Archive of Our Own

The Great Revelation could have ended all their lives, immortality be damned.

The fact that it didn't owed more to long-term recon missions and dumb fucking luck than any care taken by their great vampire overlords. 'Regular' vampires weren't given any warning. Brad had spent weeks clawing through labyrinthine networks of Afghani tunnels—very much not built to accommodate Viking warriors—only to resurface and find that vampires had lost all fucking sense.

Either that or they'd been taking lessons from the Corps in how to screw Brad Colbert. Sans lube.

Getting "detained" for being undead when he was still picking Afghani grit out of the crack of his ass? That shit was not okay.

And yet he stayed. Because...what was a warrior without a war?

So Brad spent his nights counting the pores in the concrete of the brig's ceiling. At least until Ray stopped by to mock the guards, who remained oblivious, laughing along as if they were old pals. The other members of Bravo 2 and 3 regularly wandered in and out, too, amused at the show.

Trombley never showed. Shock.

The brig's biggest downside was the food. Christ, but True Blood was nasty. It was false fucking advertising, as far as Brad was concerned. And the more he had it, the worse it got.

Obviously this was all Japan's fault.

"Hey, Brad! Did you ever bite me?" Ray asked excitedly. Brad clocked the guards' sudden interest in their raised heartbeats, indrawn breaths.

"No, Ray, I never fucking bit you."

"Well, why the fuck not? I taste good."

Kocher snorted.

"Your protestations notwithstanding, Corporal Person, I can't imagine why anyone would want to drink from your inbred, whiskey tango, tweaker ass. The Corps' steady diet of bullshit suffices."

"Whatever, homes. You know you want a piece of all this."

Most insultingly of all, compared to True Blood, Ray began to look downright appealing.

They should just stake him already.

***

After the Corps fished its head out of its asshole, it came to the typical conclusion whenever new assets were discovered: they could use the undead to more efficiently kill people.

God bless the United States Marine Corps.

"General Mattis has seen the benefit of loyal vampires in the arsenal of the United States military. By your actions, you and your men have proven yourself the most loyal of any and the general appreciates that. As such, you will be reinstated and returned to your units for the time being."

"'The time being,' sir?" Brad asked.

Godfather met his eyes, unflinching. "Given the Great Revelation, some are wondering if we might reorganize your units to better leverage your unique skills. As such, you will be getting a new platoon commander to usher you through this transition period."

Brad raised an eyebrow.

Godfather's eyes crinkled, a little amused, a little pleased. "You seem surprised, Brad."

"Yes, sir."

"Didn't trust in the Corps' infinite wisdom?"

"Respectfully, sir, the Corps did toss us in the brig."

Godfather brushed that aside. "A cautionary measure. You're too valuable to waste away in here. Gentlemen, you're our test case, America's shock troops." His gaze went cutting and forceful, like he could glamour them and not the other way around. "Now I vouched for you personally, so if you make me look like a fool I will fucking kick your ass, immortality be damned."

***

The platoons were reorganized relatively quickly. Brad figured the process would be the typical insert-thumb-into-asshole military ideal of getting things done. He figured wrong.

Platoon structure would remain the same—three six-man teams plus a five-man HQ section. Kocher and Redman came over from Bravo 3, plus a couple others from Bravo 1. They made up for the shortfall when Trombley, Jacks, and Chaffin were quietly reassigned. Lovell moved over to take top spot in Bravo 3, though he swore up and down it wasn't because of 'the vamp thing.' Even if it was, Captain America qualified as punishment enough.

The rest of the recon platoons were reorganizing themselves accordingly. Vampires self-selected into recon—no surprise to Brad but a puzzle to the brass. But they didn't ask, so he didn't tell.

They didn't segregate the platoons. He got to keep Ray, work with Eric again, and he needn't even feign mortality, with its accompanying hunger, poor vision, poor hearing, shitty strength and stamina, and myriad other limitations. Throw in the ever-expanding pool of willing blood donors and it seemed like a win.

Obviously Brad had yet to find the catch. He suspected that'd come with their new fearless leader, who still hadn't arrived. Mike assured them he heard good things. Brad didn't get his hopes up.

"Colbert, come meet the LT," Mike called from the office. Brad smirked at how Mike raised his voice, in deference to the LT's human sensibilities, no doubt. Habit was hard to break.

Brad shouldered his ruck and reversed direction, stepping into the hub of Bravo 2 administration.

Green eyes stopped him short.

...huh.

Their fearless leader should be starring in twink movies.

"Lieutenant Fick, meet Sergeant Brad Colbert, leader of Team 1."

"Ahh, the Iceman himself." The LT reached out a hand, which Brad took automatically. Firm grip, warm palm—Brad could feel the beat of his heart in the touch, slow and steady and reliable.

"Sir," Brad said, respectful and frosty. Every sense had zeroed in on this man, cataloguing appearance, scent, the timber of his voice. Brad found no appearance of discomfort, no whiff of fear. No, Fick gave off only friendly welcome tempered by expectant challenge.

Brad was all about rising to a challenge.

He suddenly realized Mike had been talking. "—is resistant to glamour."

Brad blinked and forced focus on the conversation, not the subtext. "You're—really? How's that possible?" Brad asked, stumbling over his words and feeling unsettled. Out of place. Something.

Mike eyed him strangely.

Fick nodded once. "Some people just are."

"No one I've ever met," Brad shot back.

"Me neither," Mike agreed, his deliberate tone warning Brad to tread lightly.

Right. Probably wouldn't do to antagonize the LT upon first meeting.

Fick flashed a boyish, self-deprecating, delectable smile. "Guess that makes me special."

Brad snapped his mouth shut, concealing his fangs as they unsheathed—instinctual response to something he wanted, outside of his control.

Fuck.

***

Their first 'mission' was to wargame the various nightmare scenarios for a unit full of vampires. They proposed, explored, and mitigated every possible disaster that could befall them. They even addressed some impossible ones, unless the LT knew something about aliens he didn't feel like sharing.

Brad never let his attention wander from the topic, something he considered an accomplishment given their platoon commander's penchant for biting his lip, playing with pens, looking at him in the eyes. But no, Brad resisted so that he could remain alert for any hint that the Corps wanted to use them to uncover vampire weaknesses. He couldn't see it, if they were. The scenarios were all based on admitted facts about vampires—stakes were bad, the sun was worse—and Fick, for his part, was both earnest and almost eager to ensure that vampires could still serve.

Fick...something was going on there.

Brad pulled Eric aside after another superfluous night training exercise, proving once again, no, they really didn't need night optics. "You get a weird vibe off Fick?" Brad asked, low, ensuring no one else would hear.

Eric instantly went on alert, a mixture of stillness and hyperawareness unique to their kind. "Weird?"

"Not threatening," Brad clarified. "Just...off."

Eric relaxed. He shook his head. "Think you're seeing things, Brad. The LT's like something out of a World War II movie."

Brad nodded, but something still nagged at him. So he went to Ray.

Ray's grooming habits left something to be desired...as did his discretion and musical talent, but despite all his faults, he tended to be a rather insightful judge of character.

So when he scrunched up his face and looked at Brad like he might be getting too much sun—ha—Brad already knew what was coming.

"The LT? Dude, he's the man!"

And that was that.

***

Fick caught up with him as Brad finished stowing the gear in his locker, situated just below his 'new' patchwork training manuals. Brad heard his approach, but didn't look up until he announced his presence.

"Problem?" Fick asked him, eyebrows raised. His expression and posture said, 'do not fuck with me,' like Brad was just any other NCO and not an immortal being capable of crushing his bones into dust.

Brad straightened automatically, fangs stirring. "No, sir," he said crisply.

"Glad to hear it," the LT said shortly. He gave a curt nod and walked into his office.

Brad tongued the roof of his mouth, where his fangs would unsheathe. If he wanted them to.

He followed Fick into the office, deserted given the late hour. Fick rifled through an endless stack of forms, half-sitting on his desk. He looked up like Brad had made some noise coming in; Brad hadn't.

"Something else, Sergeant?" It was still formal, but he'd lost the frosty air of command.

Something eased at the base of Brad's skull. "Why are you here?" he asked, curious and not policing it well.

Fick warmed further, hands stilling on the papers, lips curling into a wry half-smile. "Are you suggesting that this is anything less than a plum assignment?"

Brad didn't let himself get sidetracked. "Most career-minded Marines would stay the hell away—platoon full of the undead, petty prejudices, and all manner of high falutin' officers crawling up your asshole—but I hear you volunteered."

"To be clear, the job description didn't include 'daily anal probes.'"

"Side benefit, then."

Fick grinned for a beat, bright and shiny and tempting. He sobered just as quickly, eyes going far away as he considered. "I don't know, Brad. I guess I want to see that everyone gets a fair shot to do what they want. I was in the position to help make it happen, so I offered." Like it was just that simple.

Brad caught his eye, drawing Fick in by instinct, no coherent plan to it.

Fick blinked. His expression turned guarded, lips tight. "Mike told you that doesn't work on me," he said gruffly.

Brad's stomach bottomed out. Fuck.

Fick measured Brad during his pause. "But out of curiosity, what would you like me to do right now?"

Brad abandoned his attempt at a glamour...and ignored the invitation he thought he heard in the LT's voice. That was wishful thinking and even if not, he had bigger problems. Like trying to glamour his superior fucking officer, in uniform, on base, on government time. Brad was pretty sure there was a reg against that.

"Fuck if I know, sir," Brad said frankly. "Tell the truth, maybe."

Fick looked at him all open and earnest and, Christ, disappointed. "I won't lie to you, Brad."

Brad regarded him steadily, dimly aware that he believed it, put faith in it, based on nothing more than this man's word.

'Epically screwed' didn't even begin to cover it. Fick would cause his final death, Brad could already see it. So why that should make his fangs tingle and his blood stir...

"Roger that, sir."

***

It was just fucking bad luck, really. The LT wasn't even supposed to be here. But en route, Redman had fallen out due to an unfortunate maker issue and it was a six-man op. In his obsessive desire to understand the needs of his men and the dynamics of their blended platoon, Fick had gone through all their training. He had the skills required for this test run of theirs.

So of course the mission had gone to complete shit. The shrapnel hits along Brad's side would've been fatal to any human. While Brad didn't fear for his continued existence, the damage still hurt like a motherfucker. And it temporarily disabled him while his body worked to heal itself, to expel the foreign materials lodged in his flesh.

The healing would go faster if he had a food source, but the shrapnel had ripped into his synthetic blood packets, too. They leaked blood right alongside his body. And it wasn't like he had any live sources at hand...

Best not to let his thoughts stray down that path.

Fick kept watch while Brad's body slowly knitted itself back together. These were the only times he wished he were older. The older vamps he'd known had mostly been terrifying or totally insane, but age did bring with it quicker healing, earlier rising, and slackened thirst.

He could really use two of those three at the moment.

Fick crouched next to him, checking his wounds in concern.

"Won't kill me," Brad assured him.

He didn't look assured.

"The debris might've. A splintered piece of bark will kill you just as surely as a hand-crafted stake."

"Mother hen."

"Cluck cluck," he deadpanned.

Brad smiled and noted Fick's answering grin. A grin he wanted to taste. Against his will, his eyes slid down to Fick's neck, where he could see the pulse point pounding faster than normal, adrenaline and exertion making his heart speed up.

Sometimes, heightened senses were a fucking bitch. He could hear Fick's heartbeat, the rush of blood through his body like a fucking siren's song. He could smell him, hell, practically taste him already.

Brad forced his gaze outward. His hearing, too, which he used to scan their surroundings. No immediate threats, unless you counted the insects. They were either reloading, running, or someone fucked up and this was all a cosmic joke.

That'd be appropriate.

"Coast is clear for now."

Fick shook his head. "Amazing, the things you can do."

The appreciation in Fick's voice was bad for Brad's self control. He shifted and felt the pull of regenerated tissue. His wounds had healed enough to get them moving again. He really needed to get them moving again, maybe find a tasty bad guy he could drain so he didn't end up jumping his LT. He was pretty sure the Corps would frown on that.

"We should move," Brad said.

"You haven't finished healing yet."

"Enough to get the fuck out of here."

Which would be when it all went to shit again. Brad heard the mortar round launch, fly through the air, nothing Fick would hear and much too close to their location. Little cover to speak of, so Brad did the sensible thing and rolled on top of the LT just as the round impacted. The hot slice of shrapnel ripped into his leg.

Fuck. He'd already lost too much blood, expended too much energy healing himself.

Fick breathed quickly underneath him. "We need to get out of here," he muttered.

"That last round got me in the leg."

"You're hit?" Fick asked, trying to look around at said leg. Brad held him firmly in place, another mortar launched, impacting near them, though further off this time. Not perfectly on target. Not yet.

"It's fine," he said shortly.

"It's not. You need blood," he said, shrewd as ever.

"Brilliant deduction, sir." Fick's heart rate spiked at that, which wasn't the normal reaction. Brad eyed him, sniffed. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. "All squared away, LT?"

"You should drink from me."

Brad blinked.

"You need blood and I don't see anyone else around," Fick continued, making his lunatic, back-alley, very-against-the-regs idea sound eminently reasonable.

"That's...unadvisable. Sir," he said slowly. Though now that he'd offered, it was all Brad could think about—pale throat under his mouth, the taste of his blood, the sounds he'd make...

Dimly, Brad heard another mortar launch, but it was off-target so he ignored it. Fick twitched at the explosion. His eyes narrowed.

"You need to heal and we need to get the fuck out of here and back to the rendezvous point. Stop arguing and just do it." Fick tilted his head back, an invitation.

"Well, since you asked so nicely." Brad leaned in, nosed along the tendon standing out on his neck. Fick puffed out a breath, maybe surprised at being nuzzled instead of torn into.

Brad did have some manners.

He drew his fangs lightly up and down Fick's neck, not yet breaking the surface. Fick breathed in, shaky. "Fucking do it already."

Brad reached out with his mind and huh, no resistance; that was unexpected. Fick made a downright obscene sound when Brad bit, nothing like pain. Satisfaction shot through Brad, tangy and rich like the blood in his mouth. Brad's thoughts blanked out in a haze of red.

Fick tasted like a fucking wet dream made flesh, blood sweet on his tongue, body shifting underneath Brad's, wanting. Fick pulled him close, slung a leg over Brad's hip and thrust his rapidly hardening cock up into Brad's. Half-choked off mewls accompanied every thrust.

Brad ground down as he fed, going with the rocking motion Fick set up, awash in too many kinds of lust. The base of his fangs tingled, heat curling through his belly as they frantically rubbed against each other. Beneath all the sensory input, Brad counted; he couldn't go too far, take too much. He slowed and lapped at Fick's neck, then sucked hard, once.

Fick came with a little cry, a thing of beauty. He clawed at Brad's back as his hips jerked, rhythmic. Brad groaned and shuddered. He came in three long pulses, pleasure running in a clear line from his mouth to his cock. He thrust against Fick hard enough to make him gasp and jerk again.

Brad retracted his fangs and healed the wounds, licking up all the spilled blood. Fick's heart raced again, breath coming shallow and fast. His hands stayed limp on Brad's back.

He inhaled, smelling blood and sweat and come and something else, like the rich scent of satisfaction. He lingered, sinking into that feeling...

But no. Brad got hold of himself and pulled away, sooner than he would have liked. Fick, too, from the way he was clinging.

Another mortar exploded, closer to their position.

Right. They had a mission to complete.

***

Everyone could smell it on them.

Brad had shoved a baby wipe at the LT, back when they were still downwind. They'd both cleaned up—Fick somewhat haltingly, hands shaking—but it didn't fucking matter. Maintaining any kind of privacy was impossible with heightened senses and all the time in the world.

Vampires' nosiness made the Marines' appetite for gossip look downright demure.

Mike's eyebrows shot to his hairline, Eric and Poke smirked, and Walt beamed, ray of fucking sunshine that he was.

Brad shut them all down with a single, sweeping glare, but Poke's eyes continued to crinkle all the way back to base.

It was a long fucking trip.

***

Back at Pendleton they threw a celebration of sorts, recognition for successfully completing their test mission. It had to wait until they were back in the civilized world—you couldn't do that shit in Afghanistan. Not properly, anyway.

That they were celebrating at all told Brad the LT had omitted a few things from his after action report, though fewer than he would've thought. Logistical-types were already talking about how to make the packaging of synthetic blood more suited to combat situations.

But of course Fick would include that bit of real-world fucknuttery. He was all about improving their combat readiness, regardless of what it cost him personally.

Still, since they were celebrating and not facing charges of fraternization—or whatever that was—he probably hadn't mentioned Brad's alternate food source...or coming in his pants.

Godfather had even gifted them with a bottle of Royalty Blended for the occasion. Brad much preferred the real thing, but he accepted a chilled glass nonetheless.

Manners and all.

Though some still hadn't learned theirs. Ray'd gotten sauced on all of two beers and a contact high—contact with what, Brad didn't want to know—and regaled them with increasingly outlandish reasons as to why he should be a vampire.

"Well, who the fuck better to turn?" Ray asked, eyebrows drawn down in indignation.

"There's Trombley," Poke said, deliberately fucking with him now.

"Trombley. Trombley?!"

"Not to mention Rudy," Eric said.

Poke grunted a negative. "That boy walks around naked in the sun. There are ways for us to get around the fuckin' nightwalker jazz, but that ain't one of 'em. Rudy would be a suicidal member of the undead, my friend. He's a child of the light."

Ray wasn't paying attention. Instead he grasped Brad's arm and Brad could feel his heart beating, urgent, as fast as mouth moved. Maybe faster. "You know you gotta turn me, right?" Ray said urgently. "C'mon, you can't live forever without your RTO."

Brad scoffed. "I'm not inflicting you on humankind for all eternity. Your indiscriminate, buck-toothed, hick mother's done enough damage."

"You say that now, but one day you'll be crying bloody tears over my bullet-riddled body. Then you'll be fucking sorry you didn't abide the proper care and keeping of Ray-Ray. Poke?"

"Fuck it, dawg, I ain't no cockblocker."

Ray frowned. "The fuck you sayin'?"

"'Gents." Walt appeared, as if conjured by magic. Sometimes life was so non-shocking, Brad could understand why the ancients got bored and offed themselves. He sipped at his cool Royalty Blended and waited for the inevitable.

Ray turned to Walt. "Will you turn me?"

Walt appeared to consider it. "Not right now, honey, I've got a headache."

"What's the hold-up?"

"Well, how do I even know you taste good?"

"Of course I taste good!" Ray sounded so sincerely offended that Brad couldn't help but smile into his drink.

Walt started off, leading Ray away. "You say that, but you talk a lot, Person..."

"Like watching a lamb go to slaughter," Brad murmured.

Mike threw a peanut at Poke's head. "Cockblocking, Poke? You could try and be more obvious, but I don't see how."

"You're lucky I don't throw Person on top of Hasser. Honestly, you white boys took over the world? How in the ever loving fuck? All you do is bullshit around. It is beyond my realm of understanding how a fine female like Viv even looks twice at you, with all this bumbling incompetence on display."

"Not everyone's bonded appears at the top of a pyramid, naked, ranting about the gods demanding a blood sacrifice," Eric pointed out.

"And all you white boys are forever bitter about that—I feel you." Poke's eyes went a little far away at the memory...and yeah, that was kind of a hot image.

Fick flashed in his mind.

Then Fick was in front of him. No, walking away from him. Heading toward the john, chin up, nary a glance in Brad's direction. A vampire Brad didn't know trailed behind him, looking like he was about to get lucky.

The world slowed.

What. The. Fuck?

Eric, Mike, and Poke had gone silent and still beside him, a damning little pocket of calm amidst the chaos. Shouting, clinking glasses, and bullshitting all receded to the background as Brad's hearing dialed in on Fick and his...friend.

The bathroom door shut with a final bang, but Brad could still hear them—the scrape of Fick's boot as he turned and leaned back against the door, the brush of his hair as he offered his throat.

To some fucking—

Fick's sharp inhale cut off his thoughts, Brad's senses wholly preoccupied with the scene his hearing constructed for him. He started counting, an old habit when it came to feeding from humans, and after six Fick made a negative sound.

"Stop."

Surprisingly, the vampire did; he must have been around for a bit. "Problem?" he asked in a lilting southern twang that Brad instantly hated. "Don' want the full show?" The rustling of fabric obscured what was happening and Brad's jaw clenched when he couldn't track their movements.

"No," Fick said again, firm, voice tight.

The vampire tsked, but stepped back. "Too bad. But come 'round again, should you change your mind. I'd be remiss not to offer my sweetness in return for your own."

"I won't change my mind."

The door opened again, but instead of returning to the bar Fick turned toward the side exit.

Fuck that. Brad blindly dropped some money and sped out, trusting the guys to take care of the rest. They all knew the score, even if it remained unspoken. Though if Poke kept smirking at him, Brad would pry out his fucking fangs and Gabi could just live with it.

Brad caught Fick just as he stepped out into the well-kept alley. He pushed him up against the side of the building, fingers pressing at the puncture wounds on his neck. Fick held still and let him, but Brad could feel the tension in his frame.

Sure, he was the tense one.

Brad leaned in and licked over the little marks, tasting Fick and some other vampire—which was not fucking on. Fick made a little sound and yeah, why weren't they having sex now?

Oh, right, because Fick was letting random vampires feed on him.

"What the fuck, Brad?"

Brad pulled back so he could see Fick's face. He stroked his thumb over the puncture marks again, surprised the other vampire hadn't healed them. Perhaps he didn't get a chance. It was a sign, leaving wounds like this. The only humans who liked it were fangbangers and whores.

Brad quickly raised his own finger and cut the tip with his fang. He pressed it into the bite mark, coating it with his blood. Then he leaned in and licked again. This time he only tasted Fick and his own blood, the combination of which pounded out a steady beat of 'yes, yes, yes' in his head.

Brad pulled back and ran his fingers over Fick's unmarred neck.

"Better."

Fick cleared his throat. "Little presumptuous there, Brad?"

Brad met his eyes, but didn't move away. "Not in the slightest. Sir, due respect, but what the fuck was that?"

Fick met his eyes. "Experiment," he said, unflinching.

"Letting random vampires feed on you? This is an experiment?"

Fick lifted his chin, defiant. "To see if I liked it."

Like he liked dry humping his way to bliss in some nameless hellhole, Brad heavy on top of him, drinking from him?

"And what were the results of your experiment?" Brad asked quietly. He pressed closer, his hand traveling down to cup Fick's cock, mostly soft but with some promise there.

"I didn't."

Brad raised an eyebrow. He didn't move his hand. Fick didn't try to move away.

"Like it," Fick clarified.

Brad hmmed. "Your experiment needs more data." Brad caught one of Fick's hands and brought it up to his mouth. He scraped his fangs lightly over the thin skin at his wrist, both an offer and a promise.

A sharp inhale gave Fick away, but Brad waited, a hint of teasing, determined to get the go-ahead.

Fick swallowed, took a settling breath, then nodded.

Brad licked, light, just once. Fick started, making Brad smile. Then he sunk into his mind and bit. He sucked at Fick's wrist, his blood warm and familiar and good in Brad's mouth. It satisfied on a deeper level than Royalty Blended ever could.

Fick's pupils dilated, his mouth opened on a gasp, and his cock grew under Brad's hand.

Brad indulged for another moment, letting himself feel the swell of pride at stirring him like this. Then he stopped and quickly healed the bite. Brad licked up the stray drops of blood, leaving no evidence of his presence.

Well, except for Fick's cock, now fully erect under Brad's hand.

Brad smiled, fangs extended. "We should continue this conversation elsewhere."

***

Fick pinned him inside his door, exploring Brad's mouth like he couldn't help himself, just had to get a taste.

Brad knew the feeling.

"Come on, LT," Brad muttered, nudging him back.

"Call me Nate," he breathed into Brad's mouth, refusing to let go.

"Nate," Brad said, tasting the word. His LT—Nate. It fit.

Nate groaned and took his mouth again, thrusting his tongue in suggestively, then lapping at Brad's fangs, content with the tangle of their tongues, like it wasn't absolutely vital that they get naked and horizontal as soon as possible.

Wait, he could do something about that.

Brad had him on the bed in the span of a heartbeat. Nate's uniform parted under Brad's hands, the sound of ripping fabric eminently satisfying while also achieving the required nudity. Excellent plan.

Nate raised a cool eyebrow. "They do come off the normal way, you know. No ripping required."

"Too slow." Brad licked a long line up, from his navel to his mouth, where Nate sucked his tongue in again. They attacked each other's mouths, rolling around and grappling for dominance. Brad dialed back on his strength and let it be a contest; it was more fun that way.

It ended with Nate on top, all slick skin and heaving chest. Nothing separated them now, bare skin pressed together. Brad was entranced at the feel of Nate's warmth, his pulse pounding hard just underneath his skin.

Nate seemed equally awed by Brad's coolness, tracing exploratory fingers down his sides, along the softness of his inner arm. His touches weren't overtly sexual, yet Brad was ready to roll over and rut against him like the newly-turned.

Nate nosed along his collarbone. Brad made a desperate sound and did roll Nate onto his back. "Sex now," he said urgently, getting a hand on Nate's cock.

Nate simultaneously laughed and gasped, arching into Brad's touch. "I don't know if I want someone so impatient fucking me."

Brad made an affronted sound.

"Or maybe I should fuck you," Nate said with a smirk. He nipped playfully at Brad's jaw, then mouthed down his throat.

Brad slowed the hand he had on Nate's cock, considering that.

"Yes," he said.

Nate's inquisitive sound vibrated against his neck.

"You should fuck me."

Nate pulled his mouth from Brad's skin and dropped back onto the bed, scrutinizing him. His confusion mixed in with anticipation. Plus, Nate's heart rate spiked. It was kind of a giveaway. "I didn't think you...let mortals fuck you," Nate said, carefully neutral.

"It's been a while. Not since my maker taught me a way warriors assert power over one another."

Nate went very still.

Brad touched the thin skin under Nate's eye. "It was a different world then," he said, not knowing why he felt the need to alleviate Nate's distress. But he did.

Nate blew out a breath and shook his head. "Sometimes I forget how old you are." He absently ran his hand down Brad's flank.

Brad's cock registered its neglect. "So...fucking," he prompted.

"Yeah—yes," Nate breathed.

Brad pushed himself up to his knees and sat back on his heels, his cock hard and swaying in the air. Nate breathed out, sharp.

Brad quirked an eyebrow at him. "I hope you have lube."

"Yeah—fuck, it's right—" He flung a hand out to the bedside table, fumbling in the drawer and coming back with Astroglide and a condom. Several condoms.

They might need them.

Brad appropriated the lube and flicked the bottle open. He lifted up and spread his legs, sliding one slick finger into himself.

Nate's lips parted as he stared, condoms falling forgotten to the bed. He stayed like that for a moment, then reached out and slicked his own finger. He pressed it into Brad's body, tentative, trying to match his rhythm with Brad's as he stretched himself. More lube, another of Nate's fingers sliding against Brad's as they opened him up. It was strangely intimate, Nate's eyes darting to their fingers, to Brad's eyes, and back again. His lips were shiny and wet and red.

Nate started to pull away to put on a condom, but Brad stopped him. "No. More."

"More lube?" Nate asked, surprised.

Brad put his expectation into a look. Nate frowned but complied, pressing more lube into Brad's body, liquid and slightly cool. He raised his eyes after, to check; Brad nodded.

Nate grabbed a condom and slicked himself.

Then Brad pounced. He pressed a hand to Nate's chest, pinning him back and perching over his hips. He knew he had a wicked smile in place, probably intimidating as fuck, given the fangs.

Nate just pushed up and licked his lips, breathing, "Brad," like he wanted—

Brad grasped Nate's cock and lined himself up. The first push down elicited a whimper, Nate's hands flying up to grip Brad's thighs as the head of Nate's cock pressed in. He didn't pause to let Nate get a breath, just worked himself down, unrelenting. The heat of Nate more than made up for any unpleasantness on his part—it really had been a long fucking time.

He seated himself with one final push. Nate made a startled sound, sucking in air, pulse coming thready and fast. "Fuck," he hissed.

Brad chuckled. He raised himself up and sank back down, adjusting the angle until it was perfect. The lube smoothed the way and Brad's body adjusted quickly until all he felt was the heat of Nate inside him.

Nate was already sweating, trembling, yearning to move. Brad pulled his body up, then drove back down, over and over, increasing the pace each time. Nate's hands moved from his thighs to grasp his hips, painful-tight, pulling Brad down and trying to find the leverage he needed to thrust up.

Brad grinned and held him firm. Nate's cock hit his prostate on every stroke, sending pleasure clear through him, dizzying.

"Fu—come on, just—Brad, please." Nate's voice stuttered and tripped over itself. His muscles flexed under sweaty skin, the color high in his cheeks. His lips were parted and bruised. It was easy to picture white fangs pressing to rosy lips; Nate would make an exquisite vampire.

Brad loosed the control he kept on himself. He gave into what he wanted and rode Nate, using his speed to shove himself onto Nate's cock faster than any mortal could, bound as they were by their physical limitations.

Brad didn't have such problems.

He didn't blur, not quite, but the extra lube was used well. Nate's cock plunged into him over and over again as Nate moaned helplessly and tried to reciprocate. He failed. Even if Brad released him, he wouldn't be able to catch Brad's rhythm.

But Brad had no plans to release him. Nate's chest trembled underneath his hand, body trying to move, to react to the overstimulation. Brad wouldn't let him, just pinned him with his hand and his eyes and rode Nate's cock harder than anyone ever had, the bed quaking beneath them.

Nate's noises turned half-choked and desperate, expression rapturous. He flailed underneath Brad, abandoned, instinct at its purest, its most beautiful. Brad could feel it when he tensed, just before he came with a yell—the uncontrolled, honest-to-God yell of a man pushed beyond sense. It lit something in Brad; two rough strokes over his own cock, with Nate still pulsing inside him, and Brad tumbled into his own euphoria, shooting all over Nate's chest and neck.

It seemed to go on and on.

Brad slowed his movements gradually, feeling the residual jerks of Nate's cock inside him. When he finally stopped moving, he took a brief moment to commit this feeling to memory, the satisfaction, Nate's cock inside him.

"Condom," Nate reminded slowly, voice thick and used.

Brad grunted in agreement and pulled off. He watched Nate get rid of the condom with shaking hands—it took two tries—and tugged him in when Nate turned back. He licked at a droplet of come under Nate's chin. Nate made a weak sound at that and arched toward him. Brad's body stirred, but Nate was slipping quickly toward sleep.

Baby wipes cleaned them up sufficiently. Brad maneuvered a fading Nate under the covers, curling around him. Nate's skin was still deliciously warm and Brad soaked it in.

"You didn't bite me," Nate mumbled, sounding drowsy and satisfied and gone.

Brad didn't resist the little bubble of pride that built inside his chest at reducing Nate to such a state. "No."

Nate yawned and made sleepy, trusting sounds. "Why not?"

Brad curled soothing fingers around Nate's neck, down over his chest. "Have to keep your strength up."

Nate huffed out a soft breath. "So you can fuck it out of me." Then he hmmed. "Figured you'd bite me," he said, almost to himself.

"Maybe later."

***

Brad didn't need to sleep. Not at night, anyway. Instead he watched Nate rest, fully present in this moment, doing circumspect recon on the damage left behind. Bruises and scratches littered Nate's chest, his shoulders. His lips were still red and puffy.

The freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks stirred something fond in Brad. He reached over and pressed careful fingers there, feeling Nate's breath puff warm against his palm. His breathing shifted, eyelids fluttering as he woke. Brad pulled his hand back to watch it happen. It had been ages since he'd done this and yet still, it felt new. Nate was a marvel—sun-kissed, sleepy, so very mortal.

"Good morning," Brad murmured in deference to the early hour, sky just starting to lighten to dishwater gray. He thumbed Nate's jaw, a touch for its own sake. Nate's hand covered his, stilling the movement. Then his hand dropped away.

Green eyes studied him, keen. Brad wanted to ask what he saw, but then Nate blinked and looked around. He ran an uncomfortable hand over his mouth. It was a subtle sign of distress, a way to tamp down emotion. Brad probably wouldn't have recognized it a few months ago, before he dialed in to Nate's every minute movement.

Nate was unhappy about something, even after Brad rode him to incoherence.

"You think you've acted improperly," Brad guessed.

Nate blew out a breath and stared blankly at the ceiling. "You're in my chain of command, Brad," he said finally.

Brad grinned and propped himself on his elbow. "I'm hundreds of years old. You think you, Lieutenant Fick, can take advantage of me?" he asked, delighted at the thought.

Nate cut a glare at him. "Some principles are sacrosanct."

"You think entirely too much." He rolled over so that he was splayed across Nate.

"Brad—"

"It's not an issue of respect for authority, nor does it undermine good order and discipline, so it's not an issue," Brad said, serious.

"I'm sure the Corps will agree."

Brad stared down at him, unblinking. "Do you really think going back is possible?"

"Maybe. But I know I don't want to," Nate admitted, the hard truth of that written in his eyes.

"Good."

Nate sighed. Then he curled his hand around Brad's arm, just touching.

Brad felt warmth slip-slide through him, easy as that. He dipped his head and nuzzled at Nate's neck, feeling his pulse beat. He traced light fingers down to the handprint-shaped bruise forming on Nate's chest, an angry red beneath the skin, soon to turn dark and forbidding. Then he replaced his fingers with his mouth and bit at the bruise's edge, drawing lightly. Nate whined a protest, but his cock jerked against Brad.

Kinky fucker.

"We'll have to explore this intriguing reaction sometime," Brad said mildly.

Nate's noise said, 'fuck you.' But he actually verbalized: "Now you bite me?"

"You offered."

"Last night."

"I didn't realize your sexual favors had an expiration date. Would a blowjob excuse my lapse?"

"Yes." Nate blinked, almost startled, like he hadn't planned on saying that.

Brad grinned and bent his head.

***

Nate was pumped. Brad could tell, even if Nate was suppressing it under the stern mask of officership.

Brad's fangs tingled. He shifted impatiently. It was enough to get the attention of all the vampires in the room...and Ray.

"What's the matter, Brad? Late for a good ass-licking?"

"Thank you, Ray. I'm sure Brad is touched by your concern," Nate said.

"He wishes I'd touch."

"Like I long for the touch of the sun," Brad opined.

"All right, settle down. Godfather is pleased, we all know that, but there'll be no resting on our laurels. Redman's summons means we have a situation to unfuck, one we hadn't considered." Nate swept them all with an unimpressed look.

"It's the way of the world, LT. We're all slaves to some master. Only difference is who and how many," Poke said.

"Uplifting as always, Sergeant, but you can imagine how the Corps would look unkindly on its Marines serving two masters. So I need to know whose makers are still around and if they'll be a problem. I'm not passing that intel on to Godfather, but if I'm going to protect you, I need to be forewarned."

Though they remained silent, it wasn't hard to read the others' reluctance.

Brad eyed them. "You heard the man."

Nate's eyes flicked to him, then away again. "See me individually, after. But listen up: the test mission was bush league compared to their plans for us. Before, Recon ruled the night. Now we're gonna own it. Get squared away, gentlemen. We're going hunting."

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.