hackthis_archive | GK – Two Ships Passing in the Night (Fick/Colbert, NC-17)

This was supposed to be a three line concept showing

alethialia that Brad could be convinced to catch instead of pitch as it were. It turned into five full comments of porn. Turns out five comments equals nine pages. Who knew?

Generation Kill
Fick/Colbert
Rated Porn. Yeah, no, nothing else.

Two Ships Passing in the Night

He starts whispering in Brad's ear because Brad's lying on his arm and he can't move. At first it's just a suggestion to move, a hint that Nate has no circulation in his fingers and Brad's fucking heavy, so can he fucking rollover.

Nate doesn't know when he starts confessing other things. You could waterboard Nathaniel Fick, Captain and ex-First Recon Marine and he wouldn't be able to say when his monologue turns pornographic.

Maybe this is what he's always been saying to Brad, and it was just censored for other ears.

It's the morning after the night before. It could be Singapore or Australia or Cambridge. It could a motel or a hotel or a dorm room. Maybe it's an apartment more than few blocks away from the Harvard campus; rent goes down the further you have to walk to reach your destination.

They're lying on the floor, surrounded by a cheap comforter, scratchy sheets and the destruction of yet another ruined room. They've gotten accustomed to things like this happening. At one point they carried extra cash for room service just to apologize for the mess they make.

The sun's just starting to come up, so the room is almost dark but not quite. The recirculated air is mixing a faint scent of mold with the smell of sex. It's not an expensive room, just four walls, a door and a bed. There's plenty of space for Nate to fill with words and sentences and rambling phrases, whole paragraphs about fucking Brad, about Brad ass, about Brad in camo and Brad playing with his laptops and running around open fields shirtless and flapping like a goddamn bird.

But Nate's being quiet. He really is. He can barely hear himself, and the only reason he knows he's verbalizing his desire to fuck Brad with his fingers is that Brad's hair is moving when the words leave his mouth.

Nate misses the exact moment when Brad's head moves, but he's pretty much plastered against Brad's back and he feels it when the blood comes rushing back to his fingers. Brad's awake.

Nate's thumb twitches and his mouth just runs on, talking about sucking Brad's cock, about how it feels when Brad's fucking his mouth, the shudders down his spine when Brad grabs his hair.

It's really fucking filthy.

Nate's dick is hard enough to be poking Brad in the ass, and when Brad shifts and rolls onto his back, finally freeing Nate's arm, Nate stops talking.

Spell over, night over, dirty talk time over.

Except that when Brad turns his head, he's got that smile on his face. The one that says, 'I know something about you, and I'm going to exploit it until you cry like a bitch.' Brad's eyes are lidded, and he's got creases on his face from the sheets and carpeting, but he's very much awake.

"Was that for my benefit or your own, sir?" he asks innocently. "Because if you're offering your own pornographic fantasies for my consideration, I might be inclined to make a selection."

Nate's had at least four hours of sleep. He can keep up with Brad Colbert. "I think about bending you over my adviser's desk," he says nonchalantly. His delivery is perfect, and it's perfectly punctuated by him rubbing his dick against Brad's hip.

Brad's smile twists into a smirk. "Continue," he says, reaching down and stroking Nate's cock lightly.

Nate's hips thrust forward; Brad's hand is warm and his fingers are lethal. "I think about spreading you and licking you, about leaving bruises when I hold your legs apart and you beg for more."

"Beg?" Brad stops stroking briefly. The incredulous inflection in his voice says it all.

Nate bites his bottom lip to cover the smile. "Stop screwing up my porn with reality."

"I trust you won't let your personal feelings affect your performance, sir," Brad mocks. "You were saying."

Nate licks his lips; Brad's thumb is doing this thing to the head of his cock that might make him howl, and his hips keep thrusting forward without consulting him. "I think about fucking you in my Diplomatic Policy class."

"Ah, diplomacy," Brad says wryly.

"You're on the professor's table, spread out, playing with yourself while I fuck you with my fingers."

Brad's hand stutters slightly in its rhythm on Nate's dick, and Nate's brain makes note of this. "All this school porn is making me think you're working too hard. You need a hobby."

Nate leans in close enough to see the lines crossing Brad's forehead. "I was fucking you all during the lecture about the Geneva Convention," he confesses. "You know, since no one's paying attention to that anymore anyway. You were so fucking tight it was obscene. Professor Green kept telling you to stop being so loud. Apparently you were disrupting the class."

Brad just raises an eyebrow. "You think I want you that badly?"

Nate stills Brad's hand on his cock. "I think you want me to fuck you that badly. I think you want my cock up your ass, pounding you into the sheets, making you want something for once so you can remember what it was like when things were unfucked."

Brad licks his lips. "You have a magic dick?"

"I think you should let me fuck you, so you can find out. You're not afraid are you?"

Yes, okay, Nate did that on purpose, because Brad's not afraid of anything. He's the Iceman. He is what people fear in the night, still...

Brad removes his hand from Nate's dick. "I don't get fucked, I do the fucking."

"Maybe you should see what makes everybody so happy to roll over for you then," Nate offers.

"I'm the Iceman," Brad says mockingly, "and what 'everybody'?"

"The 'everybody' I assume is rolling over for you."

"Well, there's you. And there's you. And that hooker eight months ago," Brad says, "so unless you built a cloning machine in your dorm room..."

Nate's going to let that quasi-monogamy comment go, because Brad's slowly pulling away and getting on all fours.

He didn't see that one coming. Civilian life has made him soft.

The window of time before Brad changes his mind is going to be really short. Like less than 30 seconds. Nate needs lube and condoms, which are somewhere on the floor -- and can wait, because Brad's looking over his shoulder at Nate like he needs to make a move or this isn't happening.

That took, like, maybe eight seconds.

Nate has no idea why he slaps Brad's ass, probably because it's there in front of him, and Jesus, does Brad have any idea what he looks like? Brad just raises an eyebrow. "You have all kinds of kinky shit you haven't told me about, don't you?"

Nate snorts. "You know Marines, we'll fuck anything."

Brad shakes his head to hide his smile, and when Nate sits back on his heels he can feel Brad watching him. He spreads the cheeks of Brad's ass with both hands and just looks.

Brad twitches when he rubs a finger down the crease, and when Nate glances up, along the line of Brad's back and that monstrosity of a tattoo, Brad's still watching him. Narrowed eyes, still face and parted lips.

Dear God that he's questionable about and that Brad doesn't believe in, please don't let him fuck this up.

Nate sucks on the index finger of his right hand and rubs the wet tip of his finger over Brad's entrance; Brad exhales softly. So Nate does it again. And then he replaces his finger with his tongue and Brad curses loudly.

Nate doesn't get to do this often –- read: ever -- so he's just going to act like he'll never get a second shot. He licks and sucks, flicking his tongue against that tight ring of muscle and pushing against the resistance he encounters. If he were into bragging he might think that Brad was moaning, but he can replay and edit this later.

He has to grip Brad's hips to keep him from completely shoving Nate off balance, and he only stops what he's doing when Brad nearly yanks out his hair.

He has to bat Brad's hand away so he can lift his head. Brad's body is in this impossibly awkward position, all that effort just to get Nate to back off. Interesting.

"Problem, Brad?" he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Brad blinks. "I missed the rimming part of this plan."

"Is that a problem? I didn't know this was a team exercise."

"I wouldn't call it a problem," Brad confesses.

"Am I doing it wrong?" Nate doesn't think he's doing it wrong; he's paid a lot of attention to Brad's technique, but who knows.

"You aren't doing it wrong; you can be assured of this."

"I can be assured of this?" Nate mocks.

Brad smirks. "Hitman Two Actual -- if you're going to fuck me on the professor's table, don't I need to be on my back? Sir."

Nate cocks his head to the side. "I stand corrected, Sergeant. On your back, now."

Brad nods, shifting onto his back, and if Nate were being observant he might say that Brad looks a little rattled. Or maybe just very relaxed. So noted.

Nate has to crawl over Brad to locate the lube, and then it turns out the condoms are somewhere under the bed, and when he crawls back out, Brad's lying on the floor with his legs sprawled out, stroking his dick and playing with his balls.

Nate will never see Diplomatic Policy the same way.

He kneels between Brad's legs, watching Brad watching him watching Brad's hands. In his distraction he puts way too much lube on his fingers, it drips on Brad's thigh, but better safe than getting cursed out. Brad just raises an eyebrow and rests his ankle on Nate's shoulder.

It's a good angle. It'll be even better when Nate -- Nate stops when Brad grabs his wrist. "I'm assuming the Thebans were all gay for a reason, don't prove me wrong."

Nate smirks as he shakes off Brad's hand. "We can discuss playing with spears and shields later, if you're still coherent."

"You think I would be--" Brad's words die off as Nate presses one finger against his entrance.

"If you can hold your breath for four minutes, you can do this," Nate promises. "Breathe."

Brad inhales once, exhales slowly and Nate's finger slides in a few inches. Jesus fuck, he knew Brad would be tight but this is... Nate waits for it, waits for Brad to exhale again, and then he moves his finger further in. In and out once, in and out twice.

Nate can see Brad assessing, pondering, Brad shifts his hips and his right eyebrow arches slightly. "Okay?" Nate asks.

Brad rolls his eyes. "Are you waiting on me? Why the hell -–" Nate pulls out, twists his finger and thrusts back in; Brad stops talking.

Nate watches. "Again," Brad demands after several moments.

So Nate does it again. Pull back, twist his hand slightly and back in. Soon Brad's hips are rising to meet his finger and his heel is digging into Nate's shoulder.

When Nate adds the second finger, Brad exhales slowly and then rests his other foot on Nate's shoulder. This would probably be difficult for anyone not as ridiculously tall as Brad. Instead, Nate only feels the pressure from Brad's ankle, since his ass is still resting on the floor.

Nate wraps his free hand around Brad's thigh; he can only assume this is a sign of approval since Brad's definitely not pulling away.

Brad's adjustment period has been just long enough to bring Nate's dick back to a waiting state, that state's going to be really brief if he keeps staring at his fingers disappearing inside Brad.

"Is this what happens in your dream?" Brad asks conversationally.

Nate can't believe he's supposed to be talking. He pauses and Brad tightens around his fingers. Jesus. "I think this might be better," Nate confesses. "My professor was too interested in your legs."

Brad's smile is way too broad, way too many teeth. He digs his heels into Nate's shoulders and thrusts forward. Nate curls his fingers so he doesn't lose his place and Brad's mouth falls open. "Huh."

Nate narrows his eyes and does it again, and Brad's mouth opens a little more. "You like that?"

"It's not--" If it were anybody else but Brad, Nate would say that's a groan. "Fuck."

Nate smiles as Brad pushes himself up on his elbows. "You've been holding out on me," Brad says, reaching down and grabbing Nate's wrist again.

Nate stares as Brad begins fucking himself with Nate's fingers, his brain giving up a little cry of surrender.

"I like it like this," Brad says, speeding up the rhythm. Nate should've known -- even when Brad's on the bottom, he's still on top.

Nate has to pry Brad's fingers off of his wrist to add the third finger. Things get really interesting when Brad takes his legs down from Nate's shoulders and puts his feet on the floor. He pushes upward, meeting Nate halfway; he's still fucking himself on Nate's fingers, it's just a new position. Still slick and hot and tight -- Nate's going to come just from watching Brad.

He can feel it.

It's so rare for him to see Brad actually enjoying something, well, something that doesn't involve wires, hookers or heavy artillery -- he's losing control of himself.

"I want to try something else," Nate says, withdrawing his fingers somewhat abruptly. Whoops.

Brad's eyes close for a moment, and when he opens them again his mouth thins into a disapproving line. Nate's pretty sure that if there were a gun around, Brad would shoot him. "Don't stop all of a sudden on my account," Brad snarks. "It's not as though I was enjoying myself."

Nate crawls on top of Brad, his cock dragging along Brad's stomach. "I have plans to unfuck the situation."

If Brad did sullen, his lower lip might be jutting out, but Brad doesn't do that. "You're going to be unfucking me in a minute," he gripes instead.

"I always wanted to fuck you in a Humvee," Nate says conversationally. "One of the open top ones, so there'd be something to hang on to. Do you think that would work? I think you're probably too tall."

"You want to fuck me," Brad says dryly. "I get the point."

"I used to think about leaving marks all over you," Nate carries on as though Brad hasn't interrupted. "Scratches, hickeys, bruises--"

When Brad snorts, his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Hickeys?"

Nate shrugs, he can feel the head of his cock brushing along Brad's skin. When he glances down there are streaks of pre-come on Brad's stomach.

Brad follows Nate's eyes and then looks back at him. "You really are kinky, aren't you?"

"I try."

"You succeed."

"Do you do this with your hookers?"

"Why? Are you charging by the hour?"

Nate laughs loudly, lowering his head to Brad's chest for a minute. When he looks back up, Brad's smiling at him. Yeah, okay. "Hands and knees, Brad."

Brad sighs loudly as he moves out from underneath Nate. "First, I'm on my knees, and then I'm on my back, and then I'm back on my knees. Nate, your navigational skills scream commissioned Marine officer."

Nate chuckles as he sits back on his heels. "I'm just doing my recon," he says, scrabbling for the condoms. "You wouldn't want us to be Oscar Mike without learning the terrain would you?" he asks, ripping the foil and rolling the condom on.

Brad settles on hands and knees as Nate grabs the lube one last time and slicks himself. "It would be a shame to deviate from the Corps norm." Brad's delivery is perfectly sardonic.

"Must be why I'm not a Marine anymore," Nate says ruefully. He rubs his still-slick thumb against Brad's entrance one more time, Brad tenses and then visibly relaxes.

"No, you're not a Marine because --" Brad pauses mid-sentence when Nate grabs his hips and tugs him back. Brad's too big for Nate to just drag wherever he wants, but he can direct him pretty well.

He can feel Brad tense up when Nate's cock presses against his ass. "Four minutes," he reminds Brad, rubbing the small of his back, his fingers stroking the outline of the tattoo. "One titty bar, two titty bars, three titty bars," he counts. Brad snorts, exhaling loudly and slowly relaxing as Nate drives forward.

Nate's not expecting Brad to just open up for him. He's really not. So when he does, Nate's kind of taken off-guard. He winds up halfway inside Brad, pretty sure he's not going to last at all, which would be a shame considering he made it this far.

He finds himself stroking Brad's spine to calm himself as much as to soothe Brad. Brad's back is this broad expanse of skin and Nate drapes himself along it, rubbing his forehead against Brad's shoulder blade and trying very hard not to move.

"Not to be gay or anything, but you're pretty fucking hot," he says against Brad's trapezius muscle.

He can feel it everywhere when Brad chuckles. "You're worried about being gay now?"

"Not really, no," Nate says, readjusting and sliding further in, "but it fucking worked, didn't it?" When Brad tosses a glare over his shoulder, Nate just grins.

"Are you some Delta retard who can't take an order or are you going to fuck me?" Brad demands. Nate pulls back, thrusts in and waits. He's going to do this right. He is not going to –- he reaches down to yank on his balls, because he is really not going to last.

Brad's forehead wrinkles in profile. "Wrong angle, more to the right."

"Yes, sir." Nate makes his adjustments.

He thrusts forward again, and Brad's entire face goes slack. "Ah."

Nate bites his lip and does it again, and Brad's face twists into this strange mixture of pleasure and confusion, like he's not sure if he's allowed to like this.

"Stop watching me," Nate says. "That wasn't in the plan."

Brad snorts, turning back towards the wall, but his snort turns into a cough when Nate pulls back and thrust in harder. "Plan?" Brad mocks after a moment. "By your estimation, all you do is think about fucking me, it's a wonder you remember your own name."

Nate's reply is to grip Brad's hips and begin moving, first slow and then faster. He watches Brad closely for signs of, well, anything, the muscles unbunching in his back, the way he stops looking ahead and lets his neck relax...

The slap of skin-on-skin becomes audible, but so does the breathing, Nate can hear Brad breathing in and out, it's labored and deep, and when Nate leans down to wrap his hand around Brad's cock, Brad groans loudly.

"My name is Nate Fick, Brad," he says, stroking Brad's dick furiously and totally throwing off his own rhythm. "You're not going to forget it."

He's thrown off-guard even more when Brad reaches back, grabs his ass and pulls forward. He couldn't really say how they end upright on their knees -- it has to be some over-correction so they don't both end up eating the carpet -- but there it is: Brad sitting back mostly on Nate's thighs, with Nate buried in Brad's ass, one hand across Brad's chest and the other stroking Brad's dick.

And then Brad starts to move, thrusting up into Nate's fist and rocking back onto his dick. Nate just holds on and let's Brad use his body however he wants. There's no sex dream that can compare with the sweaty, slick, dirty real thing.

Brad's panting is impossibly loud in Nate's ears; it seeps down into his brain and Nate's sure he won't hear anything else ever again. It could be worse.

Brad's torso is so long than Nate ends up mouthing his back, and when Brad's hand clamps down on the hand Nate's using to jerk him off, Nate can feel his bones protest. He can also feel it when Brad tightens around his cock; his vision gets fuzzy around the edges.

Brad comes on Nate's fingers and the grip of death dies off enough that Nate can free his hand. He smears semen on Brad's chest, pulling him back and thrusting up, one, two, three more times before he comes.

Every muscle in Nate's body cramps up as he sort of rolls them both to the side. If this were any other time, Nate probably wouldn't be able to do this -- Brad is not a 130 lb. woman, moving him is work.

There are a couple of quietish moments punctuated by the grunts of Nate pulling out, removing the condom and then slowly (very slowly) getting to his feet and getting a wet cloth from the bathroom. When he comes back, Brad's pulled himself up on the bed. He's lying on his back and he doesn't even lift his head when Nate sits beside him and wipes him down perfunctorily.

Nate's just seeing to himself when Brad grabs his arm and yanks him down on the bed. "Stop moving so much," he says irritably, "you're ruining my post-coital glow."

Nate scoffs as he tosses the washcloth somewhere that isn't on the bed. "Your post-coital glow?" he says, settling on his stomach. Brad's sprawled out next to him, arms and legs everywhere.

"The situation has temporarily been unfucked," Brad says, "I'm trying to enjoy it."

"Just temporarily?"

Brad turns his head and eyes Nate. "Turns out your miracle dick does work miracles. I bet you could sell that in Iraq."

"I'd rather not," Nate says dryly.

"Yeah, I'm not really partial to sharing anyway."

"So, it's a win-win situation all around."

Brad turns on his side, slinging an arm low on Nate's waist. "I have been assured of this," he says before closing his eyes.

-end-

Thanks to

thisisbone and

sparky77 for encouragement of the 'Guh!' variety. Title from a line in 'The Hustler.' Bless you, Paul Newman.

alethialia don't ever complain I don't give you porn EVER again.