Generation Kill fic: Zombies, Superheroes and Fucking Angels
Title: Zombies, Superheroes and Fucking Angels
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Brad/Nate
Genre: Romance with a side of zombies!
Rating: R
Word count: 1,576 words
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 shoshannagold for the beta. Written for trolleys, who asked for a zombie!AU. ETA: I forgot to link to trolleys' fantastic zombie drawings!
There's zombie splatter in Nate's hair, a large gray-green gloop on his cheek, and what looks like bone fragments caught on his sleeve. No broken skin, or any splatter on his eyes, nose or mouth. That's okay then. And all the kids are still alive, though half of them are sobbing quietly. Brad's not sure if kids have learned to cry quietly, or if it's just that the noisy ones have all been caught. Some things are best not thought about.
The kids they've just rescued have all backed away from them. Brad reckons they must look almost as scary as the zombies, what with the machetes (still dripping) and the machine guns (still hot). He catches Nate's wince out of the corner of his eye, so he crouches down and tries to look harmless. Or at least marginally less menacing, though his smile feels rusty. It must work to a degree, because one kid, a funny-looking little thing with red hair, too many freckles and grubby leggings edges forward. She thrusts a piece of paper into Brad's hand, then rushes back to the safety of her teacher's legs. She peers out from her makeshift hiding place and watches him unfold the paper.
It's a crayon drawing of him and Nate, holes in the corners as though it's been tacked to a wall. There's no doubt it's them, even though the two stick figures are crudely drawn and appear to have wings. Or possibly capes - Brad can't be sure. The kid must have drawn it after the last time they were in this sector. There's a bright yellow sun right behind them, like some sort of shared halo, even though the kid must be too young to remember what the sun looks like. Those are definitely swords in their hands, and they're surrounded by dismembered zombies, a head at each of their feet.
Like they're goddamn superheroes. Ray would have a fucking field day if he saw this. Brad resolves to lose it before they make it back to their base of operations. Until he looks up and sees Nate's face. Nate hates it when kids are scared of him - he goes all pale and quiet and miserable, ends up looking even more of a badass motherfucker and makes them cry more - it's a vicious circle. But now Nate's looking at the picture and he's got this strange little smile curling the corner of his mouth.
"Ray always says you should've rolled into battle with a sword," Nate says, once they're heading back. "And that since the modern world unfortunately lacks dragons for you to slay, he thinks zombies are a passable alternative."
Brad imagines that's paraphrased. And abbreviated. Heavily.
"You should know better than to listen to anything out of Ray's mouth, sir." Brad skirts a rolled truck, automatically scanning it to see if there might be anything left worth salvaging. There isn't.
"Now and then he says something that makes sense."
That's true. It's also true that Ray broke into the booze stash last night (the one the LT knows about but turns a blind eye to) and spent two hours trying to persuade Brad that he should be fucking the LT for the sake of the platoon, because all the pussying around they were doing was making them both cranky and bringing down morale. Ray had actually had the temerity to tell Brad that he was bitchier than a girl on the rag, all because he wasn't getting some. So clearly Ray talks fucking nonsense most of the time. There's no way the LT- Brad quickly derails his train of thought and concentrates on observing everything, and admiring nothing, not even his platoon commander.
Nate sheathes his machete and leads the way up a rusty fire escape. This section of the city is best crossed at rooftop level, the alleyways too closed in to be safe for ground travel. Brad's constantly grateful that zombies can't climb. He has to find something to be grateful for - complaining is only entertaining for a while.
The view up here is familiar, but still catches Brad's breath. There are fires burning outside the (relatively) safe zone, and they light up the edges of the constant low black clouds. It looks like hell. Fuck, it is hell out there. And then he turns to Nate. He wiped his face and washed the worst of the mess out of his hair back at the nursery - zombie splatter is best removed immediately, they learned that lesson with Encino Man - and somehow he manages to look pristine. His hair looks golden in the reflected fire-light. Brad feels the crinkle of paper in his pocket and thinks the Nate in the picture really is meant to have wings. And that it doesn't seem as absurd as it should.
Ray's drunken suggestion doesn't seem so crazy either, not when Nate's quietly staring back at him. Brad's not sure how long they've been standing here, even though he never loses track of time.
There's a fleck of something in Nate's hair. White cotton, just fluff from the school towel he dried his hair with, but Brad flicks it off anyway. Nate doesn't move or react, not even a raised eyebrow to query what the hell Brad thinks he's doing. Perhaps Nate knows, in which case Brad wishes he'd share the intel with him because he hasn't a fucking clue. Not the first time he's taken action without knowing what he's doing, though, and won't be the last, he's sure of that. It hasn't stopped him in the past and isn't going to stop him now. He lets his hand fall down to Nate's face, his thumb fitting into the dip beside Nate's jawbone. He can feel Nate's pulse and his own, both too fast.
There's that same little crooked smile on Nate's face now, and Brad thinks it's Nate that closes the rest of the distance between them, taking charge of the kiss like it's something that has to be done well or not at all. Nate is always meticulous, no matter that the world's gone to hell.
Brad's chest is tight. They're silhouetted against the sky, and it's about as much privacy as they're ever going to get: everyone inside, shutters closed, and zombies don't look up at the rooftops. His chest is fucking painful, like a heart attack about to happen. He can feel the hard ridge of Nate's dick pressed against his thigh. Brad's breathing so hard he can hear it, feel the push of each breath against his ribs, breaking out like gasps.
"Fuck, Brad," Nate says. His voice is rough and pained, and he's rutting against Brad, fucking desperate like this has been too long coming. It has, it's been years too long, and Brad's cock hasn't felt the warmth of anything better than his own hand in ages, but now Nate's undoing his belt, fast and efficient, and unbuttoning his cammies, and then he fits his hand around Brad's cock and this time Brad's exhale is definitely a gasp, hard and sharp, the last breath he's aware of. Then all Brad can hear is Nate's breathing, all he can feel is the press of him, warm lips and hard body and his hand pumping Brad's cock.
Brad doesn't get lost in the moment. Hasn't done so in years. He has a list of rules that keeps him alive, helps keep all of them alive, and not getting lost in the moment is high on that list. But here, right now, just for a while, there's no danger. And Nate's hand is just on the painful side of tight as though he instinctively knows that Brad needs that to come, that edge of pain mingled in with the pleasure, and Nate's lips are hot and wet and he's making sounds as he keeps rubbing up against Brad, low-pitched groans that vibrate through Brad and he can't help but live in this moment, each second of it, the rush of heat through his body as he comes and Nate's strangled groan as he comes too.
They lean against each other afterwards, like they might after they've fought off a hoard of zombies, just that significant inch closer than before. Their breathing gradually slows down to normal, and it feels peaceful, this quiet moment up on a rooftop, no other sound but them. He looks up at the sky and even the clouds don't look as black or as low as usual, which is fucking ridiculous and only goes to show that it was too long since he got laid if one fuck has made his imagination run wild.
And then he looks at Nate. There's a ragged scar on Nate's chin where a zombie caught him; the creature had hurled Nate into a garbage can, and Nate had gotten up and pulled a huge shard of broken glass out of his face. Brad decapitated that zombie a second later, and six more in quick succession before he'd had a chance to check Nate was okay. Brad runs the pad of his finger along the scar, up into the corner of Nate's mouth. Nate nips at it. "I want to fuck your mouth," Brad says, and Nate grins, a dirty grin that's full of promise, and Brad thinks of the drawing, the sun shining.
He wouldn't be surprised if the sun came out right now.
//
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Brad/Nate
Genre: Romance with a side of zombies!
Rating: R
Word count: 1,576 words
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 shoshannagold for the beta. Written for trolleys, who asked for a zombie!AU. ETA: I forgot to link to trolleys' fantastic zombie drawings!
There's zombie splatter in Nate's hair, a large gray-green gloop on his cheek, and what looks like bone fragments caught on his sleeve. No broken skin, or any splatter on his eyes, nose or mouth. That's okay then. And all the kids are still alive, though half of them are sobbing quietly. Brad's not sure if kids have learned to cry quietly, or if it's just that the noisy ones have all been caught. Some things are best not thought about.
The kids they've just rescued have all backed away from them. Brad reckons they must look almost as scary as the zombies, what with the machetes (still dripping) and the machine guns (still hot). He catches Nate's wince out of the corner of his eye, so he crouches down and tries to look harmless. Or at least marginally less menacing, though his smile feels rusty. It must work to a degree, because one kid, a funny-looking little thing with red hair, too many freckles and grubby leggings edges forward. She thrusts a piece of paper into Brad's hand, then rushes back to the safety of her teacher's legs. She peers out from her makeshift hiding place and watches him unfold the paper.
It's a crayon drawing of him and Nate, holes in the corners as though it's been tacked to a wall. There's no doubt it's them, even though the two stick figures are crudely drawn and appear to have wings. Or possibly capes - Brad can't be sure. The kid must have drawn it after the last time they were in this sector. There's a bright yellow sun right behind them, like some sort of shared halo, even though the kid must be too young to remember what the sun looks like. Those are definitely swords in their hands, and they're surrounded by dismembered zombies, a head at each of their feet.
Like they're goddamn superheroes. Ray would have a fucking field day if he saw this. Brad resolves to lose it before they make it back to their base of operations. Until he looks up and sees Nate's face. Nate hates it when kids are scared of him - he goes all pale and quiet and miserable, ends up looking even more of a badass motherfucker and makes them cry more - it's a vicious circle. But now Nate's looking at the picture and he's got this strange little smile curling the corner of his mouth.
"Ray always says you should've rolled into battle with a sword," Nate says, once they're heading back. "And that since the modern world unfortunately lacks dragons for you to slay, he thinks zombies are a passable alternative."
Brad imagines that's paraphrased. And abbreviated. Heavily.
"You should know better than to listen to anything out of Ray's mouth, sir." Brad skirts a rolled truck, automatically scanning it to see if there might be anything left worth salvaging. There isn't.
"Now and then he says something that makes sense."
That's true. It's also true that Ray broke into the booze stash last night (the one the LT knows about but turns a blind eye to) and spent two hours trying to persuade Brad that he should be fucking the LT for the sake of the platoon, because all the pussying around they were doing was making them both cranky and bringing down morale. Ray had actually had the temerity to tell Brad that he was bitchier than a girl on the rag, all because he wasn't getting some. So clearly Ray talks fucking nonsense most of the time. There's no way the LT- Brad quickly derails his train of thought and concentrates on observing everything, and admiring nothing, not even his platoon commander.
Nate sheathes his machete and leads the way up a rusty fire escape. This section of the city is best crossed at rooftop level, the alleyways too closed in to be safe for ground travel. Brad's constantly grateful that zombies can't climb. He has to find something to be grateful for - complaining is only entertaining for a while.
The view up here is familiar, but still catches Brad's breath. There are fires burning outside the (relatively) safe zone, and they light up the edges of the constant low black clouds. It looks like hell. Fuck, it is hell out there. And then he turns to Nate. He wiped his face and washed the worst of the mess out of his hair back at the nursery - zombie splatter is best removed immediately, they learned that lesson with Encino Man - and somehow he manages to look pristine. His hair looks golden in the reflected fire-light. Brad feels the crinkle of paper in his pocket and thinks the Nate in the picture really is meant to have wings. And that it doesn't seem as absurd as it should.
Ray's drunken suggestion doesn't seem so crazy either, not when Nate's quietly staring back at him. Brad's not sure how long they've been standing here, even though he never loses track of time.
There's a fleck of something in Nate's hair. White cotton, just fluff from the school towel he dried his hair with, but Brad flicks it off anyway. Nate doesn't move or react, not even a raised eyebrow to query what the hell Brad thinks he's doing. Perhaps Nate knows, in which case Brad wishes he'd share the intel with him because he hasn't a fucking clue. Not the first time he's taken action without knowing what he's doing, though, and won't be the last, he's sure of that. It hasn't stopped him in the past and isn't going to stop him now. He lets his hand fall down to Nate's face, his thumb fitting into the dip beside Nate's jawbone. He can feel Nate's pulse and his own, both too fast.
There's that same little crooked smile on Nate's face now, and Brad thinks it's Nate that closes the rest of the distance between them, taking charge of the kiss like it's something that has to be done well or not at all. Nate is always meticulous, no matter that the world's gone to hell.
Brad's chest is tight. They're silhouetted against the sky, and it's about as much privacy as they're ever going to get: everyone inside, shutters closed, and zombies don't look up at the rooftops. His chest is fucking painful, like a heart attack about to happen. He can feel the hard ridge of Nate's dick pressed against his thigh. Brad's breathing so hard he can hear it, feel the push of each breath against his ribs, breaking out like gasps.
"Fuck, Brad," Nate says. His voice is rough and pained, and he's rutting against Brad, fucking desperate like this has been too long coming. It has, it's been years too long, and Brad's cock hasn't felt the warmth of anything better than his own hand in ages, but now Nate's undoing his belt, fast and efficient, and unbuttoning his cammies, and then he fits his hand around Brad's cock and this time Brad's exhale is definitely a gasp, hard and sharp, the last breath he's aware of. Then all Brad can hear is Nate's breathing, all he can feel is the press of him, warm lips and hard body and his hand pumping Brad's cock.
Brad doesn't get lost in the moment. Hasn't done so in years. He has a list of rules that keeps him alive, helps keep all of them alive, and not getting lost in the moment is high on that list. But here, right now, just for a while, there's no danger. And Nate's hand is just on the painful side of tight as though he instinctively knows that Brad needs that to come, that edge of pain mingled in with the pleasure, and Nate's lips are hot and wet and he's making sounds as he keeps rubbing up against Brad, low-pitched groans that vibrate through Brad and he can't help but live in this moment, each second of it, the rush of heat through his body as he comes and Nate's strangled groan as he comes too.
They lean against each other afterwards, like they might after they've fought off a hoard of zombies, just that significant inch closer than before. Their breathing gradually slows down to normal, and it feels peaceful, this quiet moment up on a rooftop, no other sound but them. He looks up at the sky and even the clouds don't look as black or as low as usual, which is fucking ridiculous and only goes to show that it was too long since he got laid if one fuck has made his imagination run wild.
And then he looks at Nate. There's a ragged scar on Nate's chin where a zombie caught him; the creature had hurled Nate into a garbage can, and Nate had gotten up and pulled a huge shard of broken glass out of his face. Brad decapitated that zombie a second later, and six more in quick succession before he'd had a chance to check Nate was okay. Brad runs the pad of his finger along the scar, up into the corner of Nate's mouth. Nate nips at it. "I want to fuck your mouth," Brad says, and Nate grins, a dirty grin that's full of promise, and Brad thinks of the drawing, the sun shining.
He wouldn't be surprised if the sun came out right now.
//