Work Text:
he says
i am sorry i am not an easy person to want
i look at him surprised
who said i wanted easy
i don’t crave easy
i crave goddamn difficult
― milk and honey | Rupi Kaur
Even years down the line, Ray continues to refer to what happened that night as The Incident. Only internally, of course, or Brad would have a conniption.
But also because there’s no need to talk about their sex life to anyone, really.
The night in question is a Wednesday, right after Brad has come back from a three week exercise in the Pacific Northwest.
Their bodies are fresh from the shower, naked legs are tangled together, sleep tempting them. Ray can just feel the cow-lick that his hair will become after sleeping on it still damp. He can’t bring himself to care, or to do anything about it.
The soft evening glow through the blinds from the streetlight outside makes Brad look even more like this fucked up Norse God wanna-be, but like, in a nice way. It catches his shirtless torso, highlighting his clavicle and his trapezius muscle.
It would be criminal not to touch, okay?
He starts by just touching Brad, idle fingers tracing constellations into the beauty marks dotting his tanned skin. And look, it’s not like he wants to wake Brad from where he’s finally relaxed, he’s not even trying to get frisky, but then Brad opens his eyes and looks at him, and the boner is immediate; it’s a fucking Pavlovian response. All it takes is some bright blues and a honey-sweet smile from Brad and he’s literally boned.
Ray’s mouth feels dry, so he licks his lower lip, just as Brad has decided to reach out with his large hand and slide it to cup Ray’s cheek. His thumb follows the path of Ray’s tongue, Ray parting his lips in response. He knows Brad's just about to complain because of the cold feet pressing against his thighs, but then he recognizes the familiar feeling of Brad’s cock stiffening against his thigh and the quip dies in his mouth.
He would say the opportunity to lean up and make out for a while, is in the long run for the betterment of humanity. Look, Brad’s a goddamn Marine and if he doesn’t get his fill, surely the fate of America suffers. He shimmies down under the comforter and goes to town. Because yes, the opportunity is there and Brad doesn’t have to wake up other than his normal unholy hours in the morning, and he’s been gone, so Ray wants to suck him off.
And more, okay, like, majorly more. Because he’s running out of things that he doesn’t want to do to Brad. And even if Brad asked for some, like, really freaky shit, Ray would do whatever it was, bar none.
The comforter is now shucked way past Ray’s shoulders, letting all the warmth out, but he can actually breathe like this. Brad has got him by the back of the neck, groaning and making little aborted moves with his hips and he’s pressing Ray closer.
He pops his mouth back off Brad’s cock.
“See, sometimes staying in bed is a good thing,” he says with an obnoxious grin, as he kisses down the side of Brad’s cock, taking this moment to catch his breath.
“Ray,” Brad uses that warning tone that Ray absolutely adores, that shouldn’t get his dick hard but does, and applies more pressure at the back of Ray’s neck. “Stop talking or I’ll make you.”
“Sir yes s – ” Brad grips his hair and shoves him down, and all he can focus on now is the weight of Brad’s cock against his tongue and breathing through his nose as Brad thrusts into his mouth.
He fucking loves it. So maybe, just maybe, he gets a little too gung-ho about it. And on the next break for air, Ray pulls back and slowly licks around his own finger while making eye contact with Brad, dirty and lewd as a motherfucker but fuck, he knows it gets Brad hot, so why not, and his thumb is pressing against Brad’s hole and he slides his index finger in there to the knuckle, which is totally normal and fine and Brad fucking loves it by the way his thighs are pressing into Ray’s shoulders, and it’s so fucking good and, he feels good and, and –
– somewhere in there, he forgets where and who he is with and just wants to get deeper, make the sensation more intense, and Brad is hauling him towards himself, and Ray’s other hand is scrambling for the lube bottle that’s somewhere around and it’s all a mess of warmth, breaths, pulse and that’s when he can’t reach further and sure, it’s a tight fit, but he gets another finger in, scissors them, adds another and Brad stops breathing above him, his cock twitching in Ray’s mouth so he keeps going, spit trailing down his chin, curling his fingers in a rhythm, licking and sucking and just almost, almost, almost, getting there and Brad’s pulling his hair and it’s so fucking good to be able to do this for him and –
He hears the impact more than feels it; it’s a crunching sort of noise that can only come from cartilage being re-arranged.
Then he sees fucking stars. Like, two sets of stars, for sure.
“Ray – fuck, Ray?”
And there’s the blood. Great. All over the sheets Brad bought like yesterday because he apparently had enough of sleeping in the same shit, and needed clean sheets every other day, the freak.
Then he realizes what the fuck just happened.
“The fuck you kick me for?”
Brad is already three feet away, grabbing for a t-shirt that he hands to Ray to press to his bleeding nose. He’s red all up to his fucking ears, and his jaw is clenching. “I’m – I’m sorry.”
“Not what I asked. The fuck happened, Brad? Oh my god, this is like, the shittiest Valentine’s day gift ever.”
“It wasn’t on purpose.”
Taking the shirt Brad has rolled up to be more of a wad, Ray holds it to his nose, trying to be gentle and calm his knee-jerk irritation. He doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. “Yeah, I fucking hope so. A little warning before you get all up in impact play, that’s all I ask.”
Brad’s tight expression softens some, and he comes a little closer. Lifting his hand, he holds it still for a moment before he reaches out to touch Ray’s nose above the shirt.
“Just going to check if it’s broken,” he mumbles, and holds Ray’s head still as he moves the cartilage back and forth, feeling for something out of place.
Ray hisses, and looks up at Brad with wet eyes – more an involuntary response to the unexpected pain than anything –
“...Fuck, man, you really are getting soft, aren’t you?” he says, voice nasal as Brad feels at the bones and – “ow, fuck!” – he yells, because Brad did just fucking tweak his fucking bloody nose and has the gall to have the ghost of a smirk on his face.
“And here I thought you had a tolerance for pain, being a 0321 and all.”
“Former 0321, fuckin’ emphasis on the former and that shit has to be trained like a muscle,” Ray grumbles as Brad’s offending hand finally falls away. “Just like your ass when you get fucked on the reg by a sadist with a massive cock, Jesus Christ. And fuck you, just because I can tolerate pain doesn’t mean I have to if I don’t feel like my normal fucking masochistic self. Sometimes even I wanna change it up.”
For some odd reason, that seems to hit a mark. Brad lowers his eyes.
“You’re right,” he says, voice soft.
“So what’s the verdict?” If nothing else, Ray knows how to lighten the mood. “How long do I got, Doc?”
That earns him a half-smile, but Brad’s brain is clearly elsewhere. “Pre-existing conditions outweigh whatever damage the impact caused. You’ll live.”
Brad gets up, and moves a little gingerly as he disappears into the bathroom, probably to look for the First Aid Kit. When another drop of blood hits the new sheets, Ray puts the t-shirt back under his nose.
With the pain dulling down to a steady throb, Brad gone and it’s just him, a bloody t-shirt and like, his thoughts, Ray can feel them start to gallop like that mare his friend from high school said was calm as a breezeless summer’s day which she was until she was stung by a goddamn bee.
He was bucked off then too, no matter how docile she was before and after, even trotting up to check on him when she’d calmed down, as he was still trying to catch his breath in the dirt.
Because it’s obvious that Brad didn’t kick him accidentally or out of anger. If that was the case, there would’ve been laughter, just like it was in the bathtub and all the bruises that came from slamming into the porcelain at odd angles. Or if it was out of pain or anger, Ray would’ve been told in no uncertain terms. This was nothing like that. This was fooling around they’ve done so many times before, down to position, because see exhibit A, Ray Person motherfucking loves sucking cock, so what the fuck was different this time –
Looking down at his hand, his usual one now boldly three fingers still covered in lube, he connects the dots.
Oh.
Brad lost his shit. It was all fun and games ‘til he put one too many fingers up Brad’s asshole, and he must’ve, like, fallen back on some hard-wired, automatic response or some shit.
He’s barely finished coming to the realization, when Brad comes back from the bathroom. Ray squints at him, trying to study his face, see if he’s right about his deduction, but Brad doesn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he takes the wad of gauze he fetched from the first aid kit, and unceremoniously shoves it up Ray’s nose.
“For fuck’s sake, Brad!” Ray shouts, because it fucking hurts, and it hurts bad.
Brad’s hand finds the back of Ray’s head, and he swallows thickly. Still not quite looking. He doesn’t apologize, but he does rub his thumb along Ray’s jaw in small, soothing circles.
Ray looks skywards, blinking a little to make the latest wave of tears go away. Nose injuries always make you cry like a sissy whether you want to or not.
“Hey, homes, didn’t like it?” Ray tries, after a few moments, wiggling his fingers for emphasis.
Brad’s entire body goes tense.
“You know, we have safe words for a reason, so like, if you weren’t feeling it you just need to say – “
“Ray,” Brad clips, no softness or humor left. He gets out of bed, pulling up his plain black boxers from where they’d slipped down his leg. “Just – just don’t.”
Ray does as told; he stops.
He watches, biting the inside of his cheek, as Brad pulls sweatpants and something long-sleeved from the wardrobe. The tops of his ears are still red, even as he disappears out the door.
Ray stays put, scratching at the blood flaking around his nostril.
About twenty minutes later, Brad comes back with an apology on his lips and a plate full of pizza rolls. He doesn’t even make Ray get out of bed to eat them, and this is why Ray tells Ma that Brad is a keeper, he didn’t even microwave them like a half-assed pussy, they’re hot and crisp from the oven.
Yeah, okay. He’s trying.
Even if it fuckin’ hurts to chew.
The motherfucker.
Neither of them mention it for the next coming days. It’s like it never happened, except that it very much fucking did and so, it earns the title of The Incident. Because odd names grow in unspoken places.
By next Friday, Ray’s nose is healed, and he keeps insisting that it’s a good thing he doesn’t actually do Blow. Except for that one time, at Band Camp.
“Why is there, like, never anything good on TV? It’s a fucking Friday night, and Survivor is the only thing that makes the cut,” Ray says, turning a page in the book he’s reading for dramatic flourish.
Reading for fun is a luxury nowadays, but Ray has an ADHD brain – undiagnosed but he still knows what he needs – so while they’re vegging out on the couch watching the new season of Survivor, he’s got one eye on the show while the other is skimming through the pocket edition of Fight Club Ma got him for his birthday. He’s got his legs thrown over Brad’s lap and things are good.
Brad has a tall can of Budweiser in his hand that he’s nursing. He'd cracked it open at the beginning of the episode because tomorrow’s Saturday and he’s all straight edge like that. He doesn’t even smoke.
On the screen, things are getting really juicy – this total dickwad that Ray hates is finally getting his just desserts and is voted off the island – when Brad clears his throat. His fingers curl around Ray’s ankle for a second, before they relax again, but it’s more than enough to get Ray’s attention. Brad’s been odd ever since The Incident and Ray’s just been trying his very fucking best to let him deal with his issues about having more than one finger up his ass.
Like, Ray can respect that. Even though he could tell that Brad enjoyed it – up until Brad kicked him. Accidentally, sure, but still; Ray has allowed himself to be a little salty about it because while he does enjoy some roughhousing during sex, there’s a difference when it comes out of nowhere. And when it’s a foot. He’s into a lot of kinky shit that would make your average middle-class American curse him, but he’s not Tarantino, he doesn’t have a foot fetish.
Brad doesn’t look at him, instead staring at the people on the screen. “It’s not that I don’t – enjoy it.”
“Well, fuck, Brad, we don’t have to watch Survivor if you don’t want to – "
“No, I mean …” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “The other night, when I nearly broke your nose. I enjoyed it.”
“Since when does domestic violence turn you on? Doesn’t that go against the warrior ethos?”
“No, the,” – he clears his throat – “the last bit, before that.”
There’s a pause and then brings his hand up, wiggling three fingers, mirroring the same motion Ray had used that evening.
“Oh. Yeah?” Ray has to bite his tongue not to say anything along the lines of yeah as if I couldn’t fucking tell by the way you were moaning you idiot but uttering anything like that would probably send Brad running for the hills, or take his bike out for a decompression ride, and well, Ray is very cozy right now and he doesn’t want Brad to leave.
A few minutes pass. Survivor is over, and Brad is flipping through the channels. All that’s on are dumb commercials, and clearly the dude gave up because he settles on the Food Network and Rachel Ray, who Ray would definitely hook up with, even though it would be extremely weird to call his own name in bed. Also there’s the whole being in love with this ginormous fuckmuppet thing that stops him. And, y’know, logistics. Because if he was going to get a free pass to magically hook up with a celebrity she wouldn’t be at the top of his list, it’d probably be like –
Brad puts the remote on the coffee table. It clatters, and Ray snaps out of his thoughts.
“It’s tough – to get into that headspace,” Brad’s voice trails off, unsure. His tone is soft, barely above a whisper and Ray has no idea if it’s because he’s ashamed about the words he’s saying or if he’s ashamed about the fact that he’s ashamed; ashamed to second fucking power if you will. “And that’s on me. To handle and to figure out.”
He waits.
Ray doesn’t ask if Brad’s scared. That would not go over well, despite how much Brad’s been trying to be more – open, verbal and affectionate lately. After the freak-out he had during Ray’s midterms, Brad has been putting in some work, trying to voice when there’s something on his mind, instead of letting it fester like an infected sore. But that’s on Brad’s terms, which is perhaps the root of everything. Dude can spear-point an invasion, he can do recon missions to take out the Taliban in the Hindu Kush, so he's no coward. Unless it's about his personal relationships; the shit that matters even when he's no longer a Marine. And Ray definitely doesn’t suggest going to a shrink with these problems, because they both know that would not end well.
Brad can barely trust Ray with this shit, never mind being vulnerable with a complete fucking stranger.
Ray's eyes stray to the incredibly dumb, supposedly dog-shaped rock Brad had brought with him from Vancouver Island that’s sitting on the coffee table. He brought it to his final exam for good luck, even showed it off to all his classmates. It’s not-so-living proof that Brad gives a shit.
Instead, he says –
“Brad, you know you’re still in control, right?”
Brad freezing up, trademark Iceman style, and still not looking at him is sort of inevitable, so Ray continues. “Like, homes, if I tell you to stop, you always do. Two-way street; if it gets too much, just tell me. I prefer you using your words, but in case of an emergency, a foot works too.”
“That’s what I mean. For you. I don’t know, Ray. It’s – fuck, this is ridiculous,” Brad bites off, obviously frustrated with himself and his inability to get the words out. “It’s easy for you, getting fucked. You like it and that’s – that’s it. I can’t do that.”
“Yeah. I like it.” Ray can hear the duh in his own voice. “Because I trust you, dude. It feels fucking amazing. Sure, it’s a lot too, but like. It’s just you, Brad. Remember? We had that whole gay-ass I love you moment? I had a great speech? There were, like, I swear, fucking doves everywhere. Maybe fireworks behind us too, I dunno, it was ages ago.”
Another eternity passes.
He flips two pages.
Then, just as soft as before, Brad continues. “So you’ve never felt like a freak. Got it.”
There’s a joke in there, low-hanging fruit ripe for taking, but Ray doesn’t reach for it. This is fucking unheard of, this is uncharted territory. Ray’s heart is beating double time because finally fucking finally are they actually talking about something that needs sorting out before it blows up, and that isn’t about the mortgage or what to get for dinner – this is actual verbal fucking acknowledgement from Brad, and as much as Ray just wants to chatter on, he waits, because Brad is bringing it up. Stop the fucking presses, this better make tomorrow’s Insufferable Idiot’s Digest.
He is choosing to get emotional; his shoulders are all rounded, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller than he is and escape the situation. It’s a wonder he hasn’t run off. So Ray decides to give him some slack. He considers his words carefully before moving forward.
“No. If I like it, and whoever I’m with likes it, that’s it for me. It doesn’t matter if I’m gay, like – ”
There’s a hollow sound of aluminum denting as Brad’s fingers tighten around his can. “You make it sound so fucking easy.”
He doesn’t lean forward to touch Brad, even though there’s an instinct that tells him he should. He keeps his eyes on the words on the page. “Homes, I get it. Maybe it’s not easy , but like, it’s simple. You just, kinda… surrender to the feelings. Like, you let go. And you have to do that, if you want it. If you don’t, that’s fine too.”
He continues to finger at the pages of the book, but come on, he needs to do something to distract himself and all this knife-work from whatever dumb cooking show is on just ain’t cutting it when you’re waiting for Brad to speak about his feelings for fuck’s sake.
A pause, where Brad is still silent but his profile is going on a journey that Ray’s only half privy to.
Then –
“It’s the complete fucking loss of control. I do trust you, I just – "
Brad goes quiet again, and opens his third can of Budweiser from the case sitting on the floor. It must be room temp at this point, making it even worse than it is ice cold; Brad must have brought it with him because he knew he was going to try for this conversation.
Ray folds the corner of the page he’s on.
Brad reaches for the Budweiser on the coaster – sociopath that he is – and takes a swig. He swallows, tries again. “I want to see how it is for you. That’s the reason. I wanna know what I do to you, how it feels. So I want it. It’s not that I’ve been scared of hurting you or anything, but it doesn’t seem – fair.”
He examines the can in his hand, and then sets it down again, turning to look at Ray.
Ray’s gaze snaps to Brad. He closes the book. He puts it down.
Brad follows his movements with his eyes. Then he stands up, and holds out his warm, large hand that Ray loves.
“Another try?” Brad says, almost out of nowhere. Ray isn’t sure what he expected, but being gung-ho about it wasn’t it.
“Dude. You’ve downed like three brewskis, are you sure – “
“Don’t be an idiot, Ray. You know I’m the farthest thing from inebriated, and I am coherent enough to – to consent, Ray.”
He has that determined look on his face that usually calms Ray down, but in this context it’s honestly a little worrying. But if Brad has decided to let his guard down, well, Ray might as well show him and find out along the way if he is serious.
“Fine. But you’ve gotta keep communicating with me, alright?” he says, but he does grab Brad’s hand and lets himself be pulled out of his designated corner of the couch.
Brad doesn’t answer, just starts herding him back towards the bedroom. Ray slams his hands up on his chest then, stopping him in his tracks.
“Like this shit. Answer me, are you gonna talk to me? Else I’m not doing this.”
Brad looks like he’s going to roll his eyes, but stops himself. It’s so far from their usual vibes, when Ray is the one yielding to Brad’s demands. He loves that stuff – being told what to do, being made to just fucking take it, because Brad knows that he can – but for a split second, he gets why Brad likes the flip-side of it.
“Yes, Ray. I will fucking talk to you.” And even though it’s said almost begrudgingly he knows Brad is listening, and it’s good enough for him.
“Good. Let’s go, homes.”
Brad folds his clothes neatly on the chair by the dresser, before he turns to Ray.
This time, he’s the one who ends up pushing Brad down to the bed. That’s not totally abnormal for them, considering how much Ray knows himself, and knows that he’s a needy little bitch sometimes. But what is a little abnormal is the way that Brad doesn’t try to get the upper hand. Instead, he just goes – stiff as a board and definitely fighting against those warrior instincts of never letting himself be overpowered, but it’s whatever. The end result is the same: Brad on his stomach in the middle of their bed.
While he tosses his hoodie on the designated laundry chair, Ray keeps an eye on Brad.
He’s not doing this cause he’s unsure of Brad’s sobriety in this, like, in case we all forgot, Brad is built like a brick house and it takes more than two and a half piss-poor Budweiser’s to get him even mildly intoxicated but – Brad’s like, got a fucking stupid bullheadedness to him that makes it literally impossible to convince him of anything. At least verbally. So once he’s down to his boxers, Ray straddles his hips and starts smoothing his hands down his back.
“I need you to like, majorly chill out first, homes,” he says, and ignores the feeling of Brad’s muscles tensing underneath him.
“I am chill – ”
Ray rolls his eyes and digs his thumb into the meat of Brad’s shoulder, meeting tense resistance right away.
“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England, I could bounce a nickle off of you right now, fuckin’ pip pip cheerio,” he says, and digs small circles with both hands into Brad’s shoulders. Telling him to relax is definitely going to have the opposite effect, so Ray just tries to physically force Brad to get a little looser.
The added blood flow brought on by the alcohol is enough to get a head start, and it doesn’t take too long before there’s some progress; Brad is slowly sinking into the mattress, breathing getting deeper and slower as he finally starts to get less uptight.
Ray follows, breathes out his own long exhale, feeling his shoulders sink with relief.
“Alright, now I believe you,” he says, and leans over to the bedside table where the well-loved lube bottle has resided since he moved in here. “You okay like this, or do you want to see my beautiful face?”
He pokes Brad in the ribs, and gets a slight huff in response. Then Brad shakes his head and puts his head down on his folded arms. “No.”
“Your loss,” Ray says, and without any real preamble, he scoots down and gets to work.
Like all other times, things go well – as in Brad is not freaking out, getting weird or tensing – up until the point where Ray tucks a third finger into Brad, letting him really feel the stretch. Last time it earned him a fucking heel to the noggin’, so he does keep a good eye on the soles of Brad’s bare feet when he slips it in, surfing in on half a goddamn gallon of lube, because that’s what it basically takes to get anything in Brad’s stupidly tight asshole.
Shit, despite the massage he’s more tense than a WASP at a furry convention.
“Jesus Christ, breathe. What’s going to happen, homes? Nothing, I know you don’t hate it or you’d kick me in the head, so just fuckin’” – Ray curls his fingers just so, his other hand on Brad’s cock, stroking him – “enjoy how it feels, okay? Just me here.“
He gets a grunt in reply, which, fine, it’s not words, but it’s an acknowledgement. Beggars can’t be choosers. He feels Brad start to relax again under his fingers, can literally feel him take a deep breath and exhale the anxiety out. He swipes a bead of pre-cum from Brad’s hard cock and smears it across the head, hearing him huff in pleasure.
Here’s the thing; this feels incredible. It feels weird and uncomfortable to be in this position over Brad, but he’s fucking Dwayne The Rock Hard in his Johnson right now. He can only imagine the feel of Brad’s tight asshole around his cock –
If he gets that far.
“Makes you fuckin’ more badass than most, you know,” Ray tries, with a grin, and he presses a kiss to the small of Brad’s back, right by the metal goddess’ gun. “Not everyone can be this manly and still take a cock up their ass.”
“Ray,” his voice gravelly, half muffled by the pillow, Brad then shoots him an icy glare over his shoulder.
“It’s alright,” Ray tries again, softer this time, fine-tuning his approach. He glances at Brad’s cock, which twitched in his hand but hasn’t softened. He’s still feeling this. Good. He hasn’t tapped out yet.
“...You can, y’know,” Brad’s voice surprises him, because Ray fully expected him to go silent again.
“Can what?”
“Fuck me.”
Ray’s mouth is a little dry at that, because that’s … fucking way different than just fingering Brad ‘til he comes, that is permission to, well, get nasty.
“Are you sure you won’t break my nose this time?” he jokes, and yeah, Brad is enjoying it, but he can’t imagine that Brad really wants more than this. Except that apparently he does.
“It doesn’t need more re-arranging.” Brad mutters, and Ray doesn’t miss how he lets his knees slide a little bit further apart. It’s very subtle, but Ray is fluent in Brad at this point, so he knows to take it as an invitation.
Clearing his throat, he crooks his finger, continuing to stretch Brad out. He doesn’t need to add a fourth, his cock isn’t that large, but the more prep he does the easier it will be for Brad.
He wants to check in again, but he won’t, doesn’t want to be a fucking nag about it. So instead he curls his fingers, making sure that Brad feels them and can’t go into some weird dissociative place he obviously went to before.
It takes a couple of minutes, but then –
“Fuck,” Brad curses under his breath, as he finally starts rocking back into Ray’s lube-slick fingers. Ray watches his bright blue eyes flutter shut as Ray crooks his fingers, starting to tease against Brad’s prostate without pause.
“Oh no, you don’t, big guy,” Ray teases with a grin, as he holds tight at the base of Brad’s cock. He doesn’t want to let him ruin the fun too early. He knows Brad’s orgasm is still ways away, but fuck, that was closer than he thought.
There’s a hot possessive curl in his gut at the realization that nobody else has ever seen Brad like this before, so fucking spent.
“I’m – alright, I think you’re ready,” he strokes Brad’s cock tightly. “Or do you wanna, uh, just like this?”
“This is good,” Brad manages to say, his voice a little strangled. He opens his eyes and tilts his head to look over his shoulder at Ray, half-lidded. His tongue sweeps over his dry lower lip. “I’m good. Stop fucking stalling and get on with it.”
Pulling his fingers out of Brad, Ray wipes them on the sheets before applying a generous amount of lube to his own cock, stroking it and making sure it’s nice and hard, in time with his hand around Brad’s cock. He’s not nagging again, but giving Brad a wordless second to change his mind and object.
He doesn’t.
Moving his hand to Brad’s back, both as an anchor and to keep Brad in place for once, Ray lines himself up with his lubed up entry and pushes into him.
The fucking noise Brad lets out then is almost enough to make Ray blow his load on the spot. Deep, guttural, and like it is being pulled out of him with force, it’s almost hard to determine if he’s in pain or not, especially with how he grips the pillow so hard the tendons on his forearms stand out.
Ray bites his own wrist for a second, pulling himself together, before he smooths a hand down Brad’s back, his swathes of colorful metal goddess that is in desperate need of touching up, but still – it’s nice to look at.
“You okay?”
Not keeping his word – because of course, old dogs won’t sit – Brad turns his head, and there is that expected pinch between his eyebrows and Ray shakes him a little by the shoulder. “Hey.”
Brad exhales, long and slow, before he answers. “Yeah. It’s okay.”
“And are you?”
“Yeah,” he gets in reply, a little more testy and that is a good sign. He keeps a hand on Brad’s shoulder, just for communications sake and for some leverage because even if Brad hadn’t just made a noise like he took a knife handle to the stomach, Ray would’ve paused because he is so fucking tight it’s ridiculous.
“If you lie there like a dead fish, it’s gonna hurt dude, just tellin’ you. Either push against me or breathe. Just like dive school.”
“Don’t bring that into this, fuckhead.”
Ray is about to roll his eyes and tell Brad to stop fucking deflecting, when he hears him exhale again, a long shuddering thing that seems to relax every inch of him. Still with his hand on Brad’s shoulder, Ray lets himself bottom out. It’s slow like molasses, but holy fucking shit does he feel it in every part of his body; pleasure zapping like electrical pulses along his nerves as if their made of copper wire.
The possessive curl comes back, digs hooks in behind his ribs and pulls, because the sight before him is unique, one-of-a-kind, better than any baseball or collector’s card. No one else has seen Brad like this; his skin glistening with sweat, the tantalizing arch of his neck and shoulder blades, the way his traps react underneath Ray’s touches, how there’s a shudder going through him that Ray can follow with eyes as it travels down his spine from the satellite by his right shoulder and down to the temple at the small of his back. It’s a view he’s never going to get sick of and he files it away with a purposeful note-to-self to never forget.
He bites back a wish you could see how fucking gorgeous you look, underneath me like this.
He knows he loves it when Brad does it to him, so keeping one hand on Brad’s hip, he brushes his nose against Brad’s nape. He gets no real reaction, apart from a gasp of pleasure, but then Brad twists his arm from under himself and his hand comes up to the hand Ray has on his shoulder, tugging at it. Ray can tell his fingers are shaking, but he does thread his with Brad’s shaking ones because at the end of the day, Ray will do anything for him.
Even if they never fucking mention it outside of the moment.
It’s so fucking intimate like they never are, not in this way. It’s usually Ray bent over the armrest of that poor couch, cursing and moaning for dear life as Brad pounds into him, and then some slow kisses as they come down from their respective highs. That’s still good. But fuck, Brad would probably kill him in his sleep if he heard Ray say it out loud, but having Brad under him – okay here goes, fuckin’ vulnerable – like this is hot as hell, and Ray acknowledges that it’s a privilege.
The acceptance of thrusts from his hips is trust in action, and it’s probably as close as Brad is going to come to actually verbalizing the magical threes. Meanwhile, Ray has to bite his tongue to prevent himself from saying it himself because holy shit.
When Brad’s fingers don’t hold on quite as desperately to his anymore, Ray can’t keep himself still any longer.
“Fuck,” he gasps, and quickens his pace, he thrusts his hips again and again into Brad’s tight asshole. From this angle, he can see Brad’s tense profile, but then, how his mouth falls open and another one of of those moans spill out, quieter and not as intense, but with the same quality and fuck if Ray doesn’t decide then and there that it’s the most arousing sound he’s ever heard.
The sensations radiate up to his fucking scalp, just how fucking good it feels because Brad is so tight around him, and in the end it’s enough for his arms to give out. He sinks down on top of Brad like a sweaty blanket, still fucking into him, but slower now and panting into Brad’s ear, letting him know without words that he’s the hottest piece of ass Ray’s ever had. He bites against the sweaty skin, can’t help himself, is getting caught up in the emotions of being allowed to do this, what it implies, the unspoken depths of it all.
Brad turns his head, and Ray just wants to kiss him. So he does. It's sloppy, turns more into a smearing of lips than anything proper, but the feel of Brad's short, desperate sips of air are worth it; they sound almost like small whimpers.
Ray hooks his arm around Brad's shoulder joint for leverage and hauls him against himself. Brad just goes.
He’s getting there, knows he is close just because it’s been so long since he got to do the fucking in this equation, or, Christ, any equations, but he’s still with it enough that he gets that he shouldn’t push Brad into Overstimulation City on his first foray. Brad is trembling beneath him as it is, panting but being generally quiet – he’s usually more quiet than Ray, but like, that’s not difficult – but he does start a bit when Ray starts stroking his gorgeous cock again. At the first touch, he jolts, involuntary clenching down, and just tightening around Ray’s cock.
“Jesus Christ,” Ray moans, because he fucking feels Brad fucking clench around him and Ray thinks that it might be it, but manages to hold his orgasm back and –
Brad doesn’t.
He tenses all over, shuddering like there’s a fucking infamous California earthquake going on, shoulders hunching as he grunts, and Ray is going to shoot his load to the memory of that the next time Brad’s off where the fuck ever for too long. It’s that and the sensory memory of his large hand on the back of Ray’s neck –
Thinking of that is a mistake, and Ray just fucking loses it. He comes with another litany of curses like they’re the only thing he knows how to speak anymore.
He inhales sharply, trying to fill his lungs up with all the air he’d just lost.
Brad’s hand is still shaking when it comes up and starts stroking Ray’s head. There’s enough pressure behind the motion that Ray gets that he still just wants to be close. So he buries his nose in the crook of Brad’s neck and lets the moment be, trying to remember how the fuck to breathe again. It seems like Brad is struggling with that too.
Brad lets out another shuddering breath.
Ray slowly pulls his cock out of him, and starts to laugh with giddy, post-orgasm energy.
Brad tenses for a minute, both at the loss of the full feeling inside of him, and, shit, probably the giggles, so Ray runs his hand down his side, hoping that it’s comforting.
“That was fucking incredible,” he shifts, and yeah they’re a sticky, sweaty gross mess right now, but he moves so that he’s facing Brad, so their chests are pressing up against each other, and he tangles his legs together with Brad. Brad, who keeps his eyes closed and has this adorable splotchy sex flush all down his chest that Ray has never really paid attention to before.
He’s still looking sort of tense though, and Ray pokes him gently in the ribs.
“You wanna know something funny, though?”
Brad grunts, and Ray wants to roll his eyes at the dramatic response.
“Like, it was incredible, because you felt amazing, but what made me nut was thinking of you and that thing you do, like – the fucking thing with your hand at the back of my head? So like, if you were worried I suddenly would want to do nothing but shove my cock inside your butt, homes, fret not, because I just love getting railed by you on the couch way too much,”
Brad doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth twitches into a smile. “Reassuring,” he mumbles, and brushes the back of hand against Ray’s cheek. Or, well, he tries to, still shaky enough that he misses the mark about an inch and bumps into Ray’s nose again.
“Bradley, if you have a kink for demolishing my nose, now’s the time to come clean about it.”
“Not into crooked noses.”
“Great, and I’m not into feet, so I think it all works out. Anyway, let’s not pretend that wasn’t the best sex of your entire goddamn life,” Ray goads, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at Brad with a wicked grin. “You should give me a big ol’ kiss and thank me.”
At that, Brad’s hand finds its mark and curls around his jaw. He then leans forward and kisses Ray, all slow and deep and sincere that tells Ray that this is a non-verbal deal. That things are okay, no major freak outs ahead. That Brad really does give a shit.
When Brad then pulls back, leaning his forehead against Ray’s, Ray doesn’t bother biting his tongue anymore.
“Thank you,” Ray starts, because he knows how fucking difficult that was for Brad. “And that was like, majorly hot.”
He kisses Brad again, knowing that there’s a dumb smile on his face, and that his heart is beating like, a million miles a minute. “Like, I love you for your personality, but your dick sure is a bonus.” He’s been saying it more casually, now that they’re at that level – well, now that he’s at that level, because maybe if he pinches Brad’s metaphorical cheeks enough times, Brad’ll get there too.
For a second, Brad doesn’t say anything; he just breathes, as if he is gearing up towards something or calming himself down. Then –
“I know,” his voice is still rough, and before Ray can make a Star Wars quip, he continues. “You know I’d be upset if I had to share your hick-ass with any farm animals, right?”
Ray’s fine with the fact Brad might never be able to say ‘I love you’ back, it’s not the end of the world, and, fuck, this is all close enough. He grins, still, and bumps his nose against Brad’s cheek when he goes for another kiss.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”