Off The Map (GK fic, Brad/Nate)
Mar. 4th, 2010 10:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
asimplechordOff The Map
Brad/Nate || R-ish? || 1040 words
Spoilers for A Burning Dog, I suppose.
Fiction. As in Not Real. Based on the characters as portrayed in Generation Kill, as created by Evan Wright, David Simon, et al.
Title and inspiration from Alkaline Trio's Off The Map. Go read the lyrics. No, really. You'll see the lines I mean.
Pre-read by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vic_ramsey but unbeta'd, so feel free to point out errors.
Brad is a Recon Marine - swift, silent, and deadly. He knows how to track and apprehend, and he's good enough that he can execute his search for the LT without the other men in the battalion recognizing.
He finds him outside the perimeter of their temporary camp, by the crumbling stone wall that rings the remains of an Iraqi hamlet. Even in the dim light of the waning moon, Brad can see that Nate's head is tipped back, his Kevlar off, and he's staring blankly at the star-filled sky.
He props himself against the wall, wordless, close enough that he can feel Nate's presence like a buzz under his skin, even without touching. Not that that's unusual. Since Nate took command of Bravo Two, Brad's been acutely aware of his presence whenever they're in the same vicinity. Actually, when they are this close, at least he can focus on the physical reality of Nate's presence, rather than imagined or desired contact.
"Brad."
Nate's voice is quiet, subdued, and in his tone Brad can hear multiple messages, some conflicting. I'm sorry. I'm not sorry. You were right. It wasn't my decision. Brad doesn't want him to say it, not any of it. He needed reminding: Nate's an officer, and officers give orders from Command; grunts execute, even if they (and their CO) know the orders are stupid. The Marine Corps philosophy values mission first, then men.
"LT." He lets his head loll against the wall and looks over to see that Nate's twisted to his side, watching him. The space under his eyes looks bruised, shadowed even in the moonlight, and his lips are chapped, bitten raw.
Brad turns so that they're facing each other squarely, and lets the emotions he usually suppresses show, unmasked: fatigue, concern, acceptance. There is no blame.
"I think it bears repeating: your leadership is the only thing in this clusterfuck in which I have absolute confidence." He lets his words settle into the night's stillness before he qualifies them with, "But I might reconsider that if you do another Keanu Reeves impression like the one on the bridge last night. Leaving your vehicle in the middle of a firefight? I know you believe in the Dead Man Walking technique, but you don't have to try so hard make it become a reality."
Nate laughs, a hoarse bark. "I can't promise not to do it again. Things will only get harder in this ass-backwards gauntlet Mattis has us running."
He chews his lower lip again, sharp white teeth sinking into the deepest part of the curve.
Disconnected, as if it's not him doing it, Brad sees his own hand stretch out, watches as his thumb lands on Nate's lip, tugging it loose.
It's the first deliberate touch, unrelated to equipment or training, that they've ever shared. He hears a breath catch in Nate's throat, sees his eyes widen. And that? That's the first overt sign that Brad's not the only one feeling this ridiculous shared situational awareness.
Bravo Company has been on the move and without sleep for days. Brad is past exhausted and well into wired, living on adrenaline, Ripped Fuel, and the sugar from MREs. Still, he's probably running on more sleep than Nate. His heartbeat thuds in his ears, and he wonders if maybe this is a sleep-deprived mistake.
Then Nate fucking kisses Brad's thumb, and that's it.
Brad curls his hand around Nate's neck and tugs him closer, tilting Nate's head up for his kiss, mating lips and tongue tentatively at first, and then with increasing ardor, until they push forward, occupying each other's space with their bodies. Brad is perfectly willing to melt backwards against the wall with the solid press of Nate, from his lips to his chest to his dick, heavy against him, but when he tries, Nate tenses. His grip on Brad's shoulder doesn't loosen, though.
"I want-- I can't -- I want, but..." Nate sputters, incoherent.
Oh, for fuck's sake. Fucking officers and their fraternization issues.
Brad tips Nate back against the wall, and he goes, compliant. Their tongues tangle - Nate tastes like Skittles and dust and jalapeno spread, and a tiny part of Brad's brain wonders how the fuck he got that MRE, but then Nate sucks on Brad's tongue and rational thought vanishes - while Brad wrestles with Nate's flak vest, pushing it out of the way enough to worm his hand under the MOPP suit and curl around Nate's cock, which twitches and swells that much more under his touch. Brad wants to savor this, but he can't. He knows anyone could stumble out here, Gunny Wynn could come looking for the LT, Ray or Poke might need Brad for something. So instead of the slow, drawn-out tease he'd prefer, he pumps Nate's cock, tight and fast, hard, and feels Nate's nails scrape against hair and scalp before one hand anchors on his neck and the other falls to his hip. Brad doesn't lift his mouth from Nate's, but he keeps his eyes open to watch green eyes cloud and eyelashes flutter down as Nate jerks in his hand and comes. He strokes Nate through it, not stopping until Nate is limp, lax against the wall.
Nate's smile is lazy and dazed, and he looks utterly relaxed, supremely satisfied, obscene, for all that he's still completely clothed.
With a final, gentle squeeze, Brad extracts his hand, lifting it to his mouth. There's a stifled noise from Nate, and then he's tugging Brad's hand to his own lips, licking the palm and fingertips before sucking Brad's thumb into his mouth.
Brad's had a thousand fantasies that start with this very gesture.
He wants so many things: privacy and bright sunlight to see every detail, to watch Nate's mouth on his skin; a soft mattress to hold them both when they've exhausted each other; the feel of clean sweat and naked skin pressed together. But they're here, tired and filthy, in the middle of an invasion, in Iraq.
Brad is a Marine.
He's got Nate in his arms, Nate's mouth on his skin, the friction from the placket of his MOPP against his dick when he thrusts roughly against Nate's hip.
Brad makes do.
Brad/Nate || R-ish? || 1040 words
Spoilers for A Burning Dog, I suppose.
Fiction. As in Not Real. Based on the characters as portrayed in Generation Kill, as created by Evan Wright, David Simon, et al.
Title and inspiration from Alkaline Trio's Off The Map. Go read the lyrics. No, really. You'll see the lines I mean.
Pre-read by
vic_ramsey but unbeta'd, so feel free to point out errors.Brad is a Recon Marine - swift, silent, and deadly. He knows how to track and apprehend, and he's good enough that he can execute his search for the LT without the other men in the battalion recognizing.
He finds him outside the perimeter of their temporary camp, by the crumbling stone wall that rings the remains of an Iraqi hamlet. Even in the dim light of the waning moon, Brad can see that Nate's head is tipped back, his Kevlar off, and he's staring blankly at the star-filled sky.
He props himself against the wall, wordless, close enough that he can feel Nate's presence like a buzz under his skin, even without touching. Not that that's unusual. Since Nate took command of Bravo Two, Brad's been acutely aware of his presence whenever they're in the same vicinity. Actually, when they are this close, at least he can focus on the physical reality of Nate's presence, rather than imagined or desired contact.
"Brad."
Nate's voice is quiet, subdued, and in his tone Brad can hear multiple messages, some conflicting. I'm sorry. I'm not sorry. You were right. It wasn't my decision. Brad doesn't want him to say it, not any of it. He needed reminding: Nate's an officer, and officers give orders from Command; grunts execute, even if they (and their CO) know the orders are stupid. The Marine Corps philosophy values mission first, then men.
"LT." He lets his head loll against the wall and looks over to see that Nate's twisted to his side, watching him. The space under his eyes looks bruised, shadowed even in the moonlight, and his lips are chapped, bitten raw.
Brad turns so that they're facing each other squarely, and lets the emotions he usually suppresses show, unmasked: fatigue, concern, acceptance. There is no blame.
"I think it bears repeating: your leadership is the only thing in this clusterfuck in which I have absolute confidence." He lets his words settle into the night's stillness before he qualifies them with, "But I might reconsider that if you do another Keanu Reeves impression like the one on the bridge last night. Leaving your vehicle in the middle of a firefight? I know you believe in the Dead Man Walking technique, but you don't have to try so hard make it become a reality."
Nate laughs, a hoarse bark. "I can't promise not to do it again. Things will only get harder in this ass-backwards gauntlet Mattis has us running."
He chews his lower lip again, sharp white teeth sinking into the deepest part of the curve.
Disconnected, as if it's not him doing it, Brad sees his own hand stretch out, watches as his thumb lands on Nate's lip, tugging it loose.
It's the first deliberate touch, unrelated to equipment or training, that they've ever shared. He hears a breath catch in Nate's throat, sees his eyes widen. And that? That's the first overt sign that Brad's not the only one feeling this ridiculous shared situational awareness.
Bravo Company has been on the move and without sleep for days. Brad is past exhausted and well into wired, living on adrenaline, Ripped Fuel, and the sugar from MREs. Still, he's probably running on more sleep than Nate. His heartbeat thuds in his ears, and he wonders if maybe this is a sleep-deprived mistake.
Then Nate fucking kisses Brad's thumb, and that's it.
Brad curls his hand around Nate's neck and tugs him closer, tilting Nate's head up for his kiss, mating lips and tongue tentatively at first, and then with increasing ardor, until they push forward, occupying each other's space with their bodies. Brad is perfectly willing to melt backwards against the wall with the solid press of Nate, from his lips to his chest to his dick, heavy against him, but when he tries, Nate tenses. His grip on Brad's shoulder doesn't loosen, though.
"I want-- I can't -- I want, but..." Nate sputters, incoherent.
Oh, for fuck's sake. Fucking officers and their fraternization issues.
Brad tips Nate back against the wall, and he goes, compliant. Their tongues tangle - Nate tastes like Skittles and dust and jalapeno spread, and a tiny part of Brad's brain wonders how the fuck he got that MRE, but then Nate sucks on Brad's tongue and rational thought vanishes - while Brad wrestles with Nate's flak vest, pushing it out of the way enough to worm his hand under the MOPP suit and curl around Nate's cock, which twitches and swells that much more under his touch. Brad wants to savor this, but he can't. He knows anyone could stumble out here, Gunny Wynn could come looking for the LT, Ray or Poke might need Brad for something. So instead of the slow, drawn-out tease he'd prefer, he pumps Nate's cock, tight and fast, hard, and feels Nate's nails scrape against hair and scalp before one hand anchors on his neck and the other falls to his hip. Brad doesn't lift his mouth from Nate's, but he keeps his eyes open to watch green eyes cloud and eyelashes flutter down as Nate jerks in his hand and comes. He strokes Nate through it, not stopping until Nate is limp, lax against the wall.
Nate's smile is lazy and dazed, and he looks utterly relaxed, supremely satisfied, obscene, for all that he's still completely clothed.
With a final, gentle squeeze, Brad extracts his hand, lifting it to his mouth. There's a stifled noise from Nate, and then he's tugging Brad's hand to his own lips, licking the palm and fingertips before sucking Brad's thumb into his mouth.
Brad's had a thousand fantasies that start with this very gesture.
He wants so many things: privacy and bright sunlight to see every detail, to watch Nate's mouth on his skin; a soft mattress to hold them both when they've exhausted each other; the feel of clean sweat and naked skin pressed together. But they're here, tired and filthy, in the middle of an invasion, in Iraq.
Brad is a Marine.
He's got Nate in his arms, Nate's mouth on his skin, the friction from the placket of his MOPP against his dick when he thrusts roughly against Nate's hip.
Brad makes do.
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no subject
Date: 2010-03-04 08:54 pm (UTC)Thank you for this adorable moment of hotness and BradNateness, I will never tire of these boys!!! x)
The descriptions were beautiful, the writing flows *very* nicely and emotions come across just fine, very well done.
no subject
Date: 2010-03-05 02:32 am (UTC)