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aeroport_artTitle: The West Coast Two-Step (6/9)
Characters: Brad/Nate, Ray, Poke, Walt, Rudy, etc.
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aeroport_art
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: western!AU
Word Count: 36k (5k this part)
Summary: 1888, Reno, NV. Sheriff Brad Colbert used to get along just fine...that is, until a morning shootout broke out in his town leaving three men dead. A babyfaced stranger by the name of Fick rolls in around the same time, and Brad ain't convinced the two events aren't related.
When the two of them enter Brad's spartan house, Nate starts acting cagey.
"Look, Sheriff. I'm serious when I say this isn't necessary. You can't hold me here like one of your prisoners—"
Brad sighs loudly and sets Nate down on the edge of his single bed so he can reach over into his nightstand to pull out a pair of handcuffs.
"—and I’m not some helpless girl who needs to be coddled, I can—" Nate pauses to look down at his wrist, which is now cuffed to the metal rack of the bed's headboard. "What the fuck?" he asks blankly.
"You sound like one of my belly achin' officers," Brad replies. "Least this way, you ain't got any say, so just sit yer ass down and let me clean this up in peace."
Nate opens his mouth as if to argue, but when Brad raises an eyebrow he shuts his trap and pinks a little. The sight brings Brad no small degree of pleasure.
Now that he’s sure Nate won’t make a (limping) run for it, Brad ambles into the kitchen, calling out behind him, "Make yourself useful, get your trousers off." He rummages through the cupboards for his emergency kit to the sound of Nate’s rustling, the handcuff jangling loudly from the bedroom.
When Brad comes back with supplies in hand, Nate’s kicking his trousers to the ground. Brad’s mouth goes dry… as it turns out, not-so-innocent Nate's been free-balling this whole time.
Nate stops fussing and looks up at him with baleful eyes while Brad's gaze wanders south. He takes in the sight of loose shirttails that give way to Nate’s slim hips, which taper into indents that point like a fucking arrow to the thatch of hair between Nate’s legs—hair a shade darker than the sun-bleached bristles on his head—and finally stops at the sight of Nate’s cock, which is soft between pale, parted thighs. On his right leg, the bullet wound is a messy smear of red.
Brad looks back up to meet Nate’s embarrassed gaze. Even in the sparse candlelight, he can see Nate’s flush extend from his face down to the open collar of his button-down shirt.
"Jesus, Brad,” Nate eventually says. “Would you get on with it? Maybe 'fore I bleed out on your bed?"
"Yeah, yeah. Just appreciating the fact that, underneath all that righteousness, you're just a kinky little fucker like the rest of us."
Nate pauses. "It's hot in Nevada," he explains simply, leaning back on his hands so that his legs fall open a bit wider.
Fuck, Brad's not in the right mindset for this. He needs to clean Nate up and put him the fuck to bed before he does something they'll both regret. That, then maybe lock himself in the outhouse to pull off once or twice before trying to fall asleep with the worst case of blue balls he's had in years, while a gorgeous—what? He's got eyes—piece of ass sits handcuffed to his bed not two feet away.
“Sheriff?”
Brad steels himself and crouches down in front of Nate, saying, "Stay still," though it might as well be to himself for Brad’s hands are jittery as they dunk a washcloth into a bucket of water with a little splash.
Brad puts a hand on Nate’s inner knee and slowly pushes it aside to settle between Nate’s legs. He draws the cloth out of the water, squeezing some excess liquid out before gently patting at the bloodied area with it until the small wound’s revealed.
The bullet didn’t hit anything too important, no busted arteries or anything more precious that that. On the other hand, there’s no sign of an exit wound so the lead’s probably still buried inside.
Nate seems to sense what’s coming as Brad reaches into his kit for a pair of tweezers. He tenses up like he’s expecting a punch, and Brad automatically rubs his hand where it’s still on Nate’s knee, gentling him like he’s Humvee, antsy and unhappy before a brewing thunderstorm.
Brad pulls out the tweezers and steadies his grip on it, then gets the tips into the wound without delay. Above him, Nate bites back a grunt, and when Brad prods around for the bullet, Nate starts panting like he’s running miles.
Hoping some small talk will calm the both of ‘em down, Brad says shakily, "So you wanna tell me why you got a pack of escaped Apaches on your ass?"
Nate seems to welcome the diversion as he huffs back, “Ha fucking no, I ain’t telling you shit, Sheriff.”
“You know, you’d do well not to piss me off right now. I got this thing inside you, Nate, might not be my fault if it takes me awhile to pull out.”
At the lack of any reply, Brad glances up in time to catch Nate biting his lip in pain and fuck, that sure ain’t helping matters any. Brad continues, “Seriously, don’t you think I’m plenty involved by now? Might save my ass to know what’s goin’ on instead of just getting shot at willy-nilly.”
“Far as I’m concerned,” Nate grits out, “Ain’t none of those Indians caught your scent yet.”
“Need I remind you of our little friends tonight?” Brad asks, pleased when he finally latches onto the bullet with the tips of his tongs.
“Need I remind you ain’t none of ‘em still alive?” Nate sasses back.
Brad grins, comfortable in their banter. “You do realize, Meesh is still out there, and he’ll probably sell us over the water as soon as he finds a higher asking price.” Never mind Deputy Person took care of that little liability, throwing Meesh hog-tied and bundled into the back of an eastbound freight. Nate doesn’t need to know that.
“All the more reason to keep the Washoe police at a distance,” Nate gasps as Brad finally works out the bullet from his thigh.
Triumphant, Brad holds the lead up to the light for Nate to see. The bullet’s about wide as a pinky finger and smashed on one side, the whole thing tinged red. Nate dazedly looks at it before moving his attention to Brad, smiling weakly but genuinely.
Brad feels something tug in his chest. Shit, it ain’t fair how pretty Nate is for a guy—he’s beginning to understand why everyone complains about Deputy Reyes so much.
Brad tosses the bullet into a nearby bin with a clatter and sets about threading the curved needle he’s got. “You don't have to worry yourself over my hide,” Brad eventually says.
Nate snorts in realization that he’s having his own words parroted back at him. “This is different,” he says. “You thought I’d have trouble taking care of my own ass just wandering around Reno. That’s hardly the same as a group of wanted criminals trying to get you dead.”
“You honestly think something piddling like a ragtag tribe of Injuns, lead by a woman no less, is enough to scare us? Come on Nate, you seen my boys in action. Give us a little credit.”
“You don’t know what—” Nate’s leg twitches as Brad inserts the needle into his flesh. “—what she’s capable of.”
“Cocheta, you mean?” Brad asks, remembering Ray’s quick debriefing from earlier.
Saying the name aloud—Cocheta—triggers a sudden dawning of realization, slow but complete like a rag soaking up water. Brad says incredulously, “She was there, wasn’t she? She was the one selling dope to Bob Raleigh.” He pauses, thinking back to the overhead conversation between Nate and his presumed partner, back at The Copper Tavern. “She was the one you couldn’t bring yourself to shoot.”
Nate freezes. It could be from Brad stitching him up like he’s a torn hole in someone’s shirt, but Brad knows better.
“Any particular reason you let her go?” Brad asks. He continues sewing, knowing Nate’s got nothing left to hide. He’ll speak up eventually and sure enough, a heavy sigh comes from above.
“Do you enjoy gunning down women?” Nate replies.
Brad frowns. It’s not an answer and they both know it.
Less sarcastically, Nate adds, “Besides, nobody cares how we get the job done so long as it gets done. We’re closing in on Cocheta. Even as we speak, Gunny’s out there tracking her down. I give it a day or two before we’re packing up for home.”
Something unpleasant flares up as Brad. “With Gunny, huh?”
He plans to leave it at that, but Nate’s quick to ask, “Something you want to say, Sheriff?”
Brad looks up from his work. He doesn’t want to get into this, but Nate’s asking, and Brad’s not one to mince words. “I saw the place, Nate. You can’t tell me there weren’t two of you, and one fucking bed.”
Nate sends a sharp look that Brad refuses to cower under. “Not that it’s any of your business, Sheriff, but the United States Marshals Service doesn’t exactly operate with full coffers. We all pay our own way on the job, whether it’s jail space for prisoners or our own sleeping quarters.”
“And what, a two dollar up-charge sends you diving for the nearest warm body?” Brad glares. He knows he’s being impudent, but seriously—what the hell kind of servicemen sleep in the same fucking cot?
“Jesus, Brad,” Nate says, clearly incensed. “I take the floor half the time—Mike gets it the other half. Do you even realize what you’re implying?”
Nate stares unblinkingly, daring Brad to say something…but shit, Brad knows when he’s fucked up. Christ almighty, something about Nate makes Brad’s common sense fly out the fucking window.
He drops his eyes, picking up the needle to continue the task he’d abandoned halfway through accusing Nate of something totally unwarranted.
Brad finishes up the last few stitches, letting the passing time soften the tension of their last exchange before saying, “What kinda ass-backwards, confused little Injun princess comes after an entire police force with a circus troupe of unskilled grunts, anyway?” It’s meant to be an apology, and he hopes Nate takes it as such.
Nate chuckles softly. “Desperation,” he answers easily. “Cocheta’s been evading the Army for months, but since the Service got put on the case, it’s only a matter of time before she’s caught. Still, unless we stop the opium too, all that drug money’s just gonna get siphoned away to other bands trying to stay off the reservations. Cocheta’s been gaining a lot of traction in the community and with all that money and power, she’s got some Americans on her side, too. Makes her all the more dangerous.”
“Americans like Bob Raleigh?” Brad quickly ties a knot off at the base of the thread and snips it off. Leans back on his haunches to observe his work. It’ll do. He reaches behind him for the ball of gauze he’s got in his kit.
“Yeah, guys like Bob.”
“So you killed him,” Brad states, glancing up to meet Nate’s level gaze.
Nate watches him for a moment, but seems to sense no accusation in the words and so he nods in response.
Brad thinks about the woman Bob Raleigh left behind. He thinks about Nate and Marla in the room next door at Sydney’s. “And then you fucked his mistress,” Brad adds darkly.
Nate doesn’t smile, but his eyes crinkle up a bit at the corners. “You know, Sheriff, if I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think you were jealous.”
Brad lets his expression slack to the half-lidded gaze of the unamused.
Nate smiles for real this time, a little shy one that shows his upper teeth and he looks down abashedly. Brad feels that strange tug return—a mixture of pride and affection. Pride that Brad could elicit that reaction, and affection for Nate, just because.
Disinclined to think further on the subject, Brad just lets himself enjoy it like a cat in the sun. A flush starts to grow on Nate’s cheeks and Brad realizes, belatedly, that it’s only there because Brad’s staring.
Jesus Christ on a cracker, he’s got no clue when he went and grew a pussy, but there it is. Brad swallows grimly and sets about wrapping Nate’s leg up. The sooner he finishes, the sooner he can leave the room and recon some fucking scraps of sanity. Lord knows he needs 'em.
-----
In the ensuing calm, the only sounds that can be heard are the quiet ones Brad makes as he rolls gauze around Nate’s thigh.
“I didn’t do anything, you know,” Nate softly breaks the silence.
Brad stills, lifting his eyes from his handiwork to shoot a blank look that prompts Nate to clarify, “I didn’t fuck her. Just…wanted to tell her in person that I was the one who killed Bob. She took it really well—said she didn’t blame me. Even helped by telling me Cocheta caught wind we were in town, got spooked.”
Nate picks at invisible lint on the blanket for long moments. He seems determined not to meet Brad’s eyes.
Eventually—belatedly—Brad replies, “Oh.”
Nate sighs and lists backwards until his elbows hit the mattress. His head dips back behind his shoulders and at the sight of the soft underbelly of Nate’s chin, Brad returns to the task of bandaging Nate up.
His thoughts, however, begin to wander.
All right, so Nate didn’t fuck Marla. So what? Where Nate decides to stick his dick has fuck-all to do with Brad, yet the simple admission brings up a tangle of feelings that got no right being there.
Relief, mostly. A little giddiness, too.
Brad scissors off the gauze and works a safety pin into the end of it, securing the binding neatly. Doesn’t remove his hand though—instead, absent-mindedly runs his thumb along the edge of the cloth as he thinks.
It accounts for the noises next door at Sydney’s. He distinctly remembers Nate cursing, probably after he found out Cocheta was ditching Reno. Those guttural noises had interrupted Brad’s perfectly straightforward blowjob by conjuring up some mishmash of Nate on his knees instead of Marla, Nate’s eyes watering as his mouth sank down to kiss his belly, chin against his balls…
However, that strange little daydream mid-suck had evaporated like summer rain on sun-hot rocks when the real Nate barged into the room, fuming and so irate like all he wanted to do was skin Brad alive for following him around.
The wooden slats of Brad’s bed makes a creaking noise as Nate shifts on it, head coming up to see what the hold-up is. Only then does Brad notice his hand’s migrated to stroke the taut tendon of Nate’s groin.
“Brad,” Nate says gruffly.
The roughness of the sound surprises him, and when Brad looks up to find Nate watching him with hooded eyes, his cock slowly hardening under Brad’s distracted stroking—
Shit, Brad thinks, snatching his hand back like Nate’s on fire.
Nate bites his lip. He looks disappointed.
Well, he looks more than disappointed—looks downright frustrated, actually, and it’s that transparency in his expression that clears things up, quick like a strike of lightning. In fact, Brad hardly knows why it took this long to realize…
This here, Brad on his knees? Nate wants this. Nate wants him.
Sure explains what went down at Sydney’s too. Hell, Nate might’ve teased him about being jealous, but Brad’s not the one who plumb busted down a door off its hinges to stop him from fucking someone else.
Brad breaks out into a grin. He can feel his canines digging into his lower lip and, judging from what people have told him in the past, he probably looks like he’s about to have Nate for dinner.
The longer Brad stares, the more wary Nate turns as he starts worrying his lower lip with his teeth. It’s making Brad’s mouth water.
He feels himself drifting closer to where Nate’s sprawled, knees wide open, cock lying hard and pink against his belly. Brad has to shut his eyes from the sheer wantonness of the sight, but it don’t stop him from ducking his head down to nuzzle the closest stretch of warmth he can find.
He homes in by touch and scent alone, Nate radiating heat and smelling of sweat, though musky sweet beneath it all. He winds up somewhere baby-soft—the exposed skin above Nate’s fresh bandage, at his thigh. Brad's nose lands at the crease where Nate’s leg begins.
Against his face, lined up on his left cheek, Nate’s cock feels smooth and hot.
Fuck, Brad thinks, turning to drag his lips over the silky length of it. He can’t help it—while the foreignness of being this close to another man’s cock is pretty fucking weird, it’s like he’s gone blind or something. Just knows he wants more warmth, more taste, more Nate.
He nips at the base of Nate’s dick. Through the thin, heated skin Brad’s burrowed against, he feels Nate’s pulse quicken.
God, it’s good. It’s really, really good. While sure, Nate tastes like day-old ball sweat, underneath that he tastes like residual soap—like hard-earned work and sunshine, like sex. It’s so fucking hot, Brad could probably get off right now by rutting against one of Nate’s ankles.
Instead of anything so moronic, however, Brad lightly drops down, kissing the loose skin at Nate’s balls, rolling it playfully between his lips. When he hears Nate moan something filthy, Brad opens his mouth to take an entire globe into his mouth.
He suckles at the heft of it for a long, satisfying moment. The light hairs are soft against Brad’s tongue, the taste salty but addictive. Or maybe it’s just Nate’s small noises above him that are addictive. Regardless, Brad doesn’t switch to take the other one in until Nate kicks him with a sharp heel to the backside.
He’s just beginning to really enjoy himself, trousers growing tight in front, when Nate gasps his name, loud and desperate. Brad groans around his mouthful, everything vibrating between his lips. Nate mewls like he’s dying.
God damn, that noise does things to Brad. He wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the night seeing just how many ways he can tempt that sound from Nate—maybe make him call out, too. For all Brad knows, Nate’s a right screamer in bed. S’usually the innocent-looking ones, ain’t it?
Eager to test his theory, Brad licks one last broad swipe across each of Nate’s balls before moving up to press his lips back against the belly of Nate’s dick. Nate twitches and Brad smiles against skin.
He doesn’t want to be a cocktease though, not when Brad’s fully aware of how tenuous the situation is. He better keep Nate delirious with want, because once Nate’s back to using his brain, he’ll probably kick Brad flat on his ass and order him to stay the fuck away. Possibly with another clock to the jaw.
Brad quickly dispels the unpleasant thought, much preferring what’s right in front of him: Nate’s dick is an angry red now, leaking at the tip. Brad laps at it, Nate yelping in surprise. The clear fluid’s oddly slick on his tongue, drawing a string of liquid that doesn’t break as Brad pulls his head back, but he likes the reaction he gets and quickly does it again. And again. Then once more.
“Brad,” Nate eventually bites out. “Quit playing. I’m gonna come in your eye if you keep that shit up.”
“Bossy, bossy,” Brad drawls rebelliously, but in truth he finds the idea sort of appealing in a tawdry way. Still, Nate’s not the only one eager to get a move on. Brad’s painfully hard himself.
He makes his move. Without warning, Brad takes as much of Nate into his mouth as he can, swallowing down eagerly. Nate’s good leg kicks out a little and his thighs start to squirm around Brad’s head which is, sure, a real fucking turn-on, but Nate also keeps hitting Brad’s gag reflex, which is seriously uncomfortable.
Brad rises up to his knees, holding Nate’s hips down with two braced hands to keep them still. Brad lifts his head, too, but keeps his lips parked just over the helmet of Nate’s prick.
It gives him the breathing room he needs to quickly assess how best to proceed. Rather than letting Nate get himself off by using Brad’s mouth as a prop, Brad wants to make it happen. He excels at everything he does, and if giving an amazing suckjob is gonna be a part of that repertoire, better believe he’s gonna be so good Nate’s never gonna get his dick sucked again without wishing it was Brad.
Nate kicks him again, impatient, so Brad quickly wraps his hand around the length below his stretched lips and slides down, using his spit to get that nice, slippery feeling he always appreciates when it’s him on the other side.
Brad knows he’s doing something right when Nate’s dick twitches in his mouth, and a little spurt of precum lands on his tongue. It tastes weird, kinda salty, but he ain’t gonna back out now. Brad just keeps moving, instructing himself. Up. Down. Up. Down.
It takes a little while for him to get a smooth rhythm going, ‘specially with the way Nate keeps bucking right out of his grip each time some air gets in and Brad makes a particularly lewd slurp, but once he gets the hang of it, it’s real good and real fun.
Nate’s getting louder now, choked-off noises between wet, heavy breathing, and Brad’s beginning to think he hit a bull’s eye in suspecting Nate of being a screamer. Brad bobs his head faster now, jacking his hand real quick ‘cause he wants to make Nate come, wants to confirm his theory beyond a doubt.
“Fuck—” Nate pants. “Almost there. Just—fucking—”
Brad tries to up his game, the incessant drooling more than enough lube to pump his fist even faster against Nate’s cock, but more and more time’s passing with nothing going, just Brad’s jaw getting sore and Nate grunting at him in frustration. Behind them, the relentless clanking of Nate’s handcuff against the headboard is starting to sound frantic and a little ridiculous.
A hand comes up to the back of Brad’s head and it’s Nate, impatient and reckless as he jerks his hips off the bed and shoves Brad deeper onto his cock.
“Come on, Sheriff,” Nate growls.
Brad’s vision goes all sorts of blurry, and Nate’s cock is unyielding and harsh against his throat. He starts to gag on it with embarrassing, squelching noises and Nate seems to sense he’s gone too far, hand lifting immediately to tangle in the bedspread.
Brad hastily resurfaces, mouth coming up with a stringy departure. His fist follows, jacking a straight shot up Nate’s prick with all the fluid left there from Brad’s messy sucking, but instead of taking his hand all the way off Brad pauses at the tip, then squeezes back down with an exaggerated twist of his wrist.
Nate shouts.
Brad relishes the way Nate’s flesh feels greased under his tight grip, and when he twists back up to the tip, this time it ain’t just his own fist he’s pulling up.
It catches Brad by surprise—Nate too, from the sound of it—and the first squirt of come splatters somewhere under his chin. He quickly draws back to sit on his heels, but not before the second jet catches Brad on the face, a warm stripe landing on his left cheek.
Brad fists Nate’s spurting cock all the way through his orgasm, the other hand clamped on Nate’s good thigh.
Fuck, even just watching Nate come is almost enough to trigger his own release. Brad’s prick is overheated and uncomfortable in his jeans, and the slightest movement he makes has it rubbing against the cotton of his shorts. It’s driving him mad.
Nate’s balls are hardly done emptying before Brad’s hurriedly undoing his own fly with his clean hand. He shoves the cursed denim down over his ass, dragging his underwear down with it into an ungainly tangle around his ankles before he kicks them off to who-knows-where.
Brad’s up on the bed in an instant, kneeing his way up Nate’s torso until he’s straddling him, holding himself with a tight grip just above his balls so he don’t come prematurely all over Nate’s fine clothes.
“Get it off,” Brad grunts. “Your shirt. Get your fucking shirt open, Nate.”
Nate still looks pretty punched out, but he obliges with fumbling fingers of his free hand that reveal—much too slowly, like this is some damned striptease—pale, milky-smooth skin from his chest down to his navel. When he’s done, Nate falls back on the bed with a bounce and holds his shirt open, spread out like a sacrifice.
Brad closes his eyes. If he keeps looking, he’s gonna shoot too soon.
As it stands, Brad gets his right hand on himself, slicking up with the excess of Nate’s come, which is all over his fingers. There’s a lot spilled on the backside of them too, so Brad wipes his knuckles to get all of it onto his dick.
Brad opens his eyes. Nate’s staring back at him—well, staring at Brad’s lap and the right mess he’s making down there with a gob-smacked expression on his face.
Brad realizes how this must look. Now that the fog of sex has passed, Nate’s left with nothing but come drying on his belly and a half-naked man about to jizz all over his chest.
Brad leans down, closer to Nate—buckles down to one elbow beside Nate’s ribcage, the other hand still squeezing the base of his dick.
He opens his mouth to say something reassuring, but at that moment—close enough to catch the scent of Nate on his tongue—Brad realizes he wants to kiss him instead. Lord knows how fucking flower-picking, wine-sipping, Molly homosexual the idea is, but fucking hell, Brad wants to kiss Nate.
He doesn’t. Nate looks shocked enough as is, so Brad just says, in a whisper for fear his voice might reveal too much—
“This okay?”
Nate’s eyes remain wide, his throat visibly working as he swallows apprehensively, but the small nod he gives is clear as day.
Brad lets himself go, finally. His eyes fall shut as he works himself with the viscous come in his grasp, and it only takes a few quick, hard jacks before he’s marking Nate with his own pent-up release. Doesn’t know if he cries out or anything; there’s a loud, high-pitched ringing in Brad’s ears as he feels his dick pulse four—five times in his hand before petering out to aftershocks that dribble out in leisurely throbs.
When he feels a trail of wetness leak down to his fingers, Brad tiredly opens his eyes.
The sight he’s greeted with makes his stomach drop. Nate’s covered in more spunk than Brad’s wrung out of himself since he were a teenager—though, to be fair, some of it is probably Nate’s, either from his earlier release or dripped off Brad’s hand.
Regardless, there’s come spattered up Nate’s stomach, his chest, his neck.
Brad follows the trails with hungry eyes. The liquid blend into Nate’s skin where he’s pale from being covered up by clothes, but contrasts thick and white where he’s tanned from the sun, like at his neck.
Brad flicks his eyes up to Nate’s face, feels his chest clench at the high flush he sees there.
Fuck—there’s even a little dab of come there, in a shiny spot right next to the corner of Nate’s lips.
Brad leans down on both his elbows then, careful not to drip onto his bedspread or to lean on Nate and get cooling jizz all over his shirtfront. He scoots up a bit until they’re face-level, takes a minute to find his target, then lowers his mouth and hovers for a long, delicious moment where Nate tenses up beneath him before Brad darts his tongue out, lapping up the stray bit of come.
Nate starts, then smiles a little self-consciously, averting his gaze, and it’d be funny if it didn’t stir up something so strong, it takes Brad by surprise. It’s like there ain’t enough oxygen all of a sudden—he feels lightheaded. Nothing bad, just off-center. Feels like he’s standing onshore and there’s saltwater rushing around his ankles, clawing back into the ocean as he moves backwards without really moving at all.
Shit. That can’t be good. The last time he felt anything remotely like this around somebody, he got twin stabs in the back as his ex-fiancée started fucking his best friend. And while Brad knows Nate ain’t her—that Nate sure as hell won’t betray Brad, not least because there won’t be any promises for him to break—it don’t make the involuntary dread any less palpable when it kicks in.
All this here, Nate Fick in his bed and smelling of Brad, s’just a lark, a flight of fancy. Something that’ll pass quicker than a summer thunderstorm. Their story’s got but one possible ending—an end—and it don’t really matter how they get there.
Rather than being hobbling, however, the knowledge makes Brad's heart race. Makes him feel reckless.
Underneath him, Nate’s lips are bitten red. Brad’s sick of just looking though—been staring at Nate’s damned mouth ever since they met, if he’s being honest with himself—wants to know how they feel underneath his own. Wants to know how Nate tastes, and not just his cock, but how all of Nate tastes.
Brad lowers his mouth, holding it just above Nate’s. Nate’s eyes are still open. His exhales puff against Brad’s face until they suddenly don’t anymore, and Brad realizes in a cold shock of wonder, it's because Nate’s holding his breath.
Brad kisses him.
Back | Next
Characters: Brad/Nate, Ray, Poke, Walt, Rudy, etc.
Author:
aeroport_artRating: NC-17
Warnings: western!AU
Word Count: 36k (5k this part)
Summary: 1888, Reno, NV. Sheriff Brad Colbert used to get along just fine...that is, until a morning shootout broke out in his town leaving three men dead. A babyfaced stranger by the name of Fick rolls in around the same time, and Brad ain't convinced the two events aren't related.
When the two of them enter Brad's spartan house, Nate starts acting cagey.
"Look, Sheriff. I'm serious when I say this isn't necessary. You can't hold me here like one of your prisoners—"
Brad sighs loudly and sets Nate down on the edge of his single bed so he can reach over into his nightstand to pull out a pair of handcuffs.
"—and I’m not some helpless girl who needs to be coddled, I can—" Nate pauses to look down at his wrist, which is now cuffed to the metal rack of the bed's headboard. "What the fuck?" he asks blankly.
"You sound like one of my belly achin' officers," Brad replies. "Least this way, you ain't got any say, so just sit yer ass down and let me clean this up in peace."
Nate opens his mouth as if to argue, but when Brad raises an eyebrow he shuts his trap and pinks a little. The sight brings Brad no small degree of pleasure.
Now that he’s sure Nate won’t make a (limping) run for it, Brad ambles into the kitchen, calling out behind him, "Make yourself useful, get your trousers off." He rummages through the cupboards for his emergency kit to the sound of Nate’s rustling, the handcuff jangling loudly from the bedroom.
When Brad comes back with supplies in hand, Nate’s kicking his trousers to the ground. Brad’s mouth goes dry… as it turns out, not-so-innocent Nate's been free-balling this whole time.
Nate stops fussing and looks up at him with baleful eyes while Brad's gaze wanders south. He takes in the sight of loose shirttails that give way to Nate’s slim hips, which taper into indents that point like a fucking arrow to the thatch of hair between Nate’s legs—hair a shade darker than the sun-bleached bristles on his head—and finally stops at the sight of Nate’s cock, which is soft between pale, parted thighs. On his right leg, the bullet wound is a messy smear of red.
Brad looks back up to meet Nate’s embarrassed gaze. Even in the sparse candlelight, he can see Nate’s flush extend from his face down to the open collar of his button-down shirt.
"Jesus, Brad,” Nate eventually says. “Would you get on with it? Maybe 'fore I bleed out on your bed?"
"Yeah, yeah. Just appreciating the fact that, underneath all that righteousness, you're just a kinky little fucker like the rest of us."
Nate pauses. "It's hot in Nevada," he explains simply, leaning back on his hands so that his legs fall open a bit wider.
Fuck, Brad's not in the right mindset for this. He needs to clean Nate up and put him the fuck to bed before he does something they'll both regret. That, then maybe lock himself in the outhouse to pull off once or twice before trying to fall asleep with the worst case of blue balls he's had in years, while a gorgeous—what? He's got eyes—piece of ass sits handcuffed to his bed not two feet away.
“Sheriff?”
Brad steels himself and crouches down in front of Nate, saying, "Stay still," though it might as well be to himself for Brad’s hands are jittery as they dunk a washcloth into a bucket of water with a little splash.
Brad puts a hand on Nate’s inner knee and slowly pushes it aside to settle between Nate’s legs. He draws the cloth out of the water, squeezing some excess liquid out before gently patting at the bloodied area with it until the small wound’s revealed.
The bullet didn’t hit anything too important, no busted arteries or anything more precious that that. On the other hand, there’s no sign of an exit wound so the lead’s probably still buried inside.
Nate seems to sense what’s coming as Brad reaches into his kit for a pair of tweezers. He tenses up like he’s expecting a punch, and Brad automatically rubs his hand where it’s still on Nate’s knee, gentling him like he’s Humvee, antsy and unhappy before a brewing thunderstorm.
Brad pulls out the tweezers and steadies his grip on it, then gets the tips into the wound without delay. Above him, Nate bites back a grunt, and when Brad prods around for the bullet, Nate starts panting like he’s running miles.
Hoping some small talk will calm the both of ‘em down, Brad says shakily, "So you wanna tell me why you got a pack of escaped Apaches on your ass?"
Nate seems to welcome the diversion as he huffs back, “Ha fucking no, I ain’t telling you shit, Sheriff.”
“You know, you’d do well not to piss me off right now. I got this thing inside you, Nate, might not be my fault if it takes me awhile to pull out.”
At the lack of any reply, Brad glances up in time to catch Nate biting his lip in pain and fuck, that sure ain’t helping matters any. Brad continues, “Seriously, don’t you think I’m plenty involved by now? Might save my ass to know what’s goin’ on instead of just getting shot at willy-nilly.”
“Far as I’m concerned,” Nate grits out, “Ain’t none of those Indians caught your scent yet.”
“Need I remind you of our little friends tonight?” Brad asks, pleased when he finally latches onto the bullet with the tips of his tongs.
“Need I remind you ain’t none of ‘em still alive?” Nate sasses back.
Brad grins, comfortable in their banter. “You do realize, Meesh is still out there, and he’ll probably sell us over the water as soon as he finds a higher asking price.” Never mind Deputy Person took care of that little liability, throwing Meesh hog-tied and bundled into the back of an eastbound freight. Nate doesn’t need to know that.
“All the more reason to keep the Washoe police at a distance,” Nate gasps as Brad finally works out the bullet from his thigh.
Triumphant, Brad holds the lead up to the light for Nate to see. The bullet’s about wide as a pinky finger and smashed on one side, the whole thing tinged red. Nate dazedly looks at it before moving his attention to Brad, smiling weakly but genuinely.
Brad feels something tug in his chest. Shit, it ain’t fair how pretty Nate is for a guy—he’s beginning to understand why everyone complains about Deputy Reyes so much.
Brad tosses the bullet into a nearby bin with a clatter and sets about threading the curved needle he’s got. “You don't have to worry yourself over my hide,” Brad eventually says.
Nate snorts in realization that he’s having his own words parroted back at him. “This is different,” he says. “You thought I’d have trouble taking care of my own ass just wandering around Reno. That’s hardly the same as a group of wanted criminals trying to get you dead.”
“You honestly think something piddling like a ragtag tribe of Injuns, lead by a woman no less, is enough to scare us? Come on Nate, you seen my boys in action. Give us a little credit.”
“You don’t know what—” Nate’s leg twitches as Brad inserts the needle into his flesh. “—what she’s capable of.”
“Cocheta, you mean?” Brad asks, remembering Ray’s quick debriefing from earlier.
Saying the name aloud—Cocheta—triggers a sudden dawning of realization, slow but complete like a rag soaking up water. Brad says incredulously, “She was there, wasn’t she? She was the one selling dope to Bob Raleigh.” He pauses, thinking back to the overhead conversation between Nate and his presumed partner, back at The Copper Tavern. “She was the one you couldn’t bring yourself to shoot.”
Nate freezes. It could be from Brad stitching him up like he’s a torn hole in someone’s shirt, but Brad knows better.
“Any particular reason you let her go?” Brad asks. He continues sewing, knowing Nate’s got nothing left to hide. He’ll speak up eventually and sure enough, a heavy sigh comes from above.
“Do you enjoy gunning down women?” Nate replies.
Brad frowns. It’s not an answer and they both know it.
Less sarcastically, Nate adds, “Besides, nobody cares how we get the job done so long as it gets done. We’re closing in on Cocheta. Even as we speak, Gunny’s out there tracking her down. I give it a day or two before we’re packing up for home.”
Something unpleasant flares up as Brad. “With Gunny, huh?”
He plans to leave it at that, but Nate’s quick to ask, “Something you want to say, Sheriff?”
Brad looks up from his work. He doesn’t want to get into this, but Nate’s asking, and Brad’s not one to mince words. “I saw the place, Nate. You can’t tell me there weren’t two of you, and one fucking bed.”
Nate sends a sharp look that Brad refuses to cower under. “Not that it’s any of your business, Sheriff, but the United States Marshals Service doesn’t exactly operate with full coffers. We all pay our own way on the job, whether it’s jail space for prisoners or our own sleeping quarters.”
“And what, a two dollar up-charge sends you diving for the nearest warm body?” Brad glares. He knows he’s being impudent, but seriously—what the hell kind of servicemen sleep in the same fucking cot?
“Jesus, Brad,” Nate says, clearly incensed. “I take the floor half the time—Mike gets it the other half. Do you even realize what you’re implying?”
Nate stares unblinkingly, daring Brad to say something…but shit, Brad knows when he’s fucked up. Christ almighty, something about Nate makes Brad’s common sense fly out the fucking window.
He drops his eyes, picking up the needle to continue the task he’d abandoned halfway through accusing Nate of something totally unwarranted.
Brad finishes up the last few stitches, letting the passing time soften the tension of their last exchange before saying, “What kinda ass-backwards, confused little Injun princess comes after an entire police force with a circus troupe of unskilled grunts, anyway?” It’s meant to be an apology, and he hopes Nate takes it as such.
Nate chuckles softly. “Desperation,” he answers easily. “Cocheta’s been evading the Army for months, but since the Service got put on the case, it’s only a matter of time before she’s caught. Still, unless we stop the opium too, all that drug money’s just gonna get siphoned away to other bands trying to stay off the reservations. Cocheta’s been gaining a lot of traction in the community and with all that money and power, she’s got some Americans on her side, too. Makes her all the more dangerous.”
“Americans like Bob Raleigh?” Brad quickly ties a knot off at the base of the thread and snips it off. Leans back on his haunches to observe his work. It’ll do. He reaches behind him for the ball of gauze he’s got in his kit.
“Yeah, guys like Bob.”
“So you killed him,” Brad states, glancing up to meet Nate’s level gaze.
Nate watches him for a moment, but seems to sense no accusation in the words and so he nods in response.
Brad thinks about the woman Bob Raleigh left behind. He thinks about Nate and Marla in the room next door at Sydney’s. “And then you fucked his mistress,” Brad adds darkly.
Nate doesn’t smile, but his eyes crinkle up a bit at the corners. “You know, Sheriff, if I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think you were jealous.”
Brad lets his expression slack to the half-lidded gaze of the unamused.
Nate smiles for real this time, a little shy one that shows his upper teeth and he looks down abashedly. Brad feels that strange tug return—a mixture of pride and affection. Pride that Brad could elicit that reaction, and affection for Nate, just because.
Disinclined to think further on the subject, Brad just lets himself enjoy it like a cat in the sun. A flush starts to grow on Nate’s cheeks and Brad realizes, belatedly, that it’s only there because Brad’s staring.
Jesus Christ on a cracker, he’s got no clue when he went and grew a pussy, but there it is. Brad swallows grimly and sets about wrapping Nate’s leg up. The sooner he finishes, the sooner he can leave the room and recon some fucking scraps of sanity. Lord knows he needs 'em.
-----
In the ensuing calm, the only sounds that can be heard are the quiet ones Brad makes as he rolls gauze around Nate’s thigh.
“I didn’t do anything, you know,” Nate softly breaks the silence.
Brad stills, lifting his eyes from his handiwork to shoot a blank look that prompts Nate to clarify, “I didn’t fuck her. Just…wanted to tell her in person that I was the one who killed Bob. She took it really well—said she didn’t blame me. Even helped by telling me Cocheta caught wind we were in town, got spooked.”
Nate picks at invisible lint on the blanket for long moments. He seems determined not to meet Brad’s eyes.
Eventually—belatedly—Brad replies, “Oh.”
Nate sighs and lists backwards until his elbows hit the mattress. His head dips back behind his shoulders and at the sight of the soft underbelly of Nate’s chin, Brad returns to the task of bandaging Nate up.
His thoughts, however, begin to wander.
All right, so Nate didn’t fuck Marla. So what? Where Nate decides to stick his dick has fuck-all to do with Brad, yet the simple admission brings up a tangle of feelings that got no right being there.
Relief, mostly. A little giddiness, too.
Brad scissors off the gauze and works a safety pin into the end of it, securing the binding neatly. Doesn’t remove his hand though—instead, absent-mindedly runs his thumb along the edge of the cloth as he thinks.
It accounts for the noises next door at Sydney’s. He distinctly remembers Nate cursing, probably after he found out Cocheta was ditching Reno. Those guttural noises had interrupted Brad’s perfectly straightforward blowjob by conjuring up some mishmash of Nate on his knees instead of Marla, Nate’s eyes watering as his mouth sank down to kiss his belly, chin against his balls…
However, that strange little daydream mid-suck had evaporated like summer rain on sun-hot rocks when the real Nate barged into the room, fuming and so irate like all he wanted to do was skin Brad alive for following him around.
The wooden slats of Brad’s bed makes a creaking noise as Nate shifts on it, head coming up to see what the hold-up is. Only then does Brad notice his hand’s migrated to stroke the taut tendon of Nate’s groin.
“Brad,” Nate says gruffly.
The roughness of the sound surprises him, and when Brad looks up to find Nate watching him with hooded eyes, his cock slowly hardening under Brad’s distracted stroking—
Shit, Brad thinks, snatching his hand back like Nate’s on fire.
Nate bites his lip. He looks disappointed.
Well, he looks more than disappointed—looks downright frustrated, actually, and it’s that transparency in his expression that clears things up, quick like a strike of lightning. In fact, Brad hardly knows why it took this long to realize…
This here, Brad on his knees? Nate wants this. Nate wants him.
Sure explains what went down at Sydney’s too. Hell, Nate might’ve teased him about being jealous, but Brad’s not the one who plumb busted down a door off its hinges to stop him from fucking someone else.
Brad breaks out into a grin. He can feel his canines digging into his lower lip and, judging from what people have told him in the past, he probably looks like he’s about to have Nate for dinner.
The longer Brad stares, the more wary Nate turns as he starts worrying his lower lip with his teeth. It’s making Brad’s mouth water.
He feels himself drifting closer to where Nate’s sprawled, knees wide open, cock lying hard and pink against his belly. Brad has to shut his eyes from the sheer wantonness of the sight, but it don’t stop him from ducking his head down to nuzzle the closest stretch of warmth he can find.
He homes in by touch and scent alone, Nate radiating heat and smelling of sweat, though musky sweet beneath it all. He winds up somewhere baby-soft—the exposed skin above Nate’s fresh bandage, at his thigh. Brad's nose lands at the crease where Nate’s leg begins.
Against his face, lined up on his left cheek, Nate’s cock feels smooth and hot.
Fuck, Brad thinks, turning to drag his lips over the silky length of it. He can’t help it—while the foreignness of being this close to another man’s cock is pretty fucking weird, it’s like he’s gone blind or something. Just knows he wants more warmth, more taste, more Nate.
He nips at the base of Nate’s dick. Through the thin, heated skin Brad’s burrowed against, he feels Nate’s pulse quicken.
God, it’s good. It’s really, really good. While sure, Nate tastes like day-old ball sweat, underneath that he tastes like residual soap—like hard-earned work and sunshine, like sex. It’s so fucking hot, Brad could probably get off right now by rutting against one of Nate’s ankles.
Instead of anything so moronic, however, Brad lightly drops down, kissing the loose skin at Nate’s balls, rolling it playfully between his lips. When he hears Nate moan something filthy, Brad opens his mouth to take an entire globe into his mouth.
He suckles at the heft of it for a long, satisfying moment. The light hairs are soft against Brad’s tongue, the taste salty but addictive. Or maybe it’s just Nate’s small noises above him that are addictive. Regardless, Brad doesn’t switch to take the other one in until Nate kicks him with a sharp heel to the backside.
He’s just beginning to really enjoy himself, trousers growing tight in front, when Nate gasps his name, loud and desperate. Brad groans around his mouthful, everything vibrating between his lips. Nate mewls like he’s dying.
God damn, that noise does things to Brad. He wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the night seeing just how many ways he can tempt that sound from Nate—maybe make him call out, too. For all Brad knows, Nate’s a right screamer in bed. S’usually the innocent-looking ones, ain’t it?
Eager to test his theory, Brad licks one last broad swipe across each of Nate’s balls before moving up to press his lips back against the belly of Nate’s dick. Nate twitches and Brad smiles against skin.
He doesn’t want to be a cocktease though, not when Brad’s fully aware of how tenuous the situation is. He better keep Nate delirious with want, because once Nate’s back to using his brain, he’ll probably kick Brad flat on his ass and order him to stay the fuck away. Possibly with another clock to the jaw.
Brad quickly dispels the unpleasant thought, much preferring what’s right in front of him: Nate’s dick is an angry red now, leaking at the tip. Brad laps at it, Nate yelping in surprise. The clear fluid’s oddly slick on his tongue, drawing a string of liquid that doesn’t break as Brad pulls his head back, but he likes the reaction he gets and quickly does it again. And again. Then once more.
“Brad,” Nate eventually bites out. “Quit playing. I’m gonna come in your eye if you keep that shit up.”
“Bossy, bossy,” Brad drawls rebelliously, but in truth he finds the idea sort of appealing in a tawdry way. Still, Nate’s not the only one eager to get a move on. Brad’s painfully hard himself.
He makes his move. Without warning, Brad takes as much of Nate into his mouth as he can, swallowing down eagerly. Nate’s good leg kicks out a little and his thighs start to squirm around Brad’s head which is, sure, a real fucking turn-on, but Nate also keeps hitting Brad’s gag reflex, which is seriously uncomfortable.
Brad rises up to his knees, holding Nate’s hips down with two braced hands to keep them still. Brad lifts his head, too, but keeps his lips parked just over the helmet of Nate’s prick.
It gives him the breathing room he needs to quickly assess how best to proceed. Rather than letting Nate get himself off by using Brad’s mouth as a prop, Brad wants to make it happen. He excels at everything he does, and if giving an amazing suckjob is gonna be a part of that repertoire, better believe he’s gonna be so good Nate’s never gonna get his dick sucked again without wishing it was Brad.
Nate kicks him again, impatient, so Brad quickly wraps his hand around the length below his stretched lips and slides down, using his spit to get that nice, slippery feeling he always appreciates when it’s him on the other side.
Brad knows he’s doing something right when Nate’s dick twitches in his mouth, and a little spurt of precum lands on his tongue. It tastes weird, kinda salty, but he ain’t gonna back out now. Brad just keeps moving, instructing himself. Up. Down. Up. Down.
It takes a little while for him to get a smooth rhythm going, ‘specially with the way Nate keeps bucking right out of his grip each time some air gets in and Brad makes a particularly lewd slurp, but once he gets the hang of it, it’s real good and real fun.
Nate’s getting louder now, choked-off noises between wet, heavy breathing, and Brad’s beginning to think he hit a bull’s eye in suspecting Nate of being a screamer. Brad bobs his head faster now, jacking his hand real quick ‘cause he wants to make Nate come, wants to confirm his theory beyond a doubt.
“Fuck—” Nate pants. “Almost there. Just—fucking—”
Brad tries to up his game, the incessant drooling more than enough lube to pump his fist even faster against Nate’s cock, but more and more time’s passing with nothing going, just Brad’s jaw getting sore and Nate grunting at him in frustration. Behind them, the relentless clanking of Nate’s handcuff against the headboard is starting to sound frantic and a little ridiculous.
A hand comes up to the back of Brad’s head and it’s Nate, impatient and reckless as he jerks his hips off the bed and shoves Brad deeper onto his cock.
“Come on, Sheriff,” Nate growls.
Brad’s vision goes all sorts of blurry, and Nate’s cock is unyielding and harsh against his throat. He starts to gag on it with embarrassing, squelching noises and Nate seems to sense he’s gone too far, hand lifting immediately to tangle in the bedspread.
Brad hastily resurfaces, mouth coming up with a stringy departure. His fist follows, jacking a straight shot up Nate’s prick with all the fluid left there from Brad’s messy sucking, but instead of taking his hand all the way off Brad pauses at the tip, then squeezes back down with an exaggerated twist of his wrist.
Nate shouts.
Brad relishes the way Nate’s flesh feels greased under his tight grip, and when he twists back up to the tip, this time it ain’t just his own fist he’s pulling up.
It catches Brad by surprise—Nate too, from the sound of it—and the first squirt of come splatters somewhere under his chin. He quickly draws back to sit on his heels, but not before the second jet catches Brad on the face, a warm stripe landing on his left cheek.
Brad fists Nate’s spurting cock all the way through his orgasm, the other hand clamped on Nate’s good thigh.
Fuck, even just watching Nate come is almost enough to trigger his own release. Brad’s prick is overheated and uncomfortable in his jeans, and the slightest movement he makes has it rubbing against the cotton of his shorts. It’s driving him mad.
Nate’s balls are hardly done emptying before Brad’s hurriedly undoing his own fly with his clean hand. He shoves the cursed denim down over his ass, dragging his underwear down with it into an ungainly tangle around his ankles before he kicks them off to who-knows-where.
Brad’s up on the bed in an instant, kneeing his way up Nate’s torso until he’s straddling him, holding himself with a tight grip just above his balls so he don’t come prematurely all over Nate’s fine clothes.
“Get it off,” Brad grunts. “Your shirt. Get your fucking shirt open, Nate.”
Nate still looks pretty punched out, but he obliges with fumbling fingers of his free hand that reveal—much too slowly, like this is some damned striptease—pale, milky-smooth skin from his chest down to his navel. When he’s done, Nate falls back on the bed with a bounce and holds his shirt open, spread out like a sacrifice.
Brad closes his eyes. If he keeps looking, he’s gonna shoot too soon.
As it stands, Brad gets his right hand on himself, slicking up with the excess of Nate’s come, which is all over his fingers. There’s a lot spilled on the backside of them too, so Brad wipes his knuckles to get all of it onto his dick.
Brad opens his eyes. Nate’s staring back at him—well, staring at Brad’s lap and the right mess he’s making down there with a gob-smacked expression on his face.
Brad realizes how this must look. Now that the fog of sex has passed, Nate’s left with nothing but come drying on his belly and a half-naked man about to jizz all over his chest.
Brad leans down, closer to Nate—buckles down to one elbow beside Nate’s ribcage, the other hand still squeezing the base of his dick.
He opens his mouth to say something reassuring, but at that moment—close enough to catch the scent of Nate on his tongue—Brad realizes he wants to kiss him instead. Lord knows how fucking flower-picking, wine-sipping, Molly homosexual the idea is, but fucking hell, Brad wants to kiss Nate.
He doesn’t. Nate looks shocked enough as is, so Brad just says, in a whisper for fear his voice might reveal too much—
“This okay?”
Nate’s eyes remain wide, his throat visibly working as he swallows apprehensively, but the small nod he gives is clear as day.
Brad lets himself go, finally. His eyes fall shut as he works himself with the viscous come in his grasp, and it only takes a few quick, hard jacks before he’s marking Nate with his own pent-up release. Doesn’t know if he cries out or anything; there’s a loud, high-pitched ringing in Brad’s ears as he feels his dick pulse four—five times in his hand before petering out to aftershocks that dribble out in leisurely throbs.
When he feels a trail of wetness leak down to his fingers, Brad tiredly opens his eyes.
The sight he’s greeted with makes his stomach drop. Nate’s covered in more spunk than Brad’s wrung out of himself since he were a teenager—though, to be fair, some of it is probably Nate’s, either from his earlier release or dripped off Brad’s hand.
Regardless, there’s come spattered up Nate’s stomach, his chest, his neck.
Brad follows the trails with hungry eyes. The liquid blend into Nate’s skin where he’s pale from being covered up by clothes, but contrasts thick and white where he’s tanned from the sun, like at his neck.
Brad flicks his eyes up to Nate’s face, feels his chest clench at the high flush he sees there.
Fuck—there’s even a little dab of come there, in a shiny spot right next to the corner of Nate’s lips.
Brad leans down on both his elbows then, careful not to drip onto his bedspread or to lean on Nate and get cooling jizz all over his shirtfront. He scoots up a bit until they’re face-level, takes a minute to find his target, then lowers his mouth and hovers for a long, delicious moment where Nate tenses up beneath him before Brad darts his tongue out, lapping up the stray bit of come.
Nate starts, then smiles a little self-consciously, averting his gaze, and it’d be funny if it didn’t stir up something so strong, it takes Brad by surprise. It’s like there ain’t enough oxygen all of a sudden—he feels lightheaded. Nothing bad, just off-center. Feels like he’s standing onshore and there’s saltwater rushing around his ankles, clawing back into the ocean as he moves backwards without really moving at all.
Shit. That can’t be good. The last time he felt anything remotely like this around somebody, he got twin stabs in the back as his ex-fiancée started fucking his best friend. And while Brad knows Nate ain’t her—that Nate sure as hell won’t betray Brad, not least because there won’t be any promises for him to break—it don’t make the involuntary dread any less palpable when it kicks in.
All this here, Nate Fick in his bed and smelling of Brad, s’just a lark, a flight of fancy. Something that’ll pass quicker than a summer thunderstorm. Their story’s got but one possible ending—an end—and it don’t really matter how they get there.
Rather than being hobbling, however, the knowledge makes Brad's heart race. Makes him feel reckless.
Underneath him, Nate’s lips are bitten red. Brad’s sick of just looking though—been staring at Nate’s damned mouth ever since they met, if he’s being honest with himself—wants to know how they feel underneath his own. Wants to know how Nate tastes, and not just his cock, but how all of Nate tastes.
Brad lowers his mouth, holding it just above Nate’s. Nate’s eyes are still open. His exhales puff against Brad’s face until they suddenly don’t anymore, and Brad realizes in a cold shock of wonder, it's because Nate’s holding his breath.
Brad kisses him.
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