A/N: Inspired by this photoshoot. Warning for violence.
Nate panted around his mouthguard, and Brad could read the message in his eyes: You never fucking listen, not really. Always bound and determined to do whatever you want unless we’re in uniform. Fuck that, Brad, man up and face me.
Brad let Nate be mad; he took the punches and let Nate seethe about Brad running after they’d stumbled onto the beach, drunk and horny and taking advantage of the moment. Brad had taken his motorcycle to Las Vegas and back to think about what the fuck it all meant that he was beyond reason for his LT, still seeing the angry, hurt green of Nate’s eyes when Brad made his excuses and ran from their one night stand.
No one would accuse Nate Fick of letting a man off easy, and that was how Brad found himself here, giving as good as he was getting in the boxing ring, taking as much as he was giving in Nate’s shower afterward, the fight gone out of both of them as they let the soap run from their joined bodies.
They had five minutes max before people started wondering where the fuck they went.
“Spit,” Nate ordered, urgency and command in his voice as he braced himself against the alley wall, pushing his pants down below his ass with one, shaking hand. Brad obeyed and sloppily slicked the condom before pushing against Nate’s beer-relaxed hole; Nate reached back and pulled their mouths together, biting at Brad’s lips and breathing in the sour-sweet taste of alcohol. Brad’s hands gripped Nate’s, holding him to the gritty bricks and driving up and in with his hips until Nate groaned with the stretch. Brad buried his face against the side of Nate’s neck and gritted his teeth, fucking as fast and deep as his half-drunk body would allow, begging that Nate could pull off a hands-free with no more than the adrenaline rush of maybe getting caught to lube the way.
Nate tensed and shuddered against Brad’s body, and he sank his teeth into Brad’s forearm to silence his yell.
Brad rolled over, rising groggily out of sleep to the annoying feeling of something poking him through the pillowcase; he pulled a small goose feather from the pillow, spinning it between his fingertips in the low light while 03:17 flashed on the bedside clock.
Nate puffed a hard breath out his nose, then his hand came up to brush across his nipple, and then he rolled onto his side to get away from Brad and his feather. Brad smiled and carried on undeterred, stroking the tickling feather down the line of Nate’s spine and following it with a brush of his lips as he breathed in Nate’s sleepy scent. He circled Nate’s hip bone, and then Nate was awake.
“Brad,” he said in a cautioning tone, but Brad didn’t let him finish that thought before he abandoned the feather in favor of more direct contact, forming himself to Nate’s back as his hand wrapped around Nate’s soft cock, because 3 AM was never too early for this.
The look on Brad’s face when Nate stepped out of the truck, boots crunching gravel as his heart beat in his ears, said everything that two years and 2700 miles had stolen. Nate had been on the other side of the country when the meteor hit; in the pandemonium that engulfed the world in the aftermath, in the dust-covered darkness and cold, all Nate could do was head west and hope.
Somewhere west of the Mississippi, Nate had miraculously found Brad bent over a campfire, his M4 across his knees and his motorcycle parked at the edge of the circle of light; he was alone, searching for Nate in the blackness just like Nate was for him. Neither of them could speak; the desperate, overwhelming gratitude that they’d done it — they’d found the needle in the motherfucking haystack — sapped them of their words, so they spoke with fingertips, bearded cheeks, taut muscles, and dirty skin and the message was loud and clear. Not even the universe can throw down a situation that two Marines in love can’t unfuck.
Less than 10 feet back from the living room window; of course that’s where Nate wanted it. The sun was low, probably glinting off the plate glass so no one could see Nate using his mouth… but there were no guarantees. Spit coated Brad’s chin and he palmed himself through his jeans when his nose was shoved into Nate’s hair; Nate’s fingers pushed against Brad’s skull, fucking his cock into Brad’s wet mouth where anyone could see if they just looked. This is what you get when you start up something in the middle of a war zone, getting off on the possibility of getting caught; the adrenaline rush makes every orgasm sweeter, holding your breath so you don’t raise the alarm with your groans makes every high even higher. Brad squeezed his dick, feeling it pulse in his pants as he quietly came, and he tasted Nate’s come as it silently coated his lips.
Brad was too damn close to perfect, even on the third go of the best Tuesday night in the history of Tuesday nights. The sight of him putting his finger into his mouth before pressing the wet tip to Nate’s hole woke every nerve ending on Nate’s body; Nate couldn’t help rocking back onto Brad’s hand, opening himself on that spit-wet finger, letting their cocks slide together as he moved. Never once did Brad look away as he pressed inside, drinking Nate in as Nate set the pace above him; Nate felt a ball of warmth spin in his gut when Brad’s eyelashes fluttered in response to a deep thrust, because Nate knew that not many got to see this side of Brad Colbert.
“Lean back a little,” Brad said, voice low as they changed their angle. Brad’s cock curved inside Nate and they fit together perfectly, so well that Nate lost control of the moans that Brad coaxed from him.
It was a hand’s width below his shoulder blades; Brad knew he was sensitive there, having practically spasmed off his tattooist’s table when he got his art inked on. But having Nate working him over, first with hands and knuckles and then with his mouth once he discovered Brad’s shuddering response… well, it was a whole lot better than a greasy dude with a motorized needle.
Nate’s teeth dragged across that patch of skin and Brad was fucked. His dick had been fine underneath him when this all started as just a post-swim backrub, but it was most assuredly not fine right now, hard and leaking and needing some attention pronto but trapped beneath himself as Nate kept him pinned to the bed. Nate’s dick slotted into the cleft of his ass as Nate’s thumbs pushed into his back, and all Brad could do was bite the pillow and groan.
No one was fucking gonna believe this shit, and that was why Jason carried his video camera everywhere with him, just trying to catch ‘em in the act again. I mean, shit, the LT was pretty as fuck, no doubt, but this violated like a million laws of nature and a hundred more of the Corps’.
Finally, on night watch somewhere outside of Bumfuck, Iraqistan, Lilley caught them going at it behind a stand of reeds, so he crouched down and fumbled out his camera, trying to keep his finger over the little red light that flashed on the front when he was recording. He could just barely make out what they were doing, but it involved a whole fuckload of low grunting and some zipper noises, and he could definitely tell that they ain’t doing no moonlight debriefing… and then he had to hold back a laugh because they actually were debriefing sorta.
“Lilley, hold that camera still. I want a copy of this,” Brad said across the darkness.
Three hours of getting weird looks from girls half his size and less than half his age was generally not Brad Colbert’s idea of a good time, but his nieces had gone apeshit for the five skinny kids on stage and he supposed that made it worth it, to see them bouncing around in the back of the car on the way home with hearts in their eyes. Nate had managed to make it bearable, leaning over periodically through the shrieks to say something low about how at least two of the guys on stage probably had the same plan as Nate did for after the show; was Brad going to be ready to rock and roll with the buzzing of pop music still in his ears? Why did he ever used to think he was better alone?
He let Nate pull his clothes off when they got home, humming a song that would have made Person proud, and really Brad had no motherfucking clue why he’d ever want to let this man on top of him go. And when he sank into Nate’s smooth warmth, he might have hummed a few bars himself.
Nate suspected that all of this started after OIF — they saw too many things, horrible things, that they had absolutely no power to stop — but Nate and Brad had started after OIF too, and Nate had no real frame of reference on it. He felt in his bones, though, that Brad wasn’t hard like this to the core; they’d shared too many smiles in Iraq, even when shit was beyond fucked up they smiled for each other.
That was why he let Brad hold him down and fuck into him until they both dissolved under the weight of it; taking Brad as deep as Brad needed to thrust, and giving him as much control as he wanted to take. Maybe Nate should have had suspicions about himself, because he’d never wanted to be this pliable before, giving up his need to lead because something inside of him had fractured out in the desert.
Nate would run his fingers over the bruises on his shoulders the next morning, wondering if complementing each other like this — rough edges meshing together to grate away the worst of the memories — was going to blow up in their faces sooner or later.