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asimplechordcan't stutter when you're talking without words
teen || Brad/Nate || 1231 words
Complete fiction based on portrayals by actors, and implying absolutely nothing about any real, living (or dead) people.
Unbeta'd. I know next to nothing about astronomy and constellations, except that the ones I named do, in fact, exist. Written as comment fic for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lickingbeads in response to this not quite work-safe pic. Cut text modified from Suzanne Vega's Solitude Standing.
One might think that after living in a truck or a tent for weeks that Nate would want a firm mattress when he returns to the States post-Iraq. He does, but he wants time with someone he thinks could be his friend when they're not constrained by regulations, more. That's how he ends up camping in the Sawtooth range with Brad in early June. They spend a day hiking in the backcountry before they find a good spot to set up their camp, and they cook at the campfire, but don't move when it dies, just stay there and look at the stars.
Brad points out the constellations that he knows; it turns out that he knows a lot of their names, many more than Nate. Brad tells the Native American legends that go with them, and Nate shares the Greek and Roman myths, back and forth, until Brad reveals that all he knows about the Corona is that it's called a Camp Circle.
Nate relates the story of Ariadne and Theseus, and how the Corona is the crown that Dionysus gave her after he rescued her from Naxos, where Theseus left her after she helped him slay the Minotaur.
Brad scoffs, and says that anyone with Ariadne's resources didn't need rescuing. Smart people rescue themselves when they know they're in a bad emotional or psychological situation. Nate can feel Brad's eyes resting on him, and knows that Brad knows he's thinking about leaving, and there's a split second of amused disbelief, as he recalls Espera's contention that the Iceman knows what you're going to do before you do, but it's swamped by relief that Brad isn't disapproving or dissuading, just making a statement. Nate hopes that means that he understands. He lets himself shift a little bit closer, then a little closer still when Brad points out Cassiopeia, which is upside down at this time of year. That's not a pretty story, but he tells it.
Brad shudders when Nate points out the details of Orion's death; Nate doesn't want to think about the comparisons of Orion with the modern military, stung to death in the desert by an undefeatable scorpion. The phoenix, the twins, the lyre, they go through them all, until, by the time Brad's tracing Perseus's outline, Nate's head is on his shoulder, following his fingertip easily as it brushes the sky.
There's another unacknowledged metaphor lurking in the back of Nate's mind when they discuss Perseus, the great warrior who flew on Pegasus, beheaded Medusa, and went on to marry Andromeda, but somewhere in the middle of that Nate realizes that Brad's not looking at the stars anymore, he's watching Nate, and his words trail off into silence.
"...and then, what, Perseus and Andromeda lived happily ever after?" The breath that carries Brad's whisper brushes Nate's cheek, and he shivers.
Brad shifts slightly, somehow managing to angle onto his side without displacing Nate, his arm and shoulder warm against the nape of his neck. One hand drapes casually over Nate's hip, and he has to suppress another shudder.
"Ah..." Fuck, Nate knows he knows the variations on the legend, but his mind is completely blank. "That depends on who you want to believe." He manages to pull himself together and tell Brad about Perseus's fight with Phineus over his bride, half of his brain dredging up facts and speculation from long-forgotten college classes, the other half jeering at his perceived inadequacies.
It is ridiculous - Nate's been in wretchedly cold tents in worse conditions, and huddled together with other men for warmth, without it being a sexual thing. He can control himself. There's no reason to be so acutely aware of the rise and fall of Brad's chest and the weight of Brad's hand on his hip. He forces himself to focus on the steady pulse at Brad's throat and on what he's replying.
"Greeks and Romans were pretty obsessed with fighting and fucking." Brad's fingertips press lightly on Nate's back, and he imagines he can feel calluses and fingernails through the fabric, against his spine.
"All the gods and kings were, anyway."
"Human nature hasn't changed much in a thousand years." There's something in Brad's tone that Nate can't place: not his usual superiority or sarcasm. When he finally looks up, Brad is gazing at him steadily, his eyes dark, his expression a mix of humor, acceptance, and longing.
"No, not much has changed about man in millenia." They're close enough that there's barely space for breath to escape. Nate pauses, gives Brad a chance to back away gracefully, no harm no foul.
When his lips settle on Brad's, both of their eyes remain open.
Brad doesn't kiss anything like Nate expects.
He's not even certain how it is that he has any preconceived notions on the matter, but apparently his subconscious was actively considering the topic while his conscious thoughts had simply been of the comfortable-in-his-presence, like-hanging-out-together-despite-fraternization-issues variety.
This is the first time Brad has done anything Nate would label tentative, but there's no other word to describe the measured response of his lips against Nate's, the three points discrete of contact, the way Brad's body stays still, not infringing any further upon Nate's space. Nate does not approve of this reticence; it doesn't suit Brad, it's not his natural inclination, Nate feels sure.
He has a remedy for this: he tangles their legs together and kisses Brad more aggressively, until their tongues twine and Brad's lips cling whenever Nate retreats, preventing it. He likes the way the pads of Brad's fingers dig in beneath the hem of his shirt, anchoring him. He really likes it when Brad nips his bottom lip sharply, following the sting with slightly gentler kisses. But the thing that sends him from half-hard to completely so is the sound that Brad makes when Nate sucks his earlobe into his mouth.
Nate props himself up, and it appears that Brad wants to protest, but Nate quickly tugs his shirt over his head. He takes a second to admire the flush high on Brad's cheekbones and the way his lips are wet and swollen before settling back against Brad. Brad's hands on his bare skin, it turns out, feel as awesome as he anticipated, but Nate wants more contact. Thank fuck for the button-down that he made fun of earlier - who wears a loose button-down shirt with jeans and Tevas for hiking - because that means he can get what he wants without too much trouble, just the flick of a few opened buttons.
There's an unmeasurable amount of time while Nate revels in hot, bare skin against his chest, and a hotter mouth on his. He never quite loses track of the fact that the hands on his back remain carefully above his waistband, a heated contrast to the caress of cool air.
He can't help himself when he rolls his hips against Brad's. Brad's head fall back on a gasped breath, his eyes closed. When they open, dilated blue focuses on Nate squarely, frankly.
"How far do you want to take this?"
Nate slides his hand down Brad's side to his jeans, where he tugs the button open and zipper down slowly, deliberately.
His lips hover above Brad's as his hand curls under the elastic of Brad's boxers and wraps around his cock.
"As far it can go."
This entry was originally posted at http://favoritemistake.dreamwidth.org/6129.html.
teen || Brad/Nate || 1231 words
Complete fiction based on portrayals by actors, and implying absolutely nothing about any real, living (or dead) people.
Unbeta'd. I know next to nothing about astronomy and constellations, except that the ones I named do, in fact, exist. Written as comment fic for
lickingbeads in response to this not quite work-safe pic. Cut text modified from Suzanne Vega's Solitude Standing. One might think that after living in a truck or a tent for weeks that Nate would want a firm mattress when he returns to the States post-Iraq. He does, but he wants time with someone he thinks could be his friend when they're not constrained by regulations, more. That's how he ends up camping in the Sawtooth range with Brad in early June. They spend a day hiking in the backcountry before they find a good spot to set up their camp, and they cook at the campfire, but don't move when it dies, just stay there and look at the stars.
Brad points out the constellations that he knows; it turns out that he knows a lot of their names, many more than Nate. Brad tells the Native American legends that go with them, and Nate shares the Greek and Roman myths, back and forth, until Brad reveals that all he knows about the Corona is that it's called a Camp Circle.
Nate relates the story of Ariadne and Theseus, and how the Corona is the crown that Dionysus gave her after he rescued her from Naxos, where Theseus left her after she helped him slay the Minotaur.
Brad scoffs, and says that anyone with Ariadne's resources didn't need rescuing. Smart people rescue themselves when they know they're in a bad emotional or psychological situation. Nate can feel Brad's eyes resting on him, and knows that Brad knows he's thinking about leaving, and there's a split second of amused disbelief, as he recalls Espera's contention that the Iceman knows what you're going to do before you do, but it's swamped by relief that Brad isn't disapproving or dissuading, just making a statement. Nate hopes that means that he understands. He lets himself shift a little bit closer, then a little closer still when Brad points out Cassiopeia, which is upside down at this time of year. That's not a pretty story, but he tells it.
Brad shudders when Nate points out the details of Orion's death; Nate doesn't want to think about the comparisons of Orion with the modern military, stung to death in the desert by an undefeatable scorpion. The phoenix, the twins, the lyre, they go through them all, until, by the time Brad's tracing Perseus's outline, Nate's head is on his shoulder, following his fingertip easily as it brushes the sky.
There's another unacknowledged metaphor lurking in the back of Nate's mind when they discuss Perseus, the great warrior who flew on Pegasus, beheaded Medusa, and went on to marry Andromeda, but somewhere in the middle of that Nate realizes that Brad's not looking at the stars anymore, he's watching Nate, and his words trail off into silence.
"...and then, what, Perseus and Andromeda lived happily ever after?" The breath that carries Brad's whisper brushes Nate's cheek, and he shivers.
Brad shifts slightly, somehow managing to angle onto his side without displacing Nate, his arm and shoulder warm against the nape of his neck. One hand drapes casually over Nate's hip, and he has to suppress another shudder.
"Ah..." Fuck, Nate knows he knows the variations on the legend, but his mind is completely blank. "That depends on who you want to believe." He manages to pull himself together and tell Brad about Perseus's fight with Phineus over his bride, half of his brain dredging up facts and speculation from long-forgotten college classes, the other half jeering at his perceived inadequacies.
It is ridiculous - Nate's been in wretchedly cold tents in worse conditions, and huddled together with other men for warmth, without it being a sexual thing. He can control himself. There's no reason to be so acutely aware of the rise and fall of Brad's chest and the weight of Brad's hand on his hip. He forces himself to focus on the steady pulse at Brad's throat and on what he's replying.
"Greeks and Romans were pretty obsessed with fighting and fucking." Brad's fingertips press lightly on Nate's back, and he imagines he can feel calluses and fingernails through the fabric, against his spine.
"All the gods and kings were, anyway."
"Human nature hasn't changed much in a thousand years." There's something in Brad's tone that Nate can't place: not his usual superiority or sarcasm. When he finally looks up, Brad is gazing at him steadily, his eyes dark, his expression a mix of humor, acceptance, and longing.
"No, not much has changed about man in millenia." They're close enough that there's barely space for breath to escape. Nate pauses, gives Brad a chance to back away gracefully, no harm no foul.
When his lips settle on Brad's, both of their eyes remain open.
Brad doesn't kiss anything like Nate expects.
He's not even certain how it is that he has any preconceived notions on the matter, but apparently his subconscious was actively considering the topic while his conscious thoughts had simply been of the comfortable-in-his-presence, like-hanging-out-together-despite-fraternization-issues variety.
This is the first time Brad has done anything Nate would label tentative, but there's no other word to describe the measured response of his lips against Nate's, the three points discrete of contact, the way Brad's body stays still, not infringing any further upon Nate's space. Nate does not approve of this reticence; it doesn't suit Brad, it's not his natural inclination, Nate feels sure.
He has a remedy for this: he tangles their legs together and kisses Brad more aggressively, until their tongues twine and Brad's lips cling whenever Nate retreats, preventing it. He likes the way the pads of Brad's fingers dig in beneath the hem of his shirt, anchoring him. He really likes it when Brad nips his bottom lip sharply, following the sting with slightly gentler kisses. But the thing that sends him from half-hard to completely so is the sound that Brad makes when Nate sucks his earlobe into his mouth.
Nate props himself up, and it appears that Brad wants to protest, but Nate quickly tugs his shirt over his head. He takes a second to admire the flush high on Brad's cheekbones and the way his lips are wet and swollen before settling back against Brad. Brad's hands on his bare skin, it turns out, feel as awesome as he anticipated, but Nate wants more contact. Thank fuck for the button-down that he made fun of earlier - who wears a loose button-down shirt with jeans and Tevas for hiking - because that means he can get what he wants without too much trouble, just the flick of a few opened buttons.
There's an unmeasurable amount of time while Nate revels in hot, bare skin against his chest, and a hotter mouth on his. He never quite loses track of the fact that the hands on his back remain carefully above his waistband, a heated contrast to the caress of cool air.
He can't help himself when he rolls his hips against Brad's. Brad's head fall back on a gasped breath, his eyes closed. When they open, dilated blue focuses on Nate squarely, frankly.
"How far do you want to take this?"
Nate slides his hand down Brad's side to his jeans, where he tugs the button open and zipper down slowly, deliberately.
His lips hover above Brad's as his hand curls under the elastic of Brad's boxers and wraps around his cock.
"As far it can go."
This entry was originally posted at http://favoritemistake.dreamwidth.org/6129.html.
