Fic | GK | Looking Promising
Generation Kill | Brad/Nate | NC17
sgrio's prompt at the multifandom comment-fic fest:
As a marine, you were used to a certain amount of pain. Fuck that, you expected it. So when a muscle in Brad's thigh started giving him trouble during PT, he shrugged it off; the discomfort was easily manageable and usually disappeared entirely once his legs had warmed up properly.
After three weeks, the discomfort was flirting more clearly with the edges of pain, and didn't wear off, just dulled and changed, every now and then pulsing sharply enough to make Brad's jaw tighten in a way that maybe only Ray picked out if his questioning looks and wide eyes were anything to go by. Brad didn't let himself limp, not even when he felt the muscle burning with every step he took.
Unfortunately, it only took one unlucky moment of his CO having his eyes in Brad's direction and so being there to witness the leg buckling under him as he hoisted up his gear, just enough to be noticeable.
"Colbert! The fuck's the matter with you?"
"Nothing, sir. All squared away."
"Bullshit, Sergeant. To the sick bay with you. Get that leg looked at, right now."
Brad's lips thinned. "Yes, sir." He saluted and spun on his heel.
Fucking sick bay. Over a muscle cramp. His reputation might never recover.
+
"And how long did you say this has continued?"
Brad was standing, still and tense, not quite at attention, eyes fixed carefully just past the man jotting down notes at his desk. He only registered the question after medical officer Fick lifted his head, making eye contact again and proving to Brad that, no, he hadn't imagined the piercing green gaze and the… the lips that had greeted him when he'd been waived inside the examination room; and yes, Brad was actually confronted by a living, breathing manifestation of the sort of perfection he may have sometimes thought up for his combat jacks.
"About eight weeks, sir."
"And you only just thought to get it checked now?" Fick was shaking his head, but his full lips were pursed together as if to hide a smile.
"Sir, it wasn't the worst I've ever felt."
"I'm sure it wasn't, Sergeant Colbert," Fick acquiesced, amusement in his tone, "but this sort of niggling muscle pain can be much more frustrating than a cleanly broken bone. Hop up on the table and I'll take a look. And take off your sweats."
Brad was proud of how he only paused for a second as he processed the last order. He was starting to understand the stray comments he'd heard from various grunts over the last six months about the sick bay having become a lot more appealing since some changes in the personnel. Brad's hands tightened into fists before he forced himself to shake it off and strip.
"Lie down on your back," Fick instructed as Brad sat on the edge of the cloth-covered table. Brad's mouth, inexplicably, went dry. Briefly he wondered whether the scene might be a huge, cruel practical joke masterminded by Ray Person to get back at Brad for calling him a vertically challenged trailer-park loser hick one too many times. It probably wouldn't be outside the limits of Ray's insane deviousness to somehow cause Brad a muscle strain.
Fick fired a few more questions at Brad, about the type of the pain, whether he remembered the exact time it started, about the frequency, how bad it was on the scale of 1-to-10 on each occasion. Trusting Fick to realize that he was goddamn Recon Marine and pain described as level 10 would have to mean he'd had both his arms and legs blown off, he tried to describe everything accurately without too much downplaying.
The talk had lulled him to a false sense of security, obviously, because it was a fucking shock when Fick finally laid his long fingers on each side of Brad's left knee. He didn't jump, but muscles in his bared thigh twitched, sensation running up from each individual point of contact of Fick's fingertips on his skin, making his stomach tighten, sweat breaking out at the small of his back.
Fick's look was pure concentration. His hands moved up Brad's thigh, grip sure, testing. When his fingers hit a muscle high up in his inner thigh, Brad couldn't help grunting.
"Ah," Fick's face was delighted, "it's the pectineus muscle. Small but crucial," he grinned. Brad concentrated on not letting his breathing speed up. Fick's thumb was massaging the place, alternating pressure and angle, getting back to the questions. What kind of pain? One to ten?
After a while it seemed the pain started to lessen, or the muscle simply went numb. Brad's thigh felt hot and sensitive all over, blood rushing to surface the longer Fick kept massaging it.
His fingers were dangerously close to parts of Brad that were starting to sit up and take notice, no matter how tight he was clenching his jaw, fighting for control.
Fick was happily oblivious to Brad's inner struggle, the heat spiking low in his stomach. "…was probably sprained when it first started acting up, and if you'd let it rest for a few days instead of being a stubborn Alpha male jackass about it," Fick eyes cut towards him in mild disapproval, "it would've cleared up a lot sooner instead of getting more inflamed."
Brad attempted to look contrite; also, like he wasn't seconds away from taking Fick's hand and pushing it against his trapped dick. Jesus, he ground his teeth together. Jesus, just a couple more minutes, then I can get out of here and jerk off for the rest of the afternoon…
Mental promises didn't help. The pain was gone, his legs felt almost uncomfortably warm and Fick was still touching him, fingers brushing against the heated muscles. Brad's dick was hardening and there was fuck all he could do about it.
"Amazingly enough, your body seems to have done most of the healing despite you not giving it any rest. Take it easy for the weekend and you should be fine on-"
Fick's voice abruptly broke off. Even before lowering his desperate stare from the white ceiling, Brad knew what he'd see. Fick's eyes were fixed on Brad's crotch; the black briefs did nothing to hide how hard he was, and the lights overhead picked up the curve of his erection, emphasizing it. Brad swallowed heavily. Fick lifted his eyes to his, expression giving nothing away.
"Isn't this the part where you assure me it happens to people all the time, and that it's perfectly fine and you won't take it personally?" Brad forced himself to ask.
Fick's eyebrow arched. "Isn't this the part where you assure me it isn't anything personal?"
His tone was level, but the green eyes-Brad went out on a limb.
"Sir, that would be a fucking lie."
Fick's sudden grin was blinding. Brad's dick jerked, a pathetically enthusiastic response to such a small thing. Brad let the back of his head hit the covered table, screwing his eyes shut and inhaling roughly.
When he opened his eyes again, Fick was braced over him, hands on both sides of Brad's hips. Brad opened his mouth, but the words got caught in his throat as Fick leaned closer, closer down; settling his weight on his elbows, which put him close enough for his lips to almost touch the fabric stretched over Brad's dick. After a moment, during which Brad was about to make a fucking fool of himself, Fick exhaled on him, warm breath hypersensitizing him so that when a mouth descended on him right afterwards, his hips jerked, inviting Fick's fingers to fly up to press him to the table.
Brad's eyes may have rolled back in his head. Fick was aggressive and hot and a fucking cocktease, tonguing him through the thin cloth, and Brad wanted to say something, thank Fick or praise him or swear at him, but his thought process was derailed again as Fick's finger's slid down from his hips to hook under the waistband of his briefs, beginning to inch it down.
"Just so you remember," Brad's eyes snapped up at hearing Fick's voice, his chest and throat flushing hotly at the smirk Fick gave him, "my given name's Nate. Just in case you want to scream it out loud."
"Any time you want to get around to doing something, I'll keep that in mind," he choked, and Fick-Nate, Nate fucking laughed and tugged at Brad's briefs again, waiting for Brad's hips to lift, and stripping him.
Brad's back arched as Nate took him in his mouth, swallowing right down as much as he could before the head of Brad's dick bumped against the back of his throat. Brad was panting, white-outed by the pleasure and the visuals of Nate's shorn head in his lap. It crossed his mind to wonder about the expert attempt at deep-throating, and the gleeful comments he'd heard around the base, and he had an irrational urge to punch someone in the teeth. Instead, he let his fingers curl around the back of Nate's neck, shuddering when Nate moaned appreciatively, swallowing around him.
Brad didn't know whether it had simply been too long or whether Nate was too much of everything he'd ever wanted, but he felt himself getting close way too soon. Nate's tongue was playing with the big vein on his cock, eyes slipping half shut as his lips rubbed against Brad, sucking hard and sliding off of him, and taking him in again. He kept making these sounds, too, low happy moans that had Brad's fingers spasming and his chest rising and falling rapidly.
It was all over when Nate's talented fingers slipped behind his aching balls, tracing his hole. Brad's body went taut, fingers clamping down on Nate's neck and shoulders, probably bruising. Nate swallowed him deep and sucked him through his release, making Brad's thighs shake and his ass clench, all emptied into Nate's mouth and totally, devastatingly relaxed.
He allowed himself thirty seconds to get his brain back online and his breath back enough to move.
Nate seemed surprised when he rolled off the examination table and dropped to his knees in front of him, but as soon as Brad tore open his zipper and dragged his pants and briefs to mid-thigh, his eyes glazed, head tipping back, baring the line of his throat.
Brad wanted his mouth there, as well - wanted to bite Nate's neck and suck on his collarbones and his earlobes, but most of all he wanted to kiss Nate.
Maybe, if he played his cards right, he might have a chance for that later.
Nate groaned, unexpectedly tortured, when Brad took his cock in his mouth, sliding down until his nose was almost brushing the golden curls, working Nate for more of those sounds; his fingers pressed hard on Nate's ass, directing him in. Nate got the hint, with a shaky surprised inhale, and started fucking Brad's face.
Nate was almost silent when he came; Brad wasn't. He was half-way back to hard and possibly a bit addicted to the taste and smell of Nate.
Nate was still shivering when Brad tucked him back into his clothes, standing up and towering above him now that they were chest to chest. Without waiting or asking for permission, Brad bent his head, lips opening as they touched Nate's, the kiss wet and deep and unhurried, flavored salty.
Nate moaned, husky and quiet, and laughed. "Feeling better yet, Sergeant Colbert?"
"All better now," he smirked in response, sated. The future meeting of all his physiotherapeutic needs was looking quite promising indeed.
sgrio's prompt at the multifandom comment-fic fest:
As a marine, you were used to a certain amount of pain. Fuck that, you expected it. So when a muscle in Brad's thigh started giving him trouble during PT, he shrugged it off; the discomfort was easily manageable and usually disappeared entirely once his legs had warmed up properly.
After three weeks, the discomfort was flirting more clearly with the edges of pain, and didn't wear off, just dulled and changed, every now and then pulsing sharply enough to make Brad's jaw tighten in a way that maybe only Ray picked out if his questioning looks and wide eyes were anything to go by. Brad didn't let himself limp, not even when he felt the muscle burning with every step he took.
Unfortunately, it only took one unlucky moment of his CO having his eyes in Brad's direction and so being there to witness the leg buckling under him as he hoisted up his gear, just enough to be noticeable.
"Colbert! The fuck's the matter with you?"
"Nothing, sir. All squared away."
"Bullshit, Sergeant. To the sick bay with you. Get that leg looked at, right now."
Brad's lips thinned. "Yes, sir." He saluted and spun on his heel.
Fucking sick bay. Over a muscle cramp. His reputation might never recover.
+
"And how long did you say this has continued?"
Brad was standing, still and tense, not quite at attention, eyes fixed carefully just past the man jotting down notes at his desk. He only registered the question after medical officer Fick lifted his head, making eye contact again and proving to Brad that, no, he hadn't imagined the piercing green gaze and the… the lips that had greeted him when he'd been waived inside the examination room; and yes, Brad was actually confronted by a living, breathing manifestation of the sort of perfection he may have sometimes thought up for his combat jacks.
"About eight weeks, sir."
"And you only just thought to get it checked now?" Fick was shaking his head, but his full lips were pursed together as if to hide a smile.
"Sir, it wasn't the worst I've ever felt."
"I'm sure it wasn't, Sergeant Colbert," Fick acquiesced, amusement in his tone, "but this sort of niggling muscle pain can be much more frustrating than a cleanly broken bone. Hop up on the table and I'll take a look. And take off your sweats."
Brad was proud of how he only paused for a second as he processed the last order. He was starting to understand the stray comments he'd heard from various grunts over the last six months about the sick bay having become a lot more appealing since some changes in the personnel. Brad's hands tightened into fists before he forced himself to shake it off and strip.
"Lie down on your back," Fick instructed as Brad sat on the edge of the cloth-covered table. Brad's mouth, inexplicably, went dry. Briefly he wondered whether the scene might be a huge, cruel practical joke masterminded by Ray Person to get back at Brad for calling him a vertically challenged trailer-park loser hick one too many times. It probably wouldn't be outside the limits of Ray's insane deviousness to somehow cause Brad a muscle strain.
Fick fired a few more questions at Brad, about the type of the pain, whether he remembered the exact time it started, about the frequency, how bad it was on the scale of 1-to-10 on each occasion. Trusting Fick to realize that he was goddamn Recon Marine and pain described as level 10 would have to mean he'd had both his arms and legs blown off, he tried to describe everything accurately without too much downplaying.
The talk had lulled him to a false sense of security, obviously, because it was a fucking shock when Fick finally laid his long fingers on each side of Brad's left knee. He didn't jump, but muscles in his bared thigh twitched, sensation running up from each individual point of contact of Fick's fingertips on his skin, making his stomach tighten, sweat breaking out at the small of his back.
Fick's look was pure concentration. His hands moved up Brad's thigh, grip sure, testing. When his fingers hit a muscle high up in his inner thigh, Brad couldn't help grunting.
"Ah," Fick's face was delighted, "it's the pectineus muscle. Small but crucial," he grinned. Brad concentrated on not letting his breathing speed up. Fick's thumb was massaging the place, alternating pressure and angle, getting back to the questions. What kind of pain? One to ten?
After a while it seemed the pain started to lessen, or the muscle simply went numb. Brad's thigh felt hot and sensitive all over, blood rushing to surface the longer Fick kept massaging it.
His fingers were dangerously close to parts of Brad that were starting to sit up and take notice, no matter how tight he was clenching his jaw, fighting for control.
Fick was happily oblivious to Brad's inner struggle, the heat spiking low in his stomach. "…was probably sprained when it first started acting up, and if you'd let it rest for a few days instead of being a stubborn Alpha male jackass about it," Fick eyes cut towards him in mild disapproval, "it would've cleared up a lot sooner instead of getting more inflamed."
Brad attempted to look contrite; also, like he wasn't seconds away from taking Fick's hand and pushing it against his trapped dick. Jesus, he ground his teeth together. Jesus, just a couple more minutes, then I can get out of here and jerk off for the rest of the afternoon…
Mental promises didn't help. The pain was gone, his legs felt almost uncomfortably warm and Fick was still touching him, fingers brushing against the heated muscles. Brad's dick was hardening and there was fuck all he could do about it.
"Amazingly enough, your body seems to have done most of the healing despite you not giving it any rest. Take it easy for the weekend and you should be fine on-"
Fick's voice abruptly broke off. Even before lowering his desperate stare from the white ceiling, Brad knew what he'd see. Fick's eyes were fixed on Brad's crotch; the black briefs did nothing to hide how hard he was, and the lights overhead picked up the curve of his erection, emphasizing it. Brad swallowed heavily. Fick lifted his eyes to his, expression giving nothing away.
"Isn't this the part where you assure me it happens to people all the time, and that it's perfectly fine and you won't take it personally?" Brad forced himself to ask.
Fick's eyebrow arched. "Isn't this the part where you assure me it isn't anything personal?"
His tone was level, but the green eyes-Brad went out on a limb.
"Sir, that would be a fucking lie."
Fick's sudden grin was blinding. Brad's dick jerked, a pathetically enthusiastic response to such a small thing. Brad let the back of his head hit the covered table, screwing his eyes shut and inhaling roughly.
When he opened his eyes again, Fick was braced over him, hands on both sides of Brad's hips. Brad opened his mouth, but the words got caught in his throat as Fick leaned closer, closer down; settling his weight on his elbows, which put him close enough for his lips to almost touch the fabric stretched over Brad's dick. After a moment, during which Brad was about to make a fucking fool of himself, Fick exhaled on him, warm breath hypersensitizing him so that when a mouth descended on him right afterwards, his hips jerked, inviting Fick's fingers to fly up to press him to the table.
Brad's eyes may have rolled back in his head. Fick was aggressive and hot and a fucking cocktease, tonguing him through the thin cloth, and Brad wanted to say something, thank Fick or praise him or swear at him, but his thought process was derailed again as Fick's finger's slid down from his hips to hook under the waistband of his briefs, beginning to inch it down.
"Just so you remember," Brad's eyes snapped up at hearing Fick's voice, his chest and throat flushing hotly at the smirk Fick gave him, "my given name's Nate. Just in case you want to scream it out loud."
"Any time you want to get around to doing something, I'll keep that in mind," he choked, and Fick-Nate, Nate fucking laughed and tugged at Brad's briefs again, waiting for Brad's hips to lift, and stripping him.
Brad's back arched as Nate took him in his mouth, swallowing right down as much as he could before the head of Brad's dick bumped against the back of his throat. Brad was panting, white-outed by the pleasure and the visuals of Nate's shorn head in his lap. It crossed his mind to wonder about the expert attempt at deep-throating, and the gleeful comments he'd heard around the base, and he had an irrational urge to punch someone in the teeth. Instead, he let his fingers curl around the back of Nate's neck, shuddering when Nate moaned appreciatively, swallowing around him.
Brad didn't know whether it had simply been too long or whether Nate was too much of everything he'd ever wanted, but he felt himself getting close way too soon. Nate's tongue was playing with the big vein on his cock, eyes slipping half shut as his lips rubbed against Brad, sucking hard and sliding off of him, and taking him in again. He kept making these sounds, too, low happy moans that had Brad's fingers spasming and his chest rising and falling rapidly.
It was all over when Nate's talented fingers slipped behind his aching balls, tracing his hole. Brad's body went taut, fingers clamping down on Nate's neck and shoulders, probably bruising. Nate swallowed him deep and sucked him through his release, making Brad's thighs shake and his ass clench, all emptied into Nate's mouth and totally, devastatingly relaxed.
He allowed himself thirty seconds to get his brain back online and his breath back enough to move.
Nate seemed surprised when he rolled off the examination table and dropped to his knees in front of him, but as soon as Brad tore open his zipper and dragged his pants and briefs to mid-thigh, his eyes glazed, head tipping back, baring the line of his throat.
Brad wanted his mouth there, as well - wanted to bite Nate's neck and suck on his collarbones and his earlobes, but most of all he wanted to kiss Nate.
Maybe, if he played his cards right, he might have a chance for that later.
Nate groaned, unexpectedly tortured, when Brad took his cock in his mouth, sliding down until his nose was almost brushing the golden curls, working Nate for more of those sounds; his fingers pressed hard on Nate's ass, directing him in. Nate got the hint, with a shaky surprised inhale, and started fucking Brad's face.
Nate was almost silent when he came; Brad wasn't. He was half-way back to hard and possibly a bit addicted to the taste and smell of Nate.
Nate was still shivering when Brad tucked him back into his clothes, standing up and towering above him now that they were chest to chest. Without waiting or asking for permission, Brad bent his head, lips opening as they touched Nate's, the kiss wet and deep and unhurried, flavored salty.
Nate moaned, husky and quiet, and laughed. "Feeling better yet, Sergeant Colbert?"
"All better now," he smirked in response, sated. The future meeting of all his physiotherapeutic needs was looking quite promising indeed.