[ficlet] can't help myself
Title: can't help myself
Pairing: brad colbert/ray person
Rating: r
Genre: slice-of-life
Warnings: swearing, sex
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: advent calendar day 2, for anonymous. small scene set in the same universe as this! post-dadt fic. 620 words.
Ray sleeps straight through the first day after DADT's repeal.
The only real reason is that he's just been awake for too long by then. That familiar sort of wide-eyed and loud-mouthed enthusiasm that coalesces beyond exhaustion settles over him after the fourth day in a row of playing a gig with the band or attending some autumnal festival down south-whatever the fuck it was that involved the three of them cavorting along the western seaboard like a bunch of goddamn hippies. Ramona and Mike take catnaps in turns but Ray stays up the whole time, fingers cramping over the strings of his electric, throat raw from too much music and too many cigarettes, walking around every outdoor amphitheater or concert venue or seedy club they stop at and talking to everyone who lends an ear to hear.
In retrospect, it probably wasn't wise to overbook their September schedule by so much, and Ramona refuses to ever let it happen again-but all it does in the moment is make it so much better to come home, fall into sheets that don't stink of smoke (from bonfires or weed, take your pick) and pack in a solid thirty hours with no loud bass or a fucking rooster crowing at the break of dawn to interrupt him.
He wakes up with the worst dehydration hangover of a lifetime, his mouth numb with it and his head nothing more than a series of staccato rat-a-tats clattering around in an empty skull. There's a long moment of disorientation after being on the road for so long, and then several slow realizations: ah, he's not in the band's trailer anymore-oh, the digital clock on the bedside table reads noon on September 21st-ah, the covers are bunching up near the foot of the bed, and a hand that isn't his wraps around the smooth jut of his hipbone, thumb brushing over the hollow of skin just above it.
"Miss me?" Ray asks, almost laughing at the way the raw remains of his voice crack. "Wait, is that even a question? I'm sure it was a struggle just getting out of bed every morning with me gone, so far from home-"
"Shut up, Ray," comes the muffled answer, which means, of course, yes. He sighs when Brad reaches in to pull at his erection, fingers wrapping around the length of it and a warm mouth sucking at the tip. He comes embarrassingly quickly, Brad's nose pressed up against his stomach and broad hands holding his hips down, the crown of Ray's head pressed back against the smooth wood of the bedframe.
"Good morning to you, too," he croaks afterwards, scrubbing his eyes as Brad surfaces from the ocean of sheets and flops down next to him like the overgrown giant he is. "Sorry, homes-I'd return the favor, but at this point I'd probably end up drooling everywhere and passing out with your dick in my mouth."
"Tempting," Brad says, and rolls his eyes at the beleaguered look Ray sends him. "That's alright. It's the thought that counts."
Ray squints at him and purses his lips. "Why do you look so pleased? Well, not pleased, just less stoic than usual-"
"The repeal was yesterday," he says, raising his eyebrows-as careful with this as he is with everything.
"Oh." Ray burrows further into the bedspread, limbs heavy with lethargy. "I see," he continues eloquently. "I'd forgotten."
"I know." He sounds amused. "These things happen."
"Congratulations, Iceman. You may now openly have sex with whomsoever you please. Go forth and sow your seed among the nations-"
"Shut up," Brad repeats, but he's smiling slow and easy into the curve of Ray's shoulder.
fin
Pairing: brad colbert/ray person
Rating: r
Genre: slice-of-life
Warnings: swearing, sex
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: advent calendar day 2, for anonymous. small scene set in the same universe as this! post-dadt fic. 620 words.
Ray sleeps straight through the first day after DADT's repeal.
The only real reason is that he's just been awake for too long by then. That familiar sort of wide-eyed and loud-mouthed enthusiasm that coalesces beyond exhaustion settles over him after the fourth day in a row of playing a gig with the band or attending some autumnal festival down south-whatever the fuck it was that involved the three of them cavorting along the western seaboard like a bunch of goddamn hippies. Ramona and Mike take catnaps in turns but Ray stays up the whole time, fingers cramping over the strings of his electric, throat raw from too much music and too many cigarettes, walking around every outdoor amphitheater or concert venue or seedy club they stop at and talking to everyone who lends an ear to hear.
In retrospect, it probably wasn't wise to overbook their September schedule by so much, and Ramona refuses to ever let it happen again-but all it does in the moment is make it so much better to come home, fall into sheets that don't stink of smoke (from bonfires or weed, take your pick) and pack in a solid thirty hours with no loud bass or a fucking rooster crowing at the break of dawn to interrupt him.
He wakes up with the worst dehydration hangover of a lifetime, his mouth numb with it and his head nothing more than a series of staccato rat-a-tats clattering around in an empty skull. There's a long moment of disorientation after being on the road for so long, and then several slow realizations: ah, he's not in the band's trailer anymore-oh, the digital clock on the bedside table reads noon on September 21st-ah, the covers are bunching up near the foot of the bed, and a hand that isn't his wraps around the smooth jut of his hipbone, thumb brushing over the hollow of skin just above it.
"Miss me?" Ray asks, almost laughing at the way the raw remains of his voice crack. "Wait, is that even a question? I'm sure it was a struggle just getting out of bed every morning with me gone, so far from home-"
"Shut up, Ray," comes the muffled answer, which means, of course, yes. He sighs when Brad reaches in to pull at his erection, fingers wrapping around the length of it and a warm mouth sucking at the tip. He comes embarrassingly quickly, Brad's nose pressed up against his stomach and broad hands holding his hips down, the crown of Ray's head pressed back against the smooth wood of the bedframe.
"Good morning to you, too," he croaks afterwards, scrubbing his eyes as Brad surfaces from the ocean of sheets and flops down next to him like the overgrown giant he is. "Sorry, homes-I'd return the favor, but at this point I'd probably end up drooling everywhere and passing out with your dick in my mouth."
"Tempting," Brad says, and rolls his eyes at the beleaguered look Ray sends him. "That's alright. It's the thought that counts."
Ray squints at him and purses his lips. "Why do you look so pleased? Well, not pleased, just less stoic than usual-"
"The repeal was yesterday," he says, raising his eyebrows-as careful with this as he is with everything.
"Oh." Ray burrows further into the bedspread, limbs heavy with lethargy. "I see," he continues eloquently. "I'd forgotten."
"I know." He sounds amused. "These things happen."
"Congratulations, Iceman. You may now openly have sex with whomsoever you please. Go forth and sow your seed among the nations-"
"Shut up," Brad repeats, but he's smiling slow and easy into the curve of Ray's shoulder.
fin