hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2009-03-06 08:34 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2009-03-06 08:34 am
Entry tags:
Generation Kill AU - The Road Not Taken (Nate/Brad, NC-17, 3/3)
Part I
Part II
The Road Not Taken
Nate sends an e-mail canceling Tuesday class so they can work on their papers, and on Thursday he shows up early to write that day's instructions on the board.
And then he sits down at his desk with the black coffee he picked up from the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, and waits.
One by one the guys trickle in and offer Nate sullen smiles until they see the instructions on the board and then the smiles become less sulky and much more enthusiastic. Rudy gets as far as sitting down at his desk before he reads what's on the board.
Ray and Walt are bickering when they walk in and only pause in their bickering long enough to realize no one else is there. When they look at Nate, he points at the board behind him.
When Ray hands in his paper, Nate gives him a very sharp smile. "I'm looking forward to reading your paper, Ray. Especially since you're responsible for all this work."
Walt snickers, but Ray just puffs out his chest. "Sir, this is the paper other trailer park papers aspire to be while they're sucking on their mama's tits. This paper is the paper that other papers give hummers to. This paper is the motherfucking paper to end all papers. This paper --"
"Is probably going to put you to sleep," Brad says, interrupting the conversation from behind Walt and Ray.
He's wearing his glasses, again, but Nate's body has finally learned to cope. It probably helps that he's wearing his own reading glasses; at least he assumes it does since Brad raises his left eyebrow very high when Nate smiles at him.
"You're going to love my paper," Ray insists as Walt drags him out of the classroom. "I'll be waiting for your worship of my paper, sir!"
Nate chuckles to himself as he places Ray’s and Walt's papers with the rest and then looks up at Brad. "You have something for me, I assume?"
Brad graces him with that predator grin. "You know that I do," he says in a low tone. "But I assume you want the paper instead."
Nate shakes his head. "I walked right into that, I admit it," he says, holding out his hand for the paper.
He's startled by how heavy the paper is when Brad hands it over, so startled that he starts flipping through it immediately. "Brad, this -– this is way more than 15 pages. This is... Thirty-two pages, Brad?
Brad shrugs nonchalantly, which would work if Nate thought that Brad had ever done anything nonchalantly in his life. "I found the topic interesting."
Nate shakes his head. "This is too much. I can't measure your paper against everyone else's."
Brad puts his hands on the desk and leans down. "So don't measure it against everyone else," he says quietly. "Take it on its own merits."
Brad's eyes seem very soft behind the lenses of his glasses, and Nate can feel the flush rising in his face. He doesn't think they're talking about the paper anymore.
Nate used to grade his papers in bed, but in his first year teaching he fell asleep and there was an accident with green pen, the sheets and his glasses imprinting on his face. Now he tries to keep all papers out of the bedroom, or at least out of the bed and in the leather armchair in the corner. Tonight, he gets started in the kitchen while he's waiting for the water to boil for his pasta. He opens his briefcase and pulls out the first paper, which belongs to Ray.
Nate just shakes his head, pulls a beer out of the refrigerator and grabs a pen from the junk drawer.
Nate likes to grade his papers in green pen instead of red. There's something about the red that seems too harsh, but he thinks about using the red pen just for Ray's paper, or he would if he could find something bad to say about Ray's paper upon first skim. Unfortunately, this paper is consistently thought out, researched and incredibly well-written.
It kills Nate to say it, but some people are just good with words, and Ray never ceases to amaze Nate. Ray pays no attention in class, unless he's throwing things at Walt or staring at Rudy, but when it comes time to perform, Ray's execution is practically flawless, although Ray seems to be at war with commas and Nate's not sure who's winning.
After Ray's paper, Nate takes a break to eat, and then goes back into the fray. Teren's paper, Chaffin's paper, Rudy's paper, which is unsurprisingly all about Greco-Roman wrestling. And then he gets to Brad's paper, which is a sprawling epic about men and the men who love them. Alexander and Hephaestion. The Theban Band. Patroclus and Achilles.
Nate's going to need a drink to finish this one.
It turns out Nate needs several drinks to finish Brad's paper.
Nate's in the office that Sunday. He's taken Ripley running three times in two days, and he thinks he's finally burned off the sexual frustration. It's also possible that one of his toenails is going to come off; he hasn't run like this since he was considering joining the Marines.
He's finished grading the papers, but he doesn't know what to do about Brad – the paper is far past an A. He couldn't give it anything else, the historical accuracy alone is the sort of thing people do for their thesis. Nate can't imagine the time Brad's spent on it, but the paper itself is just indicative of a larger problem. A 6'4 retired-Marine sized problem.
Nate's checking his gmail, and when a message pops up from brad.colbert@gmail.com he instinctively opens it before his brain has a moment to call him a fucking idiot.
As soon as Nate's heart climbs out of his throat, and he thanks that same deity he doesn’t believe in that Brad didn't send this to his work e-mail, he replies back.
Nate shuts down his email, and prays he doesn't lose his job because of IT monitoring, but then his IM pops up.
Iceman11: : you never answered my question
NFick0930: Brad?
Iceman11: : Nate
Iceman11: : you never answered my question.
NFick0930: It's too late for you to drop my class, we went over this
Iceman11: : I can take the incomplete.
NFick0930: I just graded your paper!
Iceman11: : did I get an A?
NFick0930: no.
Iceman11: : Liar
NFick0930: I'm your teacher; you can't call me a liar
Iceman11: : You're only a teacher if you teach me something I don't know.
NFick0930: You are the most insolent student ever.
Iceman11: : You know, corporal punishment used to be all the rage when students were bad
NFick0930: We're not having this conversation
Iceman11: : I've been bad, haven't i?
Iceman11: : What are your thoughts on spanking?
NFick0930: Brad, please
Iceman11: : The next time you say that, I hope we're naked
[NFick0930 has signed off]
Nate is supposed to be appalled and annoyed, and perhaps a little concerned about Brad's apparent ability to track him down wherever he is. Maybe he should be more worried that he's flattered by the attention. Damn. He needs to go for another run.
He doesn't need all of his toenails anyway.
The walk from Mattis to his apartment doesn't seem as long today, and Nate's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. The way his toes are complaining in the confines of his loafers it's probably a good thing, but he's found all new reserves of energy that he needs to burn off and that can only end badly at this point.
He doesn't need to hobble into class on Tuesday.
He should probably call up Mike and Eric and see if they want to drink. Maybe Tara will take pity on him and invite him over for dinner and cook one of those Death By Chocolate cakes that she's famous for. Maybe he should just go home, jerk off and sleep for a couple hours.
When he rounds the corner of his building, he can see Ripley bounding around eagerly on her leash. Mrs. Gonzales is wearing an orange muumuu and talking to someone obscured by the hedges, and then Ripley barks in greeting and Nate grins.
"Hi, sweetheart," he says, bending down to scratch behind her ears.
Mrs. Gonzales's greeting is drowned out by the only person who says, "Hi, Nate," like it's a sex invite. Nate's eyes start at the worn blue and yellow Asics and slowly move up the long legs, the perfect ass – Jesus, do all of Brad's shirts fall short of his jeans on purpose?
Maybe he's hallucinating.
Nate stands up and is met by the smirk twisting the corners of Brad's mouth and Mrs. Gonzales's brown eyes watching him inquisitively. "Nathaniel, you've been keeping your friend waiting. That is no way to behave."
"Mrs. Gonzales was just telling me how Ripley's named for Sigourney Weaver in Aliens," Brad says genially.
Nate isn't fooled. "He's not bothering you, is he?" he says, giving Brad a disapproving look, which Brad totally ignores.
There's a moment of silence as Nate glares at Brad and Brad just smirks, and then Mrs. Gonzales clears her throat. "Brad is lovely, but my Ripley, she is lovelier and I must take her for a walk now," she says, standing up to her full four-foot eleven height.
"I hope to see you again," she calls as she leads Ripley away, leaving Nate with Brad.
Nate watches her until she's at the end of the block, and when he turns back, Brad's still there, because of course Brad is still there. Where else would he be but near Nate, confusing Nate's hormones and ratcheting up the sexual tension to untenable levels.
It's possible Nate's feeling a little high-strung at the moment.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, digging in his briefcase for his keys.
"I wanted to see you."
Brad's tone is very clear. There's no mistaking his words, and Nate's fingers fumble his keys. "You just saw me on Thursday," Nate says.
"That's not the same thing," Brad says.
Nate manages to get a hold of his keys. "How did you figure out where I live?"
Brad's smile is small, amused. "Recon Marine, it's what I do."
"Used to do," Nate corrects.
"I'll be a Marine until the day I die," Brad says. "I'd thought that was going to be in the fucking desert, but apparently I'll just die from old age and the socialists ruining the country."
Nate narrows his eyes, flipping through his keys. "Doesn't the Corps frown on obsessive behavior?" he says opening the safety door to the complex and walking inside.
"Where do you think I learned this in the first place?" Brad quips.
Nate shakes his head, bypassing his mailbox.
A voice very helpfully points out that Brad is following him. The same voice very helpfully also points out that Nate probably has lube and condoms in his apartment and isn't that great.
No, that is not great.
Nate pauses on the stairs, and yes, Brad is right behind him, staring at his ass. "I don't know what you think is happening, but it's not happening."
Brad is very slow to stop looking at Nate's ass and make eye contact. "So, send me away," he says.
Nate exhales through his nose. "Brad, no," he says, and he keeps walking up the stairs to his apartment. It would help if he knew what he was saying 'no' to.
All the way to his apartment, Nate can feel Brad behind him. He can't hear him, but he knows here's there. He tries one last time outside of his apartment, fumbling his keys again before he manages to get the door open.
He turns back around and Brad's watching him expectantly, clearly waiting for something. "Brad," Nate tries. As far as attempts to get rid of somebody go it's lacking a certain resolve. Or any resolve for that matter.
Brad steps forward, a hand on the doorframe that puts him well within kissing distance if Nate were so inclined. "Send me away. If you really want me to go, I will."
And Nate means to say something, he knows he does. Instead he finds himself with a fistful of Brad's tee shirt, his fingernails digging in so hard, he can feel the material ripping in his grasp.
They both look down at where Nate's managed to tear Brad's shirt away from the collar, and then Brad's smirking at him. "Nice."
Nate rests his head on Brad's shoulder for a moment, rubbing his forehead against Brad's shirt, inhaling Brad and cotton and deodorant because he's tired and horny and kind of desperately in love with some guy he spent 13 hours with ten years ago, and it's only when Brad's fingers stroke the nape of his neck, that he pulls back.
Nate's tug on Brad's shirt is gentle, and Brad leans in with a smile on his face.
"You win," Nate says wryly. "Are you happy now?"
"I'm ecstatic," Brad says, the words spilling into Nate's mouth, and then Brad's kissing him or he's kissing Brad, and it doesn't really matter, because Brad's backing him through the door, both hands on his ass. The door slams shut behind them.
His fingers tangle in Brad's hair as he kisses him, long, brain-destroying kisses with no air, and short hard kisses that leave his mouth feeling bruised. Brad bites, stinging nips at Nate's neck and his jaw as Nate's hands slide down Brad's back and under his shirt. He very deliberately drags his nails down Brad's back, feeling Brad arch against him, his cock an insistent press against Nate's hip.
Brad's hands are on his ass, groping, kneading, and then Brad's hands are trying to get inside his jeans. The tips of his fingers slide under Nate's briefs and brush along the crack of Nate's ass, and then he's being lifted and dropped on his kitchen table with an almighty crash. It's a wonder the table doesn't break and send them both onto the floor. It may be a cheap table, but clearly it's sturdy.
Nate flounders, shoving the salt and pepper off the table as he tries to push himself up even with Brad's hand holding him down. "Just like that," Brad says, dragging his hand down Nate's chest and giving Nate's cock a quick squeeze through his jeans, before standing upright. Nate keeps Brad close by hooking a leg around his waist.
Brad shoots him a promising grin before grabbing the hem of his own shirt and pulling it over his head. He’s still pulling his shirt off when Nate sits up, cups Brad's face in his hands and kisses him, licking at Brad's mouth and sucking on his lower lip.
Brad makes a noise, and Nate moans in appreciation, especially when Brad's hands go back to his ass and pull him forward into the juncture of his thighs.
Nate humps against Brad shamelessly, rolling his hips upwards and against the hardness there, grinding himself between Brad, the table and Brad's hands on his ass. Brad's fingers rub the seam of Nate's jeans, right at the crease of his ass, which Nate encourages as much as possible, vocally disapproving when Brad pulls away.
"You still make those sounds," Brad says with something akin to awe, shifting his hands under Nate's shirt and trying to pull it over Nate's head.
When Nate's shirt has been disposed of, Brad stares at him. "I can't believe you still sound like that," he says, rubbing Nate's mouth with his thumb. "God, do you know how many combat jacks I had about the noises you make?"
Nate parts his lips and Brad slides his thumb inside. Nate licks at Brad's thumb, wrapping his tongue around it, closing his teeth down softly when Brad slides his thumb out and then back in.
Brad's eyes are dark as he fucks Nate's mouth with his hand, and Nate makes another encouraging noise, which leads to Brad pulling his hand away and slamming Nate back on the table to kiss him senseless.
One minute Nate has brain cells and the next Brad's sucking them all away. When Brad finally deigns to let him breathe, Nate just stares up at the fake Tiffany lamp that hangs over the kitchen table. Seconds later he's being liberated from his shoes and socks, and Brad's fingers are at the waistband of his jeans and Nate scoots back to put his feet on the table and lift his hips.
The wood is cold under his ass as Brad strips him bare. It's like the first time they were together, Brad unwrapping him while Nate's trying to keep up, and Nate feels like he's come a lot further than this. Which he has. This is why he pushes himself upright and launches himself at Brad, which sends them staggering for the 4.8 seconds it takes for Nate to get Brad against the nearest wall.
When they slam into the plaster, Brad's grin is all wry amusement. "Was there a problem?"
Nate's reply is to bite at Brad's collarbone, to flick his tongue at Brad's left nipple, to mouth along Brad's ribs until he's on his knees before Brad. "You sit in my classes with your legs spread out, and it's a wonder I manage to get anything done," Nate bitches, viciously unbuttoning Brad's jeans and then stopping to remove his socks and shoes.
He glances up when Brad tugs on his hair. "I think about sucking you off while you're lecturing," Brad says agreeably.
Nate sighs, hooking his fingers into Brad's jeans and pulling them down around his ankles. "The glasses," Nate complains. "I will hate you forever for the glasses."
"I've noticed you like those," Brad says, hips arching forward as Nate rubs his hand over the obvious bulge in Brad's briefs.
"It's the incongruity," Nate says, his thumb rubbing at the obvious wet spot. "Tough, kick-ass Marine in geek glasses. It's just cruel."
Brad huffs a breath. "You mean like what you're doing right now?" he says grabbing Nate by the hair again and dragging him upwards.
Nate's grin is all teeth, but it disappears when Brad kisses him again, his fingers curling around Nate's skull as his tongue fucks Nate's mouth.
He slips his hand inside Brad's briefs and is greeted with warm, damp heat and slick, hot skin. Brad groans loudly into their kiss. "Fuck, Nate, yes." Brad's 'yes' is sibilant, and Nate mouths at Brad's neck as he jerks him off.
"So fucking hot," he grits out. "I wanted -–"
"What did you want?" Brad prompts.
Nate slides back down to his knees and shows Brad exactly what he wanted, what he still wants, what he's going to take. He pulls Brad's briefs down to his ankles, wraps his mouth around Brad's cock and sucks wetly, obscenely, his tongue pressing at the sensitive underside and his mouth sliding along the length until Brad's pushing him away.
"I wasn't done," Nate says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, annoyance flaring under his skin until Brad crouches down and pushes him onto his back.
"I don't know what you mean by 'done'," Brad says, crawling over him, wrapping his hand around Nate's cock and giving him a long, wicked stroke. "We're just getting started."
And then Nate's being spread out and sucked down, and Brad's mouth is even better than he remembers.
In fact, the reality is so much better than the memory, it's almost an insult to the reality.
The fact that Nate wakes up naked and face-down on his living room floor would be less troublesome if he could remember having fallen asleep in the first place.
He remembers the part with Brad, and he remembers the part where Brad sucked him off so hard that Nate would've had a concussion if they hadn't been on the carpeting, and Nate remembers the –
"You're awake." Nate turns his head to the side to see Brad lying next to him, and his skin prickles when Brad's fingers stroke along his spine. His skin is tight and itchy, he probably has rug burn, but his cock is hard and that takes precedence.
He knows this is the awkward part, or at least it should be, but he leans in for Brad's kiss anyway, pushing himself up on his hands and knees to straddle Brad and then groaning when Brad's hand wraps around his cock.
"I'm going to fuck you now," Brad says against his mouth as Nate pushes into the circle of his hand.
Nate makes a sound of agreement, which becomes a whimper of protest when Brad's hand goes away. He sits up enough to see Brad slicking his hands with the contents of a small foil packet. "You came prepared?" he says in disbelief. Clearly Brad's been lying in wait all this time.
Brad grins at him. "Marines bring their own."
Nate means to say something else, but then Brad's urging him up onto his knees and there's a cool finger rubbing against his entrance and words are kind of unimportant.
Brad seems much more interested in prep than Nate, and Nate has to grab Brad's wrist and order him to add another finger and then another, and then Nate's fucking himself with Brad's fingers and he's got another hand on his cock and he is perfectly fucking happy and they should stay here and do this forever.
He's very unhappy when Brad takes his fingers away, but then Nate's being rolled onto his back, and Brad's looming over him, putting on a condom and talking about how he thought about fucking him in Iraq. All the time.
"All the time?" Nate queries.
Brad pushes Nate's knees apart and up. "All the time," he verifies, rubbing his cock against Nate's entrance.
"There had to be someone else," Nate insists. "A girlfriend, a boyfriend. "
Brad's lips thin into a rueful smile. "I had a girlfriend a long time ago. I'd even planned to marry her one day, but she ran off with my best friend after I told her I'd taken to fucking Ivy League students with cocksucker mouths."
Nate's mouth falls open at the same time that Brad pushes inside him, and then Brad's fucking him, kissing him. It's intimate and close and Nate really could stay like this forever.
They spend Monday inside, fucking, drinking beer and talking about things that aren't relevant now, but that were pretty important in the past ten years. They never quite get to the bedroom, but Nate goes there at one point to retrieve supplies. They end up staining Nate's sofa with all sorts of things, and he puts nail gauges in the soft green material, which he didn't even know was possible.
By the start of Tuesday's class, Nate's skin is so tight with rug burn he can hardly move. He can feel the class' eyes on him as he stands before the blackboard and tries to sort through the lesson plan, but all the words are blurry. It's possible Nate just gave up his career for a fuck. Or a series of fucks. Jesus Christ.
When he turns back around, Ray is grinning at him like he knows something incredibly amusing – but that's just Ray. Walt, Poke and Rudy always pay attention, but even Trombley's staring at him and he doesn't need this right now. Not with Brad sprawled out in his front seat, chewing on a pen with that 'I am immeasurably pleased with myself' smile on his face.
So, maybe it wasn't just a fuck, but Nate's not sure if that’s better or worse, and right now he needs to reassess the situation.
He gives the class a halfhearted smile. "Due to my complete inability to focus, we're going to call today a wash. Go home, watch Apocalypse Now, and come to class on Thursday ready to talk about how crazy is too crazy if you really are committed to what you're doing."
"YES!" Trombley hollers, pumping his fist in the air. "Finally, we get some."
"Trombley, did the admissions officers know you were a psycho?" Poke says, as everyone's gathering their books. "I think they have policies about letting nutjobs into school now."
"What about our papers?" Ray asks.
"Ray, we all know your inbred illiterate ass failed," Brad retorts, "leave the man alone."
Nate just shakes his head. Their papers are in his bag, but he can't deal with that right now. "I'll have them for you on Thursday, Ray."
Walt shakes his head, shooting Nate a smile before he follows Ray and Gabe out of the room. Nate's weak smile lasts until everyone's left. Even Brad.
Nate's in his office, behind a closed door, ignoring his sister's flashing Instant Messages in favor of staring at the last of the vodka that he's borrowed from Mike. Although 'borrowed' might not be the term for it since he walked into Mike's office as Mike was leaving to teach a class, brushed past him, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took the vodka, put it in his bag and told a rather bemused Mike, "I'll get us a new bottle tomorrow."
When there's a knock at his door, Nate rolls his eyes. "Come back tomorrow, I'm a little busy right now."
This doesn't stop Brad from barging in though.
"I knew I should've locked that door," Nate sighs.
Brad frowns, shutting the door behind him. "You okay?" he says, gesturing to the bottle on Nate's desk.
"My skin’s so tight it can hardly move, and I think I just ruined my career to fuck some guy I had a crush on ten years ago," Nate snaps. "Ask me again if I'm okay."
Brad's face is totally blank, but his eyes, there's something strange there. "You think you ruined your career to fuck some random guy?" he says.
Nate narrows his eyes. "No, not some random guy. You."
Brad crosses his arms. "You think I ruined your career."
Nate scoffs. "Isn't that what happens when teachers have sex with their students?"
Brad shakes his head. "Nate, it may have escaped your notice, but I'm 35. I'm not anybody's student anymore."
"I'm 31, but I'm still your teacher," Nate says, glaring at the bottle of vodka. "It's all my fault."
He's just reaching for the vodka when Brad snatches it away. "Answer the question: do you think I ruined your career?"
This time Nate glares at Brad. "Do I think wanting you probably just ruined my career? Absolutely. Thank God I didn't join the Marines; I'm sure they would've loved this."
Brad's smiling. He's got the vodka bottle by the neck and he looks like sin in the flesh. Oh, wait, Nate's committed this particular sin. "Do you have any idea what I want to do to you right now?" Brad says.
"I can't do this," Nate says, getting to his feet. His chair bangs loudly against the wall behind him, and the Milton he uses to prop open his window falls out and the window slams shut.
Brad looks slightly taken aback. Nate's had enough.
"I have to go," he says, grabbing his briefcase and leaving Brad in his office.
He doesn't bother picking up Ripley when he goes home to change for his run. He just pulls on his clothes and his sneakers and takes off. The sun has set by the time he comes back, and his feet are complaining all over again, but his brain is quiet, except for the occasional pornographic flashback, so it'll have to do.
He's so sweaty that he strips all of his clothes off by the front door and then stalks down the hall to the shower. There's something prickling in the back of his mind as he washes, but Nate ignores it in favor of jerking off once and washing his hair twice.
Eventually, the water turns cold, and he gets out of the shower, wraps a towel around his waist and goes into the bedroom to change.
He turns on the ceiling light, opens the drawer to pull out some clothes and nearly has a heart attack when he glances in the mirror and realizes he's not alone. "Jesus Christ, Brad!" he says, turning towards the armchair in the corner.
Brad's not smiling. In fact, Nate would call Brad's expression 'seriously displeased'. This can't possibly end well. "You have this very irritating habit of walking away when I'm not done talking to you," Brad says, getting to his feet. "We need to work on that."
Nate rubs his face, pushing damp hair behind his ears. "How the hell did you get in here –- why am I even asking?"
Brad's in Nate's bedroom.
Brad's in Nate's bedroom barefoot.
It would help if Nate could stop fixating on Brad's bare feet and start focusing on the way Brad's striding across the room towards him. "We didn't make it in here last time," Brad says conversationally. "We need to work on that."
"No, we don't need to work on that," Nate retorts, grabbing a tee shirt.
He unfolds the shirt to put it on, but then Brad's in his space, snatching the shirt out of Nate's fingers and backing him up until the back of Nate's knees hit something hard.
And then there's something cold around his right wrist followed in quick succession by two clicks and Nate looks from his wrist to Brad and then back. "Handcuffs, Brad. Really? "
"Desperate measures, sir."
"Stop calling me 'sir'," Nate complains. "This isn't the military."
Brad just smiles, tugging on Nate's wrist to make sure the handcuffs are fastened. "You're right about that," he agrees.
Nate looks from Brad to the handcuffs for the third time and realizes what's happened.
"You've handcuffed me to my bed," he says, in amazement. "This is just – do you know how far past acceptable this is?"
Brad leans in, brushing against Nate as he sets a tiny key on the nightstand by Nate's knee. "I just wanted your attention," he says, sitting down on the bed. "You can take them off anytime you want and I won't stop you."
Nate eyeballs the key. He needs to put a stop to this. "In my opinion, though," Brad carries on, "I think we went past acceptable when I had my cock up your ass and left that mark on your neck."
Nate stares. "What mark on my neck?"
Brad's mouth forms a little 'o' before he pushes off the bed and man-handles Nate just enough so Nate can see his back in his bedroom mirror. His skin is red and angry with rug burn and there are a few scratches and… there it is, a red bite mark right on the back of his neck. It probably perfectly matches Brad's bite radius.
Nate bangs his head against the wall between the nightstand and the bed. "This is what everybody was smiling about in class, isn't it?"
Brad's hand is warm when it smooths down the back of Nate's skull. "Probably."
"You cannot possibly be worth all this trouble."
"Probably not," Brad agrees.
Nate just sighs and closes his eyes, but he startles when a warm tongue licks along his shoulder blade. "Brad?"
"You're still wet from your shower." Brad's mouth comes to rest on Nate's shoulder.
Nate makes a noncommittal noise. Not just going to hell, but in hell now. There's a lot more sex than he thought there would be.
And then Brad's body is pressing against Nate's back, his arm around Nate's waist and Nate just laughs dryly. "At least I can say the sex was worth it."
Nate shivers when Brad's mouth brushes against his ear. "It's never occurred to you that I'm here for you, did it?"
Nate would verbalize an answer, but apparently he doesn't have one.
And then Brad's moving around him, tee shirt rubbing against Nate's arm and his ribs, handcuff rattling as Brad presses Nate against the wall. Nate twitches; the paint is cold against his back and calves.
"You're very smart, Professor Fick," Brad says with a smile. "But sometimes you don't get it at all."
Nate just rolls his eyes. "I've been handcuffed to my bed by the most brilliant, sex-crazed student I've ever come across, who was once a Recon Marine who convinced me not to join the Corps by fucking me so hard I couldn't even walk the next day. And now I'm seriously thinking I'm about to screw up my career over a piece of ass, albeit a very nice one? There's some poetic justice here that Ray would love."
Brad's grin is utterly brilliant. And utterly ruthless. "Well, if you're looking for a new career, you might be too old to join the Corps, but I know some people who could probably help you out anyway," he says knowingly.
"Oh, now you want me to join."
"I just didn't want you there when I was there, you would've distracted me."
"You are unfuckingbelievable," Nate complains.
"I was being altruistic. You know what Ray says about sex and war, it'd be a shame if I blew up an entire country because you got a paper cut."
"Brad."
"But back to that part where I'm brilliant," Brad says, pulling his shirt over his head.
Nate may have to reconsider what hell has to offer.
Brad's still talking. Right. "I could've gone to Cal-fucking-Tech, Nate. Did you know that?"
Nat blinks at Brad. "No, I – we didn't talk in depth about our intelligence the last time I saw you."
"I'm smart," Brad says. "Just in case you didn't know."
"I've figured that out," Nate says, pressing himself further into the wall as Brad steps forward and brackets him in.
Brad nods before leaning in and brushing his mouth against Nate's forehead, his temple, his ear. "I'm very smart," Brad says. "I'm so smart that I came here instead of taking Cal Tech's full ride, because I found out you were here."
Brad's mouth is brushing along Nate's jaw now. Nate's heart is hammering in his chest, and his towel is starting to chafe against his dick. "You heard I was here?" Nate hopes his voice isn't as pitchy as he thinks it is. "How the hell did you hear that?"
"The internet is an amazing thing," Brad says solemnly, pulling back slightly. Nate's entire body disapproves of this, but Brad's mouth just twists in a wry smirk.
"Why the hell are you here anyway? Dartmouth grads can do anything anywhere, teach anywhere. You could at least be at UCLA," Brad scolds. "I thought I told you to go to Washington to change the world."
"Yes, because I always listen to you," Nate mocks.
Brad shrugs. "It worked once."
Nate snorts, even as Brad's fingers trace along his collarbone. "Washington and I had some ethical differences of opinion, you know that. The Congressman I worked for thought bribes were okay; I disagreed and turned him in."
Brad's fingers are stroking the side of Nate's neck now, and he turns into the touch shamelessly. "UCO made me a decent offer. I did a few years as a TA in Georgetown, and then I got an offer out here. Godfather said I could be a professor here or a grad student working as a TA somewhere else. I wanted to teach."
Brad shakes his head, even as he takes his hands away, pops the button on his jeans and begins unzipping them. "That's my Nate, always so philanthropic." It takes Nate a minute because Brad taking off his clothes is distracting. 'His Nate?' His Nate?
"I'm going to be feeling a lot less philanthropic, if you don't stop fucking around," Nate manages.
Brad's grin is huge. "You are really fucking hot when you're irritated, did I ever tell you that?"
"I think you did once or twice," Nate says.
Brad pushes his jeans down and – he's not wearing underwear. Oh.
Brad's still talking, something about quitting Nate's class – "Wait, what?"
Brad kicks off his jeans and is finally naked. Really and truly, 6 foot plus, Michelangelo's David naked, and just as gorgeous. "You want me to wait?" he says.
Nate's brain has to seize on something. Something… something he missed. "You're dropping my class?" his mouth says long before his brain catches up with it.
And then his brain catches up. He blames Brad for being naked. "You can't drop my class," he says indignantly.
"You're hung up on the student thing; I think we need to take it out of the equation."
"Brad," Nate warns.
"It's too late," Brad says, "I already sent my drop request to the registrar."
"You're going to fuck up my stats," Nate complains.
Brad kisses him. "You're welcome," he says with a grin.
"Thank you," Nate says belatedly.
Brad's mouth quirks up at the corners. "Besides, I'm in the honors program in Electrical Engineering, I don't need your class."
Nate scowls. "I hate you so much right now."
Brad laughs. "No, you don't," he says, doing that thing he does where he manages to fill the whole room just by being near Nate. And then Nate's being pressed back against the wall, and every inch of his skin that Brad isn't touching aches.
He has to kiss Brad or he might start to lose it. Actually, it's already been lost.
"Were you really going to give up your job for me?" Brad asks even as he's manhandling Nate onto the bed, the handcuffs rattling. "Where's the lube?"
"Top drawer," Nate says as Brad urges him onto his hands and knees. "And I wasn't giving up anything for you, asshole."
"Pet names, already?" Nate hisses. "Too cold?" Brad asks.
Nate means to say something, he does, but then Brad's fingers are sliding in, stretching him, looking for that place that makes him -- fuck. He was so irate about the rug burn and potential sacking, he forgot he's a little sore. Whatever, he's been waiting ten years for this.
"Brad, if you don't shut up and fuck me, I'm going to file a complaint with Dean Ferrando that you've been sexually harassing me."
"Sexually frustrating you, is that what you said?"
And Nate tries to say something again, but then Brad's manhandling him even more, the handcuff clanking against the headboard, and then he's on his back with Brad staring down at him.
Nate stares back, waiting.
Brad doesn't say anything.
Nate could be waiting a long time. Then again, he's already waited a long time.
He exhales when Brad's fingers ghost over his mouth. "Hi," he says eventually. "I'm Nate Fick, I feel like we've met before." It's a little corny, and very late, but Brad's smile is brilliant.
"It's nice to meet you, Nate Fick," Brad says. "You should know that I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk in the morning. I just thought I would tell you that in advance, so there aren't anymore surprises."
"I hate surprises," Nate confesses.
"I've gathered. I hope it's no surprise that I want to fuck you now."
"No, not really."
"Good, you can thank me for my sacrifice by spreading your legs."
"I can do that."
"I know you can," Brad says, settling between Nate's thighs. "You're a very intelligent capable man. Too high quality for the Marine Corps commanding branch. Obviously I had to keep you alive so I'd have something to come back to."
And for the second time in as many seconds Nate's speechless, and then he just nods. "I'm glad you did."
Brad just smiles. "So am I."
-end-
Notes: The University of California at Oceanside does not exist! I made it up! Just like everything else. Just so we're all clear. The title is from 'The Road Not Taken' by Robert Frost. The Thousandth Man by Kipling that they talk about in the diner is one of my favorite poems ever.
Inspired by the one and only![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sparky77, who when I was like 'I don't want to write again ever' was all, dude, Professor!Nate and Student!Brad would be hot. I will have you know that I held out for an entire weekend. Soundtracked by The Frames 'Red Chord'
This story would never have seen the light of day without the encouragement oflazlet and the beta skills of serialkarma who came out of some form of retirement just to beat me unmercilessly to help me with Generation Kill yet again. That's real love, people, it's better than cookies. And again, to sparky77, for enthusiasm when I was like, fuck it, 'let scrap it and go have some beer instead.'
Part II
Nate sends an e-mail canceling Tuesday class so they can work on their papers, and on Thursday he shows up early to write that day's instructions on the board.
1. Hand in papers
2. Go home and sleep
3. Be ready to discuss the entire trilogy next Tuesday
4. Nice job, guys.
And then he sits down at his desk with the black coffee he picked up from the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, and waits.
One by one the guys trickle in and offer Nate sullen smiles until they see the instructions on the board and then the smiles become less sulky and much more enthusiastic. Rudy gets as far as sitting down at his desk before he reads what's on the board.
Ray and Walt are bickering when they walk in and only pause in their bickering long enough to realize no one else is there. When they look at Nate, he points at the board behind him.
When Ray hands in his paper, Nate gives him a very sharp smile. "I'm looking forward to reading your paper, Ray. Especially since you're responsible for all this work."
Walt snickers, but Ray just puffs out his chest. "Sir, this is the paper other trailer park papers aspire to be while they're sucking on their mama's tits. This paper is the paper that other papers give hummers to. This paper is the motherfucking paper to end all papers. This paper --"
"Is probably going to put you to sleep," Brad says, interrupting the conversation from behind Walt and Ray.
He's wearing his glasses, again, but Nate's body has finally learned to cope. It probably helps that he's wearing his own reading glasses; at least he assumes it does since Brad raises his left eyebrow very high when Nate smiles at him.
"You're going to love my paper," Ray insists as Walt drags him out of the classroom. "I'll be waiting for your worship of my paper, sir!"
Nate chuckles to himself as he places Ray’s and Walt's papers with the rest and then looks up at Brad. "You have something for me, I assume?"
Brad graces him with that predator grin. "You know that I do," he says in a low tone. "But I assume you want the paper instead."
Nate shakes his head. "I walked right into that, I admit it," he says, holding out his hand for the paper.
He's startled by how heavy the paper is when Brad hands it over, so startled that he starts flipping through it immediately. "Brad, this -– this is way more than 15 pages. This is... Thirty-two pages, Brad?
Brad shrugs nonchalantly, which would work if Nate thought that Brad had ever done anything nonchalantly in his life. "I found the topic interesting."
Nate shakes his head. "This is too much. I can't measure your paper against everyone else's."
Brad puts his hands on the desk and leans down. "So don't measure it against everyone else," he says quietly. "Take it on its own merits."
Brad's eyes seem very soft behind the lenses of his glasses, and Nate can feel the flush rising in his face. He doesn't think they're talking about the paper anymore.
Nate used to grade his papers in bed, but in his first year teaching he fell asleep and there was an accident with green pen, the sheets and his glasses imprinting on his face. Now he tries to keep all papers out of the bedroom, or at least out of the bed and in the leather armchair in the corner. Tonight, he gets started in the kitchen while he's waiting for the water to boil for his pasta. He opens his briefcase and pulls out the first paper, which belongs to Ray.
Nate just shakes his head, pulls a beer out of the refrigerator and grabs a pen from the junk drawer.
Nate likes to grade his papers in green pen instead of red. There's something about the red that seems too harsh, but he thinks about using the red pen just for Ray's paper, or he would if he could find something bad to say about Ray's paper upon first skim. Unfortunately, this paper is consistently thought out, researched and incredibly well-written.
It kills Nate to say it, but some people are just good with words, and Ray never ceases to amaze Nate. Ray pays no attention in class, unless he's throwing things at Walt or staring at Rudy, but when it comes time to perform, Ray's execution is practically flawless, although Ray seems to be at war with commas and Nate's not sure who's winning.
After Ray's paper, Nate takes a break to eat, and then goes back into the fray. Teren's paper, Chaffin's paper, Rudy's paper, which is unsurprisingly all about Greco-Roman wrestling. And then he gets to Brad's paper, which is a sprawling epic about men and the men who love them. Alexander and Hephaestion. The Theban Band. Patroclus and Achilles.
Nate's going to need a drink to finish this one.
It turns out Nate needs several drinks to finish Brad's paper.
Nate's in the office that Sunday. He's taken Ripley running three times in two days, and he thinks he's finally burned off the sexual frustration. It's also possible that one of his toenails is going to come off; he hasn't run like this since he was considering joining the Marines.
He's finished grading the papers, but he doesn't know what to do about Brad – the paper is far past an A. He couldn't give it anything else, the historical accuracy alone is the sort of thing people do for their thesis. Nate can't imagine the time Brad's spent on it, but the paper itself is just indicative of a larger problem. A 6'4 retired-Marine sized problem.
Nate's checking his gmail, and when a message pops up from brad.colbert@gmail.com he instinctively opens it before his brain has a moment to call him a fucking idiot.
From: Brad Colbert <bcolbert@gmail.com>
To: Nate Fick <nfick@gmail.com>
Date: Sun, Mar 23, 2009 at 11:33 AM
Subject: Thought
If I drop your class, then can we fuck, because this is just stupid.
As soon as Nate's heart climbs out of his throat, and he thanks that same deity he doesn’t believe in that Brad didn't send this to his work e-mail, he replies back.
From: Nate Fick <nfick@gmail.com>
To: Brad Colbert <bcolbert@gmail.com>
Date: Sun, Mar 23, 2009 at 11:34 AM
Subject: Re: Thought
You can't ask me that.
Nate shuts down his email, and prays he doesn't lose his job because of IT monitoring, but then his IM pops up.
Iceman11: : you never answered my question
NFick0930: Brad?
Iceman11: : Nate
Iceman11: : you never answered my question.
NFick0930: It's too late for you to drop my class, we went over this
Iceman11: : I can take the incomplete.
NFick0930: I just graded your paper!
Iceman11: : did I get an A?
NFick0930: no.
Iceman11: : Liar
NFick0930: I'm your teacher; you can't call me a liar
Iceman11: : You're only a teacher if you teach me something I don't know.
NFick0930: You are the most insolent student ever.
Iceman11: : You know, corporal punishment used to be all the rage when students were bad
NFick0930: We're not having this conversation
Iceman11: : I've been bad, haven't i?
Iceman11: : What are your thoughts on spanking?
NFick0930: Brad, please
Iceman11: : The next time you say that, I hope we're naked
[NFick0930 has signed off]
Nate is supposed to be appalled and annoyed, and perhaps a little concerned about Brad's apparent ability to track him down wherever he is. Maybe he should be more worried that he's flattered by the attention. Damn. He needs to go for another run.
He doesn't need all of his toenails anyway.
The walk from Mattis to his apartment doesn't seem as long today, and Nate's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. The way his toes are complaining in the confines of his loafers it's probably a good thing, but he's found all new reserves of energy that he needs to burn off and that can only end badly at this point.
He doesn't need to hobble into class on Tuesday.
He should probably call up Mike and Eric and see if they want to drink. Maybe Tara will take pity on him and invite him over for dinner and cook one of those Death By Chocolate cakes that she's famous for. Maybe he should just go home, jerk off and sleep for a couple hours.
When he rounds the corner of his building, he can see Ripley bounding around eagerly on her leash. Mrs. Gonzales is wearing an orange muumuu and talking to someone obscured by the hedges, and then Ripley barks in greeting and Nate grins.
"Hi, sweetheart," he says, bending down to scratch behind her ears.
Mrs. Gonzales's greeting is drowned out by the only person who says, "Hi, Nate," like it's a sex invite. Nate's eyes start at the worn blue and yellow Asics and slowly move up the long legs, the perfect ass – Jesus, do all of Brad's shirts fall short of his jeans on purpose?
Maybe he's hallucinating.
Nate stands up and is met by the smirk twisting the corners of Brad's mouth and Mrs. Gonzales's brown eyes watching him inquisitively. "Nathaniel, you've been keeping your friend waiting. That is no way to behave."
"Mrs. Gonzales was just telling me how Ripley's named for Sigourney Weaver in Aliens," Brad says genially.
Nate isn't fooled. "He's not bothering you, is he?" he says, giving Brad a disapproving look, which Brad totally ignores.
There's a moment of silence as Nate glares at Brad and Brad just smirks, and then Mrs. Gonzales clears her throat. "Brad is lovely, but my Ripley, she is lovelier and I must take her for a walk now," she says, standing up to her full four-foot eleven height.
"I hope to see you again," she calls as she leads Ripley away, leaving Nate with Brad.
Nate watches her until she's at the end of the block, and when he turns back, Brad's still there, because of course Brad is still there. Where else would he be but near Nate, confusing Nate's hormones and ratcheting up the sexual tension to untenable levels.
It's possible Nate's feeling a little high-strung at the moment.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, digging in his briefcase for his keys.
"I wanted to see you."
Brad's tone is very clear. There's no mistaking his words, and Nate's fingers fumble his keys. "You just saw me on Thursday," Nate says.
"That's not the same thing," Brad says.
Nate manages to get a hold of his keys. "How did you figure out where I live?"
Brad's smile is small, amused. "Recon Marine, it's what I do."
"Used to do," Nate corrects.
"I'll be a Marine until the day I die," Brad says. "I'd thought that was going to be in the fucking desert, but apparently I'll just die from old age and the socialists ruining the country."
Nate narrows his eyes, flipping through his keys. "Doesn't the Corps frown on obsessive behavior?" he says opening the safety door to the complex and walking inside.
"Where do you think I learned this in the first place?" Brad quips.
Nate shakes his head, bypassing his mailbox.
A voice very helpfully points out that Brad is following him. The same voice very helpfully also points out that Nate probably has lube and condoms in his apartment and isn't that great.
No, that is not great.
Nate pauses on the stairs, and yes, Brad is right behind him, staring at his ass. "I don't know what you think is happening, but it's not happening."
Brad is very slow to stop looking at Nate's ass and make eye contact. "So, send me away," he says.
Nate exhales through his nose. "Brad, no," he says, and he keeps walking up the stairs to his apartment. It would help if he knew what he was saying 'no' to.
All the way to his apartment, Nate can feel Brad behind him. He can't hear him, but he knows here's there. He tries one last time outside of his apartment, fumbling his keys again before he manages to get the door open.
He turns back around and Brad's watching him expectantly, clearly waiting for something. "Brad," Nate tries. As far as attempts to get rid of somebody go it's lacking a certain resolve. Or any resolve for that matter.
Brad steps forward, a hand on the doorframe that puts him well within kissing distance if Nate were so inclined. "Send me away. If you really want me to go, I will."
And Nate means to say something, he knows he does. Instead he finds himself with a fistful of Brad's tee shirt, his fingernails digging in so hard, he can feel the material ripping in his grasp.
They both look down at where Nate's managed to tear Brad's shirt away from the collar, and then Brad's smirking at him. "Nice."
Nate rests his head on Brad's shoulder for a moment, rubbing his forehead against Brad's shirt, inhaling Brad and cotton and deodorant because he's tired and horny and kind of desperately in love with some guy he spent 13 hours with ten years ago, and it's only when Brad's fingers stroke the nape of his neck, that he pulls back.
Nate's tug on Brad's shirt is gentle, and Brad leans in with a smile on his face.
"You win," Nate says wryly. "Are you happy now?"
"I'm ecstatic," Brad says, the words spilling into Nate's mouth, and then Brad's kissing him or he's kissing Brad, and it doesn't really matter, because Brad's backing him through the door, both hands on his ass. The door slams shut behind them.
His fingers tangle in Brad's hair as he kisses him, long, brain-destroying kisses with no air, and short hard kisses that leave his mouth feeling bruised. Brad bites, stinging nips at Nate's neck and his jaw as Nate's hands slide down Brad's back and under his shirt. He very deliberately drags his nails down Brad's back, feeling Brad arch against him, his cock an insistent press against Nate's hip.
Brad's hands are on his ass, groping, kneading, and then Brad's hands are trying to get inside his jeans. The tips of his fingers slide under Nate's briefs and brush along the crack of Nate's ass, and then he's being lifted and dropped on his kitchen table with an almighty crash. It's a wonder the table doesn't break and send them both onto the floor. It may be a cheap table, but clearly it's sturdy.
Nate flounders, shoving the salt and pepper off the table as he tries to push himself up even with Brad's hand holding him down. "Just like that," Brad says, dragging his hand down Nate's chest and giving Nate's cock a quick squeeze through his jeans, before standing upright. Nate keeps Brad close by hooking a leg around his waist.
Brad shoots him a promising grin before grabbing the hem of his own shirt and pulling it over his head. He’s still pulling his shirt off when Nate sits up, cups Brad's face in his hands and kisses him, licking at Brad's mouth and sucking on his lower lip.
Brad makes a noise, and Nate moans in appreciation, especially when Brad's hands go back to his ass and pull him forward into the juncture of his thighs.
Nate humps against Brad shamelessly, rolling his hips upwards and against the hardness there, grinding himself between Brad, the table and Brad's hands on his ass. Brad's fingers rub the seam of Nate's jeans, right at the crease of his ass, which Nate encourages as much as possible, vocally disapproving when Brad pulls away.
"You still make those sounds," Brad says with something akin to awe, shifting his hands under Nate's shirt and trying to pull it over Nate's head.
When Nate's shirt has been disposed of, Brad stares at him. "I can't believe you still sound like that," he says, rubbing Nate's mouth with his thumb. "God, do you know how many combat jacks I had about the noises you make?"
Nate parts his lips and Brad slides his thumb inside. Nate licks at Brad's thumb, wrapping his tongue around it, closing his teeth down softly when Brad slides his thumb out and then back in.
Brad's eyes are dark as he fucks Nate's mouth with his hand, and Nate makes another encouraging noise, which leads to Brad pulling his hand away and slamming Nate back on the table to kiss him senseless.
One minute Nate has brain cells and the next Brad's sucking them all away. When Brad finally deigns to let him breathe, Nate just stares up at the fake Tiffany lamp that hangs over the kitchen table. Seconds later he's being liberated from his shoes and socks, and Brad's fingers are at the waistband of his jeans and Nate scoots back to put his feet on the table and lift his hips.
The wood is cold under his ass as Brad strips him bare. It's like the first time they were together, Brad unwrapping him while Nate's trying to keep up, and Nate feels like he's come a lot further than this. Which he has. This is why he pushes himself upright and launches himself at Brad, which sends them staggering for the 4.8 seconds it takes for Nate to get Brad against the nearest wall.
When they slam into the plaster, Brad's grin is all wry amusement. "Was there a problem?"
Nate's reply is to bite at Brad's collarbone, to flick his tongue at Brad's left nipple, to mouth along Brad's ribs until he's on his knees before Brad. "You sit in my classes with your legs spread out, and it's a wonder I manage to get anything done," Nate bitches, viciously unbuttoning Brad's jeans and then stopping to remove his socks and shoes.
He glances up when Brad tugs on his hair. "I think about sucking you off while you're lecturing," Brad says agreeably.
Nate sighs, hooking his fingers into Brad's jeans and pulling them down around his ankles. "The glasses," Nate complains. "I will hate you forever for the glasses."
"I've noticed you like those," Brad says, hips arching forward as Nate rubs his hand over the obvious bulge in Brad's briefs.
"It's the incongruity," Nate says, his thumb rubbing at the obvious wet spot. "Tough, kick-ass Marine in geek glasses. It's just cruel."
Brad huffs a breath. "You mean like what you're doing right now?" he says grabbing Nate by the hair again and dragging him upwards.
Nate's grin is all teeth, but it disappears when Brad kisses him again, his fingers curling around Nate's skull as his tongue fucks Nate's mouth.
He slips his hand inside Brad's briefs and is greeted with warm, damp heat and slick, hot skin. Brad groans loudly into their kiss. "Fuck, Nate, yes." Brad's 'yes' is sibilant, and Nate mouths at Brad's neck as he jerks him off.
"So fucking hot," he grits out. "I wanted -–"
"What did you want?" Brad prompts.
Nate slides back down to his knees and shows Brad exactly what he wanted, what he still wants, what he's going to take. He pulls Brad's briefs down to his ankles, wraps his mouth around Brad's cock and sucks wetly, obscenely, his tongue pressing at the sensitive underside and his mouth sliding along the length until Brad's pushing him away.
"I wasn't done," Nate says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, annoyance flaring under his skin until Brad crouches down and pushes him onto his back.
"I don't know what you mean by 'done'," Brad says, crawling over him, wrapping his hand around Nate's cock and giving him a long, wicked stroke. "We're just getting started."
And then Nate's being spread out and sucked down, and Brad's mouth is even better than he remembers.
In fact, the reality is so much better than the memory, it's almost an insult to the reality.
The fact that Nate wakes up naked and face-down on his living room floor would be less troublesome if he could remember having fallen asleep in the first place.
He remembers the part with Brad, and he remembers the part where Brad sucked him off so hard that Nate would've had a concussion if they hadn't been on the carpeting, and Nate remembers the –
"You're awake." Nate turns his head to the side to see Brad lying next to him, and his skin prickles when Brad's fingers stroke along his spine. His skin is tight and itchy, he probably has rug burn, but his cock is hard and that takes precedence.
He knows this is the awkward part, or at least it should be, but he leans in for Brad's kiss anyway, pushing himself up on his hands and knees to straddle Brad and then groaning when Brad's hand wraps around his cock.
"I'm going to fuck you now," Brad says against his mouth as Nate pushes into the circle of his hand.
Nate makes a sound of agreement, which becomes a whimper of protest when Brad's hand goes away. He sits up enough to see Brad slicking his hands with the contents of a small foil packet. "You came prepared?" he says in disbelief. Clearly Brad's been lying in wait all this time.
Brad grins at him. "Marines bring their own."
Nate means to say something else, but then Brad's urging him up onto his knees and there's a cool finger rubbing against his entrance and words are kind of unimportant.
Brad seems much more interested in prep than Nate, and Nate has to grab Brad's wrist and order him to add another finger and then another, and then Nate's fucking himself with Brad's fingers and he's got another hand on his cock and he is perfectly fucking happy and they should stay here and do this forever.
He's very unhappy when Brad takes his fingers away, but then Nate's being rolled onto his back, and Brad's looming over him, putting on a condom and talking about how he thought about fucking him in Iraq. All the time.
"All the time?" Nate queries.
Brad pushes Nate's knees apart and up. "All the time," he verifies, rubbing his cock against Nate's entrance.
"There had to be someone else," Nate insists. "A girlfriend, a boyfriend. "
Brad's lips thin into a rueful smile. "I had a girlfriend a long time ago. I'd even planned to marry her one day, but she ran off with my best friend after I told her I'd taken to fucking Ivy League students with cocksucker mouths."
Nate's mouth falls open at the same time that Brad pushes inside him, and then Brad's fucking him, kissing him. It's intimate and close and Nate really could stay like this forever.
They spend Monday inside, fucking, drinking beer and talking about things that aren't relevant now, but that were pretty important in the past ten years. They never quite get to the bedroom, but Nate goes there at one point to retrieve supplies. They end up staining Nate's sofa with all sorts of things, and he puts nail gauges in the soft green material, which he didn't even know was possible.
By the start of Tuesday's class, Nate's skin is so tight with rug burn he can hardly move. He can feel the class' eyes on him as he stands before the blackboard and tries to sort through the lesson plan, but all the words are blurry. It's possible Nate just gave up his career for a fuck. Or a series of fucks. Jesus Christ.
When he turns back around, Ray is grinning at him like he knows something incredibly amusing – but that's just Ray. Walt, Poke and Rudy always pay attention, but even Trombley's staring at him and he doesn't need this right now. Not with Brad sprawled out in his front seat, chewing on a pen with that 'I am immeasurably pleased with myself' smile on his face.
So, maybe it wasn't just a fuck, but Nate's not sure if that’s better or worse, and right now he needs to reassess the situation.
He gives the class a halfhearted smile. "Due to my complete inability to focus, we're going to call today a wash. Go home, watch Apocalypse Now, and come to class on Thursday ready to talk about how crazy is too crazy if you really are committed to what you're doing."
"YES!" Trombley hollers, pumping his fist in the air. "Finally, we get some."
"Trombley, did the admissions officers know you were a psycho?" Poke says, as everyone's gathering their books. "I think they have policies about letting nutjobs into school now."
"What about our papers?" Ray asks.
"Ray, we all know your inbred illiterate ass failed," Brad retorts, "leave the man alone."
Nate just shakes his head. Their papers are in his bag, but he can't deal with that right now. "I'll have them for you on Thursday, Ray."
Walt shakes his head, shooting Nate a smile before he follows Ray and Gabe out of the room. Nate's weak smile lasts until everyone's left. Even Brad.
Nate's in his office, behind a closed door, ignoring his sister's flashing Instant Messages in favor of staring at the last of the vodka that he's borrowed from Mike. Although 'borrowed' might not be the term for it since he walked into Mike's office as Mike was leaving to teach a class, brushed past him, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took the vodka, put it in his bag and told a rather bemused Mike, "I'll get us a new bottle tomorrow."
When there's a knock at his door, Nate rolls his eyes. "Come back tomorrow, I'm a little busy right now."
This doesn't stop Brad from barging in though.
"I knew I should've locked that door," Nate sighs.
Brad frowns, shutting the door behind him. "You okay?" he says, gesturing to the bottle on Nate's desk.
"My skin’s so tight it can hardly move, and I think I just ruined my career to fuck some guy I had a crush on ten years ago," Nate snaps. "Ask me again if I'm okay."
Brad's face is totally blank, but his eyes, there's something strange there. "You think you ruined your career to fuck some random guy?" he says.
Nate narrows his eyes. "No, not some random guy. You."
Brad crosses his arms. "You think I ruined your career."
Nate scoffs. "Isn't that what happens when teachers have sex with their students?"
Brad shakes his head. "Nate, it may have escaped your notice, but I'm 35. I'm not anybody's student anymore."
"I'm 31, but I'm still your teacher," Nate says, glaring at the bottle of vodka. "It's all my fault."
He's just reaching for the vodka when Brad snatches it away. "Answer the question: do you think I ruined your career?"
This time Nate glares at Brad. "Do I think wanting you probably just ruined my career? Absolutely. Thank God I didn't join the Marines; I'm sure they would've loved this."
Brad's smiling. He's got the vodka bottle by the neck and he looks like sin in the flesh. Oh, wait, Nate's committed this particular sin. "Do you have any idea what I want to do to you right now?" Brad says.
"I can't do this," Nate says, getting to his feet. His chair bangs loudly against the wall behind him, and the Milton he uses to prop open his window falls out and the window slams shut.
Brad looks slightly taken aback. Nate's had enough.
"I have to go," he says, grabbing his briefcase and leaving Brad in his office.
He doesn't bother picking up Ripley when he goes home to change for his run. He just pulls on his clothes and his sneakers and takes off. The sun has set by the time he comes back, and his feet are complaining all over again, but his brain is quiet, except for the occasional pornographic flashback, so it'll have to do.
He's so sweaty that he strips all of his clothes off by the front door and then stalks down the hall to the shower. There's something prickling in the back of his mind as he washes, but Nate ignores it in favor of jerking off once and washing his hair twice.
Eventually, the water turns cold, and he gets out of the shower, wraps a towel around his waist and goes into the bedroom to change.
He turns on the ceiling light, opens the drawer to pull out some clothes and nearly has a heart attack when he glances in the mirror and realizes he's not alone. "Jesus Christ, Brad!" he says, turning towards the armchair in the corner.
Brad's not smiling. In fact, Nate would call Brad's expression 'seriously displeased'. This can't possibly end well. "You have this very irritating habit of walking away when I'm not done talking to you," Brad says, getting to his feet. "We need to work on that."
Nate rubs his face, pushing damp hair behind his ears. "How the hell did you get in here –- why am I even asking?"
Brad's in Nate's bedroom.
Brad's in Nate's bedroom barefoot.
It would help if Nate could stop fixating on Brad's bare feet and start focusing on the way Brad's striding across the room towards him. "We didn't make it in here last time," Brad says conversationally. "We need to work on that."
"No, we don't need to work on that," Nate retorts, grabbing a tee shirt.
He unfolds the shirt to put it on, but then Brad's in his space, snatching the shirt out of Nate's fingers and backing him up until the back of Nate's knees hit something hard.
And then there's something cold around his right wrist followed in quick succession by two clicks and Nate looks from his wrist to Brad and then back. "Handcuffs, Brad. Really? "
"Desperate measures, sir."
"Stop calling me 'sir'," Nate complains. "This isn't the military."
Brad just smiles, tugging on Nate's wrist to make sure the handcuffs are fastened. "You're right about that," he agrees.
Nate looks from Brad to the handcuffs for the third time and realizes what's happened.
"You've handcuffed me to my bed," he says, in amazement. "This is just – do you know how far past acceptable this is?"
Brad leans in, brushing against Nate as he sets a tiny key on the nightstand by Nate's knee. "I just wanted your attention," he says, sitting down on the bed. "You can take them off anytime you want and I won't stop you."
Nate eyeballs the key. He needs to put a stop to this. "In my opinion, though," Brad carries on, "I think we went past acceptable when I had my cock up your ass and left that mark on your neck."
Nate stares. "What mark on my neck?"
Brad's mouth forms a little 'o' before he pushes off the bed and man-handles Nate just enough so Nate can see his back in his bedroom mirror. His skin is red and angry with rug burn and there are a few scratches and… there it is, a red bite mark right on the back of his neck. It probably perfectly matches Brad's bite radius.
Nate bangs his head against the wall between the nightstand and the bed. "This is what everybody was smiling about in class, isn't it?"
Brad's hand is warm when it smooths down the back of Nate's skull. "Probably."
"You cannot possibly be worth all this trouble."
"Probably not," Brad agrees.
Nate just sighs and closes his eyes, but he startles when a warm tongue licks along his shoulder blade. "Brad?"
"You're still wet from your shower." Brad's mouth comes to rest on Nate's shoulder.
Nate makes a noncommittal noise. Not just going to hell, but in hell now. There's a lot more sex than he thought there would be.
And then Brad's body is pressing against Nate's back, his arm around Nate's waist and Nate just laughs dryly. "At least I can say the sex was worth it."
Nate shivers when Brad's mouth brushes against his ear. "It's never occurred to you that I'm here for you, did it?"
Nate would verbalize an answer, but apparently he doesn't have one.
And then Brad's moving around him, tee shirt rubbing against Nate's arm and his ribs, handcuff rattling as Brad presses Nate against the wall. Nate twitches; the paint is cold against his back and calves.
"You're very smart, Professor Fick," Brad says with a smile. "But sometimes you don't get it at all."
Nate just rolls his eyes. "I've been handcuffed to my bed by the most brilliant, sex-crazed student I've ever come across, who was once a Recon Marine who convinced me not to join the Corps by fucking me so hard I couldn't even walk the next day. And now I'm seriously thinking I'm about to screw up my career over a piece of ass, albeit a very nice one? There's some poetic justice here that Ray would love."
Brad's grin is utterly brilliant. And utterly ruthless. "Well, if you're looking for a new career, you might be too old to join the Corps, but I know some people who could probably help you out anyway," he says knowingly.
"Oh, now you want me to join."
"I just didn't want you there when I was there, you would've distracted me."
"You are unfuckingbelievable," Nate complains.
"I was being altruistic. You know what Ray says about sex and war, it'd be a shame if I blew up an entire country because you got a paper cut."
"Brad."
"But back to that part where I'm brilliant," Brad says, pulling his shirt over his head.
Nate may have to reconsider what hell has to offer.
Brad's still talking. Right. "I could've gone to Cal-fucking-Tech, Nate. Did you know that?"
Nat blinks at Brad. "No, I – we didn't talk in depth about our intelligence the last time I saw you."
"I'm smart," Brad says. "Just in case you didn't know."
"I've figured that out," Nate says, pressing himself further into the wall as Brad steps forward and brackets him in.
Brad nods before leaning in and brushing his mouth against Nate's forehead, his temple, his ear. "I'm very smart," Brad says. "I'm so smart that I came here instead of taking Cal Tech's full ride, because I found out you were here."
Brad's mouth is brushing along Nate's jaw now. Nate's heart is hammering in his chest, and his towel is starting to chafe against his dick. "You heard I was here?" Nate hopes his voice isn't as pitchy as he thinks it is. "How the hell did you hear that?"
"The internet is an amazing thing," Brad says solemnly, pulling back slightly. Nate's entire body disapproves of this, but Brad's mouth just twists in a wry smirk.
"Why the hell are you here anyway? Dartmouth grads can do anything anywhere, teach anywhere. You could at least be at UCLA," Brad scolds. "I thought I told you to go to Washington to change the world."
"Yes, because I always listen to you," Nate mocks.
Brad shrugs. "It worked once."
Nate snorts, even as Brad's fingers trace along his collarbone. "Washington and I had some ethical differences of opinion, you know that. The Congressman I worked for thought bribes were okay; I disagreed and turned him in."
Brad's fingers are stroking the side of Nate's neck now, and he turns into the touch shamelessly. "UCO made me a decent offer. I did a few years as a TA in Georgetown, and then I got an offer out here. Godfather said I could be a professor here or a grad student working as a TA somewhere else. I wanted to teach."
Brad shakes his head, even as he takes his hands away, pops the button on his jeans and begins unzipping them. "That's my Nate, always so philanthropic." It takes Nate a minute because Brad taking off his clothes is distracting. 'His Nate?' His Nate?
"I'm going to be feeling a lot less philanthropic, if you don't stop fucking around," Nate manages.
Brad's grin is huge. "You are really fucking hot when you're irritated, did I ever tell you that?"
"I think you did once or twice," Nate says.
Brad pushes his jeans down and – he's not wearing underwear. Oh.
Brad's still talking, something about quitting Nate's class – "Wait, what?"
Brad kicks off his jeans and is finally naked. Really and truly, 6 foot plus, Michelangelo's David naked, and just as gorgeous. "You want me to wait?" he says.
Nate's brain has to seize on something. Something… something he missed. "You're dropping my class?" his mouth says long before his brain catches up with it.
And then his brain catches up. He blames Brad for being naked. "You can't drop my class," he says indignantly.
"You're hung up on the student thing; I think we need to take it out of the equation."
"Brad," Nate warns.
"It's too late," Brad says, "I already sent my drop request to the registrar."
"You're going to fuck up my stats," Nate complains.
Brad kisses him. "You're welcome," he says with a grin.
"Thank you," Nate says belatedly.
Brad's mouth quirks up at the corners. "Besides, I'm in the honors program in Electrical Engineering, I don't need your class."
Nate scowls. "I hate you so much right now."
Brad laughs. "No, you don't," he says, doing that thing he does where he manages to fill the whole room just by being near Nate. And then Nate's being pressed back against the wall, and every inch of his skin that Brad isn't touching aches.
He has to kiss Brad or he might start to lose it. Actually, it's already been lost.
"Were you really going to give up your job for me?" Brad asks even as he's manhandling Nate onto the bed, the handcuffs rattling. "Where's the lube?"
"Top drawer," Nate says as Brad urges him onto his hands and knees. "And I wasn't giving up anything for you, asshole."
"Pet names, already?" Nate hisses. "Too cold?" Brad asks.
Nate means to say something, he does, but then Brad's fingers are sliding in, stretching him, looking for that place that makes him -- fuck. He was so irate about the rug burn and potential sacking, he forgot he's a little sore. Whatever, he's been waiting ten years for this.
"Brad, if you don't shut up and fuck me, I'm going to file a complaint with Dean Ferrando that you've been sexually harassing me."
"Sexually frustrating you, is that what you said?"
And Nate tries to say something again, but then Brad's manhandling him even more, the handcuff clanking against the headboard, and then he's on his back with Brad staring down at him.
Nate stares back, waiting.
Brad doesn't say anything.
Nate could be waiting a long time. Then again, he's already waited a long time.
He exhales when Brad's fingers ghost over his mouth. "Hi," he says eventually. "I'm Nate Fick, I feel like we've met before." It's a little corny, and very late, but Brad's smile is brilliant.
"It's nice to meet you, Nate Fick," Brad says. "You should know that I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk in the morning. I just thought I would tell you that in advance, so there aren't anymore surprises."
"I hate surprises," Nate confesses.
"I've gathered. I hope it's no surprise that I want to fuck you now."
"No, not really."
"Good, you can thank me for my sacrifice by spreading your legs."
"I can do that."
"I know you can," Brad says, settling between Nate's thighs. "You're a very intelligent capable man. Too high quality for the Marine Corps commanding branch. Obviously I had to keep you alive so I'd have something to come back to."
And for the second time in as many seconds Nate's speechless, and then he just nods. "I'm glad you did."
Brad just smiles. "So am I."
-end-
Notes: The University of California at Oceanside does not exist! I made it up! Just like everything else. Just so we're all clear. The title is from 'The Road Not Taken' by Robert Frost. The Thousandth Man by Kipling that they talk about in the diner is one of my favorite poems ever.
Inspired by the one and only
sparky77, who when I was like 'I don't want to write again ever' was all, dude, Professor!Nate and Student!Brad would be hot. I will have you know that I held out for an entire weekend. Soundtracked by The Frames 'Red Chord' This story would never have seen the light of day without the encouragement of
lazlet and the beta skills of serialkarma who came out of some form of retirement just to sparky77, for enthusiasm when I was like, fuck it, 'let scrap it and go have some beer instead.'![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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