Generation Kill ficbit: untitled
Untitled [Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, PG, 263 words, a fandom_stocking fluffy ficbit for sabrina-il. Beta thanks to athenejen.]
"That shirt's wet. Take it off."
"Is that an order?" Nate asks, amused. He's barely got one foot in the door yet.
"Yes," Brad says, reaching around him to shut the door quickly. There's a puddle on the wooden floor already, mostly from the rain blowing in, but partly from Nate dripping. Nate kicks his shoes off, bends slightly at the neck and shakes his head like a dog. His hair's long enough that droplets go flying, flicking Brad's dry t-shirt.
Brad scowls.
"What?" Nate asks innocently. After all, Brad'll be taking his shirt off in a minute. If Nate's going to strip, then Brad is too. That's only fair.
The radio's playing in the background, a song Nate doesn't recognize, and something in the kitchen smells good. Chili, he thinks. It smells welcoming.
The chili will still be good warmed up later, though, if he distracts Brad now. Nate undoes his shirt buttons, takes the shirt off, and then pulls his undershirt over his head. Then he reaches out for Brad - not stealthily, anyone could see his move coming a mile away - and pulls him in by the hem of his t-shirt. Brad's warm and dry, and doesn't grumble much as Nate kisses him, not even when Nate can feel the rain still on Nate soaking through Brad's tee.
"I cooked," Brad says eventually, pulling away enough to speak, but still close enough that Nate can feel each puff of breath as Brad exhales.
Nate nods. "Later," he says, and starts backing them towards the bedroom. Much later, he hopes.
//
"That shirt's wet. Take it off."
"Is that an order?" Nate asks, amused. He's barely got one foot in the door yet.
"Yes," Brad says, reaching around him to shut the door quickly. There's a puddle on the wooden floor already, mostly from the rain blowing in, but partly from Nate dripping. Nate kicks his shoes off, bends slightly at the neck and shakes his head like a dog. His hair's long enough that droplets go flying, flicking Brad's dry t-shirt.
Brad scowls.
"What?" Nate asks innocently. After all, Brad'll be taking his shirt off in a minute. If Nate's going to strip, then Brad is too. That's only fair.
The radio's playing in the background, a song Nate doesn't recognize, and something in the kitchen smells good. Chili, he thinks. It smells welcoming.
The chili will still be good warmed up later, though, if he distracts Brad now. Nate undoes his shirt buttons, takes the shirt off, and then pulls his undershirt over his head. Then he reaches out for Brad - not stealthily, anyone could see his move coming a mile away - and pulls him in by the hem of his t-shirt. Brad's warm and dry, and doesn't grumble much as Nate kisses him, not even when Nate can feel the rain still on Nate soaking through Brad's tee.
"I cooked," Brad says eventually, pulling away enough to speak, but still close enough that Nate can feel each puff of breath as Brad exhales.
Nate nods. "Later," he says, and starts backing them towards the bedroom. Much later, he hopes.
//