GK fic: I Just Might Stop
I'm not quite back from moving yet, which is unfortunate, since I see I have reading to do (:]!!). But I wanted to get this out there into the fictional world.
Title: I Just Might Stop
Author: nightanddaze
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brad/Ray
Word Count: 978
Summary: Brad’s hands
Notes: Written for the Get Some Porn Skirmish, prompt of: “Big hands, I know you’re the one.” Title from “Blister in the Sun” by The Violent Femmes (surprise, surprise!).
Brad Colbert’s got nice fucking hands. His palms are square and his fingers are long-boned and thin, capped off with ragged nails and grubby knuckles. They’re a man’s hands, not delicate at all, but they can do delicate work. Ray’s seen how careful he is with children, guns and anything electronic.
Most of the time though, Brad’s hands aren’t doing those things. Instead he’s digging around under the Humvee, tapping the Blue Force’s screen, tearing open MREs, shielding his eyes from the sun. The same shit anyone does.
What makes seeing all that better is how any glimpse of Brad’s hands, no matter how mundane, sends a private thrill down Ray’s spine. Because when he says that Brad’s got nice fucking hands, what he means is Brad’s got nice fucking hands.
Brad’s not a big toucher, except where his weapon is involved. They’re probably going to have to surgically remove Brad’s fingers from the trigger someday. But where people are concerned, Brad keeps his distance. Sometimes he fist-bumps Rudy or lets his hands mingle with Walt’s on the Mark 19, and there was the one time he leaned his shoulder against Poke’s when Poke burned the shit out of his heritage.
Point is, most of the time, Brad’d rather cut off his own hand than lay it on someone. So Ray feels goddamn special on the occasions when Brad grips his arm or the back of his neck, muttering 10 o’clock berm, five minutes after sunset, come alone as he passes by, his mouth a soft line, like he’s pleased he just told Ray off.
It’s risky, to fuck around when there’s still some light bouncing around Iraq, but Ray totally thinks it’s worth it. It’s usually his job to be the look-out, but he fails miserably at it, too stuck watching Brad’s hands on his dick.
Brad takes his time. He starts slow, long strokes from Ray’s balls all the way to the head, already squeezing, his fist swallowing up the tip of Ray’s dick like the tightest pussy ever. From there he likes to alternate between light and heavy pressure, easing up whenever Ray’s babbling gets too loud. He fondles Ray’s balls, letting the soft weight fill his palm, pressing them up against Ray’s taint so pleasure swims under Ray’s skin.
While he’s there, he presses his fingers in, feeling for Ray’s asshole. He pushes into it dry, just until it clenches around his first knuckles.
“How much can you take?” Brad asks, leaning in, talking down to Ray.
Ray tries to punch him, but he slips up and clutches Brad’s shoulder instead.
“You know exactly how much,” he bitches, voice cutting out right after as Brad starts stripping his dick and spreading his fingers.
“Good?” Brad murmurs, smug.
“I dunno,” Ray forces out. “I could be chewing on your vest in ecstasy, but I’m not.”
Brad laughs, so low and thick it’s like a punch. Ray arches into the sound, unable to help himself. He rubs his mouth over the line of Brad’s shoulder, just so he’ll laugh again.
There’s a lot Ray likes about Brad, way more than just his hands. The abrupt rumble of his laugh, his inability to accept defeat but still look humble, the fuzzy blondeness of his eyelashes that always make him look sleepy, even if he’s about to blow some shit up.
But it’s the hands that get him off hard. Ray knows it, Brad knows it, and he uses it to his advantage.
“Goddamn, Ray,” he says, roughly conversational, “my hand’s getting sore.”
Ray grunts, watching Brad’s hands work. Either he’s swaying or Brad’s fist is moving just that fast. He braces his hands against Brad’s chest though, just to be safe.
“It’s been, what?” Brad continues. His mouth touches the shell of Ray’s ear. “Three days since you filled my fist with come?”
Ray makes a high, strained noise. He can feel Brad’s smile, the sharpness of his incisor.
He’s going to lose it any fucking-
“I almost forgot what your cock feels like in my hand,” Brad says, as sweet and sharp as a kiss. “So goddamn good.”
-second.
Ray blows his load all over Brad’s right hand, fingertips to wrist, every stroke pulling him higher up on his toes. Brad laughs again, mellow and pleased.
A lot of the time, Brad gets himself off too, since Ray has to focus on getting his knees to stay solid. He strokes himself quickly, eyes on Ray’s face, taking quick-quiet shallow breaths, and Ray’s still looking at his hands.
When Brad twists his thumbnail under the crown just on this side of brutality, that’s usually when Ray hits the sand, reaching to still Brad’s wrist.
It’s all fairly predictable, up until Brad finishes his orgasm. Then it’s harder to map. Sometimes they sail back to the Humvee, picking at each other, pretending they just came back from a rousing game of Help an Officer Find His Own Ass. Other times Brad wanders off to do his own thing and Ray slips into the middle of a conversation between Walt and Scribe.
Less than enough times to make a handful, Brad cups Ray’s skull with his salty fingers and tips his face down, his cheek barely touching Ray’s temple. He takes big deep breaths, pulling himself together and letting Ray see it.
Even at the risk of fucking it up, Ray can’t ever help himself here. He manages to keep his mouth shut, but he always presses his fingers against Brad’s jaw to feel the line of bone and skin and stubble.
If he’s lucky, there’s enough light to see the outline of his hand against Brad’s face and the contrast of his grimy fingertips to Brad’s tan. And if Ray’s a really lucky motherfucker, he’ll be able to see the way Brad’s face looks when he does it.
Title: I Just Might Stop
Author: nightanddaze
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brad/Ray
Word Count: 978
Summary: Brad’s hands
Notes: Written for the Get Some Porn Skirmish, prompt of: “Big hands, I know you’re the one.” Title from “Blister in the Sun” by The Violent Femmes (surprise, surprise!).
Brad Colbert’s got nice fucking hands. His palms are square and his fingers are long-boned and thin, capped off with ragged nails and grubby knuckles. They’re a man’s hands, not delicate at all, but they can do delicate work. Ray’s seen how careful he is with children, guns and anything electronic.
Most of the time though, Brad’s hands aren’t doing those things. Instead he’s digging around under the Humvee, tapping the Blue Force’s screen, tearing open MREs, shielding his eyes from the sun. The same shit anyone does.
What makes seeing all that better is how any glimpse of Brad’s hands, no matter how mundane, sends a private thrill down Ray’s spine. Because when he says that Brad’s got nice fucking hands, what he means is Brad’s got nice fucking hands.
Brad’s not a big toucher, except where his weapon is involved. They’re probably going to have to surgically remove Brad’s fingers from the trigger someday. But where people are concerned, Brad keeps his distance. Sometimes he fist-bumps Rudy or lets his hands mingle with Walt’s on the Mark 19, and there was the one time he leaned his shoulder against Poke’s when Poke burned the shit out of his heritage.
Point is, most of the time, Brad’d rather cut off his own hand than lay it on someone. So Ray feels goddamn special on the occasions when Brad grips his arm or the back of his neck, muttering 10 o’clock berm, five minutes after sunset, come alone as he passes by, his mouth a soft line, like he’s pleased he just told Ray off.
It’s risky, to fuck around when there’s still some light bouncing around Iraq, but Ray totally thinks it’s worth it. It’s usually his job to be the look-out, but he fails miserably at it, too stuck watching Brad’s hands on his dick.
Brad takes his time. He starts slow, long strokes from Ray’s balls all the way to the head, already squeezing, his fist swallowing up the tip of Ray’s dick like the tightest pussy ever. From there he likes to alternate between light and heavy pressure, easing up whenever Ray’s babbling gets too loud. He fondles Ray’s balls, letting the soft weight fill his palm, pressing them up against Ray’s taint so pleasure swims under Ray’s skin.
While he’s there, he presses his fingers in, feeling for Ray’s asshole. He pushes into it dry, just until it clenches around his first knuckles.
“How much can you take?” Brad asks, leaning in, talking down to Ray.
Ray tries to punch him, but he slips up and clutches Brad’s shoulder instead.
“You know exactly how much,” he bitches, voice cutting out right after as Brad starts stripping his dick and spreading his fingers.
“Good?” Brad murmurs, smug.
“I dunno,” Ray forces out. “I could be chewing on your vest in ecstasy, but I’m not.”
Brad laughs, so low and thick it’s like a punch. Ray arches into the sound, unable to help himself. He rubs his mouth over the line of Brad’s shoulder, just so he’ll laugh again.
There’s a lot Ray likes about Brad, way more than just his hands. The abrupt rumble of his laugh, his inability to accept defeat but still look humble, the fuzzy blondeness of his eyelashes that always make him look sleepy, even if he’s about to blow some shit up.
But it’s the hands that get him off hard. Ray knows it, Brad knows it, and he uses it to his advantage.
“Goddamn, Ray,” he says, roughly conversational, “my hand’s getting sore.”
Ray grunts, watching Brad’s hands work. Either he’s swaying or Brad’s fist is moving just that fast. He braces his hands against Brad’s chest though, just to be safe.
“It’s been, what?” Brad continues. His mouth touches the shell of Ray’s ear. “Three days since you filled my fist with come?”
Ray makes a high, strained noise. He can feel Brad’s smile, the sharpness of his incisor.
He’s going to lose it any fucking-
“I almost forgot what your cock feels like in my hand,” Brad says, as sweet and sharp as a kiss. “So goddamn good.”
-second.
Ray blows his load all over Brad’s right hand, fingertips to wrist, every stroke pulling him higher up on his toes. Brad laughs again, mellow and pleased.
A lot of the time, Brad gets himself off too, since Ray has to focus on getting his knees to stay solid. He strokes himself quickly, eyes on Ray’s face, taking quick-quiet shallow breaths, and Ray’s still looking at his hands.
When Brad twists his thumbnail under the crown just on this side of brutality, that’s usually when Ray hits the sand, reaching to still Brad’s wrist.
It’s all fairly predictable, up until Brad finishes his orgasm. Then it’s harder to map. Sometimes they sail back to the Humvee, picking at each other, pretending they just came back from a rousing game of Help an Officer Find His Own Ass. Other times Brad wanders off to do his own thing and Ray slips into the middle of a conversation between Walt and Scribe.
Less than enough times to make a handful, Brad cups Ray’s skull with his salty fingers and tips his face down, his cheek barely touching Ray’s temple. He takes big deep breaths, pulling himself together and letting Ray see it.
Even at the risk of fucking it up, Ray can’t ever help himself here. He manages to keep his mouth shut, but he always presses his fingers against Brad’s jaw to feel the line of bone and skin and stubble.
If he’s lucky, there’s enough light to see the outline of his hand against Brad’s face and the contrast of his grimy fingertips to Brad’s tan. And if Ray’s a really lucky motherfucker, he’ll be able to see the way Brad’s face looks when he does it.