Fic | GK | distractions
Generation Kill | Brad/Nate | PG13
The morning sun slants across the floor and the opposite wall in wide, bright shafts. There are dust motes swirling in the patches of light even though the house was just cleaned earlier in the week.
Nate is washing the dishes. By hand. There's a half-full cup of coffee sitting next to the sink, safely out of reach of accidental splashes of water. As Brad is watching, Nate pauses and grabs the cup with a hand that's covered in soap suds, sips at it, then drinks deeper as he notes the temperature.
He's wearing nothing but black regulation briefs. He's always claimed he prefers the simplicity, active Marine or not. Brad thinks Nate does it just to fuck with his head. The simplicity accentuates the perfect tightness of Nate's ass more than strictly necessary. It's absolutely not good for anyone's peace of mind.
It's ridiculously hot, the humidity from outside stealing into the kitchen. Two weeks, and the weather hasn't broken yet.
There's a single drop of sweat trailing down the back of Nate's left thigh. Perhaps at a half point down to his knee. Brad could kneel down behind Nate and lick the path upward, ending at the edge of the black fabric. He could remove the single article of clothing Nate's wearing, grip Nate's ass and spread him out, thumbs near the hole. He could hold Nate open to his stare and he could, also, bring his face between Nate's cheeks and tongue him until Nate is gasping and clutching at the edge of the sink, head hanging drunkenly forward, a deep red flush all over his neck and upper body.
He could do all that, except they have guests.
Fucking Nate.
At that moment, Nate looks back over his shoulder with the same little grin that might have been making Brad a little stupid since OIF.
"I can hear you panting, you know," he says, green eyes alit with amusement.
"I doubt that." Brad moves a little closer, leaning his elbows on the bar counter. Eyes intent on Nate. "I aced SERE, as I'm sure you know, having read all our files prior to becoming our commanding officer. I'm exceedingly resistant to all enemy attempts to influence, disorient, and exploit."
"Hey, I'm the one doing the dishes. Who, exactly, is getting exploited here?" Nate snatches a kitchen towel to dry his hands and turns around, still grinning.
It says something about Nate's smile that Brad can't tear his eyes away even though Nate is standing mostly naked in front of him.
Brad represses the irrational (pathetic, if he's completely honest with himself) urge to tell Nate to go put some clothes on, since Ray could be waking up any moment now. It's not that their friends haven't seen Nate in some state of undress several times-Recon reunions can get pretty interesting-but here, in their house, their kitchen, it seems…
Brad detests the word intimate. He settles on unnecessary.
"I can finish that," he says, indicating the sink, "if you want to go put on some clothes before Person wanders in here, demanding chocolate chip pancakes or whatever the hell it was you promised the sad trailer-park fuck-up who, apparently, is permanently stuck on pre-puberty not only intellectually but culinaristically, as well."
There. With any luck it sounds like he's just making a practical offer and not battling the urge to bundle Nate into a set of too-big cammies before anyone has a chance to come eyeball the endless grooves of lean, solid muscle packed under pale freckled skin.
Ray, being Ray, would not leave it at looking, either. He'd make comments about fuck-cuts and probably try and stuff bills into the waistband of Nate's briefs, and then Brad would have to punch him, and Nate would get upset, and the nice morning would be pretty much ruined.
Nate, naturally, sees right through Brad's sorry attempt at subtlety. Grinding his teeth together might have been a bit of a give away. Dammit.
Nate's lips widen slowly into something that would be called a smirk if his eyes weren't so damn pleased. "In this heat, Brad?" he taunts, because sometimes he can be a fucking bastard. "I must admit clothes weren't really in my immediate plans."
"That's-not really up to the grooming standard, Captain," Brad tries, and right, he can't even make it sound like a damn joke.
Nate's eyes soften. Fuck, somehow that makes Brad even more embarrassed. Because after four years together, Nate Fick can still reduce him to this.
"Ray won't be up yet," Nate says. "Plenty of time to take a nice, cool shower." He tosses the towel on to the counter, moving toward the stairway. "Interested in joining me?"
Brad is always interested in a wet, completely-naked Nate. He feels he should say something derogatory about the pointlessness of asking questions one knows the answer to, but the inside of his mouth is dry. He swallows.
"Just one thing," he murmurs, taking the three strides that bring him into Nate's space and nudging him to face away from Brad. Nate doesn't tense or protest when Brad drops to his knees behind him. He trusts Nate to keep an ear out in case the impossible happens and Ray Person manages to rise and shine before 10AM when on leave.
The single droplet is still there, now nestled almost into the bend of Nate's knee. Utterly distracting. The skin of Nate's thighs is heated and damp when Brad touches him. The weather really is getting absurd. Past uncomfortable and right into exhausting.
They'll take the shower, almost cold enough to make them shiver. When they get rid of Ray, maybe Brad will manage to talk Nate into coming with him for a ride on his bike, somewhere airy and secluded, the wind whipping at them evening out the glare of the sun.
First things first. Nate jumps when Brad's tongue sweeps a trail up on his skin, then another next to it, just because he can. Nate tastes salty and warm and his. Brad knows every bit of this AO. Every swell and dip of muscle and bone.
Nate's voice is shaky-tight and his hands have balled into fists when he insists, "Shower?"
Brad straightens from his crouch, unfolding against Nate's back, getting waylaid by another little droplet of sweat, making its meandering way down the back of Nate's neck. It doesn't stand a chance against Brad's mouth.
Brad hears Nate's mouth open on a quiet unsteady inhale.
Alright, now. That's more like it. That's the goal and prize of it all. Nate Fick-yielding in Brad's arms, under his lips.
"Shower," he accedes, voice rough.
And Ray can damn well wait for his fucking pancakes.
The morning sun slants across the floor and the opposite wall in wide, bright shafts. There are dust motes swirling in the patches of light even though the house was just cleaned earlier in the week.
Nate is washing the dishes. By hand. There's a half-full cup of coffee sitting next to the sink, safely out of reach of accidental splashes of water. As Brad is watching, Nate pauses and grabs the cup with a hand that's covered in soap suds, sips at it, then drinks deeper as he notes the temperature.
He's wearing nothing but black regulation briefs. He's always claimed he prefers the simplicity, active Marine or not. Brad thinks Nate does it just to fuck with his head. The simplicity accentuates the perfect tightness of Nate's ass more than strictly necessary. It's absolutely not good for anyone's peace of mind.
It's ridiculously hot, the humidity from outside stealing into the kitchen. Two weeks, and the weather hasn't broken yet.
There's a single drop of sweat trailing down the back of Nate's left thigh. Perhaps at a half point down to his knee. Brad could kneel down behind Nate and lick the path upward, ending at the edge of the black fabric. He could remove the single article of clothing Nate's wearing, grip Nate's ass and spread him out, thumbs near the hole. He could hold Nate open to his stare and he could, also, bring his face between Nate's cheeks and tongue him until Nate is gasping and clutching at the edge of the sink, head hanging drunkenly forward, a deep red flush all over his neck and upper body.
He could do all that, except they have guests.
Fucking Nate.
At that moment, Nate looks back over his shoulder with the same little grin that might have been making Brad a little stupid since OIF.
"I can hear you panting, you know," he says, green eyes alit with amusement.
"I doubt that." Brad moves a little closer, leaning his elbows on the bar counter. Eyes intent on Nate. "I aced SERE, as I'm sure you know, having read all our files prior to becoming our commanding officer. I'm exceedingly resistant to all enemy attempts to influence, disorient, and exploit."
"Hey, I'm the one doing the dishes. Who, exactly, is getting exploited here?" Nate snatches a kitchen towel to dry his hands and turns around, still grinning.
It says something about Nate's smile that Brad can't tear his eyes away even though Nate is standing mostly naked in front of him.
Brad represses the irrational (pathetic, if he's completely honest with himself) urge to tell Nate to go put some clothes on, since Ray could be waking up any moment now. It's not that their friends haven't seen Nate in some state of undress several times-Recon reunions can get pretty interesting-but here, in their house, their kitchen, it seems…
Brad detests the word intimate. He settles on unnecessary.
"I can finish that," he says, indicating the sink, "if you want to go put on some clothes before Person wanders in here, demanding chocolate chip pancakes or whatever the hell it was you promised the sad trailer-park fuck-up who, apparently, is permanently stuck on pre-puberty not only intellectually but culinaristically, as well."
There. With any luck it sounds like he's just making a practical offer and not battling the urge to bundle Nate into a set of too-big cammies before anyone has a chance to come eyeball the endless grooves of lean, solid muscle packed under pale freckled skin.
Ray, being Ray, would not leave it at looking, either. He'd make comments about fuck-cuts and probably try and stuff bills into the waistband of Nate's briefs, and then Brad would have to punch him, and Nate would get upset, and the nice morning would be pretty much ruined.
Nate, naturally, sees right through Brad's sorry attempt at subtlety. Grinding his teeth together might have been a bit of a give away. Dammit.
Nate's lips widen slowly into something that would be called a smirk if his eyes weren't so damn pleased. "In this heat, Brad?" he taunts, because sometimes he can be a fucking bastard. "I must admit clothes weren't really in my immediate plans."
"That's-not really up to the grooming standard, Captain," Brad tries, and right, he can't even make it sound like a damn joke.
Nate's eyes soften. Fuck, somehow that makes Brad even more embarrassed. Because after four years together, Nate Fick can still reduce him to this.
"Ray won't be up yet," Nate says. "Plenty of time to take a nice, cool shower." He tosses the towel on to the counter, moving toward the stairway. "Interested in joining me?"
Brad is always interested in a wet, completely-naked Nate. He feels he should say something derogatory about the pointlessness of asking questions one knows the answer to, but the inside of his mouth is dry. He swallows.
"Just one thing," he murmurs, taking the three strides that bring him into Nate's space and nudging him to face away from Brad. Nate doesn't tense or protest when Brad drops to his knees behind him. He trusts Nate to keep an ear out in case the impossible happens and Ray Person manages to rise and shine before 10AM when on leave.
The single droplet is still there, now nestled almost into the bend of Nate's knee. Utterly distracting. The skin of Nate's thighs is heated and damp when Brad touches him. The weather really is getting absurd. Past uncomfortable and right into exhausting.
They'll take the shower, almost cold enough to make them shiver. When they get rid of Ray, maybe Brad will manage to talk Nate into coming with him for a ride on his bike, somewhere airy and secluded, the wind whipping at them evening out the glare of the sun.
First things first. Nate jumps when Brad's tongue sweeps a trail up on his skin, then another next to it, just because he can. Nate tastes salty and warm and his. Brad knows every bit of this AO. Every swell and dip of muscle and bone.
Nate's voice is shaky-tight and his hands have balled into fists when he insists, "Shower?"
Brad straightens from his crouch, unfolding against Nate's back, getting waylaid by another little droplet of sweat, making its meandering way down the back of Nate's neck. It doesn't stand a chance against Brad's mouth.
Brad hears Nate's mouth open on a quiet unsteady inhale.
Alright, now. That's more like it. That's the goal and prize of it all. Nate Fick-yielding in Brad's arms, under his lips.
"Shower," he accedes, voice rough.
And Ray can damn well wait for his fucking pancakes.