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aeroport_artI SURVIVED!!!! I had a deadline for Friday and the month leading up to it was utter hell. Late nights every night, cancelled plans with friends, an exhausting trip to Columbus, OH for a meeting, and a boss I just don't click with...but I'm on the other side of that deadline (well, this one, before the next one rears up in a week or two :P). The next week or so should be free of homicidal/suicidal thoughts. At the very least, I'm hoping to get out of the office before 9pm every night :P
I had a great weekend of healing. Giant Chinese New Year dinner with friends, a couple late nights of bar-hopping and dancing, and a homey Sunday brunch hosted by a guy who can COOK, five of us settling in to drink Bellinis and watch I Am Love (which is a great film, seriously).
Food is love. I feel so much saner now, and ready to tackle Monday.
The West Coast Two-Step: Part One
MASTER POST
The West Coast Two-Step: Part Two
Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12
Nate gets back to the hotel a few hours later.
When he lets himself into the room, the bathroom door is shut. It takes half a beat for him to realize—oh. Brad’s inside, jerking off.
Through the thin, whitewashed wood, Nate can hear everything.
He closes the front door behind him, leans back into it, and lets his head clunk against wood. The paper bag in his hand slides out, landing next to his feet with a whump.
Expecting Brad to do the polite thing and cease activity, Nate bites his lip as time ticks by with no such slowing. But why? Brad must’ve heard him come in; the ill-fitting room key grinds like it’s crushing rocks when anyone unlocks the front door. And still, the steady sound of fist slapping against flesh continues uninterrupted. If anything, Brad’s picked up the pace.
Nate’s skin raises into gooseflesh as he stands in the doorway, feeling like a trespasser.
What a ridiculous notion, though. This is his room too.
Besides, it’s not like this is the first time Brad’s jacked off. You can’t room with another man and expect these sorts of things not to come up. But the thing is, Brad’s always been discreet. Nate, too; they’ve both done their business in the absence of the other, and if the scent of fresh musk lingers in the air, or if Nate notices crumpled-up tissues in the bin? They’re both observant men, careers made by the details they capture and leverage at their discretion.
Inside the bathroom, Nate hears Brad stop and spit into his hand. Then the wet noises start up again.
Nate feels his stomach flip.
This has to stop.
Ears on fire, Nate pushes himself upright and toes off his oxfords, chucking them irritably to the foot of his bed. The leather shoes give a satisfying clunk when they hit the wood frame. He doesn’t move into the room just yet, though; Nate peels off his gloves from the doorway and tosses them onto his bed. Pulls at the ends of his bowtie until the fabric slithers free to hang down around his neck.
It’s then that Nate pauses, fingers resting on the smooth tails of his necktie. In the silence of the bedroom, the rhythmic sounds of Brad working his dick reverberate in Nate’s ears, leaving little to the imagination.
Nate slumps against the door again, suddenly lightheaded. By the end of the party he’d had four or five drinks—not enough to dull his wits, but enough to tire him out. Then to come home to the sounds of Brad polishing his prick in full knowledge that Nate’s right there…
Jesus Christ.
Nate feels for his cufflinks and clumsily undoes them, dropping the gold-plated fasteners into his pocket. A small noise comes from the bathroom, maybe a gasp, something breathy that Nate pauses to absorb to before continuing to disrobe, shrugging off his coat and letting it fall into a heap at his heels.
His vest comes next, Nate’s fingers sliding buttons out of buttonholes until the garment hangs from his shoulders—more buttons as Nate works open the fly of his trousers.
He’s surprised by the swell of his dick when it nudges his hand. He hisses a bit, arousal drenching him like water as he glances down to see the physical proof—his dick straining against his shorts—that hmm, all right. Nate is really fucking turned on.
Inside the bathroom, Brad’s stroking goes quieter, amplifying a deep moan when it comes. Like Brad’s taking his time, maybe rubbing the head of his prick, maybe squeezing his balls if that’s something Brad likes.
Nate wonders what Brad’s fantasizing about. (Dares to let himself wonder if Brad’s fantasizing about him.)
The sloppy, slapping noises kick up again from the bathroom, jarring Nate out of his mental digressions. It sounds like Brad’s intent now, the sounds quick and hard.
Faced with such overt obscenity, it’d be absurd to try and stop Brad now. What could Nate do, clear his throat like a schoolmarm admonishing a naughty pupil? Nate has no choice, really, but to let his brain power down until Brad finishes up.
Behind the door, Nate hears Brad quietly hiss, the sound of it somehow intimate. Nate’s thoughts trickle down to a low buzz at the back of his skull. He feels his eyes fall shut. Blindly pushes his trousers down, pulling his dick out and clutching it close to his belly.
He’s so hard already, it wouldn’t take much. Nate squeezes his hand, dragging his fist up until he feels a spot of moisture at the tip of his slit, which he thumbs idly before bringing it up to his mouth and licking it off. Hesitates briefly, then licks the palm of his hand—twice, to get it wet enough—and returns it to his erection, pumping slowly at first, then in earnest.
It feels good. God, Nate could groan—bites his lip to muffle the start of one, though a quiet gasp does escape through clenched teeth as Nate pushes up his right sleeve and turns his hand over like he’s reaching down, priming himself that way. It’s different than how he touches himself normally, feels like it could be someone else. His hips twitch with the sheer greatness of the new grip, Nate’s thumb kissing his balls with each stroke as the leaking tip of his prick rubs wet circles into his wrist.
Nate could swear his and Brad’s tempos have begun to match up. He hears Brad roll and rip off some toilet paper, never skipping a beat. Fuck, Brad must be getting close. The idea makes Nate hot around his neck, starched collar turning his breaths into short pants of air.
Above the steady sound of Brad’s jacking, Nate suddenly hears with perfect clarity, one bitten-off word—
Nate—
His eyes fly open.
From there Brad’s fisting goes double-time, slick noises wholly visceral before—with a lurch of Nate’s heart—
Everything goes perfectly silent.
There’s just the ringing in Nate’s ears as imagines what must be happening behind that door, invisible to him, and goddamnit Nate wants to see. He wants to feast with his own eyes the sight of Brad coming apart, lids falling shut, mouth dropping open. Wants to see Brad’s cock erupt, wants to feel the splash of come on his skin, or his tongue as he swallows Brad down—
Nate’s suddenly slammed with his own orgasm, eyes squinching shut as his dick pulses one—two—three hot splashes up his forearm, the rest of it spurting thickly onto his wrist. It dribbles down into his palm, greasing Nate’s grip as he milks his cock, his motions slowly turning unhurried as he comes down.
Over in the bathroom, above the residual whine in his eardrums, Nate hears Brad tear more paper off the dispenser. Behind his eyelids, Nate envisions Brad cleaning himself off, wiping down his mess.
It isn’t hard to imagine. He’d seen it once, back when they were in Nevada. On the night they’d let themselves go. Nate was drunk on pain from the bullet in his thigh, and Brad was…well, Brad. Things happened. And afterwards, Brad had cleaned up their combined spunk with a warm towel that he’d run across Nate’s skin, firmly, methodically. Single-minded in the way he is about everything.
When Nate hears the flush of the toilet, he snaps upright and looks down at himself. His dick is hanging out over his shorts, softening in the nestle of his pubes which are—gross—sticking together with viscous, cooling come. His right arm’s a complete disaster, clear streaks from his wrist to where his sleeve’s been pushed up, and worst of all, there’s a damning smudge of white on the crotch of his black, woolen trousers.
Nate quickly scrubs his forearm on the hem of his shirt and pulls his trousers up, making a face at the clammy stickiness he traps inside as he buttons his fly. It’s just in time, though. Nate’s fastening his waistband when the glass-cut knob of the bathroom door twists open.
Brad pauses, just his hand visible on the knob, then swings the door wide to reveal his long body as he steps out.
Brad’s ice-blue eyes immediately zero in on Nate’s disheveled clothes, then track up to his face in that calculating manner that’s reduced lesser men to quibbling piles of nerves. Nate, for his part, just straightens his back and tries to look innocent. Brad’s hardly fooled, though; his eyes narrow, lips parting to allow for slow and measured breaths, like it’s taking him a great deal of effort to appear calm.
Under the scrutiny, Nate shifts his weight which regrettably makes the fabric pull across his groin, tacky and gross, reminding him that he really needs a change of clothes.
Brad slowly grins, lopsided and toothy. One visible canine tapers to a sharp point, likening him to wolf or lion. Nate can feel his neck getting warm.
“You’re back,” Brad eventually says, shaking off his predatory gaze into something more comfortable, almost gleeful.
“Yeah,” Nate replies, trying to remember what he’d normally be doing after just getting home.
“What’s that?” Brad points to something low.
Nate looks down at himself, heart thumping madly. But with no small amount of relief, he sees the paper bag he’d brought home, next to his feet.
“Leftovers,” Nate answers, pinking a little as he continues. “From the party. Thought I’d bring some for the team.” It feels wrong, somehow, bringing up Roth, however roundabout, when Brad’s the reason for the come still drying on Nate’s hand.
Brad is unfazed, however. He teases, “Thanks, Momma. Sweet of you to feed the children.”
Nate feels his own embarrassment ebb as Brad smiles like he can’t help himself. Nate replies, straight-faced, “Don’t be late for dinner, or I won’t save you any jalapeño quiche.”
“You’re the one still dressed like a penguin, Marshal.”
Nate lifts an eyebrow, but he takes the subtle offer for what it is and excuses himself, going to their shared closet for something to change into.
He gathers the first garments that seem clean enough and pulls himself into the bathroom, only to be hit with the smell of sex still hanging in the enclosed air. Nate feels his dick pulse in desire, but this isn’t the time. They’re having a meeting in Gunny’s room and Nate’s in no condition to be seen by others yet.
He peels off his stifling duds like layers off an onion, then sets to swabbing himself down with a dampened towel. Scrubs the dried come off his hand, his forearm—between his legs, when Brad calls out from the bedroom.
“Everyone’s next door, sir. I hope you had your fill of black fish rot or whatever else was being served at your Marxist get-together, because we’re gonna eat everything in this bag.”
“I’d expect no less, Deputy Marshal,” Nate replies loudly, moving to the sink and letting the tap run over his towel. “Now get the fuck over there or I’m considering you late.”
“Yes, sir.”
There’s a faint rustle like Brad’s picked up the food, followed by the opening and closing of doors. Through the walls, Nate hears muffled chatter.
Nate cleans up quickly, throws on his clothes, then pulls on some boots.
It’s strange, he thinks, on his way over. Instead of guilt or remorse about the stunt he and Brad just pulled—which, he has to berate himself, was completely out of line—Nate simply can’t bring himself to give a shit. He feels content for the first time in awhile. Warm and whole, like the pleasant fullness after a satisfying meal.
With a smile lurking in the corners of his lips, Nate knocks twice on Gunny’s door. It swings open, Christeson appearing with a friendly Hullo, sir. He steps back to let Nate inside, where everyone’s gathered in a loose circle in anticipation for the meeting to begin.
I had a great weekend of healing. Giant Chinese New Year dinner with friends, a couple late nights of bar-hopping and dancing, and a homey Sunday brunch hosted by a guy who can COOK, five of us settling in to drink Bellinis and watch I Am Love (which is a great film, seriously).
Food is love. I feel so much saner now, and ready to tackle Monday.
The West Coast Two-Step: Part One
MASTER POST
The West Coast Two-Step: Part Two
Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12
Nate gets back to the hotel a few hours later.
When he lets himself into the room, the bathroom door is shut. It takes half a beat for him to realize—oh. Brad’s inside, jerking off.
Through the thin, whitewashed wood, Nate can hear everything.
He closes the front door behind him, leans back into it, and lets his head clunk against wood. The paper bag in his hand slides out, landing next to his feet with a whump.
Expecting Brad to do the polite thing and cease activity, Nate bites his lip as time ticks by with no such slowing. But why? Brad must’ve heard him come in; the ill-fitting room key grinds like it’s crushing rocks when anyone unlocks the front door. And still, the steady sound of fist slapping against flesh continues uninterrupted. If anything, Brad’s picked up the pace.
Nate’s skin raises into gooseflesh as he stands in the doorway, feeling like a trespasser.
What a ridiculous notion, though. This is his room too.
Besides, it’s not like this is the first time Brad’s jacked off. You can’t room with another man and expect these sorts of things not to come up. But the thing is, Brad’s always been discreet. Nate, too; they’ve both done their business in the absence of the other, and if the scent of fresh musk lingers in the air, or if Nate notices crumpled-up tissues in the bin? They’re both observant men, careers made by the details they capture and leverage at their discretion.
Inside the bathroom, Nate hears Brad stop and spit into his hand. Then the wet noises start up again.
Nate feels his stomach flip.
This has to stop.
Ears on fire, Nate pushes himself upright and toes off his oxfords, chucking them irritably to the foot of his bed. The leather shoes give a satisfying clunk when they hit the wood frame. He doesn’t move into the room just yet, though; Nate peels off his gloves from the doorway and tosses them onto his bed. Pulls at the ends of his bowtie until the fabric slithers free to hang down around his neck.
It’s then that Nate pauses, fingers resting on the smooth tails of his necktie. In the silence of the bedroom, the rhythmic sounds of Brad working his dick reverberate in Nate’s ears, leaving little to the imagination.
Nate slumps against the door again, suddenly lightheaded. By the end of the party he’d had four or five drinks—not enough to dull his wits, but enough to tire him out. Then to come home to the sounds of Brad polishing his prick in full knowledge that Nate’s right there…
Jesus Christ.
Nate feels for his cufflinks and clumsily undoes them, dropping the gold-plated fasteners into his pocket. A small noise comes from the bathroom, maybe a gasp, something breathy that Nate pauses to absorb to before continuing to disrobe, shrugging off his coat and letting it fall into a heap at his heels.
His vest comes next, Nate’s fingers sliding buttons out of buttonholes until the garment hangs from his shoulders—more buttons as Nate works open the fly of his trousers.
He’s surprised by the swell of his dick when it nudges his hand. He hisses a bit, arousal drenching him like water as he glances down to see the physical proof—his dick straining against his shorts—that hmm, all right. Nate is really fucking turned on.
Inside the bathroom, Brad’s stroking goes quieter, amplifying a deep moan when it comes. Like Brad’s taking his time, maybe rubbing the head of his prick, maybe squeezing his balls if that’s something Brad likes.
Nate wonders what Brad’s fantasizing about. (Dares to let himself wonder if Brad’s fantasizing about him.)
The sloppy, slapping noises kick up again from the bathroom, jarring Nate out of his mental digressions. It sounds like Brad’s intent now, the sounds quick and hard.
Faced with such overt obscenity, it’d be absurd to try and stop Brad now. What could Nate do, clear his throat like a schoolmarm admonishing a naughty pupil? Nate has no choice, really, but to let his brain power down until Brad finishes up.
Behind the door, Nate hears Brad quietly hiss, the sound of it somehow intimate. Nate’s thoughts trickle down to a low buzz at the back of his skull. He feels his eyes fall shut. Blindly pushes his trousers down, pulling his dick out and clutching it close to his belly.
He’s so hard already, it wouldn’t take much. Nate squeezes his hand, dragging his fist up until he feels a spot of moisture at the tip of his slit, which he thumbs idly before bringing it up to his mouth and licking it off. Hesitates briefly, then licks the palm of his hand—twice, to get it wet enough—and returns it to his erection, pumping slowly at first, then in earnest.
It feels good. God, Nate could groan—bites his lip to muffle the start of one, though a quiet gasp does escape through clenched teeth as Nate pushes up his right sleeve and turns his hand over like he’s reaching down, priming himself that way. It’s different than how he touches himself normally, feels like it could be someone else. His hips twitch with the sheer greatness of the new grip, Nate’s thumb kissing his balls with each stroke as the leaking tip of his prick rubs wet circles into his wrist.
Nate could swear his and Brad’s tempos have begun to match up. He hears Brad roll and rip off some toilet paper, never skipping a beat. Fuck, Brad must be getting close. The idea makes Nate hot around his neck, starched collar turning his breaths into short pants of air.
Above the steady sound of Brad’s jacking, Nate suddenly hears with perfect clarity, one bitten-off word—
Nate—
His eyes fly open.
From there Brad’s fisting goes double-time, slick noises wholly visceral before—with a lurch of Nate’s heart—
Everything goes perfectly silent.
There’s just the ringing in Nate’s ears as imagines what must be happening behind that door, invisible to him, and goddamnit Nate wants to see. He wants to feast with his own eyes the sight of Brad coming apart, lids falling shut, mouth dropping open. Wants to see Brad’s cock erupt, wants to feel the splash of come on his skin, or his tongue as he swallows Brad down—
Nate’s suddenly slammed with his own orgasm, eyes squinching shut as his dick pulses one—two—three hot splashes up his forearm, the rest of it spurting thickly onto his wrist. It dribbles down into his palm, greasing Nate’s grip as he milks his cock, his motions slowly turning unhurried as he comes down.
Over in the bathroom, above the residual whine in his eardrums, Nate hears Brad tear more paper off the dispenser. Behind his eyelids, Nate envisions Brad cleaning himself off, wiping down his mess.
It isn’t hard to imagine. He’d seen it once, back when they were in Nevada. On the night they’d let themselves go. Nate was drunk on pain from the bullet in his thigh, and Brad was…well, Brad. Things happened. And afterwards, Brad had cleaned up their combined spunk with a warm towel that he’d run across Nate’s skin, firmly, methodically. Single-minded in the way he is about everything.
When Nate hears the flush of the toilet, he snaps upright and looks down at himself. His dick is hanging out over his shorts, softening in the nestle of his pubes which are—gross—sticking together with viscous, cooling come. His right arm’s a complete disaster, clear streaks from his wrist to where his sleeve’s been pushed up, and worst of all, there’s a damning smudge of white on the crotch of his black, woolen trousers.
Nate quickly scrubs his forearm on the hem of his shirt and pulls his trousers up, making a face at the clammy stickiness he traps inside as he buttons his fly. It’s just in time, though. Nate’s fastening his waistband when the glass-cut knob of the bathroom door twists open.
Brad pauses, just his hand visible on the knob, then swings the door wide to reveal his long body as he steps out.
Brad’s ice-blue eyes immediately zero in on Nate’s disheveled clothes, then track up to his face in that calculating manner that’s reduced lesser men to quibbling piles of nerves. Nate, for his part, just straightens his back and tries to look innocent. Brad’s hardly fooled, though; his eyes narrow, lips parting to allow for slow and measured breaths, like it’s taking him a great deal of effort to appear calm.
Under the scrutiny, Nate shifts his weight which regrettably makes the fabric pull across his groin, tacky and gross, reminding him that he really needs a change of clothes.
Brad slowly grins, lopsided and toothy. One visible canine tapers to a sharp point, likening him to wolf or lion. Nate can feel his neck getting warm.
“You’re back,” Brad eventually says, shaking off his predatory gaze into something more comfortable, almost gleeful.
“Yeah,” Nate replies, trying to remember what he’d normally be doing after just getting home.
“What’s that?” Brad points to something low.
Nate looks down at himself, heart thumping madly. But with no small amount of relief, he sees the paper bag he’d brought home, next to his feet.
“Leftovers,” Nate answers, pinking a little as he continues. “From the party. Thought I’d bring some for the team.” It feels wrong, somehow, bringing up Roth, however roundabout, when Brad’s the reason for the come still drying on Nate’s hand.
Brad is unfazed, however. He teases, “Thanks, Momma. Sweet of you to feed the children.”
Nate feels his own embarrassment ebb as Brad smiles like he can’t help himself. Nate replies, straight-faced, “Don’t be late for dinner, or I won’t save you any jalapeño quiche.”
“You’re the one still dressed like a penguin, Marshal.”
Nate lifts an eyebrow, but he takes the subtle offer for what it is and excuses himself, going to their shared closet for something to change into.
He gathers the first garments that seem clean enough and pulls himself into the bathroom, only to be hit with the smell of sex still hanging in the enclosed air. Nate feels his dick pulse in desire, but this isn’t the time. They’re having a meeting in Gunny’s room and Nate’s in no condition to be seen by others yet.
He peels off his stifling duds like layers off an onion, then sets to swabbing himself down with a dampened towel. Scrubs the dried come off his hand, his forearm—between his legs, when Brad calls out from the bedroom.
“Everyone’s next door, sir. I hope you had your fill of black fish rot or whatever else was being served at your Marxist get-together, because we’re gonna eat everything in this bag.”
“I’d expect no less, Deputy Marshal,” Nate replies loudly, moving to the sink and letting the tap run over his towel. “Now get the fuck over there or I’m considering you late.”
“Yes, sir.”
There’s a faint rustle like Brad’s picked up the food, followed by the opening and closing of doors. Through the walls, Nate hears muffled chatter.
Nate cleans up quickly, throws on his clothes, then pulls on some boots.
It’s strange, he thinks, on his way over. Instead of guilt or remorse about the stunt he and Brad just pulled—which, he has to berate himself, was completely out of line—Nate simply can’t bring himself to give a shit. He feels content for the first time in awhile. Warm and whole, like the pleasant fullness after a satisfying meal.
With a smile lurking in the corners of his lips, Nate knocks twice on Gunny’s door. It swings open, Christeson appearing with a friendly Hullo, sir. He steps back to let Nate inside, where everyone’s gathered in a loose circle in anticipation for the meeting to begin.
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no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 04:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 04:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 04:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 04:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 04:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 06:57 am (UTC)Besides, it’s not like this is the first time Brad’s jacked off; you can’t room with another man and expect these sorts of things not to come up.
::snickers:: Oh, puns...
Inside the bathroom, Nate hears Brad stop and spit into his hand. Then the wet noises start up again.
Jesus Christ.
Indeed!
Expecting self-satisfaction, given the deliberate nature of Brad’s little show, Nate’s surprised to realize his deputy marshal’s actually just embarrassed. Brad stands in front of the door, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head.
...buh? Why? I actually expected him to be predatory, given what Nate just did. (My assumption being that Brad could hear; it's Brad, after all).
It feels wrong, somehow, bringing up Roth, however roundabout, when there’s come drying on his hand and Brad’s staring at him with a masked expression that doesn’t actually hide anything.
I love this sentiment - that Nate can read Brad, even when he's playing inscrutable.
But the next bit had me confused:
Fuck. Brad knows exactly what Nate was up to. Probably heard everything through that useless door, same way Nate could hear every slick fucking sound Brad made as he jerked his dick raw.
...where did this knowledge come from? Was it the look on Brad's face - the way he couldn't hide his thoughts - that clued Nate in and told him Brad knew? Might need just a bit more of a connection here.
Also also, given that Brad did know (which was my original assumption), I'm still wondering why he's sheepish. I'd get self-satisfied or predatory or even frustrated (paradoxically, but fucking hell dude, Nate will jerk off to sounds of him jerking off, but won't actually let him do anything, what the fucking FUCK?!), but the embarrassment is throwing me a little bit. He obviously knew Nate could hear. Is this just remorse after the fact?
...on another note, a stray thought occurred to me - as these things do - which made me wonder if Brad might think Nate was turned on by Roth...only to come home to Brad jerking off. So that it wasn't actually Brad that Nate was jerking off to, but Roth, after being turned on by him at the party and then coming home to such suggestive sounds.
Ahem. Not that I WANT Brad to think such things, nor do I want to shred his poor little ego any more than it already has been, but ya know. The thought occurred.
Instead of guilt or remorse about the stunt he and Brad just pulled—which, he has to berate himself, was completely out of line—Nate simply can’t bring himself to give a shit.
YAY! Yes, go with that, Nate, sex with Brad = right and proper!
He feels content for the first time in awhile. Warm and whole, like the pleasant fullness after a satisfying meal.
Nnnnnnng! LOVE! Especially the sense of indulgence here, like Nate really WANTS what Brad wants, he's just letting his better angels make him unhappy. To which I say: AMEN. Stop thinking and just go with it.
Of course, we all know how likely that is.
Yay story! Yay porn! Well done, m'lady. Hot boys are hot. ::pets::
no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 02:29 am (UTC)So, thinky stuff. You bring up a really, really good point about the motivations of the characters in this chapter. I've outlined all the plot elements, yeah, but I don't really hash out anyone's inner monologues until I actually get to it in the story and just sit down and write. So I'll have to agree with your call-outs here.
I'm still wondering why he's sheepish. I'd get self-satisfied or predatory or even frustrated
After you and the lovely
The funny thing is, originally I had Nate expecting Brad to be pissed...but then couldn't exactly find a reason why. Plus, I was kind of sick of every single Brad/Nate interaction being so angsty and negative. After all, I'm trying to build a case for them being OTP, not making them miserable everytime they're around each other! So I changed it to Brad getting embarrassed about calling out Nate's name, then being pleased that HE turned Nate on, not Roth.
But it's true; Brad wouldn't have been embarrassed. It's not the first time he's called Nate's name out during sex (haha) and if he wasn't embarrassed before, back in Part One, why would he be now?
In conclusion, I am changing this part to have Brad be predatory and encouraged by Nate's actions (of jerking off). So his immediate reaction is to want to keep pushing Nate for results. Sexy results.
made me wonder if Brad might think Nate was turned on by Roth...
This crossed my mind, but the way I imagined Brad's thought process about this scene was:
1. He's hot for Nate, so fuck it. He can tease right back...by jerking off around the time Nate could come home. If Nate won't let Brad make his point verbally--point being that they should just be together--he'll make his point through physical means.
2. Since Nate jerks off too, it means he's turned on by him, not Roth. If Nate was turned on by Roth during the party, he could've had him ten times over. But he didn't, and not for any mission-related reason that Brad can think of. Nate simply didn't want to fuck Roth. This is good news for Brad.
3. [with the inclusion of your insight :D] Brad finishes up his wank, satisfied with himself. He's basically proved, to himself, at least, that Nate still wants him and not Roth. He just has to keep pushing the envelope, because Nate is a cock-blocking bastard with stupid nobility issues.
This actually sets up the following events perfectly, because Brad's going to push things a little too far a couple chapters down, and Nate's gonna have to clamp down on it.
Reading over my new, B/N-centric outline of this story...oh God, there is SO MUCH UST. WHAT IS MY EFFING PROBLEM? I wish they could just fuck like bunnies ASAP, but all these plot incidents get in the way!!! I'm starting to worry it's becoming unbelievable DDD: You'll let me know, right? If the UST starts to lose a reasonable basis? Because groundless cockblocking is stupid.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 04:09 am (UTC)HA! Nah, it's all you, m'dear. If my comments are food for thought, then yay! But really, I only babble on because you make me think about stuff with your awesomesauce writing. (This is rare.) And then I have to talk it out. So I appreciate your virtual hearts and such! Not useless at all.
I was kind of sick of every single Brad/Nate interaction being so angsty and negative.
I can understand that.
It's not the first time he's called Nate's name out during sex
Yes, exactly! I briefly considered embarrassment, but he did this that other time, too (to such fantastic results)!
I am changing this part to have Brad be predatory and encouraged by Nate's actions (of jerking off). So his immediate reaction is to want to keep pushing Nate for results. Sexy results.
I AM IN FAVOR OF THIS!!!
If Nate was turned on by Roth during the party, he could've had him ten times over. But he didn't, and not for any mission-related reason that Brad can think of.
Oh, got it. Yeah, I buy that.
This actually sets up the following events perfectly, because Brad's going to push things a little too far a couple chapters down, and Nate's gonna have to clamp down on it.
YAYYYY!
there is SO MUCH UST.
That's what I've been saying! You see why we're so desperate for the boys to just ScREW ALREADY!!!
I'm starting to worry it's becoming unbelievable DDD: You'll let me know, right? If the UST starts to lose a reasonable basis? Because groundless cockblocking is stupid.
I shall let you know, of course! We had talked about this a ways back when I questioned why Nate wouldn't just jump Brad (as one does). As you outlined there, Nate has very deep-seated reasons, ones that I buy. Plus, he's a determined motherfucker. So I totally buy his obstinacy.
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Date: 2011-02-07 07:31 am (UTC)(Um, I don't normally get all capslocky, but really. I like Roth and all but this part reminds me that Nate/Brad = OTP. I love them. I want them to get naked and fuck. Especially because you're good at writing them doing that. Just sayin')
And that wiped any more constructive criticism right out of my head :/
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Date: 2011-02-08 02:32 am (UTC)HAHAHAH Oh god, I know!!!!! This is all getting a bit ridiculous, isn't it? I'm going to have to keep making sure Nate has believable reasons for being a cockblocking lame-o >____< Feel free to chastise me if you feel it's getting out of hand, writing-wise. I'm trying to get them to hook up, but the boys are SO DIFFICULT AND DISGUSTINGLY MARTYR-Y
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Date: 2011-02-08 06:37 am (UTC)Hmm, if I get a chance later today I'll re-read all of part two and see if the Brad/Nate, Nate/Roth stuff is working for me.
Meanwhile, I think I need a Nate icon that says "Cockblocking Lame-o". Heh.
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Date: 2011-02-08 01:47 pm (UTC)So yeah, keep doing as you're doing. I'll just have to re-read from the start whenever I feel like I'm losing sense of the pacing.
And I love that you're trying to get Brad and Nate to hook up and they're being difficult. I've had that happen. Sometimes characters get trucelent. Bastards :)
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Date: 2011-02-08 02:48 am (UTC)Why would Brad be smug after their session?...it's easy to assume that Nate came home aroused from someone else's company... Oh, wait. He did. I think Brad would actually be quietly pissed
After you and the lovely
The funny thing is, originally I had Nate expecting Brad to be pissed after the session...but then couldn't exactly find a reason why (I'll explain my take on Brad's psyche below). Plus, I was kind of sick of every single Brad/Nate interaction being so angsty and negative. After all, I'm trying to build a case for them being OTP, not making them miserable everytime they're around each other! So I changed it to Brad getting embarrassed about calling out Nate's name, then being pleased that HE turned Nate on, not Roth. Hence the easygoing banter--Brad was feeling like things were turning in his favor.
But sheepishness wasn't in-character either, which is what I made him in this chapter; Brad wouldn't have been embarrassed. It's not the first time he's called Nate's name out during sex (haha) and if he wasn't embarrassed before, back in Part One, why would he be now?
So then...how would he really feel after their kinda-shared jerking off? After some deliberation and unattractive squinting at my notes on the back of a receipt, this is how I imagined Brad's thought process during the scene.
1. He's hot for Nate, so fuck it. He can tease right back...by jerking off around the time Nate could come home from Roth's party. If Nate won't let Brad make his point verbally--point being that they should just be together--he'll make his point through physical means.
2. Since Nate responds to Brad's bait, it means he's turned on by him, not Roth. If Nate had been turned on by Roth during the party, he could've had him ten times over. But he didn't, and not for any mission-related reason that Brad can think of. Nate simply didn't want to fuck Roth. This is good news for Brad.
3. Brad finishes up his wank, satisfied with himself. He's basically proved, to himself, at least, that Nate still wants him and not Roth. He just has to keep pushing the envelope, because Nate is a cock-blocking bastard with stupid nobility issues.
Does that make sense? Feel free to discuss if you think there's a weak spot :) It actually sets up the following events quite well, though, which is a yay for me. Brad's going to keep pushing Nate, and he actually takes it a little too far a couple chapters down and Nate will have to go alpha on his ass.
Again, thanks for the discussion points! I love this shit.
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Date: 2011-02-07 08:56 pm (UTC)OMG! Nate! Put out already after this goddamn meeting!
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Date: 2011-02-08 02:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 12:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-01 03:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 04:25 am (UTC)Granted I actually have this reaction to about half the fics in the GK fandom, so I'm probably just being an anal nerd who wants everyone to make cost-benefit analysis before they fuck.
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Date: 2011-03-01 03:10 am (UTC)Thanks for the commenty, btw :D It's helpful to see everyone's thoughts on the psyches of Nate and Brad, and whether or not it's they're staying character as I write this story.
I'm probably just being an anal nerd who wants everyone to make cost-benefit analysis before they fuck.
That sounds like the best kind of nerd, EVER. Can I keep you in my corner? XD