Fic: Four Eyes (Brad/Nate, GK, adult)
Four Eyes || adult || ~1050 words
Brad/Nate
This is a work of fiction based on the portrayal of characters in Generation Kill by Alexander Skarsgard and Stark Sands, and is meant to imply nothing about the real people who bear these names.
Long ago, someone requested glasses-kink at the anon kink meme. Nothing but PWP here.
Unbeta'd, so hit me up with grammar mistakes and concrit if you so desire.
,_o-o_,
It's not like Nate wasn't expecting it. His dad had Lasik surgery a few years back to replace the thick lenses he's worn all Nate's life. His granddad has bifocals. Even his gramma wears a pair of glasses on a decorative chain around her neck in case she needs them.
Still, it's a failure of his body to meet certain standards when his doctor diagnoses his recurring headaches as a result of too much reading of fine print, and sends him to an optometrist. He's never been unable to beat a physical requirement into submission: kipping during pull-ups, he can fix; need to run that 10K faster, he can do that; force him to hold his breath longer and swim with full gear, no problem. But even the eye exercises (What the fuck, EYE EXERCISES he thinks when the doctor explains them) don't make the headaches stop.
Nate really hates wearing eyeglasses. Spectacles, as his mom's mother calls them.
His sisters tell him his glasses are geek chic. Nate doesn't really care - he wears them when he's reading. Only when he's reading.
Nate does a lot of reading.
It's not that he forgets they're there. He just... forgets that the glasses are there until he leaves work. He's a morning person, early to work and early out, so it's bright enough when he leaves the building for the brief walk to the Metro station that he wants sunglasses. Then he remembers they're there, and exchanges them for non-prescription Oakleys.
It's not like he doesn't tell Brad about them, either. In fact, Brad's response upon seeing them during a webchat before his most recent deployment is a raised eyebrow and a lewd "Nice frames, Fick," before Nate removes them and his shirt, effectively distracting Brad from whatever sly insult he's preparing to deliver.
(Nate is no longer a Marine, but he retains a firm grasp on the use of tactical advantages. When it comes to Brad, baring winter-pale, freckled skin is a big one.)
So, yeah, Nate doesn't need them to drive, so he's not wearing them when he picks Brad up at BWI. And there's no reading involved for the activities on their agenda that night.
It's still dark when Nate wakes up the next morning, leaving Brad snoring into his pillow to finish editing the post-election policy briefing Andrew submitted before taking leave to finish his thesis. Tom's already gone through it. Nate wants to review it once more before John approves the final draft and the PDF is uploaded to the website. He's halfway through a second read, sitting at the bar in the kitchen, his mug of coffee cooling at his elbow, when Brad stumbles into the kitchen.
Nate's frustrated with the awkwardly phrased paragraph he's been re-reading (and which Andrew has rewritten half a dozen times), but he'd be distracted by the view of Brad in black cotton boxer-briefs even under other circumstances.
Brad pushes sleep out of his eyes and leans against the counter, inspecting Nate lazily. Nate's not really sure what Brad expects, or why his gaze should go from sleepy to predatory so quickly: he's seen Nate in the same flannel pants and t-shirt a hundred times.
"Good morning." Nate means to get up and fill another mug with coffee for Brad, but Brad just takes Nate's and sips, grimacing at the temperature before he refocuses on Nate.
"So, glasses."
Nate's assailed by a vague sense of embarrassment, mostly stemming from the feeling that glasses are an admission of weakness to Brad, who didn't let broken bones stop him from reaching his goals. But then there's the click of ceramic on tile. Brad crowds into his space, and instead of a joke or sarcastic comment, there's a gentle touch lifting his chin, pushing his glasses up from where they've slid down his nose, and.
"Hey, no."
Then Brad's kissing him, and there's not much room for thought. Instead there's Brad, Brad's hands on his skin, heavy but careful, lips thorough, eyes never closing, always watching. Nate sinks into him, opening up and pushing forward, and it isn't long before the morning greeting becomes a graphic display of mutual desire, rolling hips and squeezing hands and slick, sliding tongues and lips.
When Brad pushes his hands past the drawstring of Nate's pants and grips his ass firmly, Nate bites Brad's lower lip in retaliation.
"Fuck."
"We can do that." Nate waves at the kitchen cabinets. "There's lube... over there." He was never a Boy Scout, but life with Brad has taught him to be prepared. He's expecting to be bent over the counter, but instead Brad draws back and looks at Nate for a minute.
He leans in for another kiss, and it's still strange, the bump of Brad's nose against the frame of Nate's glasses. But then he grinds their bodies together, and it's ridiculous to be humping like a pair of schoolboys, slick and hard beneath two thin layers of fabric, but Nate doesn't care - it's not like they can't clean up later. He ruts hard against Brad's thigh. Brad falls to knees, hands in waistband, bringing Nate's pants with him. Hot breath streams against his skin, then fuck, Brad's mouth. Nate watches, watches Brad watch him as he licks, then sucks, one hand around the base of Nate's cock. Brad doesn't go all the way down, concentrates on the head, and never looks away. Brad's other hand reaches up, up, curves around Nate's chin until his thumb is in Nate's mouth, the tips of his fingers brushing Nate's cheekbone and glasses frame. And that... okay, when Nate can think straight he is going to give Brad so much shit about this, but for now, Brad's working his tongue and lips, and Nate doesn't care what else Brad's doing, because he's coming, his eyes open and locked on Brad's.
Brad stands, and no amount of satisfaction or orgasms can prevent the automatic clutch in his gut at the sight: tall and blond and muscular, lips swollen and red, his hard cock poking over the elastic of his briefs. He manhandles Nate off his bar stool and up onto the counter, where Nate lies back easily. Nate reaches to take his glasses off, but Brad moves between his legs, tugs his hips closer and leans down to whisper in Nate's ear.
"Leave them on."
Maybe Nate doesn't hate his glasses after all.
Brad/Nate
This is a work of fiction based on the portrayal of characters in Generation Kill by Alexander Skarsgard and Stark Sands, and is meant to imply nothing about the real people who bear these names.
Long ago, someone requested glasses-kink at the anon kink meme. Nothing but PWP here.
Unbeta'd, so hit me up with grammar mistakes and concrit if you so desire.
,_o-o_,
It's not like Nate wasn't expecting it. His dad had Lasik surgery a few years back to replace the thick lenses he's worn all Nate's life. His granddad has bifocals. Even his gramma wears a pair of glasses on a decorative chain around her neck in case she needs them.
Still, it's a failure of his body to meet certain standards when his doctor diagnoses his recurring headaches as a result of too much reading of fine print, and sends him to an optometrist. He's never been unable to beat a physical requirement into submission: kipping during pull-ups, he can fix; need to run that 10K faster, he can do that; force him to hold his breath longer and swim with full gear, no problem. But even the eye exercises (What the fuck, EYE EXERCISES he thinks when the doctor explains them) don't make the headaches stop.
Nate really hates wearing eyeglasses. Spectacles, as his mom's mother calls them.
His sisters tell him his glasses are geek chic. Nate doesn't really care - he wears them when he's reading. Only when he's reading.
Nate does a lot of reading.
It's not that he forgets they're there. He just... forgets that the glasses are there until he leaves work. He's a morning person, early to work and early out, so it's bright enough when he leaves the building for the brief walk to the Metro station that he wants sunglasses. Then he remembers they're there, and exchanges them for non-prescription Oakleys.
It's not like he doesn't tell Brad about them, either. In fact, Brad's response upon seeing them during a webchat before his most recent deployment is a raised eyebrow and a lewd "Nice frames, Fick," before Nate removes them and his shirt, effectively distracting Brad from whatever sly insult he's preparing to deliver.
(Nate is no longer a Marine, but he retains a firm grasp on the use of tactical advantages. When it comes to Brad, baring winter-pale, freckled skin is a big one.)
So, yeah, Nate doesn't need them to drive, so he's not wearing them when he picks Brad up at BWI. And there's no reading involved for the activities on their agenda that night.
It's still dark when Nate wakes up the next morning, leaving Brad snoring into his pillow to finish editing the post-election policy briefing Andrew submitted before taking leave to finish his thesis. Tom's already gone through it. Nate wants to review it once more before John approves the final draft and the PDF is uploaded to the website. He's halfway through a second read, sitting at the bar in the kitchen, his mug of coffee cooling at his elbow, when Brad stumbles into the kitchen.
Nate's frustrated with the awkwardly phrased paragraph he's been re-reading (and which Andrew has rewritten half a dozen times), but he'd be distracted by the view of Brad in black cotton boxer-briefs even under other circumstances.
Brad pushes sleep out of his eyes and leans against the counter, inspecting Nate lazily. Nate's not really sure what Brad expects, or why his gaze should go from sleepy to predatory so quickly: he's seen Nate in the same flannel pants and t-shirt a hundred times.
"Good morning." Nate means to get up and fill another mug with coffee for Brad, but Brad just takes Nate's and sips, grimacing at the temperature before he refocuses on Nate.
"So, glasses."
Nate's assailed by a vague sense of embarrassment, mostly stemming from the feeling that glasses are an admission of weakness to Brad, who didn't let broken bones stop him from reaching his goals. But then there's the click of ceramic on tile. Brad crowds into his space, and instead of a joke or sarcastic comment, there's a gentle touch lifting his chin, pushing his glasses up from where they've slid down his nose, and.
"Hey, no."
Then Brad's kissing him, and there's not much room for thought. Instead there's Brad, Brad's hands on his skin, heavy but careful, lips thorough, eyes never closing, always watching. Nate sinks into him, opening up and pushing forward, and it isn't long before the morning greeting becomes a graphic display of mutual desire, rolling hips and squeezing hands and slick, sliding tongues and lips.
When Brad pushes his hands past the drawstring of Nate's pants and grips his ass firmly, Nate bites Brad's lower lip in retaliation.
"Fuck."
"We can do that." Nate waves at the kitchen cabinets. "There's lube... over there." He was never a Boy Scout, but life with Brad has taught him to be prepared. He's expecting to be bent over the counter, but instead Brad draws back and looks at Nate for a minute.
He leans in for another kiss, and it's still strange, the bump of Brad's nose against the frame of Nate's glasses. But then he grinds their bodies together, and it's ridiculous to be humping like a pair of schoolboys, slick and hard beneath two thin layers of fabric, but Nate doesn't care - it's not like they can't clean up later. He ruts hard against Brad's thigh. Brad falls to knees, hands in waistband, bringing Nate's pants with him. Hot breath streams against his skin, then fuck, Brad's mouth. Nate watches, watches Brad watch him as he licks, then sucks, one hand around the base of Nate's cock. Brad doesn't go all the way down, concentrates on the head, and never looks away. Brad's other hand reaches up, up, curves around Nate's chin until his thumb is in Nate's mouth, the tips of his fingers brushing Nate's cheekbone and glasses frame. And that... okay, when Nate can think straight he is going to give Brad so much shit about this, but for now, Brad's working his tongue and lips, and Nate doesn't care what else Brad's doing, because he's coming, his eyes open and locked on Brad's.
Brad stands, and no amount of satisfaction or orgasms can prevent the automatic clutch in his gut at the sight: tall and blond and muscular, lips swollen and red, his hard cock poking over the elastic of his briefs. He manhandles Nate off his bar stool and up onto the counter, where Nate lies back easily. Nate reaches to take his glasses off, but Brad moves between his legs, tugs his hips closer and leans down to whisper in Nate's ear.
"Leave them on."
Maybe Nate doesn't hate his glasses after all.