Generation Kill fic: Semper Fidelis Fideli Amato
Title: Semper Fidelis Fideli Amato
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters: Brad/Nate
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2,355 words
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: Thanks to shoshannagold for the super beta. Written for the Get Some Porn Skirmish, prompt: Brad draws on Nate's naked back.
Nate's on his stomach, drowsing off to the rhythmic crash and retreat of waves and the screech of gulls. The sun's low enough now to sweep in through the open window, scattering over the bed. His skin's still warm from a day outside, hiking and swimming and two hours on a surf board.
He doesn't startle at the touch, even though it's cold and strange. He hasn't forgotten his training. He does crumple the sheet in one hand, nails digging into the mattress - it was unexpected, after all.
When he tilts his head to look up, he finds Brad squatting beside him, overdressed in a t-shirt and shorts. Brad's intent on what he's doing, eyes creased in concentration. Nate closes his eyes again. The touch feels like a pen, but softer, wider, tracing lines over Nate's back. The marker Brad always carries. Nate can smell it when he breathes in, that familiar crisp chemical scent. He closes his eyes and tries to read the pattern Brad's drawing. Not words - the lines are too long. Not buildings - the lines curve too much. Curve like roads and rivers. A map.
"Are you mapping our AO?" Nate asks.
He hears the smile in Brad's reply. "Pretty sharp for a civilian."
"And you have to use my back for it because-?"
"Didn't bring any paper."
"That strikes me as exceedingly ill-prepared."
"Are you going to N.J.P. me?" Brad asks, and lifts Nate enough to tug his briefs down to his thighs. He draws his lines further, onto Nate's bare ass. A long ragged line that must be the sea sweeps across both buttocks, and there's a firm cross just above the line. This house they've rented on the edge of the beach. Their home for the next three weeks.
Nate waits a while before answering, as though he needs to consider his answer. "No," he says eventually. He turns his head to watch Brad. "After all, you're making do. Demonstrating your resourcefulness. The sign of a first class Marine."
Brad's hand stills a moment, the pen resting in the crease between Nate's ass and thigh. "I wouldn't call this making do," he says, his tone that kind of joking that Nate knows isn't joking at all.
Nate feels cool air across his ass then Brad's tongue following the lines he's drawn. He hears the sound of the marker falling to the floor.
"What would you call it?" Nate asks quietly, taking a moment to kick off his underwear.
Brad flicks his tongue into the groove between Nate's legs, and Nate lets his legs fall apart without any shame. Brad doesn't answer, and Nate doesn't ask again. They both know what this is without words. They've always been able to say everything they needed to say without words.
Like now. Brad's tongue is asking, and Nate's body is answering, relaxing into this, his cock swelling up against his belly. They've not done this before, they've never fucked. There's never been the opportunity or the time for more than quick handjobs, a hurried blowjob, promises of more. It couldn't happen in theater, not as anything more than a jerk off fantasy, something to get Nate off in the middle of the night when he needed to make sure he didn't sleep in case fucking Casey Kasem decided to fuck with his men again.
Nate pillows his head on his arms and breathes in deep as Brad tongue fucks him open. Brad's hands are holding his ass cheeks apart, and there's something in the touch. Not careful, not that, though there's care underneath. Nate concentrates, and then he feels it. It's a faint shake, barely there; Nate probably wouldn't detect it if he didn't have his eyes closed, all his focus on Brad's touch. Brad's hands are trembling, like this is something he's been waiting too long for to be careful or to control. He's almost clumsy.
It's not like Brad to be clumsy - Nate's seen Brad under fire and never once seen him fumble or make a mistake - and the import of it hits Nate in the gut, a heat and longing and tenderness that catches him off guard.
He wants to watch. He wants to watch Brad's face as he fucks him, wants to catch every unguarded expression that Brad can't hide. He wants Brad to see him, is willing to let everything show, everything he's thinking and feeling.
Nate moves. He leans across the bed to the bedside cabinet and opens the drawer he stocked when they arrived this morning. He hands a foil wrapper and tube to Brad, then lies down again, on his back this time.
Brad doesn't move. "It'll be easier the other way," he suggests, the question implicit. They haven't discussed their pasts, what they have and haven't done, who they have and haven't done. Nate's sucked cock before Brad, college fumbling and experimenting. Nothing memorable. Nothing like this. Never fucked a guy, and never been fucked.
"Have I ever given the impression that I prefer to take the easy way?" Nate asks, letting Brad read between the lines.
"I can say with all confidence that I am certain you have never given anyone that impression," Brad replies, coating his fingers with excessive amounts of lube.
He slips his clean hand under Nate's ass, lifting him up. Nate goes with it, bending his legs so they take most of his weight.
Brad's finger is a shock, even though he's expecting it. Nate tenses. He can't help it.
Brad stills, finger barely breeching him, and Nate exhales slowly, deliberately, forcing his muscles to relax. Brad's expression is serious, intent on the place his finger disappears into Nate's body, as though he can read everything he needs to know from that alone. He probably can. This is Brad, after all.
Still, Nate decides to give him an extra clue. "You can keep going," he says.
Brad quirks an eyebrow in question, as though he doesn't agree with Nate's assessment of the situation, and for all the world Nate wants to turn around and find Mike and double-check he's making the right decision. The sheer absurdity of it hits him a second later and he chokes out a laugh.
Brad's eyebrow goes higher. Nate doesn't share the joke - it's bad enough he's thinking about Mike when Brad's finger is in his ass, without actually talking about him.
"Would you care to assure me that you're not suffering from some sort of delayed PTSD?" Brad asks, tone dry.
"I can assure you that is not the case. One of us, however, will be suffering from something altogether different but equally undesirable if you don't keep going," Nate cautions, his voice steadier than he feels.
The glint in Brad's eyes is enough of a warning that Nate doesn't jump when Brad pushes his finger in up to the knuckle. It's uncomfortable, but Nate's used to discomfort. A second finger doesn't faze him either, though it's still no closer to being pleasurable. Nate's erection doesn't flag, but he doesn't feel particularly turned on by this part of the proceedings.
"It will get better," Brad says, because Nate's never been any good at hiding anything from him. "Right about- now," Brad adds, and crooks his fingers on the last word.
"Oh," Nate splutters, because however much he might have anticipated that, he could never have imagined it would feel like this, a burst of bright pleasure that makes him shake, makes him lift up his hips towards Brad for more, makes his dick harden further.
Brad just smirks and pulls his fingers out. Nate's this close to demanding he puts his fingers right back where they were when Brad pulls off first his t-shirt, then his shorts. He's fast and efficient, rolling on the condom and slicking himself up, and then he's kneeling on the bed between Nate's knees.
Brad's still combat pale, paler than Nate, legs white against Nate's summer tan. Pale, and a little too thin, dark circles still remaining under his eyes. They take weeks to fade - Nate knows. Brad's cock is flushed red, jutting up eagerly.
It makes Nate's mouth water. He swallows.
"I used to imagine this," Brad says, matter of fact, like he's discussing surfing conditions, not rolling Nate's hips and lifting Nate's legs up and resting them on his shoulders. "Of course, most of the time you were covered up like a nervous Victorian spinster, nothing to see but your face. Chastity devices really have nothing on a MOPP suit. So my primary jerk off fantasies involved your mouth. Which, I'm happy to say, is just as talented as I imagined. Possibly more so."
"Thank you," Nate says, not entirely sarcastic.
Brad presses the head of his dick against Nate's asshole. He starts to push in. "But after the Muwaffaqiyah bridge clusterfuck, later that night, I made a decision. No more pussying around. No more half-assed fantasies. So the next time I jerked off, I pictured clean sheets and you spread out on them, dick leaking for me, your ass hot and tight around my dick."
Nate's dick is leaking now, still hard even though he feels like he can't take in enough air, like the pressure inside him, Brad inside him, doesn't leave enough room for anything else.
"Let's hope the reality lives up to the fantasy," Nate forces out. He concentrates on Brad's face, on his quiet stories, all the things Brad imagined and how close they were to his own fantasies. He tries to relax.
"I have no doubts," Brad promises, and Nate believes him, even though for a moment it feels like this can't possibly work, like no one can do this and enjoy it. He breathes out, shallow breaths in and out, and Brad's hand is stroking his flank, long strokes that might be to relax Nate or might be to help Brad go slow.
Either way, it works. Nate relaxes just enough, and Brad sinks in that bit further, and Nate's still full, still taking each breath consciously, effort required to pull the air in, but it's beginning to feel right.
Brad moves, a long, slow drag back out, and Nate braces himself for the return. Brad pauses, almost out, and for a moment Nate feel bereft and empty, and he must somehow show that on his face because Brad's mouth lifts and Nate can feel him relax, realizes how tense Brad was too, realizes all that the instant before Brad's slamming back into him.
Nate takes it. Doesn't just take it; pushes up into it, begs for more with every muscle, and Brad keeps staring at him and keeps giving him more, giving him everything, because the look on Brad's face is so open, so aware and so full of joy. He looks like he's high with happiness, and Nate thinks that's what he is too.
Nate's not sure if Brad's fucking him now or if Nate's fucking himself on Brad's cock, but it doesn't matter because it's fucking fantastic and if it's half as good for Brad as it is for him, this has to be far better than any fantasy.
"God damn perfect," Brad says quietly, almost too softly for Nate to hear.
There's a pink flush stretching across Brad's chest, and his movements are getting ragged, stuttering, short pushes until Brad's coming, and Nate hadn't thought of this part, the heat of Brad's come inside him, the way it feels. It's enough to push him so close he has to shut his eyes and will himself to hold on, to make this last.
Brad doesn't pull out. He just leans back, lowering Nate's legs and pulling Nate back with him, until Brad's on his back and Nate's straddling him, Nate's erection leaking even more.
Brad curves one hand around the base of Nate's skull, almost protective, and keeps pulling Nate closer until their foreheads touch. Nate can feel Brad's breath against his chin, soft huffs, Brad grounding himself. Then Brad's lips on his, nothing urgent about him now. Slow kisses, reacquainting with the feel of each other, the taste of each other. Nate loves this, more than he could ever begin to say, and only the aching desperation to come makes him pull back and sit up. Brad's hands drop to his waist. Nate licks his lips and Brad's eyes narrow, blunt nails pressing against Nate's side.
"Jerk off for me," Brad orders.
There's lube on his dick, trickled there from Brad opening him up, and his own pre-come. He's slick and hot in his own hand, movements so familiar, but now he has the added sensation of Brad's softening cock still inside him, Brad murmuring under his breath as he watches, an intent stare that would be unnerving if Nate weren't a Marine through and through, no matter what jibes Brad makes about civilians.
Nate thinks about the map on his back. About the fact that they have plans. That they're both alive and they have a future. Together. He looks at Brad, looks him in the eye and sees all that there, and that's what does it, not his own hand, but the look on Brad's face. He comes, fast and messy over Brad's stomach.
Later, they can clean up and change the sheets. For now, Nate sinks down by Brad's side and lets the sound of waves and Brad's slow breathing lull him to sleep.
*
The map is still on his back the next morning - will probably last for days, unless Nate can find some turpentine or is willing to scrub his back half raw to get rid of it. He won't bother - he can wear a t-shirt out. Besides, it's just a map, he thinks. Until he catches sight of the base of the design, reflected in the multiple mirrors in the bathroom. The angle's awkward but he can still see there's something written beside the cross that marks this house. He angles the shaving mirror so he can read it. Four words, in Brad's neat handwriting.
Semper fidelis fideli amato.
//
Note: Brad's Latin roughly translates as 'always faithful to my true love.' What?! Brad is totally a closet romantic! *g*
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters: Brad/Nate
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2,355 words
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: Thanks to shoshannagold for the super beta. Written for the Get Some Porn Skirmish, prompt: Brad draws on Nate's naked back.
Nate's on his stomach, drowsing off to the rhythmic crash and retreat of waves and the screech of gulls. The sun's low enough now to sweep in through the open window, scattering over the bed. His skin's still warm from a day outside, hiking and swimming and two hours on a surf board.
He doesn't startle at the touch, even though it's cold and strange. He hasn't forgotten his training. He does crumple the sheet in one hand, nails digging into the mattress - it was unexpected, after all.
When he tilts his head to look up, he finds Brad squatting beside him, overdressed in a t-shirt and shorts. Brad's intent on what he's doing, eyes creased in concentration. Nate closes his eyes again. The touch feels like a pen, but softer, wider, tracing lines over Nate's back. The marker Brad always carries. Nate can smell it when he breathes in, that familiar crisp chemical scent. He closes his eyes and tries to read the pattern Brad's drawing. Not words - the lines are too long. Not buildings - the lines curve too much. Curve like roads and rivers. A map.
"Are you mapping our AO?" Nate asks.
He hears the smile in Brad's reply. "Pretty sharp for a civilian."
"And you have to use my back for it because-?"
"Didn't bring any paper."
"That strikes me as exceedingly ill-prepared."
"Are you going to N.J.P. me?" Brad asks, and lifts Nate enough to tug his briefs down to his thighs. He draws his lines further, onto Nate's bare ass. A long ragged line that must be the sea sweeps across both buttocks, and there's a firm cross just above the line. This house they've rented on the edge of the beach. Their home for the next three weeks.
Nate waits a while before answering, as though he needs to consider his answer. "No," he says eventually. He turns his head to watch Brad. "After all, you're making do. Demonstrating your resourcefulness. The sign of a first class Marine."
Brad's hand stills a moment, the pen resting in the crease between Nate's ass and thigh. "I wouldn't call this making do," he says, his tone that kind of joking that Nate knows isn't joking at all.
Nate feels cool air across his ass then Brad's tongue following the lines he's drawn. He hears the sound of the marker falling to the floor.
"What would you call it?" Nate asks quietly, taking a moment to kick off his underwear.
Brad flicks his tongue into the groove between Nate's legs, and Nate lets his legs fall apart without any shame. Brad doesn't answer, and Nate doesn't ask again. They both know what this is without words. They've always been able to say everything they needed to say without words.
Like now. Brad's tongue is asking, and Nate's body is answering, relaxing into this, his cock swelling up against his belly. They've not done this before, they've never fucked. There's never been the opportunity or the time for more than quick handjobs, a hurried blowjob, promises of more. It couldn't happen in theater, not as anything more than a jerk off fantasy, something to get Nate off in the middle of the night when he needed to make sure he didn't sleep in case fucking Casey Kasem decided to fuck with his men again.
Nate pillows his head on his arms and breathes in deep as Brad tongue fucks him open. Brad's hands are holding his ass cheeks apart, and there's something in the touch. Not careful, not that, though there's care underneath. Nate concentrates, and then he feels it. It's a faint shake, barely there; Nate probably wouldn't detect it if he didn't have his eyes closed, all his focus on Brad's touch. Brad's hands are trembling, like this is something he's been waiting too long for to be careful or to control. He's almost clumsy.
It's not like Brad to be clumsy - Nate's seen Brad under fire and never once seen him fumble or make a mistake - and the import of it hits Nate in the gut, a heat and longing and tenderness that catches him off guard.
He wants to watch. He wants to watch Brad's face as he fucks him, wants to catch every unguarded expression that Brad can't hide. He wants Brad to see him, is willing to let everything show, everything he's thinking and feeling.
Nate moves. He leans across the bed to the bedside cabinet and opens the drawer he stocked when they arrived this morning. He hands a foil wrapper and tube to Brad, then lies down again, on his back this time.
Brad doesn't move. "It'll be easier the other way," he suggests, the question implicit. They haven't discussed their pasts, what they have and haven't done, who they have and haven't done. Nate's sucked cock before Brad, college fumbling and experimenting. Nothing memorable. Nothing like this. Never fucked a guy, and never been fucked.
"Have I ever given the impression that I prefer to take the easy way?" Nate asks, letting Brad read between the lines.
"I can say with all confidence that I am certain you have never given anyone that impression," Brad replies, coating his fingers with excessive amounts of lube.
He slips his clean hand under Nate's ass, lifting him up. Nate goes with it, bending his legs so they take most of his weight.
Brad's finger is a shock, even though he's expecting it. Nate tenses. He can't help it.
Brad stills, finger barely breeching him, and Nate exhales slowly, deliberately, forcing his muscles to relax. Brad's expression is serious, intent on the place his finger disappears into Nate's body, as though he can read everything he needs to know from that alone. He probably can. This is Brad, after all.
Still, Nate decides to give him an extra clue. "You can keep going," he says.
Brad quirks an eyebrow in question, as though he doesn't agree with Nate's assessment of the situation, and for all the world Nate wants to turn around and find Mike and double-check he's making the right decision. The sheer absurdity of it hits him a second later and he chokes out a laugh.
Brad's eyebrow goes higher. Nate doesn't share the joke - it's bad enough he's thinking about Mike when Brad's finger is in his ass, without actually talking about him.
"Would you care to assure me that you're not suffering from some sort of delayed PTSD?" Brad asks, tone dry.
"I can assure you that is not the case. One of us, however, will be suffering from something altogether different but equally undesirable if you don't keep going," Nate cautions, his voice steadier than he feels.
The glint in Brad's eyes is enough of a warning that Nate doesn't jump when Brad pushes his finger in up to the knuckle. It's uncomfortable, but Nate's used to discomfort. A second finger doesn't faze him either, though it's still no closer to being pleasurable. Nate's erection doesn't flag, but he doesn't feel particularly turned on by this part of the proceedings.
"It will get better," Brad says, because Nate's never been any good at hiding anything from him. "Right about- now," Brad adds, and crooks his fingers on the last word.
"Oh," Nate splutters, because however much he might have anticipated that, he could never have imagined it would feel like this, a burst of bright pleasure that makes him shake, makes him lift up his hips towards Brad for more, makes his dick harden further.
Brad just smirks and pulls his fingers out. Nate's this close to demanding he puts his fingers right back where they were when Brad pulls off first his t-shirt, then his shorts. He's fast and efficient, rolling on the condom and slicking himself up, and then he's kneeling on the bed between Nate's knees.
Brad's still combat pale, paler than Nate, legs white against Nate's summer tan. Pale, and a little too thin, dark circles still remaining under his eyes. They take weeks to fade - Nate knows. Brad's cock is flushed red, jutting up eagerly.
It makes Nate's mouth water. He swallows.
"I used to imagine this," Brad says, matter of fact, like he's discussing surfing conditions, not rolling Nate's hips and lifting Nate's legs up and resting them on his shoulders. "Of course, most of the time you were covered up like a nervous Victorian spinster, nothing to see but your face. Chastity devices really have nothing on a MOPP suit. So my primary jerk off fantasies involved your mouth. Which, I'm happy to say, is just as talented as I imagined. Possibly more so."
"Thank you," Nate says, not entirely sarcastic.
Brad presses the head of his dick against Nate's asshole. He starts to push in. "But after the Muwaffaqiyah bridge clusterfuck, later that night, I made a decision. No more pussying around. No more half-assed fantasies. So the next time I jerked off, I pictured clean sheets and you spread out on them, dick leaking for me, your ass hot and tight around my dick."
Nate's dick is leaking now, still hard even though he feels like he can't take in enough air, like the pressure inside him, Brad inside him, doesn't leave enough room for anything else.
"Let's hope the reality lives up to the fantasy," Nate forces out. He concentrates on Brad's face, on his quiet stories, all the things Brad imagined and how close they were to his own fantasies. He tries to relax.
"I have no doubts," Brad promises, and Nate believes him, even though for a moment it feels like this can't possibly work, like no one can do this and enjoy it. He breathes out, shallow breaths in and out, and Brad's hand is stroking his flank, long strokes that might be to relax Nate or might be to help Brad go slow.
Either way, it works. Nate relaxes just enough, and Brad sinks in that bit further, and Nate's still full, still taking each breath consciously, effort required to pull the air in, but it's beginning to feel right.
Brad moves, a long, slow drag back out, and Nate braces himself for the return. Brad pauses, almost out, and for a moment Nate feel bereft and empty, and he must somehow show that on his face because Brad's mouth lifts and Nate can feel him relax, realizes how tense Brad was too, realizes all that the instant before Brad's slamming back into him.
Nate takes it. Doesn't just take it; pushes up into it, begs for more with every muscle, and Brad keeps staring at him and keeps giving him more, giving him everything, because the look on Brad's face is so open, so aware and so full of joy. He looks like he's high with happiness, and Nate thinks that's what he is too.
Nate's not sure if Brad's fucking him now or if Nate's fucking himself on Brad's cock, but it doesn't matter because it's fucking fantastic and if it's half as good for Brad as it is for him, this has to be far better than any fantasy.
"God damn perfect," Brad says quietly, almost too softly for Nate to hear.
There's a pink flush stretching across Brad's chest, and his movements are getting ragged, stuttering, short pushes until Brad's coming, and Nate hadn't thought of this part, the heat of Brad's come inside him, the way it feels. It's enough to push him so close he has to shut his eyes and will himself to hold on, to make this last.
Brad doesn't pull out. He just leans back, lowering Nate's legs and pulling Nate back with him, until Brad's on his back and Nate's straddling him, Nate's erection leaking even more.
Brad curves one hand around the base of Nate's skull, almost protective, and keeps pulling Nate closer until their foreheads touch. Nate can feel Brad's breath against his chin, soft huffs, Brad grounding himself. Then Brad's lips on his, nothing urgent about him now. Slow kisses, reacquainting with the feel of each other, the taste of each other. Nate loves this, more than he could ever begin to say, and only the aching desperation to come makes him pull back and sit up. Brad's hands drop to his waist. Nate licks his lips and Brad's eyes narrow, blunt nails pressing against Nate's side.
"Jerk off for me," Brad orders.
There's lube on his dick, trickled there from Brad opening him up, and his own pre-come. He's slick and hot in his own hand, movements so familiar, but now he has the added sensation of Brad's softening cock still inside him, Brad murmuring under his breath as he watches, an intent stare that would be unnerving if Nate weren't a Marine through and through, no matter what jibes Brad makes about civilians.
Nate thinks about the map on his back. About the fact that they have plans. That they're both alive and they have a future. Together. He looks at Brad, looks him in the eye and sees all that there, and that's what does it, not his own hand, but the look on Brad's face. He comes, fast and messy over Brad's stomach.
Later, they can clean up and change the sheets. For now, Nate sinks down by Brad's side and lets the sound of waves and Brad's slow breathing lull him to sleep.
*
The map is still on his back the next morning - will probably last for days, unless Nate can find some turpentine or is willing to scrub his back half raw to get rid of it. He won't bother - he can wear a t-shirt out. Besides, it's just a map, he thinks. Until he catches sight of the base of the design, reflected in the multiple mirrors in the bathroom. The angle's awkward but he can still see there's something written beside the cross that marks this house. He angles the shaving mirror so he can read it. Four words, in Brad's neat handwriting.
Semper fidelis fideli amato.
//
Note: Brad's Latin roughly translates as 'always faithful to my true love.' What?! Brad is totally a closet romantic! *g*