fic: the second draft of my life
the second draft of my life
Generation Kill; Brad/Nate; nc-17; 885 words
If Brad wants to keep fucking, Nate will give him that, even if he wants more.
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Written for Porn Battle X. Thanks to lauriestein for looking it over. Originally posted here.
~*~
It always starts with alcohol.
Nate knows Brad's a glutton for punishment-the Corps would've beaten him down otherwise, like it did Nate-but he's still shocked when Brad calls him a month after he moves out. The whole thing with Jen made it seem like it'd be impossible for Brad to ever get close to someone again. But Brad doesn't yell or call Nate a pussy liberal dick-suck pot-smoking commie, just announces that he'll be there in an hour and shows up forty-five minutes later with two six-packs in hand, his motorcycle helmet tucked in the crook of his arm.
They get drunk-not wasted, but Brad gets enough beer in him that Nate's not exactly protesting when Brad mutes the TV and pushes him back against the couch cushions, kisses him warm and wet, tugs roughly at Nate's dress shirt until it's on the floor, more than a few buttons missing. He doesn't stop to question if this is a good idea or ask Brad if he's sure, just lets himself be manhandled until Brad's finally satisfied with who's where on the couch that's too small for both of them.
In the morning, it comes back to Nate in little flashes: Brad's hand curled tightly around Nate's hip, his fingers digging into Nate's flesh; Brad's slicked-up fingers sliding into Nate and stretching him; Brad fucking him, hard and relentless. Nate's sorer than he's been in months, but it's the first thing he really felt since he and Brad broke up.
There's the click of a key being turned in the lock, but Brad's silent as he enters. Sparky's panting, though, so Nate fills his water dish and scratches his head.
"Are you staying?" Brad asks quietly, and it takes Nate a minute to figure out that he means here, in San Diego. He guesses he is; he hasn't really thought about it. His job's here, though he flies out to D.C. once a month. His life is here. Brad is here.
"Yeah," Nate answers. "If it's okay-"
"It's fine," Brad interrupts. "I have to go."
*
The variables change. Different drinks (beer, vodka, Jack, amaretto sours). Different locations (Brad's place, Nate's place, his office, bar bathrooms). The next time it happens, they're out with a bunch of the guys from Bravo. Ray tries to diffuse the tension between them with shots and dumb jokes and insults, and Poke's going on about racial profiling.
They stumble out after last call, everyone else having gone home to wives and kids or girlfriends earlier. Brad tugs Nate into an alley and shoves his hand down Nate's pants, jacking him a little too fast, a little too rough. He ends up with raw thighs (from the denim), a scraped-up back (from the brick), and a bloody lip, but it's worth it. Brad gets come all over his jeans, but it's not like Nate was a huge fan of the pair.
After that, Brad makes a habit of showing up unannounced, or telling Nate he should be at Brad's apartment by the time Brad gets home. They don't have a joint bank account anymore, and Brad only keeps one change of clothes and a toothbrush at Nate's place, but they still have this, and if Brad wants to keep fucking, Nate will give him that, even if he wants more.
Sometimes it's over almost before Nate has a chance to register what's happening, and he ends up with Brad's mouth covering his own, hot and hard; Brad's hands all over him, leaving bruises; Brad's cock sliding wetly against Nate's thigh. Other times he spreads Nate out on his bed, licks him open, and fucks him so slowly Nate thinks he's going to die of frustration. He'll hold Nate down and rut against him, or make Nate swallow him all the way down, fingers wrapped tight around Nate's hair.
Every so often, Brad will come to him with a mark Nate knows he didn't leave, angry gouges down his back. He's gone back to whores and casual sex-no guilt and no attachment. Nate leaves his own marks over them, trying to ignore the fact that Brad's not his anymore. It's better than nothing, but it hurts.
In the morning, Brad runs, showers, and wakes Nate up before he goes. He jostles Nate awake, no longer gentle, and gives him a goodbye kiss that always leaves Nate wanting more. Nate's not exactly sure why Brad keeps coming back, though he has his theories: Brad doesn't want to start from scratch or have to explain himself to anyone else, or maybe he just can't let go. Knowing there will never be anything more than sex between him and Brad kills Nate, but not as much as it would to imagine his life without Brad.
Generation Kill; Brad/Nate; nc-17; 885 words
If Brad wants to keep fucking, Nate will give him that, even if he wants more.
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Written for Porn Battle X. Thanks to lauriestein for looking it over. Originally posted here.
~*~
It always starts with alcohol.
Nate knows Brad's a glutton for punishment-the Corps would've beaten him down otherwise, like it did Nate-but he's still shocked when Brad calls him a month after he moves out. The whole thing with Jen made it seem like it'd be impossible for Brad to ever get close to someone again. But Brad doesn't yell or call Nate a pussy liberal dick-suck pot-smoking commie, just announces that he'll be there in an hour and shows up forty-five minutes later with two six-packs in hand, his motorcycle helmet tucked in the crook of his arm.
They get drunk-not wasted, but Brad gets enough beer in him that Nate's not exactly protesting when Brad mutes the TV and pushes him back against the couch cushions, kisses him warm and wet, tugs roughly at Nate's dress shirt until it's on the floor, more than a few buttons missing. He doesn't stop to question if this is a good idea or ask Brad if he's sure, just lets himself be manhandled until Brad's finally satisfied with who's where on the couch that's too small for both of them.
In the morning, it comes back to Nate in little flashes: Brad's hand curled tightly around Nate's hip, his fingers digging into Nate's flesh; Brad's slicked-up fingers sliding into Nate and stretching him; Brad fucking him, hard and relentless. Nate's sorer than he's been in months, but it's the first thing he really felt since he and Brad broke up.
There's the click of a key being turned in the lock, but Brad's silent as he enters. Sparky's panting, though, so Nate fills his water dish and scratches his head.
"Are you staying?" Brad asks quietly, and it takes Nate a minute to figure out that he means here, in San Diego. He guesses he is; he hasn't really thought about it. His job's here, though he flies out to D.C. once a month. His life is here. Brad is here.
"Yeah," Nate answers. "If it's okay-"
"It's fine," Brad interrupts. "I have to go."
*
The variables change. Different drinks (beer, vodka, Jack, amaretto sours). Different locations (Brad's place, Nate's place, his office, bar bathrooms). The next time it happens, they're out with a bunch of the guys from Bravo. Ray tries to diffuse the tension between them with shots and dumb jokes and insults, and Poke's going on about racial profiling.
They stumble out after last call, everyone else having gone home to wives and kids or girlfriends earlier. Brad tugs Nate into an alley and shoves his hand down Nate's pants, jacking him a little too fast, a little too rough. He ends up with raw thighs (from the denim), a scraped-up back (from the brick), and a bloody lip, but it's worth it. Brad gets come all over his jeans, but it's not like Nate was a huge fan of the pair.
After that, Brad makes a habit of showing up unannounced, or telling Nate he should be at Brad's apartment by the time Brad gets home. They don't have a joint bank account anymore, and Brad only keeps one change of clothes and a toothbrush at Nate's place, but they still have this, and if Brad wants to keep fucking, Nate will give him that, even if he wants more.
Sometimes it's over almost before Nate has a chance to register what's happening, and he ends up with Brad's mouth covering his own, hot and hard; Brad's hands all over him, leaving bruises; Brad's cock sliding wetly against Nate's thigh. Other times he spreads Nate out on his bed, licks him open, and fucks him so slowly Nate thinks he's going to die of frustration. He'll hold Nate down and rut against him, or make Nate swallow him all the way down, fingers wrapped tight around Nate's hair.
Every so often, Brad will come to him with a mark Nate knows he didn't leave, angry gouges down his back. He's gone back to whores and casual sex-no guilt and no attachment. Nate leaves his own marks over them, trying to ignore the fact that Brad's not his anymore. It's better than nothing, but it hurts.
In the morning, Brad runs, showers, and wakes Nate up before he goes. He jostles Nate awake, no longer gentle, and gives him a goodbye kiss that always leaves Nate wanting more. Nate's not exactly sure why Brad keeps coming back, though he has his theories: Brad doesn't want to start from scratch or have to explain himself to anyone else, or maybe he just can't let go. Knowing there will never be anything more than sex between him and Brad kills Nate, but not as much as it would to imagine his life without Brad.