(no subject)
Title: sure some hazardry
Fandom: Generation Kill (Outlaw Bikers!AU)
Pairings: Nate/Brad, Ray/Walt
Warnings: BDSM, paddling, gagging, dirty-talk, sex-toys. This is pretty unashamed porn, people.
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 2805
Summary: The more he thinks about it, the more Brad thinks it's amazing: the shit they can get away with while nobody's paying attention..
AN: Increasingly, I think of this verse as 'belonging' to pjvilar. As such, this fic is for her. It takes place in a world where Bravo 2 is a Motorcyle Club of which Nate Fick is the reluctant president. The title is from "Beth/Rose" by Bon Iver. Fics in this verse can be found here on my journal. I will write some plot in this verse eventually, I swear.
our love is a star
sure some hazardry
for the light before and after most indefinitely
danger has been stole away
The shit that they get away with is kind of incredible, when he sits back and thinks about it. Outside, there’s a summer storm in full force and the light is weird and eerie as he leans back in his chair and watches as Nate stands up and strips out of his battered Sabbath t-shirt. The ink on his skin looks stark and beautiful. He stretches his arms up over his head before he sits down again and Brad can’t help but feel that at least some of that is for his benefit.
He hopes that it is.
“Don’t get too bent out of shape, Homes,” says Ray, sitting on the far side of the table in boxers and undershirt and socks, Elvis glasses pushed up onto the top of his head, grinning like a fucking idiot. He gestures across the table with a fanned hand of cards. “It could be worse. You could be Walt.”
Down to just his underwear, Walt rolls blue, blue eyes.
And then, somewhat predictably, Walt’s next hand is the shittiest yet.
Distracted by the lines of the tattoo on Nate’s bare chest, Brad looks up to find Ray grinning Cheshire Cat wide.
“Walt, because you’ve got so little left to give, I’m willing to offer you a choice,” he says, trying to sound solemn but there’s still that fucking shit-eating grin. “Either you can lose your tightie-whities or you can bend over and take ten for the team.”
And it’s then that Brad finally recognises what Ray’s holding - it’s a fucking paddle, sleek and black, drilled with holes to cut wind resistance. Brad’s pretty sure he saw it in action in Manimal’s last masterpiece, some pretty girl squealing in mock outrage before someone shoved a ball-gag into her mouth. Brad watches Walt consider this for a moment and then he’s pushing away from the table, chair scraping loudly against the floor in a room where the only other sounds are breathing and the whine of a drill coming from somewhere far off.
“Fuck yeah!” hoots Ray, flipping his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and getting up, walking around the table as Walt sighs loudly and bends over the back of his chair. Brad’s only got eyes for Nate. It wouldn’t be obvious to anyone but him, but there’s something about the look in Nate’s eyes right then, something about the way he swallows and his teeth touch his lips before there’s the sudden slap of impact and Walt yelps and it’s incredible, the shit they get away with, while it’s raining and nobody’s paying attention.
*
He leaves Nate a list on his pillow. It reads:
- paddle
- Handcuffs
- Ball-gag
- Condoms
- Lube
- The biggest dildo you can find.
He blushes while writing it. Afterwards, he goes out to the garage and he clears a few tickets. He works diligently. He doesn’t think about Nate and how they film porn in the clubhouse, sometimes and how Nate has keys to everything and can go anywhere he pleases.
*
When he walks into the room, Nate’s sitting there waiting. He’s got his knees wide apart, head hanging down, fingers loosely clasped; the things that Brad told him to get are on the bed behind him. When Nate looks up, there’s a faint flush in his cheeks and Brad can tell that he got off on being told to go, to find those things and known that Brad was going to use them on him. Looking at Nate sitting there, Brad knows that in his bones.
“I can’t believe you’re not naked already,” he says, walking to the bed and dropping down onto one knee to catch hold of the back of Nate’s neck and pull him into a hard, bruising kiss. The way that Nate’s got his hoodie zipped, Brad can tell that he’s not wearing anything underneath. He cups Nate’s dick with one hand, rubbing his fingers along the seam that’s snug against Nate’s balls and perineum. Nate whines into his mouth, hips shifting against the bed. They haven’t been doing this that long, so it’s still a marvel to Brad when the change in Nate comes; when he goes from being quiet and calm and utterly into control to this kid who only wants to feel something. It started off just being about sex and control but, already, it’s more than that.
“Did you feel bad?” he asks, close enough that his lips are still grazing against Nate’s when he asks. “I bet it did. I bet you were so fucking hot, skulking around and hoping nobody caught you.” He squeezes Nate’s balls again and Nate nods.
“You know I was.”
“Fucking Catholics.”
Feeling just a little bit triumphant, Brad rocks back on his heels, giving Nate a little room.
“Get naked,” he says. No for me or please; just the order and the look in his eyes.
Nate makes quick work of it, dressed only in that thin hoodie and jeans, no boxers. Naked, he stands there, nothing on but the tangle of bracelets at one wrist, his watch on the other. He looks at Brad for a long moment, that brief connection that always came between them, that slack downbeat. He unfastens his watch, removes the bracelet, and gives Brad the slightest nod, the barest hint of a smile. He slides down onto his knees and raises his hands, the way that he’s been told, the way that somebody before Brad taught him, lacing his fingers behind his head. His dick’s already hard and Brad lets his eyes linger there for a moment, staring at Nate’s beautiful dick for long enough that Nate’s face is flushed by the time he looks up. He reaches out and traces Nate’s bottom lip with his thumb. The tip of Nate’s tongue brushes against his skin and they both swallow.
Brad gets up and walks around Nate to the bed, very aware of the heavy fall of the heels of his boots on the bare boards. He picks up the cuffs first, padded and safe; this is never ever about hurting Nate. Not just hurting him. Carefully, but not particularly gently, he takes hold of Nate’s wrists and cuffs them together behind him. He pulls Nate to his feet and manoeuvres him until he can bend him over the bed frame. He nudges Nate’s feet a little further apart and then presses his clothed hips against Nate’s bare ass, grinding forward.
“Safeword?”
“Yamaha,” says Nate.
Brad grinned.
“What about if your mouth’s full?”
It takes a moment but then Nate clicks his fingers, loud and clear. Brad bends and kisses Nate’s bare shoulder. The pale skin is lightly freckled under his tattoos.
The paddle has a good weight in his hand. He hefts it a few times to get a feel for it, makes sure that Nate’s got his head turned to watch.
“You deserve this and you know it,” he says, walking behind Nate, running his free hand over the firm muscle of Nate’s ass, squeezing, fingers dipping into the cleft of his ass and brushing against Nate’s asshole until he squirms. When he brings the paddle down, it’s hard and across the full width of Nate’s ass. He hears Nate yelp, drag in a breath. He also notices that Nate’s dick is so hard it’s practically leaking, that his fingers flex in relax in the small of his back.
He follows Nate’s lead. He doesn’t stop.
After twenty swipes, Nate’s backside is red and hot when Brad caresses it with the whole palm of his hand. Once, he wore latex gloves while he did this, but, for today, he lets Nate have the feel of skin on skin. He’s rewarded by the way Nate’s hips squirm against his hand, the way his dick bobs with the movement. Brad smoothes one hand against his spine.
“Tell me you’re bad,” he murmurs.
“I’m bad,” says Nate, almost immediately.
“You’re a bad boy.”
“I’m a bad boy.”
“And you deserve to be punished.”
“I do, Brad. I really fucking do.”
Brad lands another hit across his ass and Nate moans, the sound fragile where it hangs in the air.
“Because you like this. You like it better than anything else.”
“You know I do.”
Brad squeezes lube onto his fingers and starts rubbing it down the crack of Nate’s ass, teasing his asshole for a moment. He presses his free hand against Nate’s back and holds him down, holds him still as he works on finger inside him, fucking him smoothly for a minute before he starts on the second. When he’s up to three, he takes his hand away.
“Let me see you fuck yourself.”
Nate starts to shift his hips, rocking forward, pushing himself back onto Brad’s fingers. His fingers clench and make fists in the small of his back. He moans softly, breathy, his head down as his ass comes up and Brad slaps him and finds himself grinning when it just makes Nate move faster. He crooks his fingers, grazing Nate’s prostate and watches the way his hips jerk at that.
“How badly do you want me to fuck you?” he asks and Nate whines.
“So fucking badly.”
“Tell me exactly what you want.”
“I want your dick inside me so deep I can taste it. I want you to fuck me so hard that it’ll be all that I think about tomorrow.”
Brad closes his eyes for a moment and just takes the time to imagine it, Nate moving around the clubhouse tomorrow, jeans riding low on his hips, crouching down to work on a bike, maybe, sitting in the office to call suppliers and, all the time, remembering how well and truly fucked he was the night before.
It’s enough to make his dick throb in his jeans.
“You get that,” he says, and Nate’s still fucking himself. “I promise. But first, you’re going to have to do something for me.”
“Anything,” says Nate, his voice higher and tighter, now. “Jesus, Brad, you know I’d do anything.”
Nate’s spent his adult life doing everything that needed to be done; not for the first time, it occurs to Brad how much of a relief it must be to have his choices taken completely out of his hands.
He drags his fingers out of Nate’s body without warning, grips his hips for a moment, leaving glistening fingerprints on pale skin. He presses against Nate for a moment, lets Nate feel how hard his dick is before he pulls away and uncuffs him. There’s something gratifying about the fact that Nate leaves his hands where they are until he’s told to move them.
The dildo, thick and black, is still lying on the sheets. Brad drops his weight into a chair a few feet away.
“You’re going to want to get that nice and slick before you fuck it,” he suggests, unbuttoning his own fly, wrapping his fingers around his dick.
He sits back in the chair and watches as Nate eases down onto the toy. Nate’s not really into the idea of voyeurism, Brad knows that, but he also knows that that isn’t what this is. This is about him asking and Nate doing. This is about knowing that there are no boundaries between them and just how freeing that can be.
On his knees with the dildo buried fully inside him, Nate takes a moment to adjust. His lips are slightly parted, damp and swollen from hard kisses. His eyes have got that slightly spaced-out, glossy look that Brad’s gotten so used to. Brad rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, spreading pre-cum, biting his lip as he watches Nate start to move, fucking himself on the toy.
“What’s the dirtiest thing you think about?” he asks Nate, aware of how hoarse his own voice sounds in the dim room. “What’s the thing that you wish you could do?”
“You and somebody else,” says Nate, without hesitation, like it had been on the tip of his tongue all along. “Just…taken. Completely. Completely out of my head.”
It’s a combination of that and the movement of Nate’s hips, how stretched he is around the toy and the flicker of tension between Nate’s eyebrows as he worked it deeper. It’s his own fist sliding over his dick. It’s impatience and unwillingness to wait any longer.
Fuck waiting.
They’re young but they’re not going to live forever.
Standing right in front of Nate, he strips out of his clothes. Once he’s naked, Nate sways forward on his knees, fingers of one hand keeping the dildo pressed snug inside him and he presses kisses against Brad’s chest and his belly and the shaft of his dick. Brad’s breath is tight in his chest and he brushes Nate’s hair back from his forehead.
“You want me to gag you?” he asks, and he knows that he isn’t supposed to give Nate choices but he also knows that there’s a place for gentleness in this. He also knows that Nate likes being gagged because it means that he doesn’t have to worry about being quiet, because he can lose himself completely. Brad presses his thumb past Nate’s plush lips and Nate sucks on it as he nods his head.
He pushes the ball-gag between Nate’s lips and arranges him on all fours. He stays for a moment and just looks, at the fine tremble in Nate’s muscles, his head hanging, black rubber standing out starkly against pale skin. He reaches out and plays with the base of the toy, presses it into Nate then pulls it almost all of the way out before he fucks him for a few strokes. Nate moans, the sound muffled against the gag.
Brad can’t. He just can’t.
Nate’s already slick and open, ready, trembling under Brad’s hand as Brad presses into him as slowly as he can, one inch at a time. He doesn’t give Nate any time to adjust before he starts fucking him, hard enough to rock him back and forth on his knees.
He tells himself that the door is locked and, if anyone was walking past, skin on skin and the muffled sounds that Nate makes would just sound like someone was watching a Manimal special.
He tells himself. He hopes.
More than anything, he wants to love Nate and do this for him and keep him safe, all at the same time.
They move together, Nate pushing back to get him deeper, his hands stroking across the ink on Nate’s back, his shoulders, his ribs. He combs his fingers through Nate’s hair. He fucks him smoothly and feels like he’s holding on for dear life.
He comes with more of a whimper than a shout, biting his own lip so hard it bleeds, holding onto Nate’s shoulders with both hands.
He can tell Nate’s close to coming from the way he moves, the way he whines and moans against the gag. He’s pliant when Brad pushes him, pulls him, rolls him over onto his back. His lips are red against the black rubber of the gag. His cock is hot and throbbing when Brad bends his head and slides his mouth down, bobbing his head until Nate comes into his mouth with a strangled moan, fingers fisting in the sheets.
Nate pulls the gag free himself and then Brad’s leaning up, kissing Nate with come still on his lips and the tip of his tongue.
Nate combs his fingers through Brad’s short hair.
“I love you,” he mumbles, their lips still touching. “I fucking love you.”
It’s the middle of the afternoon but they stay in bed. Nate is so relaxed that he falls asleep almost instantly, his head pillowed on Brad’s shoulder, one hand curled close to his mouth, tip of his thumb just touching his bottom lip. There’s something about him that reminds Brad of this fucking kitten that Ray’s adopted, weaned too young, so it nurses on any bit of bare skin it can find.
And Nate Fick was five years old when his mother died.
It reminds him of what a thing will do, when it loses what it loves too soon.
*
He sits in the garage and watches Nate working on a bike. It’s still raining, so Nate’s under the overhang, crouched down, head down, working, and all that Brad can look at is the stretch of denim against his ass, the back of his neck, his hands in latex gloves.
He turns and glances back over his shoulder and, for a moment, they just look at each other and Brad completely stops listening to whatever Poke’s telling him.
Sometime that afternoon, the storm passes over completely.
Everything feels new and, at the same time, not.
Fandom: Generation Kill (Outlaw Bikers!AU)
Pairings: Nate/Brad, Ray/Walt
Warnings: BDSM, paddling, gagging, dirty-talk, sex-toys. This is pretty unashamed porn, people.
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 2805
Summary: The more he thinks about it, the more Brad thinks it's amazing: the shit they can get away with while nobody's paying attention..
AN: Increasingly, I think of this verse as 'belonging' to pjvilar. As such, this fic is for her. It takes place in a world where Bravo 2 is a Motorcyle Club of which Nate Fick is the reluctant president. The title is from "Beth/Rose" by Bon Iver. Fics in this verse can be found here on my journal. I will write some plot in this verse eventually, I swear.
our love is a star
sure some hazardry
for the light before and after most indefinitely
danger has been stole away
The shit that they get away with is kind of incredible, when he sits back and thinks about it. Outside, there’s a summer storm in full force and the light is weird and eerie as he leans back in his chair and watches as Nate stands up and strips out of his battered Sabbath t-shirt. The ink on his skin looks stark and beautiful. He stretches his arms up over his head before he sits down again and Brad can’t help but feel that at least some of that is for his benefit.
He hopes that it is.
“Don’t get too bent out of shape, Homes,” says Ray, sitting on the far side of the table in boxers and undershirt and socks, Elvis glasses pushed up onto the top of his head, grinning like a fucking idiot. He gestures across the table with a fanned hand of cards. “It could be worse. You could be Walt.”
Down to just his underwear, Walt rolls blue, blue eyes.
And then, somewhat predictably, Walt’s next hand is the shittiest yet.
Distracted by the lines of the tattoo on Nate’s bare chest, Brad looks up to find Ray grinning Cheshire Cat wide.
“Walt, because you’ve got so little left to give, I’m willing to offer you a choice,” he says, trying to sound solemn but there’s still that fucking shit-eating grin. “Either you can lose your tightie-whities or you can bend over and take ten for the team.”
And it’s then that Brad finally recognises what Ray’s holding - it’s a fucking paddle, sleek and black, drilled with holes to cut wind resistance. Brad’s pretty sure he saw it in action in Manimal’s last masterpiece, some pretty girl squealing in mock outrage before someone shoved a ball-gag into her mouth. Brad watches Walt consider this for a moment and then he’s pushing away from the table, chair scraping loudly against the floor in a room where the only other sounds are breathing and the whine of a drill coming from somewhere far off.
“Fuck yeah!” hoots Ray, flipping his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and getting up, walking around the table as Walt sighs loudly and bends over the back of his chair. Brad’s only got eyes for Nate. It wouldn’t be obvious to anyone but him, but there’s something about the look in Nate’s eyes right then, something about the way he swallows and his teeth touch his lips before there’s the sudden slap of impact and Walt yelps and it’s incredible, the shit they get away with, while it’s raining and nobody’s paying attention.
*
He leaves Nate a list on his pillow. It reads:
- paddle
- Handcuffs
- Ball-gag
- Condoms
- Lube
- The biggest dildo you can find.
He blushes while writing it. Afterwards, he goes out to the garage and he clears a few tickets. He works diligently. He doesn’t think about Nate and how they film porn in the clubhouse, sometimes and how Nate has keys to everything and can go anywhere he pleases.
*
When he walks into the room, Nate’s sitting there waiting. He’s got his knees wide apart, head hanging down, fingers loosely clasped; the things that Brad told him to get are on the bed behind him. When Nate looks up, there’s a faint flush in his cheeks and Brad can tell that he got off on being told to go, to find those things and known that Brad was going to use them on him. Looking at Nate sitting there, Brad knows that in his bones.
“I can’t believe you’re not naked already,” he says, walking to the bed and dropping down onto one knee to catch hold of the back of Nate’s neck and pull him into a hard, bruising kiss. The way that Nate’s got his hoodie zipped, Brad can tell that he’s not wearing anything underneath. He cups Nate’s dick with one hand, rubbing his fingers along the seam that’s snug against Nate’s balls and perineum. Nate whines into his mouth, hips shifting against the bed. They haven’t been doing this that long, so it’s still a marvel to Brad when the change in Nate comes; when he goes from being quiet and calm and utterly into control to this kid who only wants to feel something. It started off just being about sex and control but, already, it’s more than that.
“Did you feel bad?” he asks, close enough that his lips are still grazing against Nate’s when he asks. “I bet it did. I bet you were so fucking hot, skulking around and hoping nobody caught you.” He squeezes Nate’s balls again and Nate nods.
“You know I was.”
“Fucking Catholics.”
Feeling just a little bit triumphant, Brad rocks back on his heels, giving Nate a little room.
“Get naked,” he says. No for me or please; just the order and the look in his eyes.
Nate makes quick work of it, dressed only in that thin hoodie and jeans, no boxers. Naked, he stands there, nothing on but the tangle of bracelets at one wrist, his watch on the other. He looks at Brad for a long moment, that brief connection that always came between them, that slack downbeat. He unfastens his watch, removes the bracelet, and gives Brad the slightest nod, the barest hint of a smile. He slides down onto his knees and raises his hands, the way that he’s been told, the way that somebody before Brad taught him, lacing his fingers behind his head. His dick’s already hard and Brad lets his eyes linger there for a moment, staring at Nate’s beautiful dick for long enough that Nate’s face is flushed by the time he looks up. He reaches out and traces Nate’s bottom lip with his thumb. The tip of Nate’s tongue brushes against his skin and they both swallow.
Brad gets up and walks around Nate to the bed, very aware of the heavy fall of the heels of his boots on the bare boards. He picks up the cuffs first, padded and safe; this is never ever about hurting Nate. Not just hurting him. Carefully, but not particularly gently, he takes hold of Nate’s wrists and cuffs them together behind him. He pulls Nate to his feet and manoeuvres him until he can bend him over the bed frame. He nudges Nate’s feet a little further apart and then presses his clothed hips against Nate’s bare ass, grinding forward.
“Safeword?”
“Yamaha,” says Nate.
Brad grinned.
“What about if your mouth’s full?”
It takes a moment but then Nate clicks his fingers, loud and clear. Brad bends and kisses Nate’s bare shoulder. The pale skin is lightly freckled under his tattoos.
The paddle has a good weight in his hand. He hefts it a few times to get a feel for it, makes sure that Nate’s got his head turned to watch.
“You deserve this and you know it,” he says, walking behind Nate, running his free hand over the firm muscle of Nate’s ass, squeezing, fingers dipping into the cleft of his ass and brushing against Nate’s asshole until he squirms. When he brings the paddle down, it’s hard and across the full width of Nate’s ass. He hears Nate yelp, drag in a breath. He also notices that Nate’s dick is so hard it’s practically leaking, that his fingers flex in relax in the small of his back.
He follows Nate’s lead. He doesn’t stop.
After twenty swipes, Nate’s backside is red and hot when Brad caresses it with the whole palm of his hand. Once, he wore latex gloves while he did this, but, for today, he lets Nate have the feel of skin on skin. He’s rewarded by the way Nate’s hips squirm against his hand, the way his dick bobs with the movement. Brad smoothes one hand against his spine.
“Tell me you’re bad,” he murmurs.
“I’m bad,” says Nate, almost immediately.
“You’re a bad boy.”
“I’m a bad boy.”
“And you deserve to be punished.”
“I do, Brad. I really fucking do.”
Brad lands another hit across his ass and Nate moans, the sound fragile where it hangs in the air.
“Because you like this. You like it better than anything else.”
“You know I do.”
Brad squeezes lube onto his fingers and starts rubbing it down the crack of Nate’s ass, teasing his asshole for a moment. He presses his free hand against Nate’s back and holds him down, holds him still as he works on finger inside him, fucking him smoothly for a minute before he starts on the second. When he’s up to three, he takes his hand away.
“Let me see you fuck yourself.”
Nate starts to shift his hips, rocking forward, pushing himself back onto Brad’s fingers. His fingers clench and make fists in the small of his back. He moans softly, breathy, his head down as his ass comes up and Brad slaps him and finds himself grinning when it just makes Nate move faster. He crooks his fingers, grazing Nate’s prostate and watches the way his hips jerk at that.
“How badly do you want me to fuck you?” he asks and Nate whines.
“So fucking badly.”
“Tell me exactly what you want.”
“I want your dick inside me so deep I can taste it. I want you to fuck me so hard that it’ll be all that I think about tomorrow.”
Brad closes his eyes for a moment and just takes the time to imagine it, Nate moving around the clubhouse tomorrow, jeans riding low on his hips, crouching down to work on a bike, maybe, sitting in the office to call suppliers and, all the time, remembering how well and truly fucked he was the night before.
It’s enough to make his dick throb in his jeans.
“You get that,” he says, and Nate’s still fucking himself. “I promise. But first, you’re going to have to do something for me.”
“Anything,” says Nate, his voice higher and tighter, now. “Jesus, Brad, you know I’d do anything.”
Nate’s spent his adult life doing everything that needed to be done; not for the first time, it occurs to Brad how much of a relief it must be to have his choices taken completely out of his hands.
He drags his fingers out of Nate’s body without warning, grips his hips for a moment, leaving glistening fingerprints on pale skin. He presses against Nate for a moment, lets Nate feel how hard his dick is before he pulls away and uncuffs him. There’s something gratifying about the fact that Nate leaves his hands where they are until he’s told to move them.
The dildo, thick and black, is still lying on the sheets. Brad drops his weight into a chair a few feet away.
“You’re going to want to get that nice and slick before you fuck it,” he suggests, unbuttoning his own fly, wrapping his fingers around his dick.
He sits back in the chair and watches as Nate eases down onto the toy. Nate’s not really into the idea of voyeurism, Brad knows that, but he also knows that that isn’t what this is. This is about him asking and Nate doing. This is about knowing that there are no boundaries between them and just how freeing that can be.
On his knees with the dildo buried fully inside him, Nate takes a moment to adjust. His lips are slightly parted, damp and swollen from hard kisses. His eyes have got that slightly spaced-out, glossy look that Brad’s gotten so used to. Brad rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, spreading pre-cum, biting his lip as he watches Nate start to move, fucking himself on the toy.
“What’s the dirtiest thing you think about?” he asks Nate, aware of how hoarse his own voice sounds in the dim room. “What’s the thing that you wish you could do?”
“You and somebody else,” says Nate, without hesitation, like it had been on the tip of his tongue all along. “Just…taken. Completely. Completely out of my head.”
It’s a combination of that and the movement of Nate’s hips, how stretched he is around the toy and the flicker of tension between Nate’s eyebrows as he worked it deeper. It’s his own fist sliding over his dick. It’s impatience and unwillingness to wait any longer.
Fuck waiting.
They’re young but they’re not going to live forever.
Standing right in front of Nate, he strips out of his clothes. Once he’s naked, Nate sways forward on his knees, fingers of one hand keeping the dildo pressed snug inside him and he presses kisses against Brad’s chest and his belly and the shaft of his dick. Brad’s breath is tight in his chest and he brushes Nate’s hair back from his forehead.
“You want me to gag you?” he asks, and he knows that he isn’t supposed to give Nate choices but he also knows that there’s a place for gentleness in this. He also knows that Nate likes being gagged because it means that he doesn’t have to worry about being quiet, because he can lose himself completely. Brad presses his thumb past Nate’s plush lips and Nate sucks on it as he nods his head.
He pushes the ball-gag between Nate’s lips and arranges him on all fours. He stays for a moment and just looks, at the fine tremble in Nate’s muscles, his head hanging, black rubber standing out starkly against pale skin. He reaches out and plays with the base of the toy, presses it into Nate then pulls it almost all of the way out before he fucks him for a few strokes. Nate moans, the sound muffled against the gag.
Brad can’t. He just can’t.
Nate’s already slick and open, ready, trembling under Brad’s hand as Brad presses into him as slowly as he can, one inch at a time. He doesn’t give Nate any time to adjust before he starts fucking him, hard enough to rock him back and forth on his knees.
He tells himself that the door is locked and, if anyone was walking past, skin on skin and the muffled sounds that Nate makes would just sound like someone was watching a Manimal special.
He tells himself. He hopes.
More than anything, he wants to love Nate and do this for him and keep him safe, all at the same time.
They move together, Nate pushing back to get him deeper, his hands stroking across the ink on Nate’s back, his shoulders, his ribs. He combs his fingers through Nate’s hair. He fucks him smoothly and feels like he’s holding on for dear life.
He comes with more of a whimper than a shout, biting his own lip so hard it bleeds, holding onto Nate’s shoulders with both hands.
He can tell Nate’s close to coming from the way he moves, the way he whines and moans against the gag. He’s pliant when Brad pushes him, pulls him, rolls him over onto his back. His lips are red against the black rubber of the gag. His cock is hot and throbbing when Brad bends his head and slides his mouth down, bobbing his head until Nate comes into his mouth with a strangled moan, fingers fisting in the sheets.
Nate pulls the gag free himself and then Brad’s leaning up, kissing Nate with come still on his lips and the tip of his tongue.
Nate combs his fingers through Brad’s short hair.
“I love you,” he mumbles, their lips still touching. “I fucking love you.”
It’s the middle of the afternoon but they stay in bed. Nate is so relaxed that he falls asleep almost instantly, his head pillowed on Brad’s shoulder, one hand curled close to his mouth, tip of his thumb just touching his bottom lip. There’s something about him that reminds Brad of this fucking kitten that Ray’s adopted, weaned too young, so it nurses on any bit of bare skin it can find.
And Nate Fick was five years old when his mother died.
It reminds him of what a thing will do, when it loses what it loves too soon.
*
He sits in the garage and watches Nate working on a bike. It’s still raining, so Nate’s under the overhang, crouched down, head down, working, and all that Brad can look at is the stretch of denim against his ass, the back of his neck, his hands in latex gloves.
He turns and glances back over his shoulder and, for a moment, they just look at each other and Brad completely stops listening to whatever Poke’s telling him.
Sometime that afternoon, the storm passes over completely.
Everything feels new and, at the same time, not.