Generation Kill fic: the echo of wind
My second fic for the Get Some Porn Skirmish! So many inspiring prompts.
Title: the echo of wind
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters: Brad/Nate
Genre: First time
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3,668
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: Thanks to alethialia and sparky77 for making this so much better. Written for the Get Some Porn Skirmish, prompt: Brad's a low level telepath, but Nate happens to be one of those he picks up loud and clear. (full prompt at the end).
When things got hard, Brad used to get on his bike and ride. Fast as he could, roadside a blur, but he was in control out there, all on his own. It was silent, nothing but the echo of wind in his helmet.
Whenever he's stateside he still finds long empty roads, pushes his bike to its limits. He doesn't need it now, does it for sheer pleasure rather than necessity. He's learned how to cope with the noise, the voices, other people's thoughts jumbled up with his own.
He's the Iceman. Aloof and quiet; no one questions why.
If he registered, he'd only be classified as a low grade telepath. He can't narrow down the field of transmissions, or pick out thoughts from individuals in a crowd. Sometimes he can tell who's thinking what, but only when they're his men. He knows them, would know them even if he weren't a telepath. Registering isn't worth it - the social stigma, the shunning. The way his men would react; that's the deal breaker, knowing that some of them would never trust him again.
Sometimes he thinks he's letting down the Corps. Withholding an asset. The Corps is his life, all he's ever wanted, and he's holding back. But he still doesn't tell.
It's his secret.
There are five thousand men at Mathilda, forty-two men in his tent. It's never silent, not even in the middle of the night or when the shamal picks up and swallows everyone's shouts. Brad's used to the noise. He's comfortable with it now. He knows when a fight gets serious or when someone's silence is only on the surface. He knows when to step in and when to leave a situation alone. He knows when someone's jacking off in his rack, arousal bleeding through to him. Marines are horny fuckers. Brad jerks off three times a day and is still hard half the time.
Ray he picks up better than most - it's the reason he picked him for his team. That and because he's the best damn RTO in the company. They work well together, Brad anticipating, Ray almost as quick on the uptake even without the benefit of telepathy. There's an incessant stream of junk running through Ray's mind, constant white noise like the rumble of wheels and growl of the engine. Ray has no filter, says out loud everything he thinks. Sometimes it's amusing; the rest of the time it makes for a good exercise in restraint.
The LT is another matter.
Brad knew he was going to be different even before they met. Back at Camp Margarita, their platoon all of three strong, Mike had brought the LT over to meet them. Brad had heard him coming. Not his footsteps - before that. He'd heard his determination, his alertness, his desire to do well by his new fledgling platoon. Brad had heard it all so clear, it was a shock when six minutes passed before Mike and Lieutenant Nate Fick appeared in the doorway.
Brad always knows where the LT is. How he is. What he's thinking and feeling, when he's hungry or tired, hot or cold. When he's frustrated or angry and when he's relaxed.
He could probably block him out, to a degree, the way he mutes the sound of everyone else.
He doesn't.
It's easy to justify it. It makes Brad a better team leader, able to anticipate their needs and the LT's orders. It's better for everyone.
Brad tries not to think about how good it is for him, what it feels like to be linked to a man like Nate Fick. Right from the start Brad knows he's a good man, doesn't need to test him or wait to see how he shapes up in action. He knows. He serves Nate with every fiber in him, lives for him, would die for him. It's just how it is. Brad doesn't question it. He only questions matters that hold doubt, things he might change if he considered them long enough. He wouldn't change this.
He's grown accustomed to having Nate's thoughts in his head, a background rumble to his own thoughts. The sense of trust that emanates from Nate when he's speaking to Brad. It's good, and it's familiar, as reassuring as having his M-4 in his hand.
It's a shock when it all changes.
It's only a twenty-five percent watch tonight, the quietest night they've had in a while. Brad's on watch - he insisted - the rest of his team snoring in their graves. Their minds are silent. The whole camp is almost peaceful to Brad, sentries contemplating the boundaries, a few grumbled complaints and combat jacks, but most sleeping.
That's when it starts. When he hears Nate, hears his thoughts shift from the mundane and practical to something else altogether. Something unmistakable.
Something completely unexpected. Brad's not used to being taken by surprise, but this-this blindsides him.
Nate's thoughts are sometimes all words, sometimes words and images overlaid, sometimes fainter, just his general state of being. Tonight they're images and emotions, vivid and intensely personal. The naked curve of a shoulder, Nate nipping and soothing the skin. A pale ass, Nate's fingers spreading it open while he tongue fucks the hole. Nate's picturing this, and Brad can feel his arousal, feel the heat pooling in his belly and his dick swell. It clouds Brad's mind, and that's his only excuse for his slowness. He's a fucking recon Marine, trained above all else to observe, and it's not until he sees the multicolored ink of a tattoo, the familiar design under Nate's fingers that he realizes it's him. His tattoo. His ass that Nate's imagining reaming, his asshole all puffy and red and slick from Nate's tongue.
Words seep in.
So fucking beautiful. Want to taste you, everywhere. Want to fuck you, Brad. I want to spread you out in front of me, tongue fuck that dirty little hole until you can't bear it any longer, until you're begging me to fuck you. I want to fill you up. I want to watch the head of my dick disappearing inside you, inch by fucking inch, stretching you until you think you can't take any more but I'm going to keep on going and you're going to keep on taking it because you want it and we both know you want it. I want to pound into your pale ass and stroke your dick and make you come so hard you have to bite your lip bloody to keep from screaming my name. I want to fuck you until you can't move an inch without thinking about my cock pounding inside you, without getting hard thinking about it and wanting it all over again. I want to bite your neck, just low enough that no one else will see, but we'll both know. You'll touch it later and you'll think about me, and I'll watch you across the camp, knowing exactly what you're doing.
I want to come inside you. I want, fuck, I want to feel you shuddering against me, I want to feel you lose it. I want you to sob and beg for it and I'll give you everything you ask for. It gets less and less coherent, words jumbling and desperate. That's it for Nate, he's coming right this second, imagining his dick in Brad's ass, hands all over Brad.
Brad's hard. Absurdly so, because he doesn't do that. He fucks. Girls mostly, guys on occasion. But he doesn't take it, never has. And yet he's hard just thinking about it, listening to Nate's thoughts, feeling Nate fall apart. Brad takes his dick out, doesn't think of anything, just listens to Nate shuddering through his release. He barely has to touch himself before he's leaking, so close to coming it's like being a teenager again, hard when the wind blows the wrong way. He strokes himself hard and fast, no desire for finesse, a little too tight, a little too fast, like it's someone else's hand. Nate's hand, still sticky from his own orgasm. Brad spurts over the ground, harder than he'd have thought possible given the number of times he's jerked off lately.
This is only the start.
When Nate's talking about the AO in a TL meeting, he's really thinking about sucking Brad off. Brad answers questions by rote, and walks off in a daze. It's so strong, so overwhelming in Brad's mind that he has to shove his hands in his pants because he's that freaking horny.
Nate imagines Brad's lips around his cock at night, pictures Brad's face covered in his come, pale streaks down his grimy cheeks. He thinks about taking it, too, Brad's fingers opening him up, Brad's cock filling him, pounding into him, Brad's hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. Brad feels the spark and rush and pull of Nate's orgasm, gets lost in the strength of it, is halfway to passing out curled up in his grave, hand between his thighs.
When they're face to face discussing preserving their limited stock of ammo, Nate's thinking about sucking on Brad's tongue. Nate doesn't falter, facts and figures rolling off his tongue as though they're the only things on his mind, while Brad's struggles to keep his demeanor calm. He jacks off later to the thought of all the places Nate could suck and comes when he imagines Nate biting his ear.
When Nate's leaning against victor four, squeezing out an MRE, he's imaging sucking on Brad's cock, slurping around it, messy with his saliva and Brad's come. Brad puts down his own meal and makes it to a nearby berm, doubled up behind it with his hand down his pants. He doesn't give a fuck if anyone sees him.
The only time Brad's head is clear is when they're on the attack, the LT focused on nothing but the mission then, Brad following his lead.
But the down time-there's too much god damn down time in a war, too much time to think.
Nate still looks the same. Pristine, even in his stinking MOPP suit. Stern and focused. No outward sign of the heat inside.
It's driving Brad crazy. He's not sleeping much anyway - none of them is - so there's no change there. But he gets hard at any thought from Nate now, some twisted Pavlovian reaction, and Brad can't stop it, can't seem to block it out or clear his head or will himself not to react. He longs for the days when he thought three combat jacks was bad. Now he can't help himself, has to stalk off silent and dismissive day and night, jerking off slicked up with nothing better than his own ball sweat and saliva, until there's no time in the day he's not conscious of his dick, sore and aching.
Nate's gotten to him, inside his head, and Brad can't get away from it.
Worse, he's not even sure he wants to.
He finally cracks one night, lying next to Nate on a rocky outcrop, watching explosions rain across Baghdad. There's just the two of them, the only time they've been alone in days, and Nate's imagining being tied up in some empty warehouse, arms stretched so taut he's on tiptoes, his cock hard and dripping onto the filthy floor. He's thinking about Brad's fingers inside him, crooking up inside his ass, finding his prostate and making his cock jerk with the need to come. And then he's begging for more, and Brad's sliding a slicked up dildo inside him, a huge purple monstrosity, and he can feel Nate's pain, the stretch of it, the way it makes Nate feel. So full. And Brad's pulling it out, slow and easy, just to slam it back inside him, Nate only upright now because of the rope around his wrists. Nate's taking it all and wanting more, gasping for more, demanding Brad give it to him, harder and harder.
Either Brad is imagining all this, some form of telepathic related insanity, or his straight-laced, Ivy League, baby-faced LT is as dirty as any fucking Marine Brad's ever known and wants nothing more than to take it up the ass from his Team One leader.
"Interrogative," he says, holding on to what remnants of control he has left. "What the fuck do you want, sir?" He enunciates each word clearly and distinctly. He'd shout it if he could, but there isn't enough distance between them and Brad's Humvee, where Walt's still lubing up the Mk 19, Ray's fiddling with radio channels, Reporter's scribbling in his notebook, and Trombley's dozing off.
Nate just raises an eyebrow, like he has no idea Brad's this close to punching him, to shaking the answers out of him. "In what sense?" he asks, all innocence. "On a large scale? I'd like this war to be a success, to get rid of the hard-core Baathists, and send the foreign jihadists back to their home countries. To bring peace and prosperity to the land. In the immediate sense? I'd like a pop-tart MRE. And a shower."
"And what about me fucking you? Sticking a filthy great purple dildo up your ass, loosening you up for my cock. Pounding into you while you take it like a fucking bitch. Is that what you want, too?"
Brad stares at Nate. Glares at him, no intention of backing down. And then Nate's mind is silent, loud and ever present one second and gone the next, and Brad hasn't a clue what Nate's thinking. It's like driving at night with no batteries for his NVGs. Only worse, because the silence is so sudden, a switch turned off, and Brad's mind feels empty without it.
Brad's never met anyone who could shield his mind. He's heard talk, that it's possible, but that Nate-that Nate can shield but never has. That's-
Brad lies there, still staring, but he's speechless.
Eventually a slow smile begins to grow on Nate's face. "You think I want you fuck me? What else do you think I want you to do to me? To do with you?" He's moved in closer, shifting silently across the ground without Brad noticing. Brad can feel the warmth of his breath as he exhales in the cold night air.
Brad swallows. "I think you want to suck me. I think you're a filthy slut for my cock," he says, and Nate nods his head approvingly. Like this is a normal conversation, a lieutenant and his NCO talking about all the filthy things they want to do to each other. Nate's not shocked, not questioning how Brad knows this. Brad's reeling, because this means-this means Nate knows about him, what he is. He must, or he'd be hauling him up and punching him, not leaning on one elbow patiently waiting for Brad to continue. "I think you want me to suck your cock, too. I think you want my fingers up your ass."
"Very good, Brad," Nate says, and he's so calm, so assured. Brad's so hard he can barely concentrate. "That sort of attention to detail is just what I've come to expect from you."
"You're not surprised." A statement, not a question. Brad doesn't need to be able to hear Nate's thoughts to know that.
Nate shakes his head. "No."
"How did you know?" There are so few telepaths, no one expects them. Even the Corps rarely looks for them.
"I read your file."
"It isn't in my file." Brad's read his file - there's nothing to give any clue about what he is. No one has ever suspected him.
"I'm a recon Marine. I observe, I compile data, I make hypotheses. Then I test the data."
It sounds very clinical. Brad exhales slowly. "So, just to get this straight, sir, I am to understand that this was just a test? Every thought I've heard, all a test? When you got off thinking about rimming my ass, that was just your way of testing a fucking hypothesis?"
"I wouldn't say that," Nate says, and Brad wishes he could read his mind right now. He doesn't know why he can't, whether it's deliberate from Nate or some unconscious ability he has. Brad's marching into a fucking minefield blindfolded, and he doesn't like a tactical disadvantage. Brad never has to guess, but now it's all he can do. His best guess is that Nate sounds hopeful, as if he knows exactly what response he wants from Brad, just isn't sure he'll get it.
Brad isn't sure either. He isn't sure which is going to win, his anger or the growing need that's getting harder and harder to ignore. It's not just his dick that wants this.
He stalls. "What would you say, sir?"
"I would say there can be more than one reason for a test. More than one hypothesis being explored."
Brad shouldn't play along with this, but he can't stop himself.
"Did you get all the answers you wanted?" he asks.
"Not yet."
"Perhaps you should ask the right questions," Brad suggests.
Nate leans in and reels off a list of questions. "Did you get hard, hearing what I want to do to you? Did you imagine fucking me? Did you wonder if anyone's ever fucked me before, how tight I'd be, how much I could take?"
Brad controls his breathing, calling on every reserve of discipline and training. He can imagine everything. The best sex he's had in months has been his own hand and a stained copy of Juggs, and now Nate's putting all these ideas into his head. "You're a worse tease than a fucking prom queen up on stage announcing her chastity pledge wearing a dress that barely covers her tits."
Nate laughs, but the sound's raw. "We're in MOPP suits, yards from a platoon of recon Marines," he says, and the frustration is clear in his voice now. He sounds as desperate as Brad feels. As tortured as Brad, and this is what victory feels like, ten times the thrill of storming a deserted airfield.
Victory needs to be celebrated, and damn the risk.
At his shove, Nate willingly falls back, a smirk on his face, and Brad's torn between wiping it off and tasting it. He picks the first option, getting into Nate's MOPP suit with one hand.
And then Nate's loud and clear in his head, everything he's thinking and feeling and wanting, and it's like Brad's whole again.
It has to be deliberate. "You can shield your mind?" Brad asks, ignoring the rumbling in Nate's brain that's telling him to get the fuck on with things and ask questions later.
"Had a girlfriend, a telepath. Taught me to shield," Nate clips out. Touch me, he's thinking, so Brad obeys.
Nate's hard. His cock is hot and silky in Brad's hand, and Nate gulps when Brad squeezes it, stutters inside his mind, everything in him saying he's been desperate for this. "You like that." Brad smiles.
"More," Nate demands. More.
"Pushy motherfucker, aren't you?"
There's a moment when Nate looks uncertain, feels like he's about to back away. "I won't order you, Brad," he starts, but Brad interrupts before he can say anything monumentally stupid, some sort of declaration or insistence that Brad can walk away from this and it won't make any difference to their working relationship. As though Brad thinks for one moment that Nate would use his position, abuse it in any way. It's the most laughable idea Brad's heard in ages, and that's saying something given he's in the middle of the biggest god damn screw up of an invasion.
So Brad laughs. "With all due respect, you're a fucking idiot, sir."
Nate's smile is wry. "Thank you for the considered assessment, Sergeant. Now, are you going to manage a halfway decent handjob? Given the tricky circumstances and unfavorable terrain I'm not going to expect perfection, but your present lack of action is definitely inadequate," he taunts. "Or am I going to have to do it myself?"
"I think you will find my performance more than satisfactory," Brad says, and starts stroking him, calling on everything he likes and feeling everything Nate likes. Even if he hadn't been able to hear every thought in Nate's head, a choked out litany of encouragement and need (fuck, Brad, fuck, oh god, fuck, yes, wanted this, god, like that, yes), the way he gasps as he comes, one long desperate exhale that sounds like he's dying, tells Brad everything.
Brad hears it and sees it and feels it, and it's so much, so overwhelming, like he's coming himself, and he's going to, he's going to come in his fucking MOPP suit if Nate doesn't do something soon, and maybe he says it out loud, or maybe Nate's just that intuitive, because he's moving down, he's opening up Brad's pants and fucking taking him in. Brad's dick is filthy with sweat and dried come and Nate just takes him, humming around his dick like there's nothing he wants more than this, Brad's sweaty, stale dick in his mouth. Nate looks up, stares up at Brad as he works his way so fucking slow up Brad's dick, and Nate's so fucking pretty, lips made for this, and he's lit up. Brad can see even in the dark, the way his eyes are smiling, so full of relief, and Brad gets it then, that this wasn't a game for Nate.
Not a game, not a test. It was the only way he could bring himself to ask.
God damn fucking idiot officers, Brad thinks, and comes. He's almost empty, come too many times in too few days, but his body tries, spurts what it can into Nate's mouth.
Nate licks his lips, and Brad leans into him and licks at them. "Spot of dirt there, sir," he says.
"Ever solicitous, Brad," Nate says and Brad can feel his smile.
//
nb: The full prompt, from svilleficrecs, was: Brad's a low level telepath, but Nate happens to be one of those he picks up loud and clear. Which isn't a problem until Nate starts thinking about fucking Brad with a clarity and aggressively creative raunchiness that surprises the fuck out of Brad. And Brad is a telepath in the middle of a bunch of Marines, so that's saying something.
eta: If anyone wants to write more of this universe, please, please do! And remember, boys and girls, any number of people can write each prompt on the Porn Skirmish, so this prompt is still up for grabs!
Title: the echo of wind
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters: Brad/Nate
Genre: First time
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3,668
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: Thanks to alethialia and sparky77 for making this so much better. Written for the Get Some Porn Skirmish, prompt: Brad's a low level telepath, but Nate happens to be one of those he picks up loud and clear. (full prompt at the end).
When things got hard, Brad used to get on his bike and ride. Fast as he could, roadside a blur, but he was in control out there, all on his own. It was silent, nothing but the echo of wind in his helmet.
Whenever he's stateside he still finds long empty roads, pushes his bike to its limits. He doesn't need it now, does it for sheer pleasure rather than necessity. He's learned how to cope with the noise, the voices, other people's thoughts jumbled up with his own.
He's the Iceman. Aloof and quiet; no one questions why.
If he registered, he'd only be classified as a low grade telepath. He can't narrow down the field of transmissions, or pick out thoughts from individuals in a crowd. Sometimes he can tell who's thinking what, but only when they're his men. He knows them, would know them even if he weren't a telepath. Registering isn't worth it - the social stigma, the shunning. The way his men would react; that's the deal breaker, knowing that some of them would never trust him again.
Sometimes he thinks he's letting down the Corps. Withholding an asset. The Corps is his life, all he's ever wanted, and he's holding back. But he still doesn't tell.
It's his secret.
There are five thousand men at Mathilda, forty-two men in his tent. It's never silent, not even in the middle of the night or when the shamal picks up and swallows everyone's shouts. Brad's used to the noise. He's comfortable with it now. He knows when a fight gets serious or when someone's silence is only on the surface. He knows when to step in and when to leave a situation alone. He knows when someone's jacking off in his rack, arousal bleeding through to him. Marines are horny fuckers. Brad jerks off three times a day and is still hard half the time.
Ray he picks up better than most - it's the reason he picked him for his team. That and because he's the best damn RTO in the company. They work well together, Brad anticipating, Ray almost as quick on the uptake even without the benefit of telepathy. There's an incessant stream of junk running through Ray's mind, constant white noise like the rumble of wheels and growl of the engine. Ray has no filter, says out loud everything he thinks. Sometimes it's amusing; the rest of the time it makes for a good exercise in restraint.
The LT is another matter.
Brad knew he was going to be different even before they met. Back at Camp Margarita, their platoon all of three strong, Mike had brought the LT over to meet them. Brad had heard him coming. Not his footsteps - before that. He'd heard his determination, his alertness, his desire to do well by his new fledgling platoon. Brad had heard it all so clear, it was a shock when six minutes passed before Mike and Lieutenant Nate Fick appeared in the doorway.
Brad always knows where the LT is. How he is. What he's thinking and feeling, when he's hungry or tired, hot or cold. When he's frustrated or angry and when he's relaxed.
He could probably block him out, to a degree, the way he mutes the sound of everyone else.
He doesn't.
It's easy to justify it. It makes Brad a better team leader, able to anticipate their needs and the LT's orders. It's better for everyone.
Brad tries not to think about how good it is for him, what it feels like to be linked to a man like Nate Fick. Right from the start Brad knows he's a good man, doesn't need to test him or wait to see how he shapes up in action. He knows. He serves Nate with every fiber in him, lives for him, would die for him. It's just how it is. Brad doesn't question it. He only questions matters that hold doubt, things he might change if he considered them long enough. He wouldn't change this.
He's grown accustomed to having Nate's thoughts in his head, a background rumble to his own thoughts. The sense of trust that emanates from Nate when he's speaking to Brad. It's good, and it's familiar, as reassuring as having his M-4 in his hand.
It's a shock when it all changes.
It's only a twenty-five percent watch tonight, the quietest night they've had in a while. Brad's on watch - he insisted - the rest of his team snoring in their graves. Their minds are silent. The whole camp is almost peaceful to Brad, sentries contemplating the boundaries, a few grumbled complaints and combat jacks, but most sleeping.
That's when it starts. When he hears Nate, hears his thoughts shift from the mundane and practical to something else altogether. Something unmistakable.
Something completely unexpected. Brad's not used to being taken by surprise, but this-this blindsides him.
Nate's thoughts are sometimes all words, sometimes words and images overlaid, sometimes fainter, just his general state of being. Tonight they're images and emotions, vivid and intensely personal. The naked curve of a shoulder, Nate nipping and soothing the skin. A pale ass, Nate's fingers spreading it open while he tongue fucks the hole. Nate's picturing this, and Brad can feel his arousal, feel the heat pooling in his belly and his dick swell. It clouds Brad's mind, and that's his only excuse for his slowness. He's a fucking recon Marine, trained above all else to observe, and it's not until he sees the multicolored ink of a tattoo, the familiar design under Nate's fingers that he realizes it's him. His tattoo. His ass that Nate's imagining reaming, his asshole all puffy and red and slick from Nate's tongue.
Words seep in.
So fucking beautiful. Want to taste you, everywhere. Want to fuck you, Brad. I want to spread you out in front of me, tongue fuck that dirty little hole until you can't bear it any longer, until you're begging me to fuck you. I want to fill you up. I want to watch the head of my dick disappearing inside you, inch by fucking inch, stretching you until you think you can't take any more but I'm going to keep on going and you're going to keep on taking it because you want it and we both know you want it. I want to pound into your pale ass and stroke your dick and make you come so hard you have to bite your lip bloody to keep from screaming my name. I want to fuck you until you can't move an inch without thinking about my cock pounding inside you, without getting hard thinking about it and wanting it all over again. I want to bite your neck, just low enough that no one else will see, but we'll both know. You'll touch it later and you'll think about me, and I'll watch you across the camp, knowing exactly what you're doing.
I want to come inside you. I want, fuck, I want to feel you shuddering against me, I want to feel you lose it. I want you to sob and beg for it and I'll give you everything you ask for. It gets less and less coherent, words jumbling and desperate. That's it for Nate, he's coming right this second, imagining his dick in Brad's ass, hands all over Brad.
Brad's hard. Absurdly so, because he doesn't do that. He fucks. Girls mostly, guys on occasion. But he doesn't take it, never has. And yet he's hard just thinking about it, listening to Nate's thoughts, feeling Nate fall apart. Brad takes his dick out, doesn't think of anything, just listens to Nate shuddering through his release. He barely has to touch himself before he's leaking, so close to coming it's like being a teenager again, hard when the wind blows the wrong way. He strokes himself hard and fast, no desire for finesse, a little too tight, a little too fast, like it's someone else's hand. Nate's hand, still sticky from his own orgasm. Brad spurts over the ground, harder than he'd have thought possible given the number of times he's jerked off lately.
This is only the start.
When Nate's talking about the AO in a TL meeting, he's really thinking about sucking Brad off. Brad answers questions by rote, and walks off in a daze. It's so strong, so overwhelming in Brad's mind that he has to shove his hands in his pants because he's that freaking horny.
Nate imagines Brad's lips around his cock at night, pictures Brad's face covered in his come, pale streaks down his grimy cheeks. He thinks about taking it, too, Brad's fingers opening him up, Brad's cock filling him, pounding into him, Brad's hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. Brad feels the spark and rush and pull of Nate's orgasm, gets lost in the strength of it, is halfway to passing out curled up in his grave, hand between his thighs.
When they're face to face discussing preserving their limited stock of ammo, Nate's thinking about sucking on Brad's tongue. Nate doesn't falter, facts and figures rolling off his tongue as though they're the only things on his mind, while Brad's struggles to keep his demeanor calm. He jacks off later to the thought of all the places Nate could suck and comes when he imagines Nate biting his ear.
When Nate's leaning against victor four, squeezing out an MRE, he's imaging sucking on Brad's cock, slurping around it, messy with his saliva and Brad's come. Brad puts down his own meal and makes it to a nearby berm, doubled up behind it with his hand down his pants. He doesn't give a fuck if anyone sees him.
The only time Brad's head is clear is when they're on the attack, the LT focused on nothing but the mission then, Brad following his lead.
But the down time-there's too much god damn down time in a war, too much time to think.
Nate still looks the same. Pristine, even in his stinking MOPP suit. Stern and focused. No outward sign of the heat inside.
It's driving Brad crazy. He's not sleeping much anyway - none of them is - so there's no change there. But he gets hard at any thought from Nate now, some twisted Pavlovian reaction, and Brad can't stop it, can't seem to block it out or clear his head or will himself not to react. He longs for the days when he thought three combat jacks was bad. Now he can't help himself, has to stalk off silent and dismissive day and night, jerking off slicked up with nothing better than his own ball sweat and saliva, until there's no time in the day he's not conscious of his dick, sore and aching.
Nate's gotten to him, inside his head, and Brad can't get away from it.
Worse, he's not even sure he wants to.
He finally cracks one night, lying next to Nate on a rocky outcrop, watching explosions rain across Baghdad. There's just the two of them, the only time they've been alone in days, and Nate's imagining being tied up in some empty warehouse, arms stretched so taut he's on tiptoes, his cock hard and dripping onto the filthy floor. He's thinking about Brad's fingers inside him, crooking up inside his ass, finding his prostate and making his cock jerk with the need to come. And then he's begging for more, and Brad's sliding a slicked up dildo inside him, a huge purple monstrosity, and he can feel Nate's pain, the stretch of it, the way it makes Nate feel. So full. And Brad's pulling it out, slow and easy, just to slam it back inside him, Nate only upright now because of the rope around his wrists. Nate's taking it all and wanting more, gasping for more, demanding Brad give it to him, harder and harder.
Either Brad is imagining all this, some form of telepathic related insanity, or his straight-laced, Ivy League, baby-faced LT is as dirty as any fucking Marine Brad's ever known and wants nothing more than to take it up the ass from his Team One leader.
"Interrogative," he says, holding on to what remnants of control he has left. "What the fuck do you want, sir?" He enunciates each word clearly and distinctly. He'd shout it if he could, but there isn't enough distance between them and Brad's Humvee, where Walt's still lubing up the Mk 19, Ray's fiddling with radio channels, Reporter's scribbling in his notebook, and Trombley's dozing off.
Nate just raises an eyebrow, like he has no idea Brad's this close to punching him, to shaking the answers out of him. "In what sense?" he asks, all innocence. "On a large scale? I'd like this war to be a success, to get rid of the hard-core Baathists, and send the foreign jihadists back to their home countries. To bring peace and prosperity to the land. In the immediate sense? I'd like a pop-tart MRE. And a shower."
"And what about me fucking you? Sticking a filthy great purple dildo up your ass, loosening you up for my cock. Pounding into you while you take it like a fucking bitch. Is that what you want, too?"
Brad stares at Nate. Glares at him, no intention of backing down. And then Nate's mind is silent, loud and ever present one second and gone the next, and Brad hasn't a clue what Nate's thinking. It's like driving at night with no batteries for his NVGs. Only worse, because the silence is so sudden, a switch turned off, and Brad's mind feels empty without it.
Brad's never met anyone who could shield his mind. He's heard talk, that it's possible, but that Nate-that Nate can shield but never has. That's-
Brad lies there, still staring, but he's speechless.
Eventually a slow smile begins to grow on Nate's face. "You think I want you fuck me? What else do you think I want you to do to me? To do with you?" He's moved in closer, shifting silently across the ground without Brad noticing. Brad can feel the warmth of his breath as he exhales in the cold night air.
Brad swallows. "I think you want to suck me. I think you're a filthy slut for my cock," he says, and Nate nods his head approvingly. Like this is a normal conversation, a lieutenant and his NCO talking about all the filthy things they want to do to each other. Nate's not shocked, not questioning how Brad knows this. Brad's reeling, because this means-this means Nate knows about him, what he is. He must, or he'd be hauling him up and punching him, not leaning on one elbow patiently waiting for Brad to continue. "I think you want me to suck your cock, too. I think you want my fingers up your ass."
"Very good, Brad," Nate says, and he's so calm, so assured. Brad's so hard he can barely concentrate. "That sort of attention to detail is just what I've come to expect from you."
"You're not surprised." A statement, not a question. Brad doesn't need to be able to hear Nate's thoughts to know that.
Nate shakes his head. "No."
"How did you know?" There are so few telepaths, no one expects them. Even the Corps rarely looks for them.
"I read your file."
"It isn't in my file." Brad's read his file - there's nothing to give any clue about what he is. No one has ever suspected him.
"I'm a recon Marine. I observe, I compile data, I make hypotheses. Then I test the data."
It sounds very clinical. Brad exhales slowly. "So, just to get this straight, sir, I am to understand that this was just a test? Every thought I've heard, all a test? When you got off thinking about rimming my ass, that was just your way of testing a fucking hypothesis?"
"I wouldn't say that," Nate says, and Brad wishes he could read his mind right now. He doesn't know why he can't, whether it's deliberate from Nate or some unconscious ability he has. Brad's marching into a fucking minefield blindfolded, and he doesn't like a tactical disadvantage. Brad never has to guess, but now it's all he can do. His best guess is that Nate sounds hopeful, as if he knows exactly what response he wants from Brad, just isn't sure he'll get it.
Brad isn't sure either. He isn't sure which is going to win, his anger or the growing need that's getting harder and harder to ignore. It's not just his dick that wants this.
He stalls. "What would you say, sir?"
"I would say there can be more than one reason for a test. More than one hypothesis being explored."
Brad shouldn't play along with this, but he can't stop himself.
"Did you get all the answers you wanted?" he asks.
"Not yet."
"Perhaps you should ask the right questions," Brad suggests.
Nate leans in and reels off a list of questions. "Did you get hard, hearing what I want to do to you? Did you imagine fucking me? Did you wonder if anyone's ever fucked me before, how tight I'd be, how much I could take?"
Brad controls his breathing, calling on every reserve of discipline and training. He can imagine everything. The best sex he's had in months has been his own hand and a stained copy of Juggs, and now Nate's putting all these ideas into his head. "You're a worse tease than a fucking prom queen up on stage announcing her chastity pledge wearing a dress that barely covers her tits."
Nate laughs, but the sound's raw. "We're in MOPP suits, yards from a platoon of recon Marines," he says, and the frustration is clear in his voice now. He sounds as desperate as Brad feels. As tortured as Brad, and this is what victory feels like, ten times the thrill of storming a deserted airfield.
Victory needs to be celebrated, and damn the risk.
At his shove, Nate willingly falls back, a smirk on his face, and Brad's torn between wiping it off and tasting it. He picks the first option, getting into Nate's MOPP suit with one hand.
And then Nate's loud and clear in his head, everything he's thinking and feeling and wanting, and it's like Brad's whole again.
It has to be deliberate. "You can shield your mind?" Brad asks, ignoring the rumbling in Nate's brain that's telling him to get the fuck on with things and ask questions later.
"Had a girlfriend, a telepath. Taught me to shield," Nate clips out. Touch me, he's thinking, so Brad obeys.
Nate's hard. His cock is hot and silky in Brad's hand, and Nate gulps when Brad squeezes it, stutters inside his mind, everything in him saying he's been desperate for this. "You like that." Brad smiles.
"More," Nate demands. More.
"Pushy motherfucker, aren't you?"
There's a moment when Nate looks uncertain, feels like he's about to back away. "I won't order you, Brad," he starts, but Brad interrupts before he can say anything monumentally stupid, some sort of declaration or insistence that Brad can walk away from this and it won't make any difference to their working relationship. As though Brad thinks for one moment that Nate would use his position, abuse it in any way. It's the most laughable idea Brad's heard in ages, and that's saying something given he's in the middle of the biggest god damn screw up of an invasion.
So Brad laughs. "With all due respect, you're a fucking idiot, sir."
Nate's smile is wry. "Thank you for the considered assessment, Sergeant. Now, are you going to manage a halfway decent handjob? Given the tricky circumstances and unfavorable terrain I'm not going to expect perfection, but your present lack of action is definitely inadequate," he taunts. "Or am I going to have to do it myself?"
"I think you will find my performance more than satisfactory," Brad says, and starts stroking him, calling on everything he likes and feeling everything Nate likes. Even if he hadn't been able to hear every thought in Nate's head, a choked out litany of encouragement and need (fuck, Brad, fuck, oh god, fuck, yes, wanted this, god, like that, yes), the way he gasps as he comes, one long desperate exhale that sounds like he's dying, tells Brad everything.
Brad hears it and sees it and feels it, and it's so much, so overwhelming, like he's coming himself, and he's going to, he's going to come in his fucking MOPP suit if Nate doesn't do something soon, and maybe he says it out loud, or maybe Nate's just that intuitive, because he's moving down, he's opening up Brad's pants and fucking taking him in. Brad's dick is filthy with sweat and dried come and Nate just takes him, humming around his dick like there's nothing he wants more than this, Brad's sweaty, stale dick in his mouth. Nate looks up, stares up at Brad as he works his way so fucking slow up Brad's dick, and Nate's so fucking pretty, lips made for this, and he's lit up. Brad can see even in the dark, the way his eyes are smiling, so full of relief, and Brad gets it then, that this wasn't a game for Nate.
Not a game, not a test. It was the only way he could bring himself to ask.
God damn fucking idiot officers, Brad thinks, and comes. He's almost empty, come too many times in too few days, but his body tries, spurts what it can into Nate's mouth.
Nate licks his lips, and Brad leans into him and licks at them. "Spot of dirt there, sir," he says.
"Ever solicitous, Brad," Nate says and Brad can feel his smile.
//
nb: The full prompt, from svilleficrecs, was: Brad's a low level telepath, but Nate happens to be one of those he picks up loud and clear. Which isn't a problem until Nate starts thinking about fucking Brad with a clarity and aggressively creative raunchiness that surprises the fuck out of Brad. And Brad is a telepath in the middle of a bunch of Marines, so that's saying something.
eta: If anyone wants to write more of this universe, please, please do! And remember, boys and girls, any number of people can write each prompt on the Porn Skirmish, so this prompt is still up for grabs!