ass in the air.
“This is your about to fuck me.”
The head of Nate's cock nudges against him, slick and swathed in latex. Brad feels his hips buck with eagerness but Nate stills him with one hand on his hip and, listen: he might miss seeing the exact colour of Nate's eyes but how strong Nate is (and how willing he is to feel that strength, how much he wants it, how much he craves it?) never gets old.
“Why?” asks Nate, and he begins to slide into Brad's body one inch at a time. The bitemark on Brad's thigh beats in time with his heart.
“Because I want it,” breathes Brad, rocking back onto Nate's cock as he starts to thrust. “And you fucking love me.”
And it's true, it's all so true.
He might never get to be alone again, not really.
It's worth it.
*
It's so hot in the club that his shirt is sticking to him but leather breathes and his boots scuff against the concrete floor as he crowds Nate into a corner and presses a hand to the wall on either side of his head.
“This is a bad idea, Brad,” says Nate. In the low light, his eyes are dark and unreadable. Brad's drunk enough not to care; he's drunk enough that he's tired of looking at Nate's mouth and wanting to kiss him and never kissing him. Nate's bottom lip has been distracting him for months.
He slips closer with his hands on Nate's hips and bends his head. There's a couple of inches difference. He feels the press of Nate's teeth against his lip before they get the angle quite right.
*
He was always good at being on his own but now he finds that there's a nagging feeling at the back of his mind while he's surfing or on his bike. He feels like he's missing something, like he's left behind a limb. The ocean isn't enough; he longs for closeness. He finds himself day-dreaming about skin pressed against skin, about fingers in his hair and his lips against someone's pulse. Nate's out of town for a few days but he can't stay still and he can't be on his own.
He finds himself at Ray's door and Ray smells of dip and soap and beer. He holds the door open with one hand and offers Brad a drink with the other.
And the beer goes down really smoothly and it's easy not to feel so alone, especially when they're sitting so close on the couch that his arm is pressed against Ray's and Brad can feel the heat pouring off him. It's like the echo of what he feels for Nate, and Brad realises that he can't get close enough. He's lost count of how many beers he's had (enough that he won't be getting back on his bike tonight) but it's alarmingly easy to turn towards Ray and land a kiss against Ray's jaw. His hand skims across Ray's belly, squirming between his t-shirt and his pants, fingertips grazing against bare skin. His mouth finds Ray's, a deep, warm kiss and he's aware of the way that Ray's head falls back even as Ray's fingers are closing around his wrist.
“I totally get it, Brad,” he says, voice low in a way that Brad rarely hears. “But no.”
It's a pack thing: this need to be close and it's not the same thing as being with Nate, not just wanting to fuck Nate but being with him, being with him like Poke and Gina are together. Being with him forever or whatever that means. And Ray grins and says that isn't the same as this, Homes, but it is the pack and he's never going to be happy being alone again.
He crawls into bed with Ray but stays fully clothed. He ends up with his head on Ray's skinny chest, his ear pressed close and listening to their hearts trying to fall into rhythm with each other.
*
The thing snarls and bites, teeth sinking through leather over his thigh. He can't shake the feeling of recognition, even as he starts to slip; he can't shake the feeling that he recognised the look in its green eyes the moment before it was on top of him and he fell. He's had nearly ten years in Recon without a scratch.
He never thought that he was going to die like this.
He's a Recon Marine. He never really thought that he was going to die.