[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate] Catamaran
Title: Catamaran
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: um I guess NC-17 kinda?
Summary: Poetry traces under his thumbs.
Notes: NADIA THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT. Firstly, part of the Highschool AU I didn't want to do but these two are like, 17/18 in this fic. Secondly, siofwghsd porn kinda DOES IT COUNT AS PORN IF I ACTUALLY MENTION GENITALIA FOR ONCE? For the prompt Baptism by Dennis Hinrichsen.
Nate smells faintly of salt as he leans over Brad. His hand presses up into the ceiling of the car and Brad is distracted away from the thought of vacuuming sand out of the carpets by the slow grind of Nate's cock against his. Swim trunks, thin material and an edge of netting is all that separates them, shirts long abandoned in the front seats
His grip is too tight on Nate's hips, pinprick pulses of red blooming beneath his fingertips, but the harder he squeezes, the harder Nate rocks his hips against him, the slow drag back, the deep push forwards, his breath coming in gentle bursts.
His thumbs trace the edge of Nate's hips He'd look good with tattoos, just there, just where Brad's thumbs sit and edging outwards. Words and poetry and art, intelligence adorning his skin the way Brad thinks about clashes of colour on his own.
The radio's playing static coated music, bursts of a low voice breaking through, sneaking through and singing to them, their own private soundtrack that means nothing at all, not yet. Nate slows to mimic the beat as he leans down, hands pressed into the bite of Brad's shoulders as he kisses him, gentle and promising, smooth and not enough, not the rough kisses Brad prefers when energy's built up in him like this, not the sharp thrust of hips he needs.
"When do you have to be home?" Nate murmurs when he pulls away, still close enough that Brad can feel the puff of breath against his cheeks.
"It's Summer," Brad says, biting back a gasp when Nate shifts back to trail his hand over the line of his hard on through his shorts. "No curfew."
Nate doesn't say anything else, just smiles, bright, bright and brighter than the moon that's causing his skin to glow in the darkness. They move, together, Brad trying to find space for his new growth spurt induced legs and space for Nate's hand in his shorts, Nate twisting his wrist and twisting his hips and grinding down against Brad's thigh. He keeps the pace slow, gentle and mellow, no rush at all, just a whisper of promise against his body.
The Supremes cut through the static, burning, burning feelings and Brad arching into Nate, hands on his hips and poetry traces under his thumbs.
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: um I guess NC-17 kinda?
Summary: Poetry traces under his thumbs.
Notes: NADIA THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT. Firstly, part of the Highschool AU I didn't want to do but these two are like, 17/18 in this fic. Secondly, siofwghsd porn kinda DOES IT COUNT AS PORN IF I ACTUALLY MENTION GENITALIA FOR ONCE? For the prompt Baptism by Dennis Hinrichsen.
Nate smells faintly of salt as he leans over Brad. His hand presses up into the ceiling of the car and Brad is distracted away from the thought of vacuuming sand out of the carpets by the slow grind of Nate's cock against his. Swim trunks, thin material and an edge of netting is all that separates them, shirts long abandoned in the front seats
His grip is too tight on Nate's hips, pinprick pulses of red blooming beneath his fingertips, but the harder he squeezes, the harder Nate rocks his hips against him, the slow drag back, the deep push forwards, his breath coming in gentle bursts.
His thumbs trace the edge of Nate's hips He'd look good with tattoos, just there, just where Brad's thumbs sit and edging outwards. Words and poetry and art, intelligence adorning his skin the way Brad thinks about clashes of colour on his own.
The radio's playing static coated music, bursts of a low voice breaking through, sneaking through and singing to them, their own private soundtrack that means nothing at all, not yet. Nate slows to mimic the beat as he leans down, hands pressed into the bite of Brad's shoulders as he kisses him, gentle and promising, smooth and not enough, not the rough kisses Brad prefers when energy's built up in him like this, not the sharp thrust of hips he needs.
"When do you have to be home?" Nate murmurs when he pulls away, still close enough that Brad can feel the puff of breath against his cheeks.
"It's Summer," Brad says, biting back a gasp when Nate shifts back to trail his hand over the line of his hard on through his shorts. "No curfew."
Nate doesn't say anything else, just smiles, bright, bright and brighter than the moon that's causing his skin to glow in the darkness. They move, together, Brad trying to find space for his new growth spurt induced legs and space for Nate's hand in his shorts, Nate twisting his wrist and twisting his hips and grinding down against Brad's thigh. He keeps the pace slow, gentle and mellow, no rush at all, just a whisper of promise against his body.
The Supremes cut through the static, burning, burning feelings and Brad arching into Nate, hands on his hips and poetry traces under his thumbs.