At The Pleasure of President Fick
Title: At The Pleasure Of President Fick
Author: melliyna
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Colbert/Fick
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Based on the HBO show, not the real men. I make no money, claim no ownership and can say no, this didn't happen
Warnings/Timeline/Spoilers: Porn, with a slight amount of plot. (And a shameless abuse of the opening words of a certain famous Jane Austen novel)
A/N: So it really is true - Brad and Nate will take any opportunity to have at it. Even around a Presidential Schedule. With thanks to m_buggie as always for being an excellent co-conspirator and for allowing me to be a co-writer/have a share in the sandbox of the AU she created.
It was a truth, universally acknowledged that President Fick and his husband were very much in love. It is another universal truth that, in fact, any Presidential schedule will be in small, easily digestible pieces twenty minutes in because when you are the leader of the free world, events twist, turn and sprint to their own beat. Sometimes though, this flexible lateness can be an advantage.
"Nathaniel, I return from great peril. " Brad Colbert, wandering in to the Lincoln Bedroom with an expression that was half exasperation, half 'I will end someone' and half his usual default 'I'm around Nate' face. "Or perhaps not great peril, but certainly a mauling by that great, cock starved mass that is the gossip press."
Nate Fick, now settling in to the office of the Presidency, raised his head from the pile of papers that now seemed to follow him everywhere. Brad was half leaning against the table, tie loosened and shirt half undone now that the cameras, journalists and minders had disappeared. The half glimpse of the skin beneath showed muscles that were certainly still there, testifying to the fact that the spouse of the newest occupant of the Oval Office was not only a 'First Gentleman' but still the rather bad ass, ice cool man whom the press had dubbed something between a Victorian gentleman, a biker and James Dean, only with better hair. He looked at the papers. Decided they could wait.
Next thing Brad Colbert knew, he was being backed against a desk and Nate Fick had a wicked, I want to fuck you right now expression on his face.
"Brad, Brad. Do I have to," a stroke, through fabric, that made Brad gasp, "make a presidential decree," Nate's hands, moving, making short work of Brad's shirt and tie, pausing to trace patterns across his chest, "that spells out that there is to be," Another gasp, as Brad's hands got busy, this time at removing Nate's shirt, "no fucking ravishing, mauling or molestation of my husband, by anyone but," And another gasp, another thread of coherent thought melting away, in a haze of touches, moans and finally, Nate's shirt joining Brad's on the floor, "me."
"I serve at the pleasure of the President, Nathaniel. And at this time," Brad Colbert smirked, as he steered Nate over in the direction of the bed. "I believe that pleasure is, " Nate moaned then, loudly, as Brad stroked his already more than visible erection, "to be thoroughly debauched, sucked off and fucked in to the mattress. Mr President, Sir."
And then, somehow, Nate Fick was grinning wickedly, straddling Brad. "It is so ordered, indeed." He smiles, as they lean down for a kiss that progresses between soft, urgent and rough. When he takes Nate in his mouth Brad Colbert thinks he could almost come from the way his husband moans, mouths obscene things out of that choirboy mouth. Except somehow, the tie comes in to it, wrapped around his wrists, tied to the headboard and Brad, Brad has a turn at being thoroughly debauched, at Nate Fick driving him out of his mind, body and mother fucking soul. He does of course, fulfil the Presidents' pleasure, as a companion to his. Fucks him in to the mattress, Nate becoming more and more incoherent, which just drives him on, because the noble pursuit of placing Nathaniel Fick in a state that is, in fact, goddamn debauched out of his fucking leader of the free world brain, that is a noble calling.
"You know Brad love," Nate smiles up at him, as they survey the tangle of sheets, clothes, ties, bed and scattered papers, "be assured if this traumatises the staff, makes it in to the press or ends in an awkward series of events about how we broke the Lincoln bed, I will lay the blame entirely on your entirely not resistible self."
It was a truth, universally acknowledged that The First Gentleman and the President's schedule was entirely out of whack that day. A spokesperson attributed this to "scheduling conflicts."
Author: melliyna
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Colbert/Fick
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Based on the HBO show, not the real men. I make no money, claim no ownership and can say no, this didn't happen
Warnings/Timeline/Spoilers: Porn, with a slight amount of plot. (And a shameless abuse of the opening words of a certain famous Jane Austen novel)
A/N: So it really is true - Brad and Nate will take any opportunity to have at it. Even around a Presidential Schedule. With thanks to m_buggie as always for being an excellent co-conspirator and for allowing me to be a co-writer/have a share in the sandbox of the AU she created.
It was a truth, universally acknowledged that President Fick and his husband were very much in love. It is another universal truth that, in fact, any Presidential schedule will be in small, easily digestible pieces twenty minutes in because when you are the leader of the free world, events twist, turn and sprint to their own beat. Sometimes though, this flexible lateness can be an advantage.
"Nathaniel, I return from great peril. " Brad Colbert, wandering in to the Lincoln Bedroom with an expression that was half exasperation, half 'I will end someone' and half his usual default 'I'm around Nate' face. "Or perhaps not great peril, but certainly a mauling by that great, cock starved mass that is the gossip press."
Nate Fick, now settling in to the office of the Presidency, raised his head from the pile of papers that now seemed to follow him everywhere. Brad was half leaning against the table, tie loosened and shirt half undone now that the cameras, journalists and minders had disappeared. The half glimpse of the skin beneath showed muscles that were certainly still there, testifying to the fact that the spouse of the newest occupant of the Oval Office was not only a 'First Gentleman' but still the rather bad ass, ice cool man whom the press had dubbed something between a Victorian gentleman, a biker and James Dean, only with better hair. He looked at the papers. Decided they could wait.
Next thing Brad Colbert knew, he was being backed against a desk and Nate Fick had a wicked, I want to fuck you right now expression on his face.
"Brad, Brad. Do I have to," a stroke, through fabric, that made Brad gasp, "make a presidential decree," Nate's hands, moving, making short work of Brad's shirt and tie, pausing to trace patterns across his chest, "that spells out that there is to be," Another gasp, as Brad's hands got busy, this time at removing Nate's shirt, "no fucking ravishing, mauling or molestation of my husband, by anyone but," And another gasp, another thread of coherent thought melting away, in a haze of touches, moans and finally, Nate's shirt joining Brad's on the floor, "me."
"I serve at the pleasure of the President, Nathaniel. And at this time," Brad Colbert smirked, as he steered Nate over in the direction of the bed. "I believe that pleasure is, " Nate moaned then, loudly, as Brad stroked his already more than visible erection, "to be thoroughly debauched, sucked off and fucked in to the mattress. Mr President, Sir."
And then, somehow, Nate Fick was grinning wickedly, straddling Brad. "It is so ordered, indeed." He smiles, as they lean down for a kiss that progresses between soft, urgent and rough. When he takes Nate in his mouth Brad Colbert thinks he could almost come from the way his husband moans, mouths obscene things out of that choirboy mouth. Except somehow, the tie comes in to it, wrapped around his wrists, tied to the headboard and Brad, Brad has a turn at being thoroughly debauched, at Nate Fick driving him out of his mind, body and mother fucking soul. He does of course, fulfil the Presidents' pleasure, as a companion to his. Fucks him in to the mattress, Nate becoming more and more incoherent, which just drives him on, because the noble pursuit of placing Nathaniel Fick in a state that is, in fact, goddamn debauched out of his fucking leader of the free world brain, that is a noble calling.
"You know Brad love," Nate smiles up at him, as they survey the tangle of sheets, clothes, ties, bed and scattered papers, "be assured if this traumatises the staff, makes it in to the press or ends in an awkward series of events about how we broke the Lincoln bed, I will lay the blame entirely on your entirely not resistible self."
It was a truth, universally acknowledged that The First Gentleman and the President's schedule was entirely out of whack that day. A spokesperson attributed this to "scheduling conflicts."