fic: "In The Kitchen"
recipient: queeniegalore
author: jmc_bks
title: In the kitchen
pairing: Brad/Ray
rating: R
word count: 2,200
summary/warnings: Domestic fluff as Brad returns from deployment
author notes: Author Notes: Standard disclaimer - I don’t own the characters, don’t know the real people. This fic is based on the actors’ portrayals in the GK miniseries. Kindly beta’d by why-me-why-not and irisgirl12000. My apologies -- this fic is shorter than I intended, and has less porn than planned. Prompts here
***
Sometimes Brad’s not entirely sure how they got there, the magnets on the fridge. For years, there were only two plain, flat magnets disturbing the clean metallic appliance: one from the base Health Services printed with a list of emergency numbers, and one from his insurance agent with another list of emergency numbers. They occasionally held reminders in place, or maybe a bill that needed to be mailed.
But now there are a bunch of little ones filled with words to meant compose poetry (but used primarily to create dirty limericks and leave obscene messages); one shaped like a crab with legs on springs that skitter when you touch them, proclaiming a visit to the Outer Banks; plain, round, colored magnets; magnets shaped like flip-flops, beer bottles, lighthouses, cars, lips, breasts, animals; others announcing visits to Las Vegas, Hawaii, Texas, Australia, Spain, Germany, Japan, the Philippines; and the ubiquitous Fisher Price Play Skool alphabet. Add to that a mass of Post-Its, photos of family and friends, torn envelopes with grocery lists and errand reminders, and magnetic clips holding more crap than any refrigerator front should be burdened with.
It works pretty well as a message board, too, when Ray’s school and work schedules are at odds with Brad’s duty schedule. (“When I’m mercifully free of your inane babble about 80s hair bands and their spandex and eyeliner being the root cause of global instability, you fucking hick.” “Bradley, don’t talk shit like that about your Ray-Ray; we both know your only music taste is in your mouth, and that your days without me are as dry and barren as the Mojave.” “Shut the fuck up, Ray.” “Make me.” And he usually does, to both their satisfaction.)
Buy + Coffee magnets are accompanied by “greedy” written on a Post-It in Brad’s block letters, and then a second Post-It that reads “Done, lazy bones.”
Dinner + Mom + Saturday again, with Play Skool letters O+K following.
Need + ice+ love + kisses, with a large Post-It underneath reading “Say what you mean, Person. Kisses or to be fucked senseless? I can do both and I’ll be home by 12pm tomorrow. Make up your mind by then.”
Then in letters: GOT ORDERS.
***
Docked. Home by 2pm.
He likes to ease back into civilian life. Not for him the huge family crush as the carrier returns to port. One heads-up to Ray and a mass text to everyone else who matters, everyone he will see in the next 48 hours, and then he applies himself to getting his Marines organized and off base before hitching his bag over his shoulder and heading toward the truck parked in the lot, left there the day or night before so he can drive himself home.
The mess on the fridge is the first thing he sees as he comes through the garage door into the kitchen, and he smiles.
Or maybe it’s the sight of the man leaning against the counter, waiting for him, that makes Brad smile. Dark hair, square chin, mouth trying to stay serious but lopsided dimples peeking out. His white v-neck t-shirt shows teasing bits of the No Dice tattoo and the way his hands are tucked into the pockets of his low-slung jeans makes his arms flex, showing off the ink on his arms.
Brad leans over to place his duffel by the back door, and before he fully straightens, a wiry body hurtles into his and he’s rocked backward. Staggering a few steps and getting a good grip on the body wrapped around his, Brad pushes Ray’s back against the nearest vertical surface; he hears a clatter of metal and plastic bits hitting the tiles of the kitchen floor but can’t be arsed to look, not right now. There’s a strong chin to bite at and then a mouth to cover with his own, and why are there so many clothes?
Brad pulls back to look at Ray and he can feel his face stretch into a grin. And he means to say so many things. Hey. Hello. Missed you. You look good. You look skinnier than when I left, have you been taking care of yourself? Missed you. Tell me how things were. Tell me all the things you couldn’t say on Skype. Let me tell you all the things I stored up to share. You look so good. All that comes out is a strangled, “Ray.”
Ray rears up to plant his mouth on Brad’s, humming in response to Brad’s attempt to speak. At the same time, Brad feels Ray hook one leg between his, gaining leverage to maneuver them into switching places. He ends up with his back to the fridge and Ray mouthing at the junction of his jaw and neck, their hips grinding against each other, rapidly hardening cocks rubbing together through layers of uniform and civilian clothes.
Whatever homecoming Brad expected - and he has notoriously low expectations based on his history even though he knows that Ray would never let him down that way - it isn’t this. This frantic need to feel and taste and have right now. But he’s suddenly frenzied; he needs to touch bare skin and see the blue-black ink decorating Ray’s arms and chest. Two sets of hands fumble with the buttons and zips of jeans and BDUs, tugging and yanking at his uniform blouse and Ray’s t-shirt until they’ve got access, and then with almost synchronized groans they’ve got hands on flesh. He can feel Ray’s abs and the slightly coarse trail of hair that runs down his abdomen, follows it until - yes, there he is, hot and smooth and hard in Brad’s hand, and oh, god. Ray’s got one hand gripping the back of his head, keeping Brad’s mouth exactly where he wants it, so he can suck on Brad’s tongue, and the other hand is wrapped around Brad’s dick, stroking in the same rhythm as his mouth. He can’t -- he can’t breathe, he can barely manage to keep any consistent movement on Ray’s dick, he just wants to fuck Ray’s hand and his mouth, and fuck, still mostly-clothed and leaning against a kitchen appliance is not how he planned their first post-deployment orgasms, except this is better than anything he’d planned because it’s real.
With what might have been a grunted down, Ray maneuvers them to the floor. Brad has a moment to be startled by the cool of the tiles and then Ray’s straddling him, bracing one arm by Brad’s head and taking them both in hand. The stroke of his hand, the way Ray’s dick feels rubbing against him as he moves his hips, all of it is so good, better than he remembers, better than anything he imagined when he had the time and privacy for a combat jack. The sting when Ray leans down and bites his nipple hard is the last little bit of sensation, too much, it’s all he needs, and Brad’s coming, blind and deaf to everything, even to Ray coming on his belly and then collapsing in a boneless heap next to him.
He’s still seeing stars behind his closed eyelids when Ray announces, “Christ, Colbert, you’ve killed me, you and that damn Eiffel Tower magnet Fruity Rudy sent. I’m stabbed. Welcome home, dammit.”
Still breathing hard but laughing too now, Brad rolls over and slings an arm across Ray’s chest, “There’s no blood on the floor, Person, you can’t be stabbed. Which is just as well, because I’d have to let your scrawny whiskey tango ass bleed to death this evening - Mom is expecting us at five, so get your boney carcass up off the floor.”
“My tender heart is shattered, Iceman! Vital organs could be punctured and I could suffer from some tragic disability due to an unfortunate encounter with a cheap souvenir, and all you can say is get my ass up? Where has all the magic gone? The lack of romance is tragic.”
Ray probably could keep going but Brad distracts him by getting to his feet and stripping off the remains of his uniform. He heads toward the bedroom, leaving Ray to admire to Post-It stuck to his ass as he moves into the hallway.
***
Brad’s welcome home dinners used to follow a very specific pattern, from the menu to the guests to the pleasant but superficial conversation. Caesar salad, prime rib or brisket, baked potatoes, asparagus with citrus butter, and home-made apple brown betty made the menu, all dishes he’d enjoyed as a teenager during breaks from military school. Jenna and Steve would attend, and his parents liked them well enough, but somehow the interaction was always awkward and stilted, as if their lives had nothing in common while Brad was deployed. (Turns out that was true. Hindsight really is 20/20 sometimes.)
Some parts of the evening have changed, like the 7-Up cake that his mother makes now, because it’s Ray’s favorite. And tonight they’re not just celebrating Brad’s return but Ray making the Dean’s List again and getting an internship with General Electric.
Over coffee and cake, Brad listens to his father and Ray debate the role of the federal government in education. For years, his father has held firmly to the idea that the education is a state function the federal government should have no part in, financially or standards-wise, but somehow Ray’s gotten him to agree that the consistent, nationwide, minimum standards of learning are necessary. Brad’s been listening all evening, but he’s not entirely certain how Ray managed to back his father into that position. Before Ray can get Pop to concede that requiring that the states provide education without providing any financial assistance is both an unfunded mandate and a bad idea practically, his mom interrupts, sending Ray to the kitchen to rinse plates and load the dishwasher and Brad to take out the trash. Probably a good idea; his dad would regret two big concessions in one evening, no matter how much he likes Ray and his appreciation of the train set in the basement.
It’s genius. It’s fucking frightening. Because if Ray set his mind to it, he could probably convince people that black is white and up is down. Brad counts himself lucky that so far Ray has used his rhetorical skills primarily to entertain and befuddle their circle of family and friends, rather than setting out on a course of world domination. He’s fairly certain that if worldwide domination became Ray’s professional goal, he’d succeed. And that he’d be sucked into that adventure at Ray’s side for better or worse. Frankly, the USMC’s current attempts to support America’s seeming goal of military hegemony is enough, thanks.
Coming in from dropping the evening’s scrapings in the compost heap in the corner of the garden, Brad props himself against the counter next to Ray. Before he has a chance to do much more than grin and comment about his parents’ naked fridge, he hears, “Bradley, leave Ray alone. You’re leaning. I know what that means. If you let him finish in the kitchen, you’ll be able to get home and get naked faster. Come here.”
Closing his eyes for a moment, Brad can only shake his head and return to the living room, where he’s held hostage by maternal urges until Ray announces with a wink that it’s past his bed time and he needs a ride home.
***
Ray collapses face down into the pillows shoved up against the headboard with a muttered best welcome home sex ever, before lapsing into unconsciousness. Brad snorts, or tries to through his elevated breathing, then dozes off, resurfacing as the glow of the rising sun starts to bleed into the room. Time to surf.
But first, coffee.
As he waits for the pot to fill, Brad examines the mess on the fridge and realizes that a few pieces haven’t moved since he left last summer. He’s somewhat surprised they managed to remain in place through yesterday afternoon’s welcome home; most of the fridge’s decorations are seriously disarranged or damaged, including the poor crab from North Carolina whose spring-loaded legs are crushed, victims of Brad and Ray’s combined body weight crashing into it.
Stay safe.
Home soon.
He rolls his eyes, then bends over the note pad on the counter to write a haiku to the glory of Coffea canefora. A couple minutes and a few strokes of the pen later, he’s in the truck with his wetsuit and short board, on his way to ride waves.
Three hours later, the last lingering tension in his neck and shoulders is gone. He’s home; the morning started right with sex and coffee and surfing; nothing else is planned or needed, he can just take what comes until it’s time to head back to base in a few days. He’s heading toward the sound of the running shower when he catches sight of Ray’s modification of his haiku:
Brad snorts, then sheds his board shorts on the way to the bathroom. Home plus coffee plus surfing plus more sex on the horizon…best morning ever.
author: jmc_bks
title: In the kitchen
pairing: Brad/Ray
rating: R
word count: 2,200
summary/warnings: Domestic fluff as Brad returns from deployment
author notes: Author Notes: Standard disclaimer - I don’t own the characters, don’t know the real people. This fic is based on the actors’ portrayals in the GK miniseries. Kindly beta’d by why-me-why-not and irisgirl12000. My apologies -- this fic is shorter than I intended, and has less porn than planned. Prompts here
***
Sometimes Brad’s not entirely sure how they got there, the magnets on the fridge. For years, there were only two plain, flat magnets disturbing the clean metallic appliance: one from the base Health Services printed with a list of emergency numbers, and one from his insurance agent with another list of emergency numbers. They occasionally held reminders in place, or maybe a bill that needed to be mailed.
But now there are a bunch of little ones filled with words to meant compose poetry (but used primarily to create dirty limericks and leave obscene messages); one shaped like a crab with legs on springs that skitter when you touch them, proclaiming a visit to the Outer Banks; plain, round, colored magnets; magnets shaped like flip-flops, beer bottles, lighthouses, cars, lips, breasts, animals; others announcing visits to Las Vegas, Hawaii, Texas, Australia, Spain, Germany, Japan, the Philippines; and the ubiquitous Fisher Price Play Skool alphabet. Add to that a mass of Post-Its, photos of family and friends, torn envelopes with grocery lists and errand reminders, and magnetic clips holding more crap than any refrigerator front should be burdened with.
It works pretty well as a message board, too, when Ray’s school and work schedules are at odds with Brad’s duty schedule. (“When I’m mercifully free of your inane babble about 80s hair bands and their spandex and eyeliner being the root cause of global instability, you fucking hick.” “Bradley, don’t talk shit like that about your Ray-Ray; we both know your only music taste is in your mouth, and that your days without me are as dry and barren as the Mojave.” “Shut the fuck up, Ray.” “Make me.” And he usually does, to both their satisfaction.)
Buy + Coffee magnets are accompanied by “greedy” written on a Post-It in Brad’s block letters, and then a second Post-It that reads “Done, lazy bones.”
Dinner + Mom + Saturday again, with Play Skool letters O+K following.
Need + ice+ love + kisses, with a large Post-It underneath reading “Say what you mean, Person. Kisses or to be fucked senseless? I can do both and I’ll be home by 12pm tomorrow. Make up your mind by then.”
Then in letters: GOT ORDERS.
***
Docked. Home by 2pm.
He likes to ease back into civilian life. Not for him the huge family crush as the carrier returns to port. One heads-up to Ray and a mass text to everyone else who matters, everyone he will see in the next 48 hours, and then he applies himself to getting his Marines organized and off base before hitching his bag over his shoulder and heading toward the truck parked in the lot, left there the day or night before so he can drive himself home.
The mess on the fridge is the first thing he sees as he comes through the garage door into the kitchen, and he smiles.
Or maybe it’s the sight of the man leaning against the counter, waiting for him, that makes Brad smile. Dark hair, square chin, mouth trying to stay serious but lopsided dimples peeking out. His white v-neck t-shirt shows teasing bits of the No Dice tattoo and the way his hands are tucked into the pockets of his low-slung jeans makes his arms flex, showing off the ink on his arms.
Brad leans over to place his duffel by the back door, and before he fully straightens, a wiry body hurtles into his and he’s rocked backward. Staggering a few steps and getting a good grip on the body wrapped around his, Brad pushes Ray’s back against the nearest vertical surface; he hears a clatter of metal and plastic bits hitting the tiles of the kitchen floor but can’t be arsed to look, not right now. There’s a strong chin to bite at and then a mouth to cover with his own, and why are there so many clothes?
Brad pulls back to look at Ray and he can feel his face stretch into a grin. And he means to say so many things. Hey. Hello. Missed you. You look good. You look skinnier than when I left, have you been taking care of yourself? Missed you. Tell me how things were. Tell me all the things you couldn’t say on Skype. Let me tell you all the things I stored up to share. You look so good. All that comes out is a strangled, “Ray.”
Ray rears up to plant his mouth on Brad’s, humming in response to Brad’s attempt to speak. At the same time, Brad feels Ray hook one leg between his, gaining leverage to maneuver them into switching places. He ends up with his back to the fridge and Ray mouthing at the junction of his jaw and neck, their hips grinding against each other, rapidly hardening cocks rubbing together through layers of uniform and civilian clothes.
Whatever homecoming Brad expected - and he has notoriously low expectations based on his history even though he knows that Ray would never let him down that way - it isn’t this. This frantic need to feel and taste and have right now. But he’s suddenly frenzied; he needs to touch bare skin and see the blue-black ink decorating Ray’s arms and chest. Two sets of hands fumble with the buttons and zips of jeans and BDUs, tugging and yanking at his uniform blouse and Ray’s t-shirt until they’ve got access, and then with almost synchronized groans they’ve got hands on flesh. He can feel Ray’s abs and the slightly coarse trail of hair that runs down his abdomen, follows it until - yes, there he is, hot and smooth and hard in Brad’s hand, and oh, god. Ray’s got one hand gripping the back of his head, keeping Brad’s mouth exactly where he wants it, so he can suck on Brad’s tongue, and the other hand is wrapped around Brad’s dick, stroking in the same rhythm as his mouth. He can’t -- he can’t breathe, he can barely manage to keep any consistent movement on Ray’s dick, he just wants to fuck Ray’s hand and his mouth, and fuck, still mostly-clothed and leaning against a kitchen appliance is not how he planned their first post-deployment orgasms, except this is better than anything he’d planned because it’s real.
With what might have been a grunted down, Ray maneuvers them to the floor. Brad has a moment to be startled by the cool of the tiles and then Ray’s straddling him, bracing one arm by Brad’s head and taking them both in hand. The stroke of his hand, the way Ray’s dick feels rubbing against him as he moves his hips, all of it is so good, better than he remembers, better than anything he imagined when he had the time and privacy for a combat jack. The sting when Ray leans down and bites his nipple hard is the last little bit of sensation, too much, it’s all he needs, and Brad’s coming, blind and deaf to everything, even to Ray coming on his belly and then collapsing in a boneless heap next to him.
He’s still seeing stars behind his closed eyelids when Ray announces, “Christ, Colbert, you’ve killed me, you and that damn Eiffel Tower magnet Fruity Rudy sent. I’m stabbed. Welcome home, dammit.”
Still breathing hard but laughing too now, Brad rolls over and slings an arm across Ray’s chest, “There’s no blood on the floor, Person, you can’t be stabbed. Which is just as well, because I’d have to let your scrawny whiskey tango ass bleed to death this evening - Mom is expecting us at five, so get your boney carcass up off the floor.”
“My tender heart is shattered, Iceman! Vital organs could be punctured and I could suffer from some tragic disability due to an unfortunate encounter with a cheap souvenir, and all you can say is get my ass up? Where has all the magic gone? The lack of romance is tragic.”
Ray probably could keep going but Brad distracts him by getting to his feet and stripping off the remains of his uniform. He heads toward the bedroom, leaving Ray to admire to Post-It stuck to his ass as he moves into the hallway.
***
Brad’s welcome home dinners used to follow a very specific pattern, from the menu to the guests to the pleasant but superficial conversation. Caesar salad, prime rib or brisket, baked potatoes, asparagus with citrus butter, and home-made apple brown betty made the menu, all dishes he’d enjoyed as a teenager during breaks from military school. Jenna and Steve would attend, and his parents liked them well enough, but somehow the interaction was always awkward and stilted, as if their lives had nothing in common while Brad was deployed. (Turns out that was true. Hindsight really is 20/20 sometimes.)
Some parts of the evening have changed, like the 7-Up cake that his mother makes now, because it’s Ray’s favorite. And tonight they’re not just celebrating Brad’s return but Ray making the Dean’s List again and getting an internship with General Electric.
Over coffee and cake, Brad listens to his father and Ray debate the role of the federal government in education. For years, his father has held firmly to the idea that the education is a state function the federal government should have no part in, financially or standards-wise, but somehow Ray’s gotten him to agree that the consistent, nationwide, minimum standards of learning are necessary. Brad’s been listening all evening, but he’s not entirely certain how Ray managed to back his father into that position. Before Ray can get Pop to concede that requiring that the states provide education without providing any financial assistance is both an unfunded mandate and a bad idea practically, his mom interrupts, sending Ray to the kitchen to rinse plates and load the dishwasher and Brad to take out the trash. Probably a good idea; his dad would regret two big concessions in one evening, no matter how much he likes Ray and his appreciation of the train set in the basement.
It’s genius. It’s fucking frightening. Because if Ray set his mind to it, he could probably convince people that black is white and up is down. Brad counts himself lucky that so far Ray has used his rhetorical skills primarily to entertain and befuddle their circle of family and friends, rather than setting out on a course of world domination. He’s fairly certain that if worldwide domination became Ray’s professional goal, he’d succeed. And that he’d be sucked into that adventure at Ray’s side for better or worse. Frankly, the USMC’s current attempts to support America’s seeming goal of military hegemony is enough, thanks.
Coming in from dropping the evening’s scrapings in the compost heap in the corner of the garden, Brad props himself against the counter next to Ray. Before he has a chance to do much more than grin and comment about his parents’ naked fridge, he hears, “Bradley, leave Ray alone. You’re leaning. I know what that means. If you let him finish in the kitchen, you’ll be able to get home and get naked faster. Come here.”
Closing his eyes for a moment, Brad can only shake his head and return to the living room, where he’s held hostage by maternal urges until Ray announces with a wink that it’s past his bed time and he needs a ride home.
***
Ray collapses face down into the pillows shoved up against the headboard with a muttered best welcome home sex ever, before lapsing into unconsciousness. Brad snorts, or tries to through his elevated breathing, then dozes off, resurfacing as the glow of the rising sun starts to bleed into the room. Time to surf.
But first, coffee.
As he waits for the pot to fill, Brad examines the mess on the fridge and realizes that a few pieces haven’t moved since he left last summer. He’s somewhat surprised they managed to remain in place through yesterday afternoon’s welcome home; most of the fridge’s decorations are seriously disarranged or damaged, including the poor crab from North Carolina whose spring-loaded legs are crushed, victims of Brad and Ray’s combined body weight crashing into it.
Stay safe.
Home soon.
He rolls his eyes, then bends over the note pad on the counter to write a haiku to the glory of Coffea canefora. A couple minutes and a few strokes of the pen later, he’s in the truck with his wetsuit and short board, on his way to ride waves.
Three hours later, the last lingering tension in his neck and shoulders is gone. He’s home; the morning started right with sex and coffee and surfing; nothing else is planned or needed, he can just take what comes until it’s time to head back to base in a few days. He’s heading toward the sound of the running shower when he catches sight of Ray’s modification of his haiku:
Brad snorts, then sheds his board shorts on the way to the bathroom. Home plus coffee plus surfing plus more sex on the horizon…best morning ever.