FIC: Third Time Lucky (Brad/Ray, NC17, 6760 words)
Title: Third Time Lucky
Author: Kali
Pairings: Brad/Ray
Rating: NC17
Summary: "It's actually kind of sad, Brad. I mean, if you don't start learning to play nice, you're gonna have to get a whore every time you want some action. You'll be fucking broke, homes.”
Disclaimer: This is based on the ficionalised HBO series, not the actual people portrayed in the book.
Notes/Warnings: For meeks00, with many thanks for the wonderful schlicky for the awesome beta. This is the result of a conversation about how Brad can't pick up girls despite being a sex god because of his complete lack of social skills, but it's okay because he has Ray.
Brad doesn't start to relax until halfway through his second beer. The bar is quiet, which he's thankful for, but there's still too many people around for his liking; too many bodies flitting around in his periphery, too many idiots making stupid comments he can't help but overhear. People irritate him, but the beer starts to counter it and a little of the tension leaves his shoulders and neck.
He idly toys with his beer, glancing around to pick up any details he missed on his first once-over. Nothing really interesting - a couple over in the corner who're probably going to be making a hurried exit in about twenty minutes judging by the heavy-duty kissing they're doing; a guy in a rumpled suit at the other end of the bar, downing his third whiskey, probably trying to drink away a bad day at whatever bullshit office he works at; a group of women to his left, all done up kind of nice, giggling and chatting in that way only girls on a night out can. One of them has a high-pitched laugh that goes right through Brad's head, mixing with the fucking faux-trendy red/orange lighting the bar's got going on. Tomorrow, he won't know if it's the beer or that combination of laugh/lighting that's responsible for his headache.
Brad skates his eyes over the other patrons, quickly coming up with life stories for them and dismissing them out of hand. Fucking civilians, he thinks and takes a swig of his beer. The woman laughs again, all sharp and cutting, and Brad hunches his shoulders, feels the tension seeping back. He debates the pros and cons of leaving, finding another bar. One the one hand, he's comfy, the beer here's alright, and it's not one of the hot spots which means it's not likely to get stupidly busy. On the other hand, that laugh is one of the worst noises Brad's ever heard and he has a feeling that a few beers later, he's going to make his feelings known. If it wasn't a woman, Brad would air his feelings with his fists, but he doesn't hit women. It's one of his few moral lines and one he's never crossed.
Draining the last of his beer, Brad gestures for another one. He's not going to let some bitch chase him away from a place he wants to be. She laughs again, but this time he closes his eyes and lets it wash through him, focuses on the feel of his beer bottle instead. God bless the Marine Corps for teaching him how to deal with annoying distractions, he thinks wryly.
It takes him a few minutes to feel the shift in atmosphere, which he blames on the beer and the fact that he's on leave in America and thus not expecting enemy contact. But once he feels it, it makes all his instincts scream for cover and a gun - he's being watched. Setting his bottle down carefully, he takes a deep breath and tries to sort it out. Yes, he's being watched, but no one in the bar is an obvious threat so if it comes to violence, he can handle it. Something tells him it won't come to violence, though, and after a handful of seconds he realises that the group of women are now giggling and whispering in equal measure.
Brad slides a glance at them, considering, and three of them blush and look away. One wasn't looking in the first place. The last one holds his gaze for a second before looking at the others, laughing. She's not the one with the annoying laugh - Brad thinks that's the one who wasn't looking. Probably a dyke. Brad studies the one who'd met his eyes. She's tall in her heels, healthy curves highlighted by her dress, pretty face, curly brown hair. Not bad.
Brad turns back to his beer, takes a long swallow. He's not watching them, but he can still hear them-hushed comments that are probably encouragement, giggling reply, more whispers. Brad wants to roll his eyes at all the bullshit, but doesn't. He counts it off in his head and three minutes, seventeen seconds after he met her eyes, the woman is sliding on to the stool next to him. She's smiling, lips all glossed and plumped. Brad has a momentary flash of what they'd look like around his dick.
“I haven't seen you in here before,” she says, resting one elbow on the bar. The angle shows off her cleavage and she knows it. Brad's eyes flicker over her chest before settling back on his beer. He shrugs one shoulder.
“Haven't been in here before.”
His brunt reply knocks her off-kilter for a second, but she recovers nicely, leaning forward an extra inch. “You here on vacation or something?”
“I'm on leave.”
Her expression brightens and she says, “Oh, are you in the Army?”
Brad snorts, throws a glance at her that's more of a glare. “Don't fucking insult me. I'm a Marine.”
“Oh.”
She goes quiet for a few seconds, thrown completely now. Brad bites back a sigh-civilians and women, they're so fucking hard to talk to, get insulted over the stupidest shit. He looks at her, takes in the flare of hips and swell of breasts. He decides to make an effort this time.
“You want a drink?”
She smiles again and nods. Brad gestures for another beer before she can say what she wants, because if she wants some pussy drink like an appletini or whatever then he's done making an effort.
“My name's Claire.”
It doesn't suit her. Claires work in offices wearing pencil skirts to highlight their femininity, or pants to try and act like one of the boys. He imagines that's what she's like most days, except for nights like this when she can put on all her make up and go out with her friends.
“Brad.”
The bartender sets Claire's drink in front of her and she takes a sip, trying to be subtle about checking him out. She's not, but he doesn't call her on it-he did the same, just better. Brad swallows a mouthful of beer, watches her watching him. That's another thing he hates about this shit - the dancing around, the subtext to every fucking word. It's all such bullshit.
“I've never met a Marine before,” Claire says after an awkward few seconds. “It's kind of... tough, isn't it? Like, the training is really hard.”
“We're defending the fucking country. You think we learn how to knit and sing songs?”
Claire blinks fast, practically tripping over herself to apologise. “No, I know, sorry, it's just... Sorry. So, um, have you been overseas? I don't know the term, I'm sorry.”
“I've done a tour in Afghanistan. It wasn't nice,” he adds, before she can ask.
Another few seconds of silence and then she laughs nervously, pushing her hair out of her face. “God, I'm sitting here feeling like such an idiot. I get really pissed if I have a bad day at work, if someone files something wrong or something, but for you, a bad day is like, getting shot at. It kind of puts things into perspective.”
Brad raises his eyebrows, takes another drink. Claire talks some more, about her job, about her friends, asks him a few questions about the Marines - standard bullshit that he's heard a thousand times over. It's boring, and he doesn't say a word more than he has to in answer to her questions. He's aware that he's probably coming off as an asshole, that she keeps giving him these narrow, assessing looks. She's pretty enough that he guesses she's used to guys hitting on her, and his non-responses aren't fitting in with her idea of how this is supposed to go. He thinks he should make more of an effort but can't bring himself to. He knows what he wants and he's done playing nice.
He waits until he's finished his beer before cutting through all the bullshit.
“Do you want to fuck or not?”
Claire's eyes go all wide and outraged, her lips forming a glossy O. Brad wants to point out that they both knew that was the probable and hoped-for outcome of their short time together, that he's just being upfront about it instead of dancing around the issue like a bitch, but he doesn't.
Claire sets her half-finished beer down, not quite slamming it on the bar but close enough. “You're a fucking asshole,” she says roughly, and goes back to her friends.
Again, Brad counts, and two minutes, forty-eight seconds later, the whole group leaves. Brad shrugs to himself. At least he won't have to listen to that annoying laugh anymore. Although he's also not going to get laid. Fuck.
-
Brad goes back to the bar the next night. The beer was good enough to offset the annoying lighting, and he's betting Claire and her friends won't be there again. The guy in the suit is, though, and Brad looks at him as he waits for his first drink. He tries to decide if the guy is drinking away a bad day like Brad originally thought, or drinking away the thought of going home. Probably got a wife who bitches at him, and kids who scream all the time. Brad'll take getting his ass shot at any day over that domestic bullshit.
The bartender sets Brad's bottle in front of him, but doesn't immediately move away. Brad gives it a couple of seconds before looking up. The bartender's smiling at him, teeth startlingly white against his brown skin. He's got dreadlocks, which Brad hates on principal.
“If you're gonna try pulling again tonight,” the bartender says, “You might want to talk less; work the whole 'silent and mysterious' angle. Just a suggestion.”
“I don't need your fucking help to get laid.”
The bartender laughs. “Yeah, sure. Tell you what, you manage to pull a girl tonight, I'll give you a beer on the house.”
He moves away and Brad takes a slow swallow of beer, considering his options. He'd come out tonight with the simple mission of getting laid, and now that there's free beer on offer, he's doubly interested. Trouble is, he knows that he really doesn't have many social graces. He's too impatient with social niceties, no matter how much he promises himself that he's going to play nice. Give him a recon mission and he's patient as anything, he's the fucking Iceman, but talking to civilians about whatever bullshit except what they really want? Fuck that. Still... free beer. Brad will put up with a lot for free beer and the chance to best some asshole bartender. He rolls his shoulders and takes stock of his surroundings.
It's still early, so besides Suit Guy, there's a couple of mid-twenty guys at the back, a couple at one of the booths, and a trio of women at the other end of the bar. Brad focuses on them, contrasting them against each other. One is a bleach-blonde with a glaringly fake tan and fake nails. Brad's willing to bet that her tits, nose and everything else are fake too. He dismisses her out of hand. If he wanted someone that plastic, he'd buy a fucking blow-up doll.
The other two are brunettes, their tans subtle enough to be real. One's got curly hair like Claire, the other all wavy and tousled. Brad imagines fisting his hands in it, winding it around his fingers. He skates his eyes over her figure- an ass a bit too full which she probably hates, but he'd love to get his hands on. He can't really see her tits from this angle. The other is skinnier, with almost no curves to speak of. She looks like she'd break like a twig in Brad's hands so he dismisses her too, goes back to the wavy-haired brunette. She's talking to the others easily, absently toying with her glass. She laughs, throwing her head back a little, and Brad imagines biting her neck, not hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to be felt. He decides in that second that it's going to be her.
Right-target obtained, now he just has to get through the fucking seduction dance bullshit without screwing up. He waits patiently, sipping his beer, until they notice his attention. It takes longer than it should, but he doesn't hold it against them-they're just civilians. Eventually it clicks and they go into that flurry of giggling and whispering. His target looks at him uncertainly, and he cuts a grin at her, probably more predatory than it should be but he's out of practise at smiling nicely. It doesn't seem to put her off, though, because after a few seconds she's sauntering over to him, hips swaying. She sits down next to him and Brad signals the bartender for another beer before remembering that he's supposed to be playing nice.
“I'm Anne,” she says, and Brad grins again.
“Brad.”
The bartender grins at him as he gives Anne her drink, and Brad would punch him if there wasn't a free beer on the line. Anne thanks him with a smile and calls him by name - Mikey - which makes Brad think she's a regular here. It's confirmed two seconds later when she begins talking. Brad lets her take the lead, but also makes a conscious effort to add a few extra words to all his answers. She doesn't immediately ask if he's in the Army, instead asking what branch of the military he's in, which makes him respect her a little more. She also swears occasionally, which Brad likes. She's seems like the kind of girl who doesn't mind getting her hands dirty, who doesn't try to be one of the boys but just naturally fits in with whatever group she's in. She seems like his kind of girl.
When he glances at the clock above the bar, he's surprised to see that thirty minutes have gone by. Half an hour without scaring her away, he thinks that's a record. He also thinks it's enough time for all the bullshit niceties. He finishes his beer, finds she's finished hers as well. They're on the same page, he thinks, and leans forward.
“You got a place near here or you wanna come back to my hotel?” He asks, lowering his voice so her friends - who he knows have been eavesdropping - can't hear. Anne's eyes widen a little but there isn't that look of outrage, so he figures she just needs a little more convincing. “Look, we both knew what this was. So what's it going to be?”
Anne looks at him for a second before shaking her head in disgust. “Way to make me feel fucking cheap,” she mutters, standing up. Brad huffs in frustration, resists the urge to throw his empty bottle across the room.
“Generally speaking,” Mikey says, placing a new bottle next to the empty one, “Women don't like to be treated like hookers.”
Brad's about to ask if he knows where to find a good hooker because he's just about done with playing by society's rules when the door bangs open loudly.
“Bradley!”
Brad flinches on instinct and a second later someone is plastered against his back, wiry arms tight around his waist. Brad twists around, pushes Ray away hard enough that he staggers back a few steps. Not that it wipes that damned grin off his face.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Brad demands. “I thought I left your ass in Afghanistan.”
“Aww, Brad, don't be that way, you know you missed your best buddy Ray-Ray. In fact, you missed me so much, you're gonna buy me a beer.”
Brad raises an eyebrow. “I am?”
Ray's grin widens and he sits down on the stool Anne had just vacated. “Yeah, buddy! C'mon, you know you want to be nice to me. It's my birthday!”
“It's not your fucking birthday,” Brad mutters, but he gestures at Mikey for another beer anyway. Ray crows in triumph, and Brad bites his lip against a smile. Fuck, maybe he did miss the little degenerate just a bit.
Ray manages to talk almost constantly through two beers, filling Brad in on everything that's happened to him in the short time since they got back to the States, and everything he's heard about the others. Brad doesn't really care, especially not about the others, but he lets Ray talk anyway. Eventually he'll tire himself out, like a fucking child. He does care, however, that with Ray next to him acting like a demented idiot on crack, his chances of getting laid are pretty much zero. So much for that free beer.
He thinks about that as he drinks his beer, licking the straying drops from his lips. Yes, he's still horny and would cheerfully fuck any pussy that happened to come his way, but he's got a pleasant buzz in his veins and someone he would grudgingly (but never within earshot) call a friend sitting next to him. He finds that he doesn't care about the lack of pussy as much as he probably should, and frowns into his beer.
“So,” Ray says, putting down his bottle with a heavy thunk, “Have you gotten laid yet? I'm guessing no since you're still here.”
Brad eyes him, debating the merits of taking out his frustrations on Ray; it never seems to do much good. “Who says I wanted to get laid?” It's a stupid question because no Marine is ever going to say no to getting laid. Fuck, a Marine on leave is pretty much guaranteed to only want one thing. Ray rolls his eyes so hard it looks like it hurts.
“Please, you only ever pretend to be part of the human species when you want your dick sucked. So tell me, how many times have you struck out so far? Three? Four?”
“Like you're capable or willing to fuck anything except small livestock and female relatives,” Brad mutters, hunching his shoulders over his beer. He mentally takes back what he thought about Ray being a sort-of-friend.
“Yo, homie,” Ray calls to Mikey, “How many times has my boy here crashed and burned?”
Brad looks up so he can glare at Mikey, who has the sense to stay a few feet away and raise his hands. “I'm pleading the Fifth on that one.”
That's as good as an answer and Ray crows again in triumph, banging his bottle on the counter. “I fucking knew it! It's actually kind of sad, Brad. I mean, if you don't start learning to play nice, you're gonna have to get a whore every time you want some action. You'll be fucking broke, homes.”
“I like whores,” Brad says quietly, “They don't bullshit around like civilian women.”
“Brad,” Ray says in a tone of exaggerated patience, “Women like to be treated nicely and think that they're special. It doesn't matter if in your head you're calling them a bitch-whore, treat them like a princess and they'll open their legs faster than you could ever fucking believe.”
Brad looks at him, one eyebrow raised. “I refuse to take sexual advice from a goat-fucking, inbred, whisky tango pervert like you.”
Ray gapes at him, spreads one hand over his chest, fingers splayed. He's got bruised knuckles, Brad notes, and wonders who he punched. “Brad, I am shocked and offended that you think I'd ever fuck a goat. I won't fuck anything smaller than a donkey.”
Brad laughs, draining the last of his beer. He doesn't immediately order another one, though. Ray swivels around on his seat until he can prop his elbows on the bar, one foot hooked around the leg of the stool. He's wearing a tee shirt with a low enough v-neck that Brad can see most of his No Dice tattoo, plus the drunk whisky tango ink decorating his arms.
“You know, it's lucky for you that I don't need to be treated like a fucking princess,” Ray says quietly, and Brad blinks, slides a careful look at Ray. Ray's looking straight back at him, serious like Brad's only seen him once or twice before. He doesn't say anything else, lets Brad work through the implications.
Brad looks at his empty beer bottle, mind working overtime like he's in a firefight or something. Detailed thought is left behind, mental sentences shortened and abbreviated until just the necessities are left.
Ray just implied-if anyone found out-could be a-he'd never trick-does he want a-probably just horny-how did he know-why did he-he's kind of sexy.
Brad turns so he can look at Ray properly. Ray hasn't moved an inch, but if Brad focuses hard enough he can make out Ray's pulse in his throat, beating too fast against the thin skin. He smirks. Ray still doesn't move, holding himself perfectly still. Brad raises his eyebrows, jerks his chin at Ray's beer.
“You wanna finish that or not?” He asks, and Ray's smile is blinding. He's still got half a bottle left, but he downs it in one go, winking at Brad like he's supposed to be impressed - like Brad isn't also capable of holding his breath for four and half minutes.
Brad's hotel isn't far from the bar-one of the main reasons he'd gone there in the first place-and they walk back slowly. Brad thinks that if it were anyone else, the walk would be quiet, but it's Ray so it's not, and he has to put up with more insane bullshit. It doesn't escape his notice that Ray never once mentions what they're doing, what they're about to do. He's come to know Ray's little tics and habits well from their tour together and he notices the way Ray's beating his fingers against his thigh, tapping out an irregular rhythm. He's nervous, Brad thinks, and something like smugness slides through him.
The hotel lobby is empty, deathly silent, and Brad lets his boots thunk against the tile. The receptionist looks up as they enter and a disapproving frown flits across her features before she looks back down at whatever she's reading. Ray notices and raises his eyebrows.
“The fuck is her problem?”
Brad reviews the situation from her point of view-single guy goes out, comes back a couple of hours later with someone who looks like Ray. He smirks again and shrugs one shoulder. “Probably thinks you're a whore,” he says easily, and Ray barks out a laugh.
“Yeah, right, homes, you fucking wish you could afford me.”
Brad waits until they're in the elevator, doors sliding closed, before he moves, grabbing Ray's biceps and slamming him against the elevator wall. Ray flails a little, caught off-guard, and Brad uses that to wedge a thigh between Ray's knees. He's close enough that he can feel his breath hitting Ray's lips. Ray looks at him, eyes wide and pupils blown. Brad almost misses it when Ray's hips twitch, grinding minutely against his thigh.
The door dings open and Brad takes a quick step back. Ray sags against the wall, almost falls over before his knees lock. He looks kind of stunned, and Brad feels that swell of pure alpha male pride again. He steps out of the elevator, walks down the hall to his room, and after a few seconds hears Ray follow.
Unlocking the door, Brad steps back and gestures grandly for Ray to enter. It's a test, a dare, a final chance to back out, and barely a second goes by before Ray's walking into the room. He sweeps his eyes over the bland, generic décor, spoiled only by Brad's motorcycle leathers heaped on the chair in the corner. His backpack is on the floor, open and showing nothing but boxers and a few different tee shirts.
“Homes, you really take travelling light to a whole new level,” he says, smirking at Brad over his shoulder. Brad kicks the door shut, throws the key on the desk.
“You really want to comment on what I bring with me when I disappear on leave? You could at least mention how the fuck you managed to find me.”
“Don't ask how Ray-Ray works his magic, just be glad he does.” Ray grins and throws himself on to the bed. He bounces slightly and ends up sprawled all over it, shoulders propped up against the pillows and legs splayed open. His tee shirt has ridden up a bit, exposing a teasing strip of skin and the sharp line of his hip bone. One of his hands is resting lightly on his thigh, fingers edging towards his groin. He doesn't say anything lewd and the pose could possibly pass for innocent, but there's something in his expression that ruins it, turns it into something slutty and wanton. Brad's mouth goes a little dry at the sight because for all his loud talk, off-key singing and general obnoxiousness, put Ray on a bed and he turns into someone else.
Ray looks at Brad silently, tongue sliding out to wet his lower lip. It's the same thing Brad did with the door, but dirtier - a challenge, test and invitation all wrapped up into one slow movement. It's enough to get Brad moving, walking forward until he can crawl on to the bed. Ray's eyes flicker over his body and Brad uses every inch he's got, drawing out all his movements. He ends up with his knees bracketing Ray's thighs, hands planted on either side of his head. He's not touching yet, is careful to keep an almost imaginary distance between them, but he's definitely got Ray's attention.
Ray's eyes dart between Brad's eyes and his lips, a constant shiver of movement like he's not sure which he should be looking at. Brad lets him for a few seconds, spins it out until he can't stand it anymore, before bowing his head and kissing him. It's not how he expected Ray to kiss, but still nothing like kissing a woman. Ray lets him lead, lets him set the slow, deep pace, but he gives as good as he gets. When Brad moves one hand to cradle Ray's jaw, Ray moves one hand to hold Brad's hip. His thumb skirts the edge of Brad's jeans, dipping beneath to scrape a nail against skin.
Brad shivers, thrusts his tongue into Ray's mouth with a little more intent, and lets his hips dip down low enough that he can rub up against Ray. Ray makes a small noise at the sudden contact, his thumb jabbing into Brad's hip as his whole body spasms. Brad smirks into the kiss, biting at Ray's bottom lip as he pulls his hips back up and breaks the kiss at the same time. Ray looks up at him, caught somewhere between aroused and shocked. Brad chuckles and his breath ghosts against Ray's spit-slick lips.
“You know, it's not nice to tease your best friend,” Ray complains, but it comes out kind of shaky and weak, a plea rather than a demand. If he'd known it was this easy to shut Ray up, he would've done this months ago. Brad grins, licks once at Ray's lips.
“Next time I see my best friend, I'll remember that.” He swallows Ray's protest at that, lowers his hips again because he's teasing himself as much as Ray and he's just about had it. The making out and minimal contact has done the job of getting him hard. He can feel that Ray is too, and now he just wants to get to the fucking. The thought of fucking Ray's tight little ass has him groaning and grinding down against him harder. Ray moans, rakes his nails down Brad's back.
“You done this before?” Brad asks, keeping his voice steady and even.
“O-once or twice,” Ray stutters, throwing his head back. It's all the invitation Brad needs to mouth at Ray's neck, stinging little bites along his collar bone and a harder one just over his jugular. He doesn't shy away from leaving marks, knows Ray will explain them away and wants to see him like that, branded by Brad. Ray moans again, both hands scrabbling at Brad's back. He scores his nails against Brad's skin hard enough that he's going to be wearing the scratches for a couple of days.
“We're gonna need something,” Ray gasps, and Brad licks over his throat, lapping up the sweat just starting to bead there. Ray's hands tap Brad's shoulders, insistent. “Brad, Brad, seriously-”
“I heard you the first time,” Brad growls, and doesn't miss the little shiver that runs through Ray. He's starting to get a rough picture of Ray's kinks and he's completely unsurprised. He leaves one last hard bite on Ray's neck before raising his head, locking their gazes.
“I'm going to find something to use in the bathroom,” he says, shifting his tone into one of command and seeing Ray respond to it immediately, “And you're going to be naked for me by the time I get back.”
He doesn't wait for a response, pushing himself off the bed and stalking into the bathroom. He catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, takes in the blown pupils and flushed cheeks. He can't remember the last time he saw himself looking so fucked-out, and he wonders how Ray is going to look once Brad's through with him. He glances around the bathroom, searching, before grabbing a small bottle of hand lotion. Not perfect, but he's practically got Marines Make Do tattooed on his ass.
When he steps back into the room, he slams to a standstill at the sight that greets him - Ray, spread out naked on the bed, lazily fisting his cock. His other arm is tucked behind his head, offering up the sleek curve of his biceps and throwing definition on his abs. He looks like a walking wet-dream, a really dirty, nasty one about things you'd never dream of admitting you want. He's got his eyes half-open and pinned on Brad, but his trademark smirk is gone, replaced by something hungry and intent. He doesn't break the eye-contact as he slides his hand slowly up his dick, and Brad watches the pleasure play across his face, the silent gasp that shapes his lips.
“I didn't fucking say you could touch yourself,” Brad growls, and Ray shivers, hand slowly falling away from his cock. He shifts, spreads his legs a little wider.
“Well if I can't touch myself, someone's gonna have to,” he says, just a hint of that smirk in his voice. It only takes Brad a couple of seconds to reach the bed, to cover Ray's body with his own. He's still clothed and Ray winces when the rough denim of his jeans drags over his cock. Brad kisses him slowly, running his hands over Ray's chest just because he can. When he tweaks Ray's nipples sharply, Ray whimpers into his mouth, and Brad starts thinking of all the other noises he wants to pull from Ray.
“This is gonna go faster if you're not dressed, homes,” Ray mumbles, licking at Brad's lips, and Brad smirks. He sits back on his haunches and drags his tee shirt over his head, throwing it behind him. His jeans and boxers quickly follow, shifting and shimmying so that he never actually has to stand up. When he looks back at Ray, his eyes are fixed firmly on Brad's cock. Brad watches as Ray runs his tongue over his lips.
“You wanna suck that?” Brad asks huskily, and Ray's eyes snap to his. Brad smirks. “Yeah, bet you'd just love to go to your knees for me, let me fuck your mouth 'till it's all red and swollen. Next time, promise.”
He opens the little bottle of lotion and coats his fingers, aware of Ray tracking every movement. It's been a while since he's done this - not since he joined the Corps, too much risk, no one he trusted enough. But bikes and cocks are the same - once you learn how to ride one, you never forget. Ray lifts his hips for Brad's hand, biting his lip at the first touch of Brad's fingers.
“That's fucking cold, you asshole,” he chokes out, hands fisting in the sheets. “You couldn't have warmed it up a little first? I mean, fuck, Colbert, here I am-”
“You said you didn't need to be treated like a princess,” Brad interrupts, slowly pushing his finger inside and watching Ray's face closely, fascinated by every little reaction to his action. Ray is hot and tight around his finger, better than any pussy he's had in years, and he can't even think about how it's going to feel around his cock because it's too much and he'll ruin his reputation by coming all over Ray before he gets anywhere near his ass. Instead, he presses another finger in, knowing it's too soon, knowing it's going to sting. Ray arches into it, grunting and gasping all at once. Brad bites down on his hipbone, raised up like an offering, and Ray cries out sharply, slamming back down on to the bed.
“Christ, Brad, fucking warn a guy next time,” he pants.
“You don't want me to warn you,” Brad says darkly, pushing his fingers inside a little further. “You want me to mark you up, bruise you. You want me to fucking own you, to control every little thing you do and feel. You want to be my little bitch, Ray.” He punctuates his words with a vicious twist of his fingers, making Ray writhe desperately. Ray doesn't disagree with his words, he notes.
“I bet you'd like it if I just fucked you right now, with only a little lotion and two fingers' prep,” Brad continues. “You'd just love being split open on my dick, wouldn't you?”
Ray mewls, body twisting on Brad's fingers like he doesn't know what to do, how to move. Brad pushes in a third finger, can't even keep it slow and gentle anymore, not with the way Ray is squirming and panting, sweat clinging to his muscles. God, Brad hasn't even fucked him yet.
“I can take anything you dish out,” Ray gasps, the challenge obvious now. Brad jerks his fingers free, wipes them absently on the sheet. There's a condom on the pillow by Ray's head, the shiny foil packet winking at him in the light, and he grabs it, tears it open quickly.
“I'm gonna make you fucking scream,” Brad promises harshly, rolling the condom on to his cock. He has to fight against the urge to just jerk off right then and there, the brief touch reminding him of his own need, forgotten when he'd been so focused on Ray.
“You can fucking try,” Ray bites out, and that's it, Brad's had enough. He grabs hold of Ray's hips and flips him, nearly getting kicked in the jaw for his efforts, but ends up with Ray on his stomach in front of him, ass tilted up. It's damn near perfect, and Brad grabs hold of his cock, lines up, and slides inside in one hard, inexorable push. Ray's moan is fractured and broken, spine arching as he throws his head back and leans into it.
When Brad is finally balls-deep inside Ray, he has to pause, gulp down a deep breath. It's better than he imagined, all tight and hot and fucking perfect. Even better when he listens to the sounds Ray's making-the little gasps and moans and whimpers, a steady stream of noise because God forbid Ray Person actually shut up for once.
“Fucking move already, Brad,” Ray begs, sounding desperate and needy. “What are you fucking waiting for, a written invitation to - oh fuck!”
Brad grins, snaps his hips forward again and pulls another curse from Ray. Ray moans, rocks his hips back, and then there's no more waiting, no more teasing, just Brad's cock pounding into Ray's ass hard enough that it's got to be hurting a little, hands clamped on Ray's hips, holding him in place. Brad closes his eyes, focuses on the fucking amazing feel of it all, the tight clench of Ray around him. Ray's still muttering filth, telling Brad how good it feels, how much he loves Brad's cock, a jumble of curses and pleas. Brad thinks of gagging him next time and a moan slips from him.
“Brad, Brad, I need - more, please. Brad.”
God, how can he want more? How is this not enough when it's nearly undoing Brad already? Brad bites his lip and forces himself to pull out. Ray sobs, halfway between heartbroken and aroused, but Brad doesn't give him a chance to say anything else, flipping him over again so that he's on his back. It's so easy to manhandle Ray, he thinks, when he's this pliant and willing. He grabs hold of Ray's leg, hooks it over his shoulder, and slides back in. He gets to see Ray's face this time, watch the pleasure break his expression, his eyes staring blindly at the ceiling. It's almost beautiful.
Brad leans forward, presses their mouths together in a rough, biting kiss. The position has to be hurting Ray, curled over like that like some twisted exercise, but he just whimpers, sounding far from pained. He's such a fucking slut, Brad thinks, and a dozen images slide through his mind, all the things he wants to do, all the things he just knows Ray wants him to do.
“Fucking touch me,” Ray begs desperately, throwing his head back. “God, Brad, please, come on, just let me-”
“Still waiting for that scream,” Brad says, but he grabs hold of Ray's cock anyway, jerking it quickly in time with his thrusts. The noise Ray makes isn't quite a scream, but it's close, so close, and Brad knows neither of them have got long left. He's kind of ashamed at their combined lack of stamina, but then he thinks he can't really be blamed, not with Ray looking like this, acting like this. Not when he's fucking Ray harder than he's ever dared fuck a girl, and Ray is letting him, is fucking loving it.
“I wanna come,” Ray says, eyes tightly squeezed shut like he's barely holding it together. “Brad, can I - tell me I can-”
“Christ, yes, do it. Come all over yourself, wanna see it.”
Ray does scream for him then, when he tightens his fist around Ray's cock and snaps his hip forward at just the right angle. His cock jerks in Brad's hand, spurting all over Ray's stomach, and it's the dirtiest, most beautiful thing Brad's ever seen. It's enough to undo him, tear the last little bit of control from him, and he groans, slamming inside Ray once more as he comes for what feels like hours.
When he comes back to himself, he's still buried balls-deep in Ray, who's just lying there panting and shivering. Brad slides out carefully, ditches the condom without really caring where it lands, and collapses next to Ray. For a long minute, there's no sounds except their breathing, harsh and loud in the stuffy silence. But it's Ray, and he can never be silent for long, so eventually he rolls his head to look at Brad. His eyes are still dark and blown, lips twisted in a fucked-out smile.
“Wasn't that better than buying a whore?” He asks, and his voice is scratchy and rough. Brad looks at him, raises one eyebrow.
“About the same, I'd say,” he lies.
-
Brad doesn't go back to the bar the next night-fuck Mickey and his free beer anyway. Instead he lets Ray blow him in the shower before tying him to the bed with his belt and fucking him. He tells Ray it's cheaper than whores and slightly less irritating than trying to pick up girls. Ray doesn't call him on it.
Author: Kali
Pairings: Brad/Ray
Rating: NC17
Summary: "It's actually kind of sad, Brad. I mean, if you don't start learning to play nice, you're gonna have to get a whore every time you want some action. You'll be fucking broke, homes.”
Disclaimer: This is based on the ficionalised HBO series, not the actual people portrayed in the book.
Notes/Warnings: For meeks00, with many thanks for the wonderful schlicky for the awesome beta. This is the result of a conversation about how Brad can't pick up girls despite being a sex god because of his complete lack of social skills, but it's okay because he has Ray.
Brad doesn't start to relax until halfway through his second beer. The bar is quiet, which he's thankful for, but there's still too many people around for his liking; too many bodies flitting around in his periphery, too many idiots making stupid comments he can't help but overhear. People irritate him, but the beer starts to counter it and a little of the tension leaves his shoulders and neck.
He idly toys with his beer, glancing around to pick up any details he missed on his first once-over. Nothing really interesting - a couple over in the corner who're probably going to be making a hurried exit in about twenty minutes judging by the heavy-duty kissing they're doing; a guy in a rumpled suit at the other end of the bar, downing his third whiskey, probably trying to drink away a bad day at whatever bullshit office he works at; a group of women to his left, all done up kind of nice, giggling and chatting in that way only girls on a night out can. One of them has a high-pitched laugh that goes right through Brad's head, mixing with the fucking faux-trendy red/orange lighting the bar's got going on. Tomorrow, he won't know if it's the beer or that combination of laugh/lighting that's responsible for his headache.
Brad skates his eyes over the other patrons, quickly coming up with life stories for them and dismissing them out of hand. Fucking civilians, he thinks and takes a swig of his beer. The woman laughs again, all sharp and cutting, and Brad hunches his shoulders, feels the tension seeping back. He debates the pros and cons of leaving, finding another bar. One the one hand, he's comfy, the beer here's alright, and it's not one of the hot spots which means it's not likely to get stupidly busy. On the other hand, that laugh is one of the worst noises Brad's ever heard and he has a feeling that a few beers later, he's going to make his feelings known. If it wasn't a woman, Brad would air his feelings with his fists, but he doesn't hit women. It's one of his few moral lines and one he's never crossed.
Draining the last of his beer, Brad gestures for another one. He's not going to let some bitch chase him away from a place he wants to be. She laughs again, but this time he closes his eyes and lets it wash through him, focuses on the feel of his beer bottle instead. God bless the Marine Corps for teaching him how to deal with annoying distractions, he thinks wryly.
It takes him a few minutes to feel the shift in atmosphere, which he blames on the beer and the fact that he's on leave in America and thus not expecting enemy contact. But once he feels it, it makes all his instincts scream for cover and a gun - he's being watched. Setting his bottle down carefully, he takes a deep breath and tries to sort it out. Yes, he's being watched, but no one in the bar is an obvious threat so if it comes to violence, he can handle it. Something tells him it won't come to violence, though, and after a handful of seconds he realises that the group of women are now giggling and whispering in equal measure.
Brad slides a glance at them, considering, and three of them blush and look away. One wasn't looking in the first place. The last one holds his gaze for a second before looking at the others, laughing. She's not the one with the annoying laugh - Brad thinks that's the one who wasn't looking. Probably a dyke. Brad studies the one who'd met his eyes. She's tall in her heels, healthy curves highlighted by her dress, pretty face, curly brown hair. Not bad.
Brad turns back to his beer, takes a long swallow. He's not watching them, but he can still hear them-hushed comments that are probably encouragement, giggling reply, more whispers. Brad wants to roll his eyes at all the bullshit, but doesn't. He counts it off in his head and three minutes, seventeen seconds after he met her eyes, the woman is sliding on to the stool next to him. She's smiling, lips all glossed and plumped. Brad has a momentary flash of what they'd look like around his dick.
“I haven't seen you in here before,” she says, resting one elbow on the bar. The angle shows off her cleavage and she knows it. Brad's eyes flicker over her chest before settling back on his beer. He shrugs one shoulder.
“Haven't been in here before.”
His brunt reply knocks her off-kilter for a second, but she recovers nicely, leaning forward an extra inch. “You here on vacation or something?”
“I'm on leave.”
Her expression brightens and she says, “Oh, are you in the Army?”
Brad snorts, throws a glance at her that's more of a glare. “Don't fucking insult me. I'm a Marine.”
“Oh.”
She goes quiet for a few seconds, thrown completely now. Brad bites back a sigh-civilians and women, they're so fucking hard to talk to, get insulted over the stupidest shit. He looks at her, takes in the flare of hips and swell of breasts. He decides to make an effort this time.
“You want a drink?”
She smiles again and nods. Brad gestures for another beer before she can say what she wants, because if she wants some pussy drink like an appletini or whatever then he's done making an effort.
“My name's Claire.”
It doesn't suit her. Claires work in offices wearing pencil skirts to highlight their femininity, or pants to try and act like one of the boys. He imagines that's what she's like most days, except for nights like this when she can put on all her make up and go out with her friends.
“Brad.”
The bartender sets Claire's drink in front of her and she takes a sip, trying to be subtle about checking him out. She's not, but he doesn't call her on it-he did the same, just better. Brad swallows a mouthful of beer, watches her watching him. That's another thing he hates about this shit - the dancing around, the subtext to every fucking word. It's all such bullshit.
“I've never met a Marine before,” Claire says after an awkward few seconds. “It's kind of... tough, isn't it? Like, the training is really hard.”
“We're defending the fucking country. You think we learn how to knit and sing songs?”
Claire blinks fast, practically tripping over herself to apologise. “No, I know, sorry, it's just... Sorry. So, um, have you been overseas? I don't know the term, I'm sorry.”
“I've done a tour in Afghanistan. It wasn't nice,” he adds, before she can ask.
Another few seconds of silence and then she laughs nervously, pushing her hair out of her face. “God, I'm sitting here feeling like such an idiot. I get really pissed if I have a bad day at work, if someone files something wrong or something, but for you, a bad day is like, getting shot at. It kind of puts things into perspective.”
Brad raises his eyebrows, takes another drink. Claire talks some more, about her job, about her friends, asks him a few questions about the Marines - standard bullshit that he's heard a thousand times over. It's boring, and he doesn't say a word more than he has to in answer to her questions. He's aware that he's probably coming off as an asshole, that she keeps giving him these narrow, assessing looks. She's pretty enough that he guesses she's used to guys hitting on her, and his non-responses aren't fitting in with her idea of how this is supposed to go. He thinks he should make more of an effort but can't bring himself to. He knows what he wants and he's done playing nice.
He waits until he's finished his beer before cutting through all the bullshit.
“Do you want to fuck or not?”
Claire's eyes go all wide and outraged, her lips forming a glossy O. Brad wants to point out that they both knew that was the probable and hoped-for outcome of their short time together, that he's just being upfront about it instead of dancing around the issue like a bitch, but he doesn't.
Claire sets her half-finished beer down, not quite slamming it on the bar but close enough. “You're a fucking asshole,” she says roughly, and goes back to her friends.
Again, Brad counts, and two minutes, forty-eight seconds later, the whole group leaves. Brad shrugs to himself. At least he won't have to listen to that annoying laugh anymore. Although he's also not going to get laid. Fuck.
-
Brad goes back to the bar the next night. The beer was good enough to offset the annoying lighting, and he's betting Claire and her friends won't be there again. The guy in the suit is, though, and Brad looks at him as he waits for his first drink. He tries to decide if the guy is drinking away a bad day like Brad originally thought, or drinking away the thought of going home. Probably got a wife who bitches at him, and kids who scream all the time. Brad'll take getting his ass shot at any day over that domestic bullshit.
The bartender sets Brad's bottle in front of him, but doesn't immediately move away. Brad gives it a couple of seconds before looking up. The bartender's smiling at him, teeth startlingly white against his brown skin. He's got dreadlocks, which Brad hates on principal.
“If you're gonna try pulling again tonight,” the bartender says, “You might want to talk less; work the whole 'silent and mysterious' angle. Just a suggestion.”
“I don't need your fucking help to get laid.”
The bartender laughs. “Yeah, sure. Tell you what, you manage to pull a girl tonight, I'll give you a beer on the house.”
He moves away and Brad takes a slow swallow of beer, considering his options. He'd come out tonight with the simple mission of getting laid, and now that there's free beer on offer, he's doubly interested. Trouble is, he knows that he really doesn't have many social graces. He's too impatient with social niceties, no matter how much he promises himself that he's going to play nice. Give him a recon mission and he's patient as anything, he's the fucking Iceman, but talking to civilians about whatever bullshit except what they really want? Fuck that. Still... free beer. Brad will put up with a lot for free beer and the chance to best some asshole bartender. He rolls his shoulders and takes stock of his surroundings.
It's still early, so besides Suit Guy, there's a couple of mid-twenty guys at the back, a couple at one of the booths, and a trio of women at the other end of the bar. Brad focuses on them, contrasting them against each other. One is a bleach-blonde with a glaringly fake tan and fake nails. Brad's willing to bet that her tits, nose and everything else are fake too. He dismisses her out of hand. If he wanted someone that plastic, he'd buy a fucking blow-up doll.
The other two are brunettes, their tans subtle enough to be real. One's got curly hair like Claire, the other all wavy and tousled. Brad imagines fisting his hands in it, winding it around his fingers. He skates his eyes over her figure- an ass a bit too full which she probably hates, but he'd love to get his hands on. He can't really see her tits from this angle. The other is skinnier, with almost no curves to speak of. She looks like she'd break like a twig in Brad's hands so he dismisses her too, goes back to the wavy-haired brunette. She's talking to the others easily, absently toying with her glass. She laughs, throwing her head back a little, and Brad imagines biting her neck, not hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to be felt. He decides in that second that it's going to be her.
Right-target obtained, now he just has to get through the fucking seduction dance bullshit without screwing up. He waits patiently, sipping his beer, until they notice his attention. It takes longer than it should, but he doesn't hold it against them-they're just civilians. Eventually it clicks and they go into that flurry of giggling and whispering. His target looks at him uncertainly, and he cuts a grin at her, probably more predatory than it should be but he's out of practise at smiling nicely. It doesn't seem to put her off, though, because after a few seconds she's sauntering over to him, hips swaying. She sits down next to him and Brad signals the bartender for another beer before remembering that he's supposed to be playing nice.
“I'm Anne,” she says, and Brad grins again.
“Brad.”
The bartender grins at him as he gives Anne her drink, and Brad would punch him if there wasn't a free beer on the line. Anne thanks him with a smile and calls him by name - Mikey - which makes Brad think she's a regular here. It's confirmed two seconds later when she begins talking. Brad lets her take the lead, but also makes a conscious effort to add a few extra words to all his answers. She doesn't immediately ask if he's in the Army, instead asking what branch of the military he's in, which makes him respect her a little more. She also swears occasionally, which Brad likes. She's seems like the kind of girl who doesn't mind getting her hands dirty, who doesn't try to be one of the boys but just naturally fits in with whatever group she's in. She seems like his kind of girl.
When he glances at the clock above the bar, he's surprised to see that thirty minutes have gone by. Half an hour without scaring her away, he thinks that's a record. He also thinks it's enough time for all the bullshit niceties. He finishes his beer, finds she's finished hers as well. They're on the same page, he thinks, and leans forward.
“You got a place near here or you wanna come back to my hotel?” He asks, lowering his voice so her friends - who he knows have been eavesdropping - can't hear. Anne's eyes widen a little but there isn't that look of outrage, so he figures she just needs a little more convincing. “Look, we both knew what this was. So what's it going to be?”
Anne looks at him for a second before shaking her head in disgust. “Way to make me feel fucking cheap,” she mutters, standing up. Brad huffs in frustration, resists the urge to throw his empty bottle across the room.
“Generally speaking,” Mikey says, placing a new bottle next to the empty one, “Women don't like to be treated like hookers.”
Brad's about to ask if he knows where to find a good hooker because he's just about done with playing by society's rules when the door bangs open loudly.
“Bradley!”
Brad flinches on instinct and a second later someone is plastered against his back, wiry arms tight around his waist. Brad twists around, pushes Ray away hard enough that he staggers back a few steps. Not that it wipes that damned grin off his face.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Brad demands. “I thought I left your ass in Afghanistan.”
“Aww, Brad, don't be that way, you know you missed your best buddy Ray-Ray. In fact, you missed me so much, you're gonna buy me a beer.”
Brad raises an eyebrow. “I am?”
Ray's grin widens and he sits down on the stool Anne had just vacated. “Yeah, buddy! C'mon, you know you want to be nice to me. It's my birthday!”
“It's not your fucking birthday,” Brad mutters, but he gestures at Mikey for another beer anyway. Ray crows in triumph, and Brad bites his lip against a smile. Fuck, maybe he did miss the little degenerate just a bit.
Ray manages to talk almost constantly through two beers, filling Brad in on everything that's happened to him in the short time since they got back to the States, and everything he's heard about the others. Brad doesn't really care, especially not about the others, but he lets Ray talk anyway. Eventually he'll tire himself out, like a fucking child. He does care, however, that with Ray next to him acting like a demented idiot on crack, his chances of getting laid are pretty much zero. So much for that free beer.
He thinks about that as he drinks his beer, licking the straying drops from his lips. Yes, he's still horny and would cheerfully fuck any pussy that happened to come his way, but he's got a pleasant buzz in his veins and someone he would grudgingly (but never within earshot) call a friend sitting next to him. He finds that he doesn't care about the lack of pussy as much as he probably should, and frowns into his beer.
“So,” Ray says, putting down his bottle with a heavy thunk, “Have you gotten laid yet? I'm guessing no since you're still here.”
Brad eyes him, debating the merits of taking out his frustrations on Ray; it never seems to do much good. “Who says I wanted to get laid?” It's a stupid question because no Marine is ever going to say no to getting laid. Fuck, a Marine on leave is pretty much guaranteed to only want one thing. Ray rolls his eyes so hard it looks like it hurts.
“Please, you only ever pretend to be part of the human species when you want your dick sucked. So tell me, how many times have you struck out so far? Three? Four?”
“Like you're capable or willing to fuck anything except small livestock and female relatives,” Brad mutters, hunching his shoulders over his beer. He mentally takes back what he thought about Ray being a sort-of-friend.
“Yo, homie,” Ray calls to Mikey, “How many times has my boy here crashed and burned?”
Brad looks up so he can glare at Mikey, who has the sense to stay a few feet away and raise his hands. “I'm pleading the Fifth on that one.”
That's as good as an answer and Ray crows again in triumph, banging his bottle on the counter. “I fucking knew it! It's actually kind of sad, Brad. I mean, if you don't start learning to play nice, you're gonna have to get a whore every time you want some action. You'll be fucking broke, homes.”
“I like whores,” Brad says quietly, “They don't bullshit around like civilian women.”
“Brad,” Ray says in a tone of exaggerated patience, “Women like to be treated nicely and think that they're special. It doesn't matter if in your head you're calling them a bitch-whore, treat them like a princess and they'll open their legs faster than you could ever fucking believe.”
Brad looks at him, one eyebrow raised. “I refuse to take sexual advice from a goat-fucking, inbred, whisky tango pervert like you.”
Ray gapes at him, spreads one hand over his chest, fingers splayed. He's got bruised knuckles, Brad notes, and wonders who he punched. “Brad, I am shocked and offended that you think I'd ever fuck a goat. I won't fuck anything smaller than a donkey.”
Brad laughs, draining the last of his beer. He doesn't immediately order another one, though. Ray swivels around on his seat until he can prop his elbows on the bar, one foot hooked around the leg of the stool. He's wearing a tee shirt with a low enough v-neck that Brad can see most of his No Dice tattoo, plus the drunk whisky tango ink decorating his arms.
“You know, it's lucky for you that I don't need to be treated like a fucking princess,” Ray says quietly, and Brad blinks, slides a careful look at Ray. Ray's looking straight back at him, serious like Brad's only seen him once or twice before. He doesn't say anything else, lets Brad work through the implications.
Brad looks at his empty beer bottle, mind working overtime like he's in a firefight or something. Detailed thought is left behind, mental sentences shortened and abbreviated until just the necessities are left.
Ray just implied-if anyone found out-could be a-he'd never trick-does he want a-probably just horny-how did he know-why did he-he's kind of sexy.
Brad turns so he can look at Ray properly. Ray hasn't moved an inch, but if Brad focuses hard enough he can make out Ray's pulse in his throat, beating too fast against the thin skin. He smirks. Ray still doesn't move, holding himself perfectly still. Brad raises his eyebrows, jerks his chin at Ray's beer.
“You wanna finish that or not?” He asks, and Ray's smile is blinding. He's still got half a bottle left, but he downs it in one go, winking at Brad like he's supposed to be impressed - like Brad isn't also capable of holding his breath for four and half minutes.
Brad's hotel isn't far from the bar-one of the main reasons he'd gone there in the first place-and they walk back slowly. Brad thinks that if it were anyone else, the walk would be quiet, but it's Ray so it's not, and he has to put up with more insane bullshit. It doesn't escape his notice that Ray never once mentions what they're doing, what they're about to do. He's come to know Ray's little tics and habits well from their tour together and he notices the way Ray's beating his fingers against his thigh, tapping out an irregular rhythm. He's nervous, Brad thinks, and something like smugness slides through him.
The hotel lobby is empty, deathly silent, and Brad lets his boots thunk against the tile. The receptionist looks up as they enter and a disapproving frown flits across her features before she looks back down at whatever she's reading. Ray notices and raises his eyebrows.
“The fuck is her problem?”
Brad reviews the situation from her point of view-single guy goes out, comes back a couple of hours later with someone who looks like Ray. He smirks again and shrugs one shoulder. “Probably thinks you're a whore,” he says easily, and Ray barks out a laugh.
“Yeah, right, homes, you fucking wish you could afford me.”
Brad waits until they're in the elevator, doors sliding closed, before he moves, grabbing Ray's biceps and slamming him against the elevator wall. Ray flails a little, caught off-guard, and Brad uses that to wedge a thigh between Ray's knees. He's close enough that he can feel his breath hitting Ray's lips. Ray looks at him, eyes wide and pupils blown. Brad almost misses it when Ray's hips twitch, grinding minutely against his thigh.
The door dings open and Brad takes a quick step back. Ray sags against the wall, almost falls over before his knees lock. He looks kind of stunned, and Brad feels that swell of pure alpha male pride again. He steps out of the elevator, walks down the hall to his room, and after a few seconds hears Ray follow.
Unlocking the door, Brad steps back and gestures grandly for Ray to enter. It's a test, a dare, a final chance to back out, and barely a second goes by before Ray's walking into the room. He sweeps his eyes over the bland, generic décor, spoiled only by Brad's motorcycle leathers heaped on the chair in the corner. His backpack is on the floor, open and showing nothing but boxers and a few different tee shirts.
“Homes, you really take travelling light to a whole new level,” he says, smirking at Brad over his shoulder. Brad kicks the door shut, throws the key on the desk.
“You really want to comment on what I bring with me when I disappear on leave? You could at least mention how the fuck you managed to find me.”
“Don't ask how Ray-Ray works his magic, just be glad he does.” Ray grins and throws himself on to the bed. He bounces slightly and ends up sprawled all over it, shoulders propped up against the pillows and legs splayed open. His tee shirt has ridden up a bit, exposing a teasing strip of skin and the sharp line of his hip bone. One of his hands is resting lightly on his thigh, fingers edging towards his groin. He doesn't say anything lewd and the pose could possibly pass for innocent, but there's something in his expression that ruins it, turns it into something slutty and wanton. Brad's mouth goes a little dry at the sight because for all his loud talk, off-key singing and general obnoxiousness, put Ray on a bed and he turns into someone else.
Ray looks at Brad silently, tongue sliding out to wet his lower lip. It's the same thing Brad did with the door, but dirtier - a challenge, test and invitation all wrapped up into one slow movement. It's enough to get Brad moving, walking forward until he can crawl on to the bed. Ray's eyes flicker over his body and Brad uses every inch he's got, drawing out all his movements. He ends up with his knees bracketing Ray's thighs, hands planted on either side of his head. He's not touching yet, is careful to keep an almost imaginary distance between them, but he's definitely got Ray's attention.
Ray's eyes dart between Brad's eyes and his lips, a constant shiver of movement like he's not sure which he should be looking at. Brad lets him for a few seconds, spins it out until he can't stand it anymore, before bowing his head and kissing him. It's not how he expected Ray to kiss, but still nothing like kissing a woman. Ray lets him lead, lets him set the slow, deep pace, but he gives as good as he gets. When Brad moves one hand to cradle Ray's jaw, Ray moves one hand to hold Brad's hip. His thumb skirts the edge of Brad's jeans, dipping beneath to scrape a nail against skin.
Brad shivers, thrusts his tongue into Ray's mouth with a little more intent, and lets his hips dip down low enough that he can rub up against Ray. Ray makes a small noise at the sudden contact, his thumb jabbing into Brad's hip as his whole body spasms. Brad smirks into the kiss, biting at Ray's bottom lip as he pulls his hips back up and breaks the kiss at the same time. Ray looks up at him, caught somewhere between aroused and shocked. Brad chuckles and his breath ghosts against Ray's spit-slick lips.
“You know, it's not nice to tease your best friend,” Ray complains, but it comes out kind of shaky and weak, a plea rather than a demand. If he'd known it was this easy to shut Ray up, he would've done this months ago. Brad grins, licks once at Ray's lips.
“Next time I see my best friend, I'll remember that.” He swallows Ray's protest at that, lowers his hips again because he's teasing himself as much as Ray and he's just about had it. The making out and minimal contact has done the job of getting him hard. He can feel that Ray is too, and now he just wants to get to the fucking. The thought of fucking Ray's tight little ass has him groaning and grinding down against him harder. Ray moans, rakes his nails down Brad's back.
“You done this before?” Brad asks, keeping his voice steady and even.
“O-once or twice,” Ray stutters, throwing his head back. It's all the invitation Brad needs to mouth at Ray's neck, stinging little bites along his collar bone and a harder one just over his jugular. He doesn't shy away from leaving marks, knows Ray will explain them away and wants to see him like that, branded by Brad. Ray moans again, both hands scrabbling at Brad's back. He scores his nails against Brad's skin hard enough that he's going to be wearing the scratches for a couple of days.
“We're gonna need something,” Ray gasps, and Brad licks over his throat, lapping up the sweat just starting to bead there. Ray's hands tap Brad's shoulders, insistent. “Brad, Brad, seriously-”
“I heard you the first time,” Brad growls, and doesn't miss the little shiver that runs through Ray. He's starting to get a rough picture of Ray's kinks and he's completely unsurprised. He leaves one last hard bite on Ray's neck before raising his head, locking their gazes.
“I'm going to find something to use in the bathroom,” he says, shifting his tone into one of command and seeing Ray respond to it immediately, “And you're going to be naked for me by the time I get back.”
He doesn't wait for a response, pushing himself off the bed and stalking into the bathroom. He catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, takes in the blown pupils and flushed cheeks. He can't remember the last time he saw himself looking so fucked-out, and he wonders how Ray is going to look once Brad's through with him. He glances around the bathroom, searching, before grabbing a small bottle of hand lotion. Not perfect, but he's practically got Marines Make Do tattooed on his ass.
When he steps back into the room, he slams to a standstill at the sight that greets him - Ray, spread out naked on the bed, lazily fisting his cock. His other arm is tucked behind his head, offering up the sleek curve of his biceps and throwing definition on his abs. He looks like a walking wet-dream, a really dirty, nasty one about things you'd never dream of admitting you want. He's got his eyes half-open and pinned on Brad, but his trademark smirk is gone, replaced by something hungry and intent. He doesn't break the eye-contact as he slides his hand slowly up his dick, and Brad watches the pleasure play across his face, the silent gasp that shapes his lips.
“I didn't fucking say you could touch yourself,” Brad growls, and Ray shivers, hand slowly falling away from his cock. He shifts, spreads his legs a little wider.
“Well if I can't touch myself, someone's gonna have to,” he says, just a hint of that smirk in his voice. It only takes Brad a couple of seconds to reach the bed, to cover Ray's body with his own. He's still clothed and Ray winces when the rough denim of his jeans drags over his cock. Brad kisses him slowly, running his hands over Ray's chest just because he can. When he tweaks Ray's nipples sharply, Ray whimpers into his mouth, and Brad starts thinking of all the other noises he wants to pull from Ray.
“This is gonna go faster if you're not dressed, homes,” Ray mumbles, licking at Brad's lips, and Brad smirks. He sits back on his haunches and drags his tee shirt over his head, throwing it behind him. His jeans and boxers quickly follow, shifting and shimmying so that he never actually has to stand up. When he looks back at Ray, his eyes are fixed firmly on Brad's cock. Brad watches as Ray runs his tongue over his lips.
“You wanna suck that?” Brad asks huskily, and Ray's eyes snap to his. Brad smirks. “Yeah, bet you'd just love to go to your knees for me, let me fuck your mouth 'till it's all red and swollen. Next time, promise.”
He opens the little bottle of lotion and coats his fingers, aware of Ray tracking every movement. It's been a while since he's done this - not since he joined the Corps, too much risk, no one he trusted enough. But bikes and cocks are the same - once you learn how to ride one, you never forget. Ray lifts his hips for Brad's hand, biting his lip at the first touch of Brad's fingers.
“That's fucking cold, you asshole,” he chokes out, hands fisting in the sheets. “You couldn't have warmed it up a little first? I mean, fuck, Colbert, here I am-”
“You said you didn't need to be treated like a princess,” Brad interrupts, slowly pushing his finger inside and watching Ray's face closely, fascinated by every little reaction to his action. Ray is hot and tight around his finger, better than any pussy he's had in years, and he can't even think about how it's going to feel around his cock because it's too much and he'll ruin his reputation by coming all over Ray before he gets anywhere near his ass. Instead, he presses another finger in, knowing it's too soon, knowing it's going to sting. Ray arches into it, grunting and gasping all at once. Brad bites down on his hipbone, raised up like an offering, and Ray cries out sharply, slamming back down on to the bed.
“Christ, Brad, fucking warn a guy next time,” he pants.
“You don't want me to warn you,” Brad says darkly, pushing his fingers inside a little further. “You want me to mark you up, bruise you. You want me to fucking own you, to control every little thing you do and feel. You want to be my little bitch, Ray.” He punctuates his words with a vicious twist of his fingers, making Ray writhe desperately. Ray doesn't disagree with his words, he notes.
“I bet you'd like it if I just fucked you right now, with only a little lotion and two fingers' prep,” Brad continues. “You'd just love being split open on my dick, wouldn't you?”
Ray mewls, body twisting on Brad's fingers like he doesn't know what to do, how to move. Brad pushes in a third finger, can't even keep it slow and gentle anymore, not with the way Ray is squirming and panting, sweat clinging to his muscles. God, Brad hasn't even fucked him yet.
“I can take anything you dish out,” Ray gasps, the challenge obvious now. Brad jerks his fingers free, wipes them absently on the sheet. There's a condom on the pillow by Ray's head, the shiny foil packet winking at him in the light, and he grabs it, tears it open quickly.
“I'm gonna make you fucking scream,” Brad promises harshly, rolling the condom on to his cock. He has to fight against the urge to just jerk off right then and there, the brief touch reminding him of his own need, forgotten when he'd been so focused on Ray.
“You can fucking try,” Ray bites out, and that's it, Brad's had enough. He grabs hold of Ray's hips and flips him, nearly getting kicked in the jaw for his efforts, but ends up with Ray on his stomach in front of him, ass tilted up. It's damn near perfect, and Brad grabs hold of his cock, lines up, and slides inside in one hard, inexorable push. Ray's moan is fractured and broken, spine arching as he throws his head back and leans into it.
When Brad is finally balls-deep inside Ray, he has to pause, gulp down a deep breath. It's better than he imagined, all tight and hot and fucking perfect. Even better when he listens to the sounds Ray's making-the little gasps and moans and whimpers, a steady stream of noise because God forbid Ray Person actually shut up for once.
“Fucking move already, Brad,” Ray begs, sounding desperate and needy. “What are you fucking waiting for, a written invitation to - oh fuck!”
Brad grins, snaps his hips forward again and pulls another curse from Ray. Ray moans, rocks his hips back, and then there's no more waiting, no more teasing, just Brad's cock pounding into Ray's ass hard enough that it's got to be hurting a little, hands clamped on Ray's hips, holding him in place. Brad closes his eyes, focuses on the fucking amazing feel of it all, the tight clench of Ray around him. Ray's still muttering filth, telling Brad how good it feels, how much he loves Brad's cock, a jumble of curses and pleas. Brad thinks of gagging him next time and a moan slips from him.
“Brad, Brad, I need - more, please. Brad.”
God, how can he want more? How is this not enough when it's nearly undoing Brad already? Brad bites his lip and forces himself to pull out. Ray sobs, halfway between heartbroken and aroused, but Brad doesn't give him a chance to say anything else, flipping him over again so that he's on his back. It's so easy to manhandle Ray, he thinks, when he's this pliant and willing. He grabs hold of Ray's leg, hooks it over his shoulder, and slides back in. He gets to see Ray's face this time, watch the pleasure break his expression, his eyes staring blindly at the ceiling. It's almost beautiful.
Brad leans forward, presses their mouths together in a rough, biting kiss. The position has to be hurting Ray, curled over like that like some twisted exercise, but he just whimpers, sounding far from pained. He's such a fucking slut, Brad thinks, and a dozen images slide through his mind, all the things he wants to do, all the things he just knows Ray wants him to do.
“Fucking touch me,” Ray begs desperately, throwing his head back. “God, Brad, please, come on, just let me-”
“Still waiting for that scream,” Brad says, but he grabs hold of Ray's cock anyway, jerking it quickly in time with his thrusts. The noise Ray makes isn't quite a scream, but it's close, so close, and Brad knows neither of them have got long left. He's kind of ashamed at their combined lack of stamina, but then he thinks he can't really be blamed, not with Ray looking like this, acting like this. Not when he's fucking Ray harder than he's ever dared fuck a girl, and Ray is letting him, is fucking loving it.
“I wanna come,” Ray says, eyes tightly squeezed shut like he's barely holding it together. “Brad, can I - tell me I can-”
“Christ, yes, do it. Come all over yourself, wanna see it.”
Ray does scream for him then, when he tightens his fist around Ray's cock and snaps his hip forward at just the right angle. His cock jerks in Brad's hand, spurting all over Ray's stomach, and it's the dirtiest, most beautiful thing Brad's ever seen. It's enough to undo him, tear the last little bit of control from him, and he groans, slamming inside Ray once more as he comes for what feels like hours.
When he comes back to himself, he's still buried balls-deep in Ray, who's just lying there panting and shivering. Brad slides out carefully, ditches the condom without really caring where it lands, and collapses next to Ray. For a long minute, there's no sounds except their breathing, harsh and loud in the stuffy silence. But it's Ray, and he can never be silent for long, so eventually he rolls his head to look at Brad. His eyes are still dark and blown, lips twisted in a fucked-out smile.
“Wasn't that better than buying a whore?” He asks, and his voice is scratchy and rough. Brad looks at him, raises one eyebrow.
“About the same, I'd say,” he lies.
-
Brad doesn't go back to the bar the next night-fuck Mickey and his free beer anyway. Instead he lets Ray blow him in the shower before tying him to the bed with his belt and fucking him. He tells Ray it's cheaper than whores and slightly less irritating than trying to pick up girls. Ray doesn't call him on it.