Fic | GK | essentialism
Generation Kill | Brad/Nate | PG13
Brad is entirely sure that when they broke open the really good whiskey they didn't mean to have more than the respectable couple of glasses-because it seemed like the appropriate way to top off the amazing dinner they'd had, and Brad was just pathetic enough that he wanted something different to celebrate Nate's birthday, even if he'd agreed to keep it low key.
("We could-take a trip, spend a long weekend somewhere," Brad had suggested, already planning ahead: taking the bike, having Nate pressed against him for the two-hour ride; huge, luxurious beds, and making Nate breakfast on Saturday morning and waking him up by sucking him off, his mouth watering at the thought of the familiar heft of Nate's dick in his mouth, and Nate's reaction, arching back against the clean white sheets.
But Nate had bitten his lip, given Brad a regretful smile. "It's just too busy at work right now," he'd said. "Next year, I'm all yours, I promise."
"The big three-and-oh," Brad had murmured, half grinning, pushing the faint disappointment aside. "Are you sure you'll be in the mood for celebrating at all?"
Nate had given him a dirty look and asked him pointedly, "Didn't you spend your thirtieth on the road, trying to accumulate as many speeding tickets as humanly possible?"
He had, but what Nate was conveniently leaving out was that Brad had been on the way to Boston, and he'd had just enough time left before midnight to fuck Nate so spectacularly hard he'd come without Brad touching his cock at all.
Judging by the flush on his cheekbones, Nate remembered every part, though.)
So, a quiet, low-key twenty-ninth, but now there's less than half of the bottle left, for reasons that Brad's not completely sure about. It had something to do with Nate's wide, challenging smile, green eyes, and an unexpected proposal of an actual fucking drinking game.
"Didn't know you had it in you, Fick," he says solemnly-says, doesn't slur, although his face is definitely feeling hot with the alcohol.
Alright, no-not just the alcohol. Nate is still wearing the slacks and the dress shirt, but he has rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. His hair has just recently been shaved again, and his looks are suspended somewhere between the Washington business breed and the hardness of a Marine officer.
Nate grins at him-relaxed and easy. The whiskey is doing its work. "I did go to college, you know," he says.
Brad fakes shock: "You mean all your time wasn't spent on studying, and captaining the cycling team? Better not tell Person, his whole world view would be rocked off its axis."
"Nah," Nate chuckles. "Ray knows. There was this one night in Baghdad, neither of us could sleep and we ran into each other somewhere in the bowels of that factory. One of the things we wound up talking about was the best drinking games we knew. Christ, I must have been even more sleep-deprived than I realized," Nate laughs.
Brad raises an eyebrow, not quite uncomfortable with the revelation, but surprised. "He never told me."
Nate looks right into his eyes, like he's hearing something in Brad's tone he's sure he kept out of it. "No, he wouldn't have," Nate says, and then smiles-a soft, secret smile, one Brad's not sure he's seen in all the time he's known Nate. "That night he also mentioned having heard something interesting while his team leader was asleep and dreaming."
Brad swallows. There were a number of dreams about Nate, some so short he was barely unconscious at all, and others longer, more detailed, more raw, once he was able to sleep more than an hour at a time. He just didn't think he was ever really out of it enough to-to fucking talk in his sleep.
Nate doesn't wait for him to say anything. He sets his tumbler on the coffee table and shifts to face Brad, reaches for his glass and puts it next to his own. Then, he gets on his knees and moves closer.
Brad has been half hard since they got home, the arousal has been slow and sweet, fed by their closeness, more a tease until now, and smelling Nate next to him. Now, his cock surges and stiffens, as Nate settles over him and gets comfortable, heavy and warm in his lap.
Nate leans in. "Can I open my present now?" His voice is rough, low, and he speaks the words right into Brad's mouth, their lips resting together.
Brad tenses his muscles against the full-body shudder that threatens to break over him, and lets his hand drop on Nate's crotch, deliberate and too-light over his hard-on. "The expensive watch I gave you this morning didn't count?"
Nate kisses him. Brad thinks he makes a noise, but-fuck. After almost three years together, Nate's touch still affects him like electricity, still makes him hot and scattered and desperate.
"I appreciate the watch," Nate whispers, breaking off from the kiss. "It's gorgeous." He rocks forward, and Brad's fingers spasm on Nate's ass when their cocks rub together through clothing. He feels like a fucking teenager, ready to come just like this, if Nate just keeps doing this, rocking in his lap, their lips and tongues rubbing together.
"But? Let me guess," Brad gasps. "You've always preferred hand-made gifts."
Nate laughs. "You know me so well, Colbert."
Brad smiles, feeling crazy and punch-drunk and like he's exactly where he's supposed to. The sound of Nate's zipper being drawn open is loud behind their heavy breaths.
"Let me get right on that, sir."
Brad is entirely sure that when they broke open the really good whiskey they didn't mean to have more than the respectable couple of glasses-because it seemed like the appropriate way to top off the amazing dinner they'd had, and Brad was just pathetic enough that he wanted something different to celebrate Nate's birthday, even if he'd agreed to keep it low key.
("We could-take a trip, spend a long weekend somewhere," Brad had suggested, already planning ahead: taking the bike, having Nate pressed against him for the two-hour ride; huge, luxurious beds, and making Nate breakfast on Saturday morning and waking him up by sucking him off, his mouth watering at the thought of the familiar heft of Nate's dick in his mouth, and Nate's reaction, arching back against the clean white sheets.
But Nate had bitten his lip, given Brad a regretful smile. "It's just too busy at work right now," he'd said. "Next year, I'm all yours, I promise."
"The big three-and-oh," Brad had murmured, half grinning, pushing the faint disappointment aside. "Are you sure you'll be in the mood for celebrating at all?"
Nate had given him a dirty look and asked him pointedly, "Didn't you spend your thirtieth on the road, trying to accumulate as many speeding tickets as humanly possible?"
He had, but what Nate was conveniently leaving out was that Brad had been on the way to Boston, and he'd had just enough time left before midnight to fuck Nate so spectacularly hard he'd come without Brad touching his cock at all.
Judging by the flush on his cheekbones, Nate remembered every part, though.)
So, a quiet, low-key twenty-ninth, but now there's less than half of the bottle left, for reasons that Brad's not completely sure about. It had something to do with Nate's wide, challenging smile, green eyes, and an unexpected proposal of an actual fucking drinking game.
"Didn't know you had it in you, Fick," he says solemnly-says, doesn't slur, although his face is definitely feeling hot with the alcohol.
Alright, no-not just the alcohol. Nate is still wearing the slacks and the dress shirt, but he has rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. His hair has just recently been shaved again, and his looks are suspended somewhere between the Washington business breed and the hardness of a Marine officer.
Nate grins at him-relaxed and easy. The whiskey is doing its work. "I did go to college, you know," he says.
Brad fakes shock: "You mean all your time wasn't spent on studying, and captaining the cycling team? Better not tell Person, his whole world view would be rocked off its axis."
"Nah," Nate chuckles. "Ray knows. There was this one night in Baghdad, neither of us could sleep and we ran into each other somewhere in the bowels of that factory. One of the things we wound up talking about was the best drinking games we knew. Christ, I must have been even more sleep-deprived than I realized," Nate laughs.
Brad raises an eyebrow, not quite uncomfortable with the revelation, but surprised. "He never told me."
Nate looks right into his eyes, like he's hearing something in Brad's tone he's sure he kept out of it. "No, he wouldn't have," Nate says, and then smiles-a soft, secret smile, one Brad's not sure he's seen in all the time he's known Nate. "That night he also mentioned having heard something interesting while his team leader was asleep and dreaming."
Brad swallows. There were a number of dreams about Nate, some so short he was barely unconscious at all, and others longer, more detailed, more raw, once he was able to sleep more than an hour at a time. He just didn't think he was ever really out of it enough to-to fucking talk in his sleep.
Nate doesn't wait for him to say anything. He sets his tumbler on the coffee table and shifts to face Brad, reaches for his glass and puts it next to his own. Then, he gets on his knees and moves closer.
Brad has been half hard since they got home, the arousal has been slow and sweet, fed by their closeness, more a tease until now, and smelling Nate next to him. Now, his cock surges and stiffens, as Nate settles over him and gets comfortable, heavy and warm in his lap.
Nate leans in. "Can I open my present now?" His voice is rough, low, and he speaks the words right into Brad's mouth, their lips resting together.
Brad tenses his muscles against the full-body shudder that threatens to break over him, and lets his hand drop on Nate's crotch, deliberate and too-light over his hard-on. "The expensive watch I gave you this morning didn't count?"
Nate kisses him. Brad thinks he makes a noise, but-fuck. After almost three years together, Nate's touch still affects him like electricity, still makes him hot and scattered and desperate.
"I appreciate the watch," Nate whispers, breaking off from the kiss. "It's gorgeous." He rocks forward, and Brad's fingers spasm on Nate's ass when their cocks rub together through clothing. He feels like a fucking teenager, ready to come just like this, if Nate just keeps doing this, rocking in his lap, their lips and tongues rubbing together.
"But? Let me guess," Brad gasps. "You've always preferred hand-made gifts."
Nate laughs. "You know me so well, Colbert."
Brad smiles, feeling crazy and punch-drunk and like he's exactly where he's supposed to. The sound of Nate's zipper being drawn open is loud behind their heavy breaths.
"Let me get right on that, sir."