ace in the hole by templemarker [Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, NC17]
ace in the hole
by templemarker
Notes: This is entirely the fault of the Generation Kill community on LJ, which is some of the best fannish work I have ever seen in my life; Alexander Skarsgård, who just fucking exists; and marcolette, who is far too good for my wee little writerly ego. For the Hand Porn square in
kink_bingo. Not really spoilery for the series, but jesus, why wouldn't you watch the series? NC17, kinky, blah blah woof woof PORN. Read it here or at the archive.
***
There was a lot of shit Brad called to mind about Nate Fick to get through his combat jack. His fucking pretty mouth and how good it would look wrapped around Brad's cock; his hair, a little longer, just enough to pull and direct to the right AO; his ass, when they were framed in camo pants, round and toned and begging for a good strong bite.
But if Brad had five minutes to jack off, five sweet minutes of relative solitude with him and his dick and his brain, there was one thing guaren-fucking-teed to shoot him off like a rocket: the LT's hands.
Brad wasn't in the habit of analyzing his fantasies too much, but he had a fucking fixation with Fick's hands. The long, delicate fingers. The calloused, wide palm. Their strength, wrapped around the grip of his M16. Brad can't even count how many times he caught himself looking at Fick's hand on his weapon during the tense calm of 25% watch. He still couldn't figure if he was more surprised he was looking at all, or that he wasn't looking at the LT's crotch.
In Iraq, on deployment, stuffed into a grave, Brad could get off so fucking fast thinking about sucking on Nate's fingers, licking into his palm, biting the meaty flesh beneath his thumb. Even with sand up his ass he still came so hard he nearly bent himself in two.
Now he was in a hotel room in Chicago, equidistant between Massachusetts and California, neutral ground with no Marines in sight. The hotel room Nate had booked was incredibly boring with a shitty view, but it had a bed, room service, and a 7-11 two blocks away, meaning that their MSR was firmly in place. Brad got in first, threw lube and condoms onto the beside table, and launched himself on the bed to criticize MTV's programming schedule until Nate got his ass in here to be properly reamed.
He must have been more tired than he fucking realized, because when he woke up Nate was curled up over his thighs and it was dark outside. The only sound was Nate's quiet little snores; the tv had been turned off. Brad was tempted to just let him sleep; Brad might have been on leave, but Nate had to call in more than a few favours to finish his exams early to be out here to meet him. But Brad's back hurt like fuck, and he was a selfish bastard, so instead he shifted carefully so that Nate's head landed on a pillow and he could slide out.
Once a Recon Marine, always one: Nate's eyes popped open like he hadn't just been paying into his sleep debt and his arms stretched with a sleepy smile. "Hey asshole," he said, fingers extending and retracting. Not that Brad was following their every movement with his eyes or anything.
"Hi princess," Brad mocked, because that was his first reaction to any situation. "Did Sleeping Beauty get knocked off her bed?"
Nate grabbed hold of the collar of Brad's t-shirt and tugged him closer. "I think Sleeping Beauty got a fucking kiss hello," he said, and pushed his mouth against Brad's with all the certainty of someone who had done it many times before and knew the terrain.
Brad clenched his hands at his side for a moment, and then something clicked in his brain: he grabbed Nate by the hips and dragged him up so Brad could better lick into his mouth. God, the fucking sounds Nate made. Brad could live in one of those moans.
"Fuck, Brad, I'm going to chain you to the bed the next time you come to Cambridge," Nate panted, grabbing Brad's bicep with those long fucking fingers and digging in slightly.
"Is that a promise, sir? Because you know how I like officers to keep their promises," Brad said, baiting Nate because he liked to. Sure enough, heat and anger and raw lust flashed in Nate's eyes, and Brad found himself tumbled backwards with a lap full of strong Marine-cum-graduate student and pinned to the bed.
"I always keep my promises, Bradley," Nate said, biting off the words, thrusting his fingers into Brad's mouth with no warning.
Brad Colbert was a man ashamed of very little in his life, and so when he moaned like an Australian whore around Nate's fingers he didn't give a shit if the whole fucking hotel heard them.
He flicked his tongue at the web of flesh between Nate's first and second fingers, rewarded with the slow jerk of Nate's crotch against his. When he opened his eyes, he saw Nate, a delightfully evil grin on his face, bringing his other hand up into Brad's line of sight and mirroring everything Brad was doing to the fingers still in his mouth.
It was possible that Brad's brain short-circuited at that point, because he remembered biting down and hearing Nate's hiss; gripping Nate's thighs to force their cocks, still clothed, closer and harder and more fucking more more more, coming in his pants like a virgin in a '67 Impala and licking every last taste from the pads of Nate's fingers all the way down.
He almost didn't want to open his eyes a second time; a man could only take so much, and Nate Fick knowing your kinks--working your fucking kinks--was a fucking lot to deal with. But he opened them anyway to the sight of Nate unbuttoning his jeans, inching down the zipper, pulling out that fucking wonderful cock Brad wanted to get personal with right about now, and stroking it with fingers wet from Brad's mouth.
"I'm going to fuck you now," Nate said, pushing determinedly at Brad's body.
"Of this you are assured," Brad mumbled into a pillow, arching to let Nate's fingers in again, and again, and again.
by templemarker
Notes: This is entirely the fault of the Generation Kill community on LJ, which is some of the best fannish work I have ever seen in my life; Alexander Skarsgård, who just fucking exists; and marcolette, who is far too good for my wee little writerly ego. For the Hand Porn square in
kink_bingo. Not really spoilery for the series, but jesus, why wouldn't you watch the series? NC17, kinky, blah blah woof woof PORN. Read it here or at the archive.
***
There was a lot of shit Brad called to mind about Nate Fick to get through his combat jack. His fucking pretty mouth and how good it would look wrapped around Brad's cock; his hair, a little longer, just enough to pull and direct to the right AO; his ass, when they were framed in camo pants, round and toned and begging for a good strong bite.
But if Brad had five minutes to jack off, five sweet minutes of relative solitude with him and his dick and his brain, there was one thing guaren-fucking-teed to shoot him off like a rocket: the LT's hands.
Brad wasn't in the habit of analyzing his fantasies too much, but he had a fucking fixation with Fick's hands. The long, delicate fingers. The calloused, wide palm. Their strength, wrapped around the grip of his M16. Brad can't even count how many times he caught himself looking at Fick's hand on his weapon during the tense calm of 25% watch. He still couldn't figure if he was more surprised he was looking at all, or that he wasn't looking at the LT's crotch.
In Iraq, on deployment, stuffed into a grave, Brad could get off so fucking fast thinking about sucking on Nate's fingers, licking into his palm, biting the meaty flesh beneath his thumb. Even with sand up his ass he still came so hard he nearly bent himself in two.
Now he was in a hotel room in Chicago, equidistant between Massachusetts and California, neutral ground with no Marines in sight. The hotel room Nate had booked was incredibly boring with a shitty view, but it had a bed, room service, and a 7-11 two blocks away, meaning that their MSR was firmly in place. Brad got in first, threw lube and condoms onto the beside table, and launched himself on the bed to criticize MTV's programming schedule until Nate got his ass in here to be properly reamed.
He must have been more tired than he fucking realized, because when he woke up Nate was curled up over his thighs and it was dark outside. The only sound was Nate's quiet little snores; the tv had been turned off. Brad was tempted to just let him sleep; Brad might have been on leave, but Nate had to call in more than a few favours to finish his exams early to be out here to meet him. But Brad's back hurt like fuck, and he was a selfish bastard, so instead he shifted carefully so that Nate's head landed on a pillow and he could slide out.
Once a Recon Marine, always one: Nate's eyes popped open like he hadn't just been paying into his sleep debt and his arms stretched with a sleepy smile. "Hey asshole," he said, fingers extending and retracting. Not that Brad was following their every movement with his eyes or anything.
"Hi princess," Brad mocked, because that was his first reaction to any situation. "Did Sleeping Beauty get knocked off her bed?"
Nate grabbed hold of the collar of Brad's t-shirt and tugged him closer. "I think Sleeping Beauty got a fucking kiss hello," he said, and pushed his mouth against Brad's with all the certainty of someone who had done it many times before and knew the terrain.
Brad clenched his hands at his side for a moment, and then something clicked in his brain: he grabbed Nate by the hips and dragged him up so Brad could better lick into his mouth. God, the fucking sounds Nate made. Brad could live in one of those moans.
"Fuck, Brad, I'm going to chain you to the bed the next time you come to Cambridge," Nate panted, grabbing Brad's bicep with those long fucking fingers and digging in slightly.
"Is that a promise, sir? Because you know how I like officers to keep their promises," Brad said, baiting Nate because he liked to. Sure enough, heat and anger and raw lust flashed in Nate's eyes, and Brad found himself tumbled backwards with a lap full of strong Marine-cum-graduate student and pinned to the bed.
"I always keep my promises, Bradley," Nate said, biting off the words, thrusting his fingers into Brad's mouth with no warning.
Brad Colbert was a man ashamed of very little in his life, and so when he moaned like an Australian whore around Nate's fingers he didn't give a shit if the whole fucking hotel heard them.
He flicked his tongue at the web of flesh between Nate's first and second fingers, rewarded with the slow jerk of Nate's crotch against his. When he opened his eyes, he saw Nate, a delightfully evil grin on his face, bringing his other hand up into Brad's line of sight and mirroring everything Brad was doing to the fingers still in his mouth.
It was possible that Brad's brain short-circuited at that point, because he remembered biting down and hearing Nate's hiss; gripping Nate's thighs to force their cocks, still clothed, closer and harder and more fucking more more more, coming in his pants like a virgin in a '67 Impala and licking every last taste from the pads of Nate's fingers all the way down.
He almost didn't want to open his eyes a second time; a man could only take so much, and Nate Fick knowing your kinks--working your fucking kinks--was a fucking lot to deal with. But he opened them anyway to the sight of Nate unbuttoning his jeans, inching down the zipper, pulling out that fucking wonderful cock Brad wanted to get personal with right about now, and stroking it with fingers wet from Brad's mouth.
"I'm going to fuck you now," Nate said, pushing determinedly at Brad's body.
"Of this you are assured," Brad mumbled into a pillow, arching to let Nate's fingers in again, and again, and again.