fic: "the next Spielberg"
recipient: schlicky
author: asimplechord
title: the next Spielberg
pairing: Ray/OFC, Brad/Walt
rating: R
word count: ~3200
summary/warnings: Ray’s ultimate career choice is down to Brad and Walt.
a/n: Opinions herein are those of fictional characters, not any real person (or Person) or the author, necessarily. Thanks to J & T for the input and read-through. schlicky, I'm sorry I failed at the AU and snark, but at least it goes with your photo prompt? :D?
For all of his ranting about gay bars and NAMBLA, Ray doesn’t actually intend to have anything to do with gay porn when he adds a minor in film studies to his business management degree from UC-Oceanside.
Yeah, yeah, he knows: the road to hell, and all that. At least Steph generally softens her mocking with a big, sloppy kiss. Brad usually points out that sister-fucking rejects who abandon their brothers to the goat-fuck of continual deployment in what egg-heads in think tanks mistakenly call small wars have limited options.
Brad’s good at irony and sarcasm. Shocking, right? But there might be a kernel of truth in there.
Really, though, Ray’s ultimate career choice is down to Brad and Walt.
*
Ray reads Reporter’s book. He will neither confirm nor deny words attributed to him in Ripped Fuel-fed monologues. Sometimes he’s not sure if the rants he recalls really happened, or if they were hallucinated in his exhaustion, which he remembers quite clearly.
The LT’s - Captain’s - book makes it onto his personal reading list, too. Ray doesn’t suffer PTSD or any other trauma, which means that less than a blink goes by between his reenlistment offer arriving and being declined. As far as he’s concerned, separation isn’t really separate at all - he doesn’t go anywhere.
Which is how it all starts.
*
Two days at a lame-ass job at Best Buy, and Ray knows he can’t deal with retail at a chain, no matter how significant the employee discount. No amount of video games, DVDs, or electronics are worth the atrophy of his brain and his humanity, such as it is.
Instead, he applies to UC-O business program, and in the meantime he finds a part-time job at a boutique electronics store.
That’s Steph’s description. Ray thinks of it as a spy-on-your-cheating-spouse kind of shop, since most of what they sell is high-end cameras, low-tech versions of spying hardware, and enough radio supplies to keep all of San Diego and Orange County’s ham radio enthusiasts - which are apparently quite numerous - up and running. Whatever, it ends with a deposit in his bank account every two weeks, and there’s a sweet video set-up that he’s dying to test out.
*
God’s honest truth, Steph suggests it. But it is possible (probable, in an absolutely, positively never going to admit it sort of way) that Ray thought about it, and waited for her to bring up the idea of a sex tape. Video. Christ, media changes so fast anymore that his vocabulary needs a constant update.
It is totally not Ray’s fault that Brad finds (one of) their attempt(s) at a sex tape.
(Lesson learned: Ray finds the idea of them being recorded hot, and Steph is fuckin’ smokin’ any time of day, never mind when she’s actually aimed at seduction, but he’s not that into watching the footage later. But that’s a whole other story.)
Anyway. Yeah, no, Ray’s not responsible for the default settings on their newest camera, which means that the last viewed item will open when it’s next powered up. But he’s also not ever going to be the person to tell Steph that Brad knows about their forays into bondage. He likes his balls exactly where they are, he likes what Steph does to them, and although Brad might give Ray shit until the end of time, he loves and respects Steph almost as much as he does Cara Wynn, and he wouldn’t embarrass her for the world.
*
None of their friends knows for sure when Brad and Walt started.
(Ray uses that word, started, deliberately. He doesn’t give a good goddamn who any of his brothers - because they are still his brothers, no matter what - fuck, and he’s never going to be responsible for betraying them. Fucking UCMJ. Like anyone who wrote that waste of paper knew what it was like in the shit.)
Not during OIF, Ray’s pretty sure, unless they are both amazingly talented actors. Brad’s Jamie-recovery was still in progress, and Ray distinctly remembers Walt receiving perfume-scented letters bearing a Virginia postmark.
If he tries to pinpoint it, Ray speculates that it started when they returned from Iraq. Walt, for all that he shook it off once they were in Baghdad, took civilian deaths hard, and Brad wasn’t any better when it came to sharing responsibility for mistakes. He knows that PT hard enough to exhaust them didn’t always allow them to sleep, and somewhere in training to redeploy and their shared insomnia, Brad and Walt learned to be friends.
Friends who meet for beers became roommates, and maybe that’s all it was for a while. But Ray’s a former Recon Marine, and he sees things like the way Walt and Brad negotiate their shared space, the obvious separation they enforce otherwise. They are not obvious.
What is obvious is the perfect imprint of teeth on the back of Walt’s neck the morning after the party Brad throws to celebrate Encino Man’s transfer out of Bravo Company. Ray doesn’t say anything to Walt. Or to Brad. While Brad and Walt’s relationship might be fodder for a thousand jokes about whiskey-tango brother fucking, the risk/reward ratio involved was too skewed to be worth it.
But he tells Steph that afternoon as he helps put away groceries, “We lived in a humvee together for weeks. We ate and slept and shat in close proximity. I’ve seen the Iceman’s dick. I can only hope that he’s a show-er, not a grower, or else I have to wonder how Walt can take that and walk normally afterward. And holy shit, I did not ever need that thought in my head.”
She laughs. “I did! All that blond and muscle in one package? You should tell me more.”
“Don’t make me get out the brain bleach.”
She closes the fridge with a bump of her hip and leans into Ray where he’s propped against the counter, letting her chest settle against his and tilting her hips forward. “I’ve got something that’ll distract you, poor baby.”
Ray never turns that down.
*
Something else Ray doesn’t know, and doesn’t actually want to know? What words are exchanged when Walt decides not to re-up.
Because maybe Walt’s not sure what he is going to do - other than, you know, not waste his sweat and blood in the dust and resentment of an occupation that neither the Iraqis nor the military wanted - but Brad is most definitely redeploying. Ray thinks it’s maybe for the best. How the fuck would they manage their not-asking-and-definitely-not-telling in theater?
In the end, though, the most important thing is that it happens: Brad gets orders, and Walt gets his discharge paperwork. Ray gets a front seat to domestic squabble, and the introduction to a sideline in adult films.
They spend a Saturday afternoon at Brad’s house, working on their cars - a suitably masculine pursuit, and if he thinks about it, Ray might later wonder if that in and of itself is a porn set-up: Brad in a wife-beater, a streak of motor oil on his wrist, while Walt leans against the chest of tools, supplying Brad with wrenches and screwdrivers as he needs them. They’ve finished changing the oil, switching out the oil and air filters, and replacing the sparkplugs in Ray’s truck (he could do it himself, but there isn’t much space in his and Steph’s condo’s parking lot) and Walt’s Mustang, and they’re working on Brad’s Jeep. It seems like a waste, since Walt won’t be doing that much driving of it while Brad’s deployed, but Brad’s OCD about his vehicles. The R1 is hidden under her tarp; Brad spent last weekend detailing her.
The atmosphere isn’t cool, exactly, but Brad speaks even less than usual - mostly to give directions (orders) and curse when inanimate objects don’t immediately do his bidding. Walt makes up for it, engaging Ray in conversation that ranges from Steph’s new hours (she switched to three twelve-hour shifts per week, which is draining, but she loves having the rest of her week free) to Ray’s summer class (why the fuck is there a science requirement for a business degree?) to traffic in the shop to new merchandise. This last is unusual, because Brad might be into tech, but Walt not so much. It’s clear that Walt’s got a purpose here, but Ray’s not sure where he’s going with it when he mentions the video camera.
“So, is the new Canon, is it pretty user friendly, or would we need some help setting it up if we wanted to use it? From what Brad described, it seems like you’re familiar with it.”
The wrench Brad’s been using to tighten the filter casing clatters against the garage’s concrete floor.
“What the fuck, Walt?”
“What? It’s not like he doesn’t know you saw it.”
“Yeah, but this is not the time to share with the class. Don’t think I don’t know why-“
“Oh, come on. It’s not like he’ll be horrified if we want to borrow it to make our own home video. Ray knows we have sex.”
“Trufax, homes-“
“I realize this might have escaped you, given recent events and your miniscule attention span, but some of us are still subject to the UCMJ.”
“It’s not like we’re going to advertise it!” Walt tries a leer. “And we can arrange it so that your stupid face is not caught on camera.”
“And it’s not like there are any other recognizable marks on the rest of my body?” Yeah, Brad’s got a point with that: the artwork on his back is unforgettable.
“Fuck that. No one will ever see it but us.”
“Famous last words, asshole.”
Brad’s tongue can flay, and it looks like he’s just gearing up, but Ray doesn’t stick around to hear the rest of the argument. Thank fuck they worked on his truck first, and it’s out at the curb. He backs out of the garage quietly while they’re distracted - Brad’s looming into Walt’s space, and Walt straightens his spine, thrusting his chin defensively - and doesn’t heave a sigh of relief until he’s in the truck cab.
He thinks that’s the end of it.
But on Tuesday, Brad stops by the shop an hour before closing. There’s no way he just happens to be in the neighborhood - Tremont is totally NOT on Brad’s way home from the base - but he brings a six-pack and a large pie from Carmine’s, which Ray welcomes, especially since Steph’s on shift, and they eat it straight out of the box, with a mound of paper towels to prevent spillage on the counter. From anyone else it might be construed as an apology, but Brad would never actually make excuses for airing any differences he and Walt have in public.
Brad, the asshole, waits until Ray’s got a mouthful of Stone’s Double Bastard - see, Ray knew there must’ve been a reason Brad went to the trouble of finding his favorite beer when it’s nowhere close to time for the new release - to ask, “Can I borrow the Canon for the evening?”
Nothing that Ray’s spit-take splatters is moisture-sensitive, at least.
Ray has no idea - no, really, absolutely none, because it’s not like Brad’s not tech-savvy or anything - how he ends up not just lending his camera (and tripod, so it’s not like he had to stay once it was all set up) but also his expertise. Only someone with no photography experience at all would think that the lighting in Brad and Walt’s bedroom is bright enough, after all, and as someone who’s watched his share of bad porn, Ray thinks it’s only being a good friend if he makes sure Brad’s at least properly framed and in focus.
As he gets the camera set up, a part of Ray’s brain circles around the idea that he should feel like a pervert, watching someone he knows (watching Brad, for fuck’s sake) jerk off. Not just watch, but film it. But seriously, the majority of his combat jacks in Iraq occurred with Brad sitting, lying down, or sleeping four feet away, so it’s not a big deal. This is just Brad, who never seemed to let go while there were other people, other Marines present to witness it, finally doing the same.
“Ready, Iceman? Your career in the adult film industry awaits.”
Brad nods, and strips off his t-shirt.
(Fuck, Ray wishes his abs looked like that.)
Brad sits on the edge of the bed, looks around the second bedroom - there’s enough furniture and decoration that a casual glance would make a viewer think it was occupied, but Walt hasn’t slept here in months - before shifting back against the pillows. His board shorts drag a little lower on his hips.
His voice is quiet, level, and he’s looking directly at the camera when he says, “I hope this is enough for the next few months.”
Ray opens his mouth to point out that Walt would never pussy out on Brad the way Jamie and Brett did, but catches himself before he can interrupt and stall whatever mood Brad’s worked himself into.
Brad looks down, his eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones (and it’s weird that Ray notices that, what the ever-loving fuck, brain?) and bites his lip. His hand slides down his chest, lingers for a moment at the waist of his shorts, and then tugs the fly open and pushes them down. Ray notes absently that Brad goes commando.
And, Ray realizes as Brad wraps his fingers around his half-hard cock, apparently he’s both a grower and shower. (No, really, no matter what Steph says about guy-on-guy action being a turn-on, and even if he acknowledges that Brad and Walt are both hot, objectively speaking, someday soon Ray is going to have to bleach his brain.)
Also? Brad’s a talker. But even when he gets into it, pushing up into his fist and breathing heavily, he doesn’t quite let go completely, doesn’t ever say Walt’s name while the camera’s running. Even though this is for Walt, nothing Brad’s doing or saying could be used against him.
Ray wonders if Brad ever lets go, really.
Brad’s words trail off into a gasp, and when he comes, his head tips back hard against the headboard, but he keeps his eyes open, on the camera until he’s finished.
Okay, now it’s a little awkward. Ray clears his throat. “I’ll just…” He’s already moving, ejecting the disc from the camera and haphazardly shoving things into the camera bag.
Ray is totally comfortable with his sexuality. Which is why he’s really hoping Steph’s home when he gets there.
They don’t talk about it, but Brad leaves an envelope with Steph (“He said it was for camera rental.” She snorts in disbelief. “Do I look like I fell off the turnip truck yesterday? I mean, I married you, so it’s not like I don’t know what y’all get up to when you’re left to your own devices.”) at the BBQ they host two nights before he’s due to ship out.
*
Brad’s tour extends from eight months to ten months to thirteen. In that time, at least a dozen other units with friends and acquaintances of Ray’s deploy.
He knows this, not because of the Pendleton grapevine, well tended as it is, but because members of each one approach him for aid in providing what he comes to describe as “support for long-term and long-distance relationships”. What? It’s not like skype’s available 24/7 for video-sex when you’re deployed in a forward area with unreliable electricity and satellite feed. He’s providing a valuable marital aid for a very reasonable fee!
Look, Ray’s not really into dick other than his own, but he can allow as it’s pretty fucking hot that a guy’s willing to jerk off for his woman. Steph thinks it’s hilarious when their office/guest bedroom turns into a porn studio, and Ray cuts back on his hours at the shop when he’s got some filming jobs booked… until a couple of wives and girlfriends request his services.
(One of them is just awkward, shy and uncomfortable, clearly doing this because she knows that Darnold really wants it. Lopez’s latest girlfriend, on the other hand, really gets off on being filmed, and is utterly smokin’. Not that Ray will ever tell Steph that. Ever. As previously stated, he values his balls exactly where they are, and prefers that Steph not have any reason to boycott them.)
He films several couples out and out fucking. Two words describe his (and their) earliest efforts: graceless and clumsy. One person getting off isn’t too difficult to frame and film, but real porn is hard work. After the first couple of amateurish productions, though, he comes up with a few basic scenes to suggest when a pair wants to make their memory together.
*
A handful of requests becomes a trickle becomes a steady stream. Ray never advertises, but word of mouth recommendations keep him busy. He invests in a better camera and some lighting and sound equipment, and finds a studio apartment to use for storage and a make-shift studio.
It’s not something Ray ever would’ve considered, when he imagined his career after leaving the Corps, but his side-job eventually become his most-of-the-time occupation.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Electronics and other toys sell poorly when times are hard, but porn never goes out of style.
*
Over the course of five years, Ray records - he can’t really call it directing, because Brad doesn’t really take directions, not in this area - three more solo videos of Brad. Brad receives a single video, hastily arranged when Raytheon moves up Walt’s departure date for Mogadishu so that he’ll miss Brad’s return from Marjah.
It’s almost like an annual tradition. Except this year, this deployment...
“You sure you want to do this here?”
“I realize that for college students and trailer-park rejects, fucking in your friend’s or host’s bathroom or bedroom is perfectly acceptable, but we’ll settle for our place.”
Walt just shrugs and flops sideways onto the California king that takes up the majority of the floor space, letting his legs dangle over the side, grinning lazily toward the door, where Ray’s set the tripod. The bedroom windows are open, and sunshine pours in, and the entire room seems comfortable and lived-in, nothing like the effect Ray usually aims for.
Brad climbs on the other side of the bed and knee-walks up the bed to straddle Walt’s hips, his back to Ray. Walt steadies him there, and he’s motionless for a long moment.
Finally, Brad tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it to the floor.
“Alright, Ray. Is that thing on?” And he leans down to press his lips to Walt’s.
author: asimplechord
title: the next Spielberg
pairing: Ray/OFC, Brad/Walt
rating: R
word count: ~3200
summary/warnings: Ray’s ultimate career choice is down to Brad and Walt.
a/n: Opinions herein are those of fictional characters, not any real person (or Person) or the author, necessarily. Thanks to J & T for the input and read-through. schlicky, I'm sorry I failed at the AU and snark, but at least it goes with your photo prompt? :D?
For all of his ranting about gay bars and NAMBLA, Ray doesn’t actually intend to have anything to do with gay porn when he adds a minor in film studies to his business management degree from UC-Oceanside.
Yeah, yeah, he knows: the road to hell, and all that. At least Steph generally softens her mocking with a big, sloppy kiss. Brad usually points out that sister-fucking rejects who abandon their brothers to the goat-fuck of continual deployment in what egg-heads in think tanks mistakenly call small wars have limited options.
Brad’s good at irony and sarcasm. Shocking, right? But there might be a kernel of truth in there.
Really, though, Ray’s ultimate career choice is down to Brad and Walt.
*
Ray reads Reporter’s book. He will neither confirm nor deny words attributed to him in Ripped Fuel-fed monologues. Sometimes he’s not sure if the rants he recalls really happened, or if they were hallucinated in his exhaustion, which he remembers quite clearly.
The LT’s - Captain’s - book makes it onto his personal reading list, too. Ray doesn’t suffer PTSD or any other trauma, which means that less than a blink goes by between his reenlistment offer arriving and being declined. As far as he’s concerned, separation isn’t really separate at all - he doesn’t go anywhere.
Which is how it all starts.
*
Two days at a lame-ass job at Best Buy, and Ray knows he can’t deal with retail at a chain, no matter how significant the employee discount. No amount of video games, DVDs, or electronics are worth the atrophy of his brain and his humanity, such as it is.
Instead, he applies to UC-O business program, and in the meantime he finds a part-time job at a boutique electronics store.
That’s Steph’s description. Ray thinks of it as a spy-on-your-cheating-spouse kind of shop, since most of what they sell is high-end cameras, low-tech versions of spying hardware, and enough radio supplies to keep all of San Diego and Orange County’s ham radio enthusiasts - which are apparently quite numerous - up and running. Whatever, it ends with a deposit in his bank account every two weeks, and there’s a sweet video set-up that he’s dying to test out.
*
God’s honest truth, Steph suggests it. But it is possible (probable, in an absolutely, positively never going to admit it sort of way) that Ray thought about it, and waited for her to bring up the idea of a sex tape. Video. Christ, media changes so fast anymore that his vocabulary needs a constant update.
It is totally not Ray’s fault that Brad finds (one of) their attempt(s) at a sex tape.
(Lesson learned: Ray finds the idea of them being recorded hot, and Steph is fuckin’ smokin’ any time of day, never mind when she’s actually aimed at seduction, but he’s not that into watching the footage later. But that’s a whole other story.)
Anyway. Yeah, no, Ray’s not responsible for the default settings on their newest camera, which means that the last viewed item will open when it’s next powered up. But he’s also not ever going to be the person to tell Steph that Brad knows about their forays into bondage. He likes his balls exactly where they are, he likes what Steph does to them, and although Brad might give Ray shit until the end of time, he loves and respects Steph almost as much as he does Cara Wynn, and he wouldn’t embarrass her for the world.
*
None of their friends knows for sure when Brad and Walt started.
(Ray uses that word, started, deliberately. He doesn’t give a good goddamn who any of his brothers - because they are still his brothers, no matter what - fuck, and he’s never going to be responsible for betraying them. Fucking UCMJ. Like anyone who wrote that waste of paper knew what it was like in the shit.)
Not during OIF, Ray’s pretty sure, unless they are both amazingly talented actors. Brad’s Jamie-recovery was still in progress, and Ray distinctly remembers Walt receiving perfume-scented letters bearing a Virginia postmark.
If he tries to pinpoint it, Ray speculates that it started when they returned from Iraq. Walt, for all that he shook it off once they were in Baghdad, took civilian deaths hard, and Brad wasn’t any better when it came to sharing responsibility for mistakes. He knows that PT hard enough to exhaust them didn’t always allow them to sleep, and somewhere in training to redeploy and their shared insomnia, Brad and Walt learned to be friends.
Friends who meet for beers became roommates, and maybe that’s all it was for a while. But Ray’s a former Recon Marine, and he sees things like the way Walt and Brad negotiate their shared space, the obvious separation they enforce otherwise. They are not obvious.
What is obvious is the perfect imprint of teeth on the back of Walt’s neck the morning after the party Brad throws to celebrate Encino Man’s transfer out of Bravo Company. Ray doesn’t say anything to Walt. Or to Brad. While Brad and Walt’s relationship might be fodder for a thousand jokes about whiskey-tango brother fucking, the risk/reward ratio involved was too skewed to be worth it.
But he tells Steph that afternoon as he helps put away groceries, “We lived in a humvee together for weeks. We ate and slept and shat in close proximity. I’ve seen the Iceman’s dick. I can only hope that he’s a show-er, not a grower, or else I have to wonder how Walt can take that and walk normally afterward. And holy shit, I did not ever need that thought in my head.”
She laughs. “I did! All that blond and muscle in one package? You should tell me more.”
“Don’t make me get out the brain bleach.”
She closes the fridge with a bump of her hip and leans into Ray where he’s propped against the counter, letting her chest settle against his and tilting her hips forward. “I’ve got something that’ll distract you, poor baby.”
Ray never turns that down.
*
Something else Ray doesn’t know, and doesn’t actually want to know? What words are exchanged when Walt decides not to re-up.
Because maybe Walt’s not sure what he is going to do - other than, you know, not waste his sweat and blood in the dust and resentment of an occupation that neither the Iraqis nor the military wanted - but Brad is most definitely redeploying. Ray thinks it’s maybe for the best. How the fuck would they manage their not-asking-and-definitely-not-telling in theater?
In the end, though, the most important thing is that it happens: Brad gets orders, and Walt gets his discharge paperwork. Ray gets a front seat to domestic squabble, and the introduction to a sideline in adult films.
They spend a Saturday afternoon at Brad’s house, working on their cars - a suitably masculine pursuit, and if he thinks about it, Ray might later wonder if that in and of itself is a porn set-up: Brad in a wife-beater, a streak of motor oil on his wrist, while Walt leans against the chest of tools, supplying Brad with wrenches and screwdrivers as he needs them. They’ve finished changing the oil, switching out the oil and air filters, and replacing the sparkplugs in Ray’s truck (he could do it himself, but there isn’t much space in his and Steph’s condo’s parking lot) and Walt’s Mustang, and they’re working on Brad’s Jeep. It seems like a waste, since Walt won’t be doing that much driving of it while Brad’s deployed, but Brad’s OCD about his vehicles. The R1 is hidden under her tarp; Brad spent last weekend detailing her.
The atmosphere isn’t cool, exactly, but Brad speaks even less than usual - mostly to give directions (orders) and curse when inanimate objects don’t immediately do his bidding. Walt makes up for it, engaging Ray in conversation that ranges from Steph’s new hours (she switched to three twelve-hour shifts per week, which is draining, but she loves having the rest of her week free) to Ray’s summer class (why the fuck is there a science requirement for a business degree?) to traffic in the shop to new merchandise. This last is unusual, because Brad might be into tech, but Walt not so much. It’s clear that Walt’s got a purpose here, but Ray’s not sure where he’s going with it when he mentions the video camera.
“So, is the new Canon, is it pretty user friendly, or would we need some help setting it up if we wanted to use it? From what Brad described, it seems like you’re familiar with it.”
The wrench Brad’s been using to tighten the filter casing clatters against the garage’s concrete floor.
“What the fuck, Walt?”
“What? It’s not like he doesn’t know you saw it.”
“Yeah, but this is not the time to share with the class. Don’t think I don’t know why-“
“Oh, come on. It’s not like he’ll be horrified if we want to borrow it to make our own home video. Ray knows we have sex.”
“Trufax, homes-“
“I realize this might have escaped you, given recent events and your miniscule attention span, but some of us are still subject to the UCMJ.”
“It’s not like we’re going to advertise it!” Walt tries a leer. “And we can arrange it so that your stupid face is not caught on camera.”
“And it’s not like there are any other recognizable marks on the rest of my body?” Yeah, Brad’s got a point with that: the artwork on his back is unforgettable.
“Fuck that. No one will ever see it but us.”
“Famous last words, asshole.”
Brad’s tongue can flay, and it looks like he’s just gearing up, but Ray doesn’t stick around to hear the rest of the argument. Thank fuck they worked on his truck first, and it’s out at the curb. He backs out of the garage quietly while they’re distracted - Brad’s looming into Walt’s space, and Walt straightens his spine, thrusting his chin defensively - and doesn’t heave a sigh of relief until he’s in the truck cab.
He thinks that’s the end of it.
But on Tuesday, Brad stops by the shop an hour before closing. There’s no way he just happens to be in the neighborhood - Tremont is totally NOT on Brad’s way home from the base - but he brings a six-pack and a large pie from Carmine’s, which Ray welcomes, especially since Steph’s on shift, and they eat it straight out of the box, with a mound of paper towels to prevent spillage on the counter. From anyone else it might be construed as an apology, but Brad would never actually make excuses for airing any differences he and Walt have in public.
Brad, the asshole, waits until Ray’s got a mouthful of Stone’s Double Bastard - see, Ray knew there must’ve been a reason Brad went to the trouble of finding his favorite beer when it’s nowhere close to time for the new release - to ask, “Can I borrow the Canon for the evening?”
Nothing that Ray’s spit-take splatters is moisture-sensitive, at least.
Ray has no idea - no, really, absolutely none, because it’s not like Brad’s not tech-savvy or anything - how he ends up not just lending his camera (and tripod, so it’s not like he had to stay once it was all set up) but also his expertise. Only someone with no photography experience at all would think that the lighting in Brad and Walt’s bedroom is bright enough, after all, and as someone who’s watched his share of bad porn, Ray thinks it’s only being a good friend if he makes sure Brad’s at least properly framed and in focus.
As he gets the camera set up, a part of Ray’s brain circles around the idea that he should feel like a pervert, watching someone he knows (watching Brad, for fuck’s sake) jerk off. Not just watch, but film it. But seriously, the majority of his combat jacks in Iraq occurred with Brad sitting, lying down, or sleeping four feet away, so it’s not a big deal. This is just Brad, who never seemed to let go while there were other people, other Marines present to witness it, finally doing the same.
“Ready, Iceman? Your career in the adult film industry awaits.”
Brad nods, and strips off his t-shirt.
(Fuck, Ray wishes his abs looked like that.)
Brad sits on the edge of the bed, looks around the second bedroom - there’s enough furniture and decoration that a casual glance would make a viewer think it was occupied, but Walt hasn’t slept here in months - before shifting back against the pillows. His board shorts drag a little lower on his hips.
His voice is quiet, level, and he’s looking directly at the camera when he says, “I hope this is enough for the next few months.”
Ray opens his mouth to point out that Walt would never pussy out on Brad the way Jamie and Brett did, but catches himself before he can interrupt and stall whatever mood Brad’s worked himself into.
Brad looks down, his eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones (and it’s weird that Ray notices that, what the ever-loving fuck, brain?) and bites his lip. His hand slides down his chest, lingers for a moment at the waist of his shorts, and then tugs the fly open and pushes them down. Ray notes absently that Brad goes commando.
And, Ray realizes as Brad wraps his fingers around his half-hard cock, apparently he’s both a grower and shower. (No, really, no matter what Steph says about guy-on-guy action being a turn-on, and even if he acknowledges that Brad and Walt are both hot, objectively speaking, someday soon Ray is going to have to bleach his brain.)
Also? Brad’s a talker. But even when he gets into it, pushing up into his fist and breathing heavily, he doesn’t quite let go completely, doesn’t ever say Walt’s name while the camera’s running. Even though this is for Walt, nothing Brad’s doing or saying could be used against him.
Ray wonders if Brad ever lets go, really.
Brad’s words trail off into a gasp, and when he comes, his head tips back hard against the headboard, but he keeps his eyes open, on the camera until he’s finished.
Okay, now it’s a little awkward. Ray clears his throat. “I’ll just…” He’s already moving, ejecting the disc from the camera and haphazardly shoving things into the camera bag.
Ray is totally comfortable with his sexuality. Which is why he’s really hoping Steph’s home when he gets there.
They don’t talk about it, but Brad leaves an envelope with Steph (“He said it was for camera rental.” She snorts in disbelief. “Do I look like I fell off the turnip truck yesterday? I mean, I married you, so it’s not like I don’t know what y’all get up to when you’re left to your own devices.”) at the BBQ they host two nights before he’s due to ship out.
*
Brad’s tour extends from eight months to ten months to thirteen. In that time, at least a dozen other units with friends and acquaintances of Ray’s deploy.
He knows this, not because of the Pendleton grapevine, well tended as it is, but because members of each one approach him for aid in providing what he comes to describe as “support for long-term and long-distance relationships”. What? It’s not like skype’s available 24/7 for video-sex when you’re deployed in a forward area with unreliable electricity and satellite feed. He’s providing a valuable marital aid for a very reasonable fee!
Look, Ray’s not really into dick other than his own, but he can allow as it’s pretty fucking hot that a guy’s willing to jerk off for his woman. Steph thinks it’s hilarious when their office/guest bedroom turns into a porn studio, and Ray cuts back on his hours at the shop when he’s got some filming jobs booked… until a couple of wives and girlfriends request his services.
(One of them is just awkward, shy and uncomfortable, clearly doing this because she knows that Darnold really wants it. Lopez’s latest girlfriend, on the other hand, really gets off on being filmed, and is utterly smokin’. Not that Ray will ever tell Steph that. Ever. As previously stated, he values his balls exactly where they are, and prefers that Steph not have any reason to boycott them.)
He films several couples out and out fucking. Two words describe his (and their) earliest efforts: graceless and clumsy. One person getting off isn’t too difficult to frame and film, but real porn is hard work. After the first couple of amateurish productions, though, he comes up with a few basic scenes to suggest when a pair wants to make their memory together.
*
A handful of requests becomes a trickle becomes a steady stream. Ray never advertises, but word of mouth recommendations keep him busy. He invests in a better camera and some lighting and sound equipment, and finds a studio apartment to use for storage and a make-shift studio.
It’s not something Ray ever would’ve considered, when he imagined his career after leaving the Corps, but his side-job eventually become his most-of-the-time occupation.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Electronics and other toys sell poorly when times are hard, but porn never goes out of style.
*
Over the course of five years, Ray records - he can’t really call it directing, because Brad doesn’t really take directions, not in this area - three more solo videos of Brad. Brad receives a single video, hastily arranged when Raytheon moves up Walt’s departure date for Mogadishu so that he’ll miss Brad’s return from Marjah.
It’s almost like an annual tradition. Except this year, this deployment...
“You sure you want to do this here?”
“I realize that for college students and trailer-park rejects, fucking in your friend’s or host’s bathroom or bedroom is perfectly acceptable, but we’ll settle for our place.”
Walt just shrugs and flops sideways onto the California king that takes up the majority of the floor space, letting his legs dangle over the side, grinning lazily toward the door, where Ray’s set the tripod. The bedroom windows are open, and sunshine pours in, and the entire room seems comfortable and lived-in, nothing like the effect Ray usually aims for.
Brad climbs on the other side of the bed and knee-walks up the bed to straddle Walt’s hips, his back to Ray. Walt steadies him there, and he’s motionless for a long moment.
Finally, Brad tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it to the floor.
“Alright, Ray. Is that thing on?” And he leans down to press his lips to Walt’s.