Re: Interference, part 2/4sharksdontsleepMarch 31 2010, 15:40:12 UTC
Walt is balancing on the ball of his left foot, hands raised above him. Rudy navigates around them, calm as a raft on water, adjusting, urging Marines to allow the energies to flow through their palms, to stop snickering. After Rudy does a pose that Walt assumed could only be achieved through having three vertebrae and a rib removed, they stop snickering.
He tries to clear his head, but he keeps blinking on visions of himself doing a more complete position, a deeper stretch on the Warrior 3, things that he didn’t know he wanted.
He nearly tips over.
“Be careful on that tree pose, brother,” Rudy says. “Feel the chi flowing in and out with your breath. There is no try, man, only be.”
Walt’s left ankle wobbles. His sweating even though his heart rate isn’t up. His shirt has bunched up and his shorts are excavating the crack in his ass. Beside him, Ray cuts a loud fart.
“Dude,” Redman says, behind them. “That shit is foul.”
“Your face is foul,” Ray says.
Walt thinks of himself, right now, thinks of his foot on the ground and his hands reaching up to the low ceiling of the tent at Matihlda. He directs his vision down his left foot, grounding. His ankle steadies.
He thinks of the sky outside, vast and blank, deaf to their curses and grunts. His hands feels higher than they were, shoulders somehow liberated from the confines of their joints and tendons.
The thought causes his internal sight to vibrate, to shift slightly, like when he first saw distinct leaves on trees after years without glasses. After a minute, the vision leaves. His eyes are shut, but it might as well be dawn. All he sees is a pinpoint of light growing larger like the sun or a wheel of fire shifting into the morning sky.
Re: Interference, part 3/4sharksdontsleepMarch 31 2010, 15:40:33 UTC
It’s two weeks after OIF and his dirt-tan has finally washed off. Walt sleeps in a bed, plays XBOX all day, jerks off thinking about the girls from Hustler, the girls from Playboy, the girls from the supermarket who lean over to stock the produce section. Ray’s been couch-surfing for a minute now, spending his days draped over Walt’s furniture, fingers mad on the controller of whatever game their playing.
Ray lights up a bunch of alien hordes. Pop, pop, pop. Bullets that scream through space shouldn’t make noise.
Walt’s not thinking of anything in particular, other than maybe if he wants more Cheetos or if he can beat off in the bathroom before Ray changes all his leader-board rankings to “Walt the Pussy Fag” or “Walt the Country Music Special Olympics Retard” or, inexplicably, “Diana,” when he gets a sudden flash of Ray’s exposed neck.
Ray hasn’t showered today or maybe yesterday, but smells better than he did through the entire haul through Iraq, familiar like corn chips and Marlboro smoke. Walt sees himself lean over, feels the texture of Ray’s skin beneath his fingers, feels the dark ink of Ray’s tattoos under his tongue.
The aliens on screen disappear with a red splat. Game over. Ray let’s the controller slip out of his hands onto the carpet. Walt can see actual dust motes floating in shafts of light as for once Ray is very, very still.
It’s worse at night. Ray sleeps on the couch but it might as well be next to Walt in his bed. Walt’s dreams are heavy and slow, like seeing the world refracted through honey. In the morning, Ray blinks at him over his mug of coffee.
“Homes, I’m just not that kind of flexible,” Ray says. “But we can give it a shot.”
Walt blushes from his collarbone to his hairline.
Ray’s in the shower a few days later, singing “Crazy in Love” so loud and off-tune, Walt’s cat yowls back.
“Hey, Walt,” Ray shouts, propping the bathroom door open with one wet foot, “think something good. I’m trying to get some in here.”
Re: Interference, part 4/5sharksdontsleepMarch 31 2010, 15:41:16 UTC
There’s an old pair of stockings that Walt’s last girlfriend had left, the kind with the industrial-strength waistband that come from a plastic egg at the drugstore. Ray emerges from the other room carrying them, sits with his back against the base of the sofa and just hands them to Walt.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” Walt asks. They smell like her shaving lotion and sweat. There’s a hair - hers, his, maybe Ray’s - stuck in the weave of the stockings. Walt picks it out with his fingernail.
“You’re the fucking psychic, you figure it out,” Ray says.
“It doesn’t work like-“
“Blah, blah, blah, less talking and more gagging,” Ray says.
Walt pauses. For a moment, he can’t picture anything, then there’s a series of the least appealing scenarios he can think of: dental floss, his aunt’s best friend with the sagging neck, sand from shamals crusting in his eyelids.
Walt breathes. His heart rate is going like he’s just hiked a mountain with a busted ankle, like he’s been stuck in some animal pose for ten minutes, limbs shaking.
He pictures Ray gagged.
He pictures Ray gagged with three of his fingers up Walt’s ass, Ray’s nipples pinched by a set of silver clamps he’d seen in a store on libo.
He pictures Ray seated on the couch, Walt on his lap, Ray’s hands fierce on his hips, hard enough to leave marks. He pictures coming on Ray’s chest, across the black lines of his tattoos.
Below him, Ray has wrapped the stockings around his mouth, tying them in a sloppy bow behind his head. He’s moaning, still, and the stockings have grown translucent with his saliva. He’s got his hand down his pants into his boxers, and Walt can see the movement of his wrist as he jacks himself off.
Walt grabs at his hand, ceases the motion, and thinks for a minute of what to think. Ray takes his fingers and puts them in Walt’s mouth, rubbing against his tongue, his teeth. Walt sucks. Ray’s breathing is heavy around the gag, his words muffled. He pulls his fingers out of Walt’s mouth, then pushes them at hem of Walt’s shirt, flicks open the button of his pants. He traces patterns with them, leaving spit trails on Walt’s belly, in the hollow of his navel, on the ridges of his hips.
Walt’s been naked in front of other Marines before, in front of his three girlfriends and two one-night-stands, in front of other boys when they skinny-dipped in a granite quarry. Standing in his living room in midday, shirt abandoned and pants circling his ankles, his clothes look like shed carapace, like something he used to be.
Walt thinks of Ray using his hands to open him, of using an ungagged mouth to lick him, of getting him wet and slick and ready.
Ray has the gag out of his mouth in an instant. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” he says. He slaps the side of Walt’s hip, bounces on his toes. “Now bend that ass over. I’m gonna be busy for a while.”
Re: Interference, part 5/5sharksdontsleepMarch 31 2010, 15:41:38 UTC
But instead Ray palms the back of Walt’s head, kisses the corner of his mouth, the hollow of his neck. His mouth can’t seem to stay still and he’s talking, chest rumbling under one of Walt’s hands. He reaches down, grasps Walt’s cock in his hand, begins to stroke. Ray’s hand is wet from the spit he’d wiped off his face. It’s wet when he tugs on Walt’s balls, wet when he reaches behind.
Walt finds himself sitting on the arm of his sofa, legs wide, Ray between them. Ray’s fingers are long but blunt, probing. His tongue is on the interior of Walt’s thigh, his nose brushing against the hairs there. He licks the hollow between Walt’s balls and the inside of his hip.
Ray goes further back, tongue lapping at his fingers, at the furl of muscle there. Walt can’t really see what’s happening, only feels it, pictures it, and pulls a groan from Ray.
Ray has a thing of lube seemingly from nowhere, but Walt recognizes it as the tube from the bottom drawer of his nightstand - the locked drawer. His fingers are slick without being greasy, slick like the inside of a clean plastic cup, and he pushes them in.
Walt’s done this a few times, had a girl from the city who liked to watch him do this to himself. Ray’s lost his shirt and his cock is a hard outline against his pants. Walt fumbles past the metal length of his fly, sticks a hand into the open flap of Ray’s boxers.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Walt says.
“Jesus fuck, Walt. Do you ever shut up?” Ray says, adjusting Walt’s legs until they’re around Ray’s hips. “I’m trying to fuck you here.”
Ray manages to be wordless and noisy. He slaps the edges of Walt’s hips during, hard enough to leave red marks on Walt’s skin, hard enough that Walt’s cock bounces against his stomach, leaking and stiff.
Ray stuffs a hand in his mouth as he comes, then drops to his knees, tongue back on Walt’s ass, his balls. Walt can feel Ray’s come dripping down the backs of his thighs, Ray’s hands working him, imagines Ray’s manic grin as he lords over the mess he’s reduced Walt to. Walt comes like a blow to the back of the head, like lifting something heavy with ease. His come hits him in the stomach. Ray reaches, smears it on his nipples, his own chest, across the script written on his collar in indelible ink.
Walt lies back, spent, exactly where he wants to be.
Re: Interference, part 5/5valmontheightsMarch 31 2010, 16:49:13 UTC
Why is everything about this meme so goddamn awesome? It's like sensory overload, I swear. This manages to be filthy and kinky and yet imaginative and touching at the same time. So, so good.
Re: Interference, part 5/5queeniegaloreMarch 31 2010, 22:15:00 UTC
I love this, like I've loved all your Ray/Walt stuff (sorry I've been slack commenting). I love that you write them with an edge of darkness, a touch of grit that makes it real and hurty and so, so GOOD. And I love that you don't use any gloss - they are what they are. And what they are, lady, is fucking HOT.
Re: Interference, part 5/5sharksdontsleepApril 1 2010, 01:00:28 UTC
Wow, THANK YOU! That means a lot. I have been real crap about leaving feedback, but I love "For Once I Could Go Off" and "Use Your Hands." Motor oil, who doesn't love motor oil? I didn't even know I liked that until you mentioned it. Awesome awesome stuff.
They are what they are - unreconstructed rednecks making out in my mind.
And this meme is soooooooo awesome. We could do this once a month and never run out of prompts/stories.
Re: Interference, part 5/5summersirenApril 1 2010, 02:57:56 UTC
OMFG I seriously screamed out loud when I first saw this because finally, someone answered my prompt. Of course, I continued to scqueal after reading this. Oh man, this is what I'm talking about so thank you for writing this. It was so brilliant with a bit of something dark there as well as fucking hot as hell.
He tries to clear his head, but he keeps blinking on visions of himself doing a more complete position, a deeper stretch on the Warrior 3, things that he didn’t know he wanted.
He nearly tips over.
“Be careful on that tree pose, brother,” Rudy says. “Feel the chi flowing in and out with your breath. There is no try, man, only be.”
Walt’s left ankle wobbles. His sweating even though his heart rate isn’t up. His shirt has bunched up and his shorts are excavating the crack in his ass. Beside him, Ray cuts a loud fart.
“Dude,” Redman says, behind them. “That shit is foul.”
“Your face is foul,” Ray says.
Walt thinks of himself, right now, thinks of his foot on the ground and his hands reaching up to the low ceiling of the tent at Matihlda. He directs his vision down his left foot, grounding. His ankle steadies.
He thinks of the sky outside, vast and blank, deaf to their curses and grunts. His hands feels higher than they were, shoulders somehow liberated from the confines of their joints and tendons.
The thought causes his internal sight to vibrate, to shift slightly, like when he first saw distinct leaves on trees after years without glasses. After a minute, the vision leaves. His eyes are shut, but it might as well be dawn. All he sees is a pinpoint of light growing larger like the sun or a wheel of fire shifting into the morning sky.
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Ray lights up a bunch of alien hordes. Pop, pop, pop. Bullets that scream through space shouldn’t make noise.
Walt’s not thinking of anything in particular, other than maybe if he wants more Cheetos or if he can beat off in the bathroom before Ray changes all his leader-board rankings to “Walt the Pussy Fag” or “Walt the Country Music Special Olympics Retard” or, inexplicably, “Diana,” when he gets a sudden flash of Ray’s exposed neck.
Ray hasn’t showered today or maybe yesterday, but smells better than he did through the entire haul through Iraq, familiar like corn chips and Marlboro smoke. Walt sees himself lean over, feels the texture of Ray’s skin beneath his fingers, feels the dark ink of Ray’s tattoos under his tongue.
The aliens on screen disappear with a red splat. Game over. Ray let’s the controller slip out of his hands onto the carpet. Walt can see actual dust motes floating in shafts of light as for once Ray is very, very still.
It’s worse at night. Ray sleeps on the couch but it might as well be next to Walt in his bed. Walt’s dreams are heavy and slow, like seeing the world refracted through honey. In the morning, Ray blinks at him over his mug of coffee.
“Homes, I’m just not that kind of flexible,” Ray says. “But we can give it a shot.”
Walt blushes from his collarbone to his hairline.
Ray’s in the shower a few days later, singing “Crazy in Love” so loud and off-tune, Walt’s cat yowls back.
“Hey, Walt,” Ray shouts, propping the bathroom door open with one wet foot, “think something good. I’m trying to get some in here.”
Reply
“What am I supposed to do with these?” Walt asks. They smell like her shaving lotion and sweat. There’s a hair - hers, his, maybe Ray’s - stuck in the weave of the stockings. Walt picks it out with his fingernail.
“You’re the fucking psychic, you figure it out,” Ray says.
“It doesn’t work like-“
“Blah, blah, blah, less talking and more gagging,” Ray says.
Walt pauses. For a moment, he can’t picture anything, then there’s a series of the least appealing scenarios he can think of: dental floss, his aunt’s best friend with the sagging neck, sand from shamals crusting in his eyelids.
Walt breathes. His heart rate is going like he’s just hiked a mountain with a busted ankle, like he’s been stuck in some animal pose for ten minutes, limbs shaking.
He pictures Ray gagged.
He pictures Ray gagged with three of his fingers up Walt’s ass, Ray’s nipples pinched by a set of silver clamps he’d seen in a store on libo.
He pictures Ray seated on the couch, Walt on his lap, Ray’s hands fierce on his hips, hard enough to leave marks. He pictures coming on Ray’s chest, across the black lines of his tattoos.
Below him, Ray has wrapped the stockings around his mouth, tying them in a sloppy bow behind his head. He’s moaning, still, and the stockings have grown translucent with his saliva. He’s got his hand down his pants into his boxers, and Walt can see the movement of his wrist as he jacks himself off.
Walt grabs at his hand, ceases the motion, and thinks for a minute of what to think. Ray takes his fingers and puts them in Walt’s mouth, rubbing against his tongue, his teeth. Walt sucks. Ray’s breathing is heavy around the gag, his words muffled. He pulls his fingers out of Walt’s mouth, then pushes them at hem of Walt’s shirt, flicks open the button of his pants. He traces patterns with them, leaving spit trails on Walt’s belly, in the hollow of his navel, on the ridges of his hips.
Walt’s been naked in front of other Marines before, in front of his three girlfriends and two one-night-stands, in front of other boys when they skinny-dipped in a granite quarry. Standing in his living room in midday, shirt abandoned and pants circling his ankles, his clothes look like shed carapace, like something he used to be.
Walt thinks of Ray using his hands to open him, of using an ungagged mouth to lick him, of getting him wet and slick and ready.
Ray has the gag out of his mouth in an instant. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” he says. He slaps the side of Walt’s hip, bounces on his toes. “Now bend that ass over. I’m gonna be busy for a while.”
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But instead Ray palms the back of Walt’s head, kisses the corner of his mouth, the hollow of his neck. His mouth can’t seem to stay still and he’s talking, chest rumbling under one of Walt’s hands. He reaches down, grasps Walt’s cock in his hand, begins to stroke. Ray’s hand is wet from the spit he’d wiped off his face. It’s wet when he tugs on Walt’s balls, wet when he reaches behind.
Walt finds himself sitting on the arm of his sofa, legs wide, Ray between them. Ray’s fingers are long but blunt, probing. His tongue is on the interior of Walt’s thigh, his nose brushing against the hairs there. He licks the hollow between Walt’s balls and the inside of his hip.
Ray goes further back, tongue lapping at his fingers, at the furl of muscle there. Walt can’t really see what’s happening, only feels it, pictures it, and pulls a groan from Ray.
Ray has a thing of lube seemingly from nowhere, but Walt recognizes it as the tube from the bottom drawer of his nightstand - the locked drawer. His fingers are slick without being greasy, slick like the inside of a clean plastic cup, and he pushes them in.
Walt’s done this a few times, had a girl from the city who liked to watch him do this to himself. Ray’s lost his shirt and his cock is a hard outline against his pants. Walt fumbles past the metal length of his fly, sticks a hand into the open flap of Ray’s boxers.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Walt says.
“Jesus fuck, Walt. Do you ever shut up?” Ray says, adjusting Walt’s legs until they’re around Ray’s hips. “I’m trying to fuck you here.”
Ray manages to be wordless and noisy. He slaps the edges of Walt’s hips during, hard enough to leave red marks on Walt’s skin, hard enough that Walt’s cock bounces against his stomach, leaking and stiff.
Ray stuffs a hand in his mouth as he comes, then drops to his knees, tongue back on Walt’s ass, his balls. Walt can feel Ray’s come dripping down the backs of his thighs, Ray’s hands working him, imagines Ray’s manic grin as he lords over the mess he’s reduced Walt to. Walt comes like a blow to the back of the head, like lifting something heavy with ease. His come hits him in the stomach. Ray reaches, smears it on his nipples, his own chest, across the script written on his collar in indelible ink.
Walt lies back, spent, exactly where he wants to be.
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Ray’s in the shower a few days later, singing “Crazy in Love” so loud and off-tune, Walt’s cat yowls back.
I laughed so hard irl because I could totally see it in my head.
“Jesus fuck, Walt. Do you ever shut up?” Ray says
Irony (or possibly hypocrisy) at its finest. Oh, Ray.
I'd quote the sexy parts but there are too many and I don't want to go on for days here so I'll just send general love vibes your way <3
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Thanks for the good vibes! This should really be the never-ending meme - everyone's having so much fun.
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Thanks again!
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Thanks for playing :D
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They are what they are - unreconstructed rednecks making out in my mind.
And this meme is soooooooo awesome. We could do this once a month and never run out of prompts/stories.
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