Fandom: Generation Kill
Word Count: 1,223
Rating: Hard R
Summary: They realize they haven't made out with anybody since high school. Nate seeks to rectify that.
Notes: I just wanted to write Brad/Nate kissing fic. No matter how far-fetched. The title is from that old favorite "Closing Time" by Semisonic.
Their lips brush together, a clumsy half-joking sweep. They part with a snort of laughter. Nobody notices, everybody has left them behind at the bar, families and children waiting for them. They are alone to do stupid stuff. The faint tang of lime and salt on Nate’s lower lip has been transferred to Brad, and he darts his tongue out, exploring the taste.
Nate’s eyes darken. He tips his head forward and then he’s cupping Brad’s jaw, bringing their mouths back together. This time it’s a real kiss—Brad’s tongue caught between Nate’s lips, his head tilted so that they fit together. He hooks his fingers into Nate’s belt loop, the first not quite touch that he’d used like a gateway drug back in high school.
Back in high school. That’s where this segue out of conversation started. Brad took a sip of his corona, eyes casting over the bar and said, “Soon, you’ll be making out with co-eds and crashing frat parties.” It was supposed to come out like a promise, but instead it sounded vaguely longing. Nate didn’t notice and said with a deprecating laugh, “Making out. I haven’t done that since I was in high school.”
Brad doesn’t think he kissed Nate, but he doesn’t think Nate kissed him. It was more like running into each other with their faces. But now, Brad knows, Nate is kissing him. Fuck that. They’re making out. Brad breathes sharply through his nose because he doesn’t want to pull away. Odd, because kissing has its purpose, but it’s not like Brad enjoys it more than other things. It’s not like he thinks about making out with Nate Fick. He maybe has thoughts occasionally about Nate sucking his dick, but every enlisted man has probably wanted their CO to get down on his knees. Even the ones they like. You can suck my dick, sir.
But you know, if he really wanted to kiss someone, his first inclination would generally be to touch tonsils with some trashed party-girl grinding on the dance floor who’s never going to remember his name. He could maybe fuck her after and it wouldn’t be a problem.
But Nate’s mouth was made for making out. He’s showing Brad how it’s done. Brad wonders if he thought kissing was kind of passé because he was doing it wrong all that time.
Nate’s all lip with just the barest hint of tongue. He flicks it across Brad’s lower lip until every swipe is a tingly burn and Brad uses the fingers in Nate’s belt loop to draw him in tighter. His thumb presses hard against Nate’s hipbone, and he strokes it over denim just light enough for Nate to feel it. Brad is excellent at this pushing things along bit. But Nate doesn’t take the bait. He changes the angle, his fingers just long enough that they brush the skin where Brad’s neck meets his jaw. Their chests brush together when Brad shifts against him, dipping his head down to nip at Nate’s lips.
Nate laughs, pulls back to breathe. Their faces are too close together. When Nate blinks, his eyelashes slide over Brad’s jaw. Brad feels it through his whole body. He thinks as their lips inexorably meet again that Nate must’ve done it on purpose. He probably spent hours doing nothing but this in high school. He was such a good boy after all, didn’t want to push too hard. Brad can imagine how crazy the girls got, sitting on his lap, kissing and kissing, while he never gave any sign of wanting more.
Brad feels it too. His skin is too hot and the slow thrust of Nate’s tongue in his mouth is a heady reminder of other things. Nate moves against him, one thigh pushing purposefully over his dick and Brad has the startling realization that he’s hard. He’s hard from the taste of Nate’s mouth and the way his soft lips catch and mold on Brad’s. He’s hard from making out with another marine in an almost deserted bar. He only feels better when he drags his thumb over the front of Nate’s jeans again and notices the bulge against Nate’s fly.
He pushes Nate back against the bar, trapping him. Nate breaks away to laugh a second time. His cheeks are flushed and his already impressive mouth is swollen and wet. Brad’s dick jerks, he knows there’s a spot of wet on the denim now.
“You really are just as sweet as pie, aren’t you, sir?” Brad says, voice soft, taunting. “Should’ve gone and worked for the animal shelter, commanding naughty puppies.”
“Brad, that is a very unsubtle challenge,” Nate replies. “I’ve found that it works better just to ask, but seeing as you’re too pussy, I’ll just—” he cuts himself off by kissing Brad again, this time hard and dirty. Mouth flavored by his language. No girl could ever kiss Nate Fick like this and not know what he had on his mind. Maybe Brad has to revise a few previous assumptions. Maybe he also needs to adjust himself. Jesus.
Nate’s hand slides down his spine, fingertips skimming over the skin where his shirt rides up, before sailing down over Brad’s ass and cupping tight. Brad makes a sound in the back of his throat and very deliberately pushes his thigh between Nate’s. Nate rocks against him and twines his tongue around Brad’s, fingers digging in to the curve of Brad’s ass. His back must hurt from how hard Brad’s got him shoved into the counter, but he doesn’t show it. Every too rough touch and grip too tight he returns with obscene thrusts of his tongue.
Brad feels like he’s just hanging on, letting Nate fuck his whole mind. He can’t think anywhere beyond the places they touch. The hard ridge of his zipper and the unforgiving denim should be making this difficult and uncomfortable, all the alcohol he’s had should make it impossible, but he continues to roll his hips against Nate’s. Nobody is stopping them.
It’s getting to be too much. His fingers are white-knuckled with tension and he’s got to pull back, get some thoughts together in his head. He tries, weakly, lips puffy and blood hot, but Nate makes a sound of dissent, hand coming back up to draw them together again. Brad’s about to come, he’s riding a razor-wired edge. He’s not fifteen. Hell, he’s not even sure this could’ve happened when he was fifteen.
Nate seems to know. Just as he always does. He sucks on Brad’s tongue hard, accepting his fevered breaths. When Brad’s grip tightens further on his hip, he works his thigh against Brad’s dick, shifting pressure steadily. Brad feels it in his spine, in his chest. He's vibrating, squeezing his eyes shut so tight the backs of his eyelids seem red.
Nate pulls away just as Brad comes. He noses gently across Brad’s cheekbone and then relaxes against the bar. He’s flushed and lazy, eyes slightly glassy with drunkenness. Brad blinks at him, chest expanding and contracting with much needed air. Those thoughts that he thought he’d have once he got space still aren’t knitting together. Brad swallows. Nate touches his tongue to his teeth and smiles, or rather smirks. He's still hard, but doesn't seem to be in any hurry to do something about it.
“Last call, boys,” the bartender says, setting a cup down on the bar top hard. Brad’s still got two fingers tangled in Nate’s belt loop, he tugs, turning towards the door.
Right well, got that out of my system. Think of this as a last hurrah before I head off to New Haven and can't be found on the internet.