Fandom: Generation Kill
Word Count: 3,025
Rating: Hard R
Summary: Brad starts having wet dreams about the LT. Luckily everybody just thinks he's got PTSd.
Notes: This is for the Get Some Porn Skirmish--that I will probably end up writing 80 bajillion more things for instead of doing my writing applications. It's for the prompt: One of them talks in their sleep.
Brad’s hands flexed on the wooden slats of his headboard. His wrists were tied almost too tight. He yanked against his bonds, seeking leverage, strung taut under Nate as he tongued down Brad’s abs. Nate kissed him and ghosted his fingers over Brad’s skin until he was aching and leaking in his shorts, until his thigh muscles burned with tension. Then he pulled back, licking obscenely wet lips, surveying his handiwork.
Brad didn’t blush. He didn’t get embarrassed, but the look on Nate’s face--knowing, fully assured of his complete and total possession of Brad--caused heat to rise up in his cheeks. Nate slowly ground the heel of his palm against Brad’s dick, sucking and worrying the skin at his hip. Brad’s hips rose off the bed and his breath came hard and fast.
Nate chuckled, his mouth drifted a slow creeping slide lower, the tip of his tongue drawing an inexorable line downward. Brad groaned and cursed, anticipation of Nate’s mouth closing around the head of his dick--taking him all the way in--almost as good as the real thing. Nate’s breath, hot and damp against his skin. It was barely anything and still it was too much. Nate caught his gaze and smiled dangerously.
And then he woke up, lying in his gravel-filled ranger grave, hard and aching. Ray had shaken him awake from a fucking wet dream.
“Brad, I will be very disappointed in you if you develop fucking post traumatic stress before we’re even post trauma,” Ray said with a grin.
Brad blinked at him, confusion and arousal making thoughts difficult to knit together. “I—what?”
“You were having a nightmare.” Ray was still smiling, but Brad could tell there was an undercurrent of concern.
Brad dropped his head back to the ground. He wished he could call that a nightmare. “Thanks,” he grit out. “Don’t worry about it.”
If you had told him two weeks ago that he would be hard to the point of pain over the idea of his LT tying him to the bed and having his way with Brad, he would’ve laughed. Full on Ray-being-rendered-speechless laughed. The idea seemed so incongruous. The LT with those long lashes and too red mouth didn’t look like he had it in him to tie anybody to a bed, let alone Brad. He probably liked sweet missionary sex where he could go slow and hold eye-contact.
It was just…the LT was a dude. He was a pretty dude. A nice dude. But nothing about him turned Brad’s crank. He was the one good officer they had, no doubt, and Brad liked him and respected the hell out of him, but it wasn’t like he was harboring some secret long-denied crush on him. If he was going to be having sex dreams about anybody it might as well have been Ray who he spent all his freakin’ time with. That would’ve been simple to deal with: Brad’s subconscious, compromised, seek help immediately. But the LT—there was no explanation.
He’d had four separate dreams, all in that same vein. Four times he’d woken up sweating, worried he was going to spill inside his MOPP suit. And every time, he’d wished he’d had five more minutes to feel the LT closing his lips around him, to watch that teasing grin dissolve on his dick.
When the sun was up, he didn’t think about it. Not even when the LT rubbed his thumb over his full bottom lip while he was thinking. There was no room for those things in the light of day. In the light of day, in theater, Brad felt like he dwelled on orchids and tea time more than he dwelled on sex. Even with Ray dishing fantasies and obscenely slandering half the female celebrity population. In theater, with heavy artillery exploding and guns spitting out bullets, you simply accepted that you were horny all the time.
At night, if his nerves were jangling and his balls felt heavy, he took care of it. When a marine didn’t, it caused problems. Now if you’d asked him what kind of problems, he probably would’ve said frayed temper, nerves, excess stress. He would not have said extremely visceral wet dreams about one’s superior officer. Maybe Ray would’ve said that, but he would’ve been fucking with you.
Brad sighed and added ‘jerk off more’ to his mental list of things to keep himself running.
Nate held him down, grip loose, but deceptively strong. Brad didn’t fight it. He let Nate fuck his mouth with his tongue, he let him grind their dicks together and say dirty filthy things about Brad that he would not have let anybody else say. Brad moaned like a bitch as Nate did it.
“Fucking Christ,” he said and Nate pulled up, mouth slick and wet, lashes sweeping against his cheek, Brad moaned, “no, don’t—”
This time he jolted awake to the sound of his own voice. Walt and Ray were staring at him curiously. Brad rolled to his feet, not making eye contact. “I’m going to take a piss.”
Reporter trailed after him. “Hey, I know this might be a bit indelicate of me, but—”
Brad snorted. “Spit it out.”
“How many of the marines in first recon would you estimate experience psychological trauma in combat?” He’d pulled out his notebook and the pen stood poised over the paper.
“Oh for the love of—” Brad stomped off.
It didn’t come up the next day. Brad did his job, everybody came out alive. He was dusty, dirty, and hot. He was starting to wonder if the inside of his lungs were crystallizing with sand. He kept his mind resolutely barren beyond the complete and utter craziness Ray spouted out and their objective. It wasn’t hard. There was a monster headache brewing behind his eyes.
He knew the more he worried about it, the more likely it would come up in his dreams again. That was some utterly fucked chicken and egg bullshit. How could it possibly have started? And, like Brad was a homing device, at just that moment the LT walked by with Gunny. Brad couldn't help it. His mind turned over like an engine, cycling through all that he’d dreamed about. Desire welled in the pit of his belly and he nearly groaned in frustration.
He could see the LT doing those things. It was possible. Fick was a smart boy with a lot of time to get stuck inside his own head. But Brad could much better imagine him with a sweet girl who he would regularly eat out and probably only ever ask to suck his dick on Sundays. The thought of him mastering somebody, of teasing them and torturing them—hell, it seemed more likely that Nate was a monk or could think his way to orgasms. He was pretty much the only one in the entire battalion who had not been caught, dick in the wind, jacking off.
Studies showed that when a person thought on something particularly hard in the fifteen minutes before sleep they were more likely to dream about it. He thought about riding his motorcycle, eating pancakes, tinkering around with his fuckwipe neighbor’s cable back home. He did not think about fucking. He didn’t want to give his subconscious any ideas.
Mostly he tried not to worry about it. He was apparently vocalizing in his sleep, but since everybody thought he was losing his mind from terror rather than gay for his superior officer, he could live with that. It wasn’t ideal, but with the way things were there was a good chance he wouldn’t even have enough time to make it to REM sleep.
Sensation burned through him, clouding his vision. Nate pulled him back against his chest, peeling the fly of his motorcycle leathers open and reaching in to tug on Brad’s dick. Brad groaned, spine straightening. Nate’s long-fingered hand was splayed over his hip and it felt like a brand, a mark of possession. He stroked Brad, slow and relaxed. It was a teasing pressure, something to make his breath come faster, but nothing that would ever get him to the edge.
“God, why?” Brad asked, head falling back to Nate’s shoulder.
“Do you want something?” Nate asked, his grip slowed to a stop and Brad’s hips stuttered, trying to force contact. Brad couldn’t answer. He wanted too much and none of it seemed to fit into words.
Nate ran his thumb teasingly around the crown of his dick, sweeping right up over the slit. He choked. When Nate did this it felt a bit like somebody had thrust their hands into his chest and pressed his lungs flat.
“I can’t—” Brad said, knowing Nate meant for him to ask.
Nate nuzzled his ear, waited until the skin tingled before running his tongue in a provocative line down the shell of ear. “I want to hear you say it.”
A sharp kick to the shin woke him. He blinked and turned to find Ray’s glittering stare hard upon him.
“Seriously dude, I tried to be sensitive about your bitch-ass nightmares, but you’re keeping me awake,” Ray said, looking ready to deliver another kick.
Brad sighed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“We should hang a dream catcher in the HumVee,” Trombley spoke up.
Brad hoisted himself up and walked off as Ray replied, voice incredulous, “A dream catcher? Where the fuck are we going to find one of those? In all the Iraqi tourist gift shops? Are you going to make one out of your ass-hairs and sticks?” Ray paused for breath. “You know what? I think there was a more-than-slight chance you were dropped on your head at birth so I’m going to forgive you.”
Trombley sighed. “It was just a suggestion.” Brad snorted.
He ran into Poke pacing back and forth at the edge of camp. “Nice night for it, dog,” Poke said with a grin.
Brad rolled his shoulders and didn’t reply. He looked up at the sky.
“I get nightmares sometimes now,” Poke said, gaze intent.
“This is all very nice. I get that sometimes Marines get a little confused, too many loud bangs near their ears and they think they’re at cotillion, where people share and care about things in between tea dances,” Brad said evenly. “However, I hope that I can disabuse you of this backwards notion and remind you of our current position in the most fucked-up place on earth.”
Poke laughed. “Don’t say that during your psych-eval.”
Poke shook his head, cast his eyes out over the entire camp and then said, “If you change your mind about this shit, you come talk to me.” He tossed Brad an ironic salute and then walked back to his vehicle. That was just great. If only he’d been so accosted in his youth, perhaps he never would’ve joined the marines and had to live through this sheer madness.
Brad never did get back to sleep. He was starting to feel like a sleep-deprived sex-charged zombie. A possibly maybe gay zombie. Oh what fun. This was so not what he signed up for.
His team was stretched out under their cammie nets and he was taking a bracing walk. He’d tried to do Rudy’s Zen thing earlier, but it seemed it simply wasn’t possible if he wasn’t going mach-5 on his bike on a sunny day. He’d sat there, mind blissfully blank for about a second and then he’d started thinking about the LT in ways he hadn’t even dreamed up yet. He’d never fought Nate for control in the dreams. He’d simply acquiesced. But what if he had? What would Nate have done? Would he have laughed and wrested it back? Would he have moaned, lost some of his cool by the reversal? Brad wanted to know.
“Brad, do you have a moment?” the LT called out, appearing around the corner of a vehicle. Brad started and tried not to let it show. He realized Nate was waiting for an answer and he slowly nodded. Nate’s lip quirked. He said, “Walk with me.”
They set out over a berm and got a suitable distance away, Brad wondering the whole while what this was about. Surely he hadn’t said anything out of turn, he’d have been NJPd for that. They stood in awkward silence, surveying what was surely the ass end of the universe. Finally the LT spoke.
“I hear you’ve been having nightmares,” he said, point blank.
Brad threw up his hands. “Christ, are you serious?”
Nate stared at him, expression impassive.
Brad turned and paced a few feet away. “No, sir, not that it’s anyone’s business, but I have not been having nightmares,” he said, annoyed.
“I believe we’ve all heard you experiencing some…distress at night—”
“Those are not nightmares, sir!” Brad whirled around. “They’re wet dreams!”
“I’m just trying to—” Nate’s eyes widened and he blushed. “Oh.”
“Yes, oh,” Brad replied, wanting desperately to cross his arms, but he had too much gear in the way.
Nate coughed. “Perhaps, you should uh—” he stopped, looking like he was searching for the right words, “…jerk off more.”
“Well, when I have a spare few moments to strip my dick raw, I promise to take care of it,” Brad replied dryly.
“Well I don’t know!” Nate snapped. “I don’t really…have that problem.”
Brad cocked his head. “Seriously?”
Nate chewed on his lip. “I mean I do…but I don’t really either.”
Brad stared at him, aware that his mouth was hanging open slightly. “Are you saying—?”
“No!” Nate replied, heatedly. “Occasionally, just…I’m so tired and…” he suddenly seemed to remember himself. “It’s unimportant.”
Brad shook his head. Nate was actually a monk. Brad had been right all along. The dreams were, in fact, completely incongruent with reality. It was…oddly disappointing. He looked over at Nate and found him staring off into the desert, looking mildly forlorn.
Well. Fuck that.
Brad ducked down and kissed him, nearly missing in his fervor. Nate’s mouth parted underneath his in shock and Brad took advantage of it. He pushed his tongue past Nate’s lips, running it just inside, tasting him. He was sure Nate was going to push him away, act embarrassed, say he wasn’t into that kind of thing, and really since when was Brad? But he didn’t. After a moment’s discombobulation where he couldn’t figure out what to put where, he jerked Brad to him bodily.
They fell together against the ground, wrestling for control even as they kissed and bit at each other. Nate tore at his uniform, fingernails glancing off the slick material, and Brad’s id had been totally right about him. Just as Brad thought he was running the show, Nate got a thigh between his legs and flipped them over. He slammed Brad’s palms to the ground.
“I’ve found that it’s not as good as the real thing,” he breathed and then pressed his thigh deliberately on Brad’s growing hardness. Brad moaned and arched back, déjà vu running through him so hard he thought he might have actually traveled through time.
“I don’t know, I’ve had some pretty amazing ideas,” he said raggedly.
Nate didn’t ask, he bent and caught Brad’s mouth again, pressed him back into the earth without care for whether he was comfortable. Nothing about it was sweet or tender. He was taking exactly what he wanted from Brad. It was a new phenomenon for him when he'd been relying on hookers and one-nighters for the past several years.
It took some work to shimmy their dicks out of their MOPP suits, but when Nate worked them free, there was no preamble. He braced himself above Brad with one hand, and held them together with the other palm, thrusting their dicks together to get that much needed friction.
“Oh, fuck,” Brad said. He could barely make out the shape of Nate’s body through his uniform, but he knew, as they all knew, that Nate had the roundest sweetest ass they’d ever laid eyes on. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching down and squeezing at the cheeks.
Nate laughed breathlessly, head bowed almost to Brad’s chest between his shoulders as he worked them. “Are you thinking about fucking it?” he said and flexed his buttocks.
“I hadn’t—but then I started having these really—oh shit—weird…dreams,” Brad jerked out, pressing his cheek to the ground, unable to look into Nate’s burning green eyes any longer.
Nate thrust against him hard, all his strength behind it. Brad shuddered, toes curling inside his boots. Nate was right though, even in the dessert, hot, dirty, and hungry, the real thing was better.
“You’re so—” Nate said and then cut himself off on a groan. He spilled into his fist, come slicking their dicks together. Nate kept thrusting upward in such a way that his cockhead punched just under the crown of Brad’s. Caught between Nate’s hand and his dick, he felt himself heading towards that weightless edge. He hooked a thigh around Nate’s leg and thrust up hard into his hand. Nate’s nose ghosted over his cheek and then his teeth closed around the lobe of Brad’s ear and that was it.
He blacked out. When he finally caught up with time again, Nate lay above him, weight angled to the side. He was staring down at Brad with no little amusement. “At least you don’t cry during sex,” Nate said, eyes crinkling.
“Oh fuck you,” Brad replied, knowing his cheeks were pink.
Nate smirked and said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, sergeant, but I hope you don’t have any more dreams.”
“Yeah?” Brad asked. They were still lying close together, and there was an amiability about it that Brad wasn’t sure their relationship had ever had. Perhaps this tension had been floating between them all along.
“Yeah, could turn out to be embarrassing for some people.” He rolled on to his back to lie flat next to Brad.
“Well, I’ll let you pretend it’s not true if I wake up the entire platoon shouting ‘LT is a total slut for my cock.’”
Okay, so I lied about the writer's block. Apparently I can't write anything of substance though.