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[personal profile] novembersmith
fOkay, so, I was filling a drabble prompt over at [livejournal.com profile] we_pimpin, the Ray Person Appreciation community (because Ray is the motherfucking answer, in case you didn't know already), and somehow this happened instead. I don't even know.

Title: Take Two Marines (And Call Me In The Morning)
Fandom: Generation Kill
Rating/Pairing: Brad/Nate/Ray, NC-17.
Notes/Thanks: This takes place right after Ray leaves the football field in the Bomb in the Garden episode, and is my version of fix-it fic. I wanted to give Ray a giant hug at the end of the show, and, so. Uh. Instead I wrote him a threesome, which is like a hug, but better? ...WHAT, RAY WOULD TOTALLY THINK SO. LEAVE ME ALONE.

Also, this wouldn't have been possible without the cheerleading and magnificent beta-work of [livejournal.com profile] shiningartifact and [livejournal.com profile] brimtoast. Seriously, it would all be nonsense and porn gibberish without them. <3<3<3



Ray spends a good hour holed up in some wrecked room in the cigarette factory — it was probably a breakroom, once. There's a gutted refrigerator and a pile of spoons and smashed crockery in it, anyway. He clears a corner of shards, slides down the wall into a sitting position, tries to empty his head. There’s very little chance of success, but he tries. He feels like someone went through and replaced all his nerves with live wire, like each thought grates raw and sparks another. His mouth hurts where Rudy punched it. His chest aches.

Brad hadn't followed him.

And that's fine; Ray hadn't needed following. He'd have probably taken a swing at his own damned team leader, like a fucking wounded animal. Brad didn't need that shit. Brad was busy. Brad had the LT to distract him, with those big green eyes and dick-sucking lips, pretty and plump and pink. If those two thought they were fucking subtle with their goddamned romantic, dopey eye-fucking – shit, Encino Man was subtle, compared to them. Ray's not jealous, or, well. He is, but that’s just salt on the wound, really.

He can't sleep, and he's lost the energy to talk and fill in all the silent spaces, and no one's doing it for him. Everyone else's just happy to be done with this fucking country, to not be moving anymore. They're playing football, laughing. And meanwhile, Ray can't fucking sleep. Actually, correction: Ray can sleep, but in a nice display of the Catch-22 principle, now that he's rested enough to actually fall into REM — now that the amphetamines are leaving his system — the dreams are back. So yeah, Ray can sleep, but what good’s sleep when all it brings is dead children and wounded comrades and fallen empires on the backs of his eyelids.

He finally shoves himself back together, counts holes in the ceiling tiles in the voice of the Count from Sesame Street, entertaining no one, not even himself, but hell, what does he know? Maybe he's giving some Hajii ghosts a laugh: crazy white man talking to himself and an old busted fridge leaking foul black oil all over the floor.

He gets to two thousand, two hundred and twenty-two, and feels marginally calmer — like he can control himself enough to go make nice, apologize to Rudy, tease Walt, make fun of Brad for his star-crossed romance. He levers himself up, shakes off the aches, and wanders out into the hall straight into the one person he doesn't want to see, not yet, not now.

"Corporal Person," Nate says, giving Ray a once-over, expression thoughtful, and then he shoots Mike Wynn a look. "Go on, Gunny, I'll catch up."

"Don't wait behind on account of me, LT," Ray says and smiles, feeling the cut on his lip crack back open. Tastes like chewing copper wire. It stings. "I can find my way back to the barracks all on my lonesome."

The lieutenant stares at him for a moment, tilts his head. Fucker has such fucking green eyes. Ray didn't luck out on the eye front, not him; didn't get the broad shoulders or mouth or eyes. He's a scrawny little spitfuck with muddy brown irises. He's nothing special, and he wishes the LT would stop looking at him like that, eyes like oxidized copper, only shinier. Better. Fucking Nate Fick.

"You've been quiet lately," Nate says thoughtfully. "It's a substantial deviation from your standard operating procedure."

"Just tired, sir," Ray replies, and the lieutenant takes a step forward. Ray startles unintentionally, arm curling around his stomach, the bruises there, and Nate pauses.

"Sergeant Colbert and I were discussing it. A few minutes ago, in fact."

"Discussing what? Me? My sleep habits? What the fuck did I come up in conversation for?" Ray realizes he's getting hostile again and tacks on a "Sir," deferentially as he can.

"We think you need to get some sleep," Nate continues, like Ray hasn't said anything at all. Ray supposes he should be glad of that, doesn't need to piss anyone else off today. "It's been a tense couple weeks. You should make use of the downtime."

Ray can't quite manage to keep from rolling his eyes -- yes, of course, obviously he's been out climbing walls and raiding Iraqi entrenchments while he's been here. Why hadn't he thought of that. It's so obvious. Just go to sleep! Duh, Raymond, you stupid whiskey tango fuck, just find a fucking grave and lay down, close your eyes, count some fucking lamb chops being casevacked out by some poor, doomed farmer. Just sleep. Like it's that easy.

"Or maybe you can't on your own," Nate says, almost talking to himself, and this time when he takes a step closer, Ray retreats. His back hits a wall. "Ray." Ray's eyes go huge, and then Nate's licking his thumb and brushing it over Ray's mouth, the cut stinging beneath his touch. "You're bleeding."

"Uh," Ray stutters, and then Nate thumbs his lower lip so that it falls open, just slightly, and Ray's really fucking confused right now, and a little turned on, and a little worried that the sleep-deprived hallucinations have started.

"Sometimes it's hard to shut down, stop thinking. I understand that. If you need help exhausting yourself into a state in which you are capable of actually resting," Nate murmurs, eyes on Ray's mouth. "The Sergeant and I would be more than happy to assist you. In fact, we might have to insist on it. Brad's very concerned about you, and I admit, Ray, I share that concern.”

Holy ballsack of the great god Jeff Gordon, the lieutenant is hitting on Ray. The lieutenant is inviting Ray to a threesome. With Brad. Ray starts looking around for the cameras, because this shit has got to be a setup of some sort, but Nate just catches his eyes, grins slightly, and man, doesn't that feel like being hit over the head with a rifle butt.

"Brad thinks you don't want assistance from either of us. I think he's wrong. I've seen you watching us."

Mayday, Ray's brain screams, not quite caught up yet. Red a-fucking-lert, you've been spotted ogling your two commanding officers and fantasizing about one or both of them down on their knees in front of you. Retreat. Dig a hole and die in it.

Except. Except Nate looks pleased about it, pleased that Ray'd been thinking nasty, inappropriate shit about him and Brad. There's a slight flush to his cheeks, and he's got a small hint of a smile playing about his lips. He's looking at Ray from beneath his eyelashes, and if Ray didn't know his lieutenant better, he'd say something extremely filthy was going on behind that angelic expression.

Nate's close enough that their boots are tangled together, and there's the slightest hint of a suggestion that he might be insinuating a thigh between Ray's legs.

"Well?" Nate says, and doesn't step back, stays in Ray's space. "Am I wrong?" And the fucker licks his lips, moves his thumb away from Ray's mouth and runs it over Ray's pulse, and Ray wants to hiss and arch his neck and feel more of it, feel that mouth on his skin, marking him. And holy shit, apparently he didn't know the lieutenant after all, because Ray tilts his chin back the slightest fucking bit, and Nate's eyes go hot, like he knows what Ray's thinking.

"No," Ray chokes out, and nearly makes an embarrassingly needy sound as the lieutenant abruptly steps away. What the fucking fuck.

"I’m right, then. Good," Nate says briskly, and smirks at the look on Ray's face. The toppy motherfucker, Ray marvels, dazed. "So Sergeant Colbert owes me one. I believe I'll collect. He's in the rec room. Why don't you bring him a cup of coffee -- I have a feeling he's... thirsty. Wait a suitable amount of time, then meet us in the fourth floor boardroom, by the stairwell."

Holy shit. Ray thinks. Holy fucking shit. "You were looking for me," he realizes out loud.

"Like I said," Nate replies, and claps a hand on Ray's shoulder. "You've been quiet lately. We were going to wait, but it seemed like taking active measures was necessary. I hope you don't think I'm being too forward, Corporal."

"I'll forgive you, just this once," Ray says, standing up straight and smirking, already thinking about where he can get a quick cup of coffee this time of day. Fuck it, it's all about the symbolism, right? Maybe he can just grab an empty cup or two. "And hey, maybe you can make it up to me with that pretty mouth. Sir." Wow, that was more daring and a little huskier than he’d meant to be, but what can he say, he’s sleep-deprived. He’s pretty sure the LT’s heard worse from him anyway.

"Watch yourself, Person," Nate warns, but his eyes are sparkling, and he looks pleased with himself, cat that's got the cream, and wow, Ray doesn't need to think about cream right now if he's going to go walking into the kitchen area around the grunts. "I'll see you later."

"Hoo fucking rah," Ray replies cheerfully, feeling more alert and alive than he has in days – maybe longer – and goes off to woo his team leader with a cup full of air.

He gets nervous on the way there, though, the adrenaline spike fading, leaving him twitchy and feeling almost faint. Two empty cups in hand, he approaches Brad, makes a lot of noise, boots on the ground, but Brad doesn’t look up until Ray’s right in front of him, even though Ray knows the fucker recognizes Ray’s walk by now. Fuck, probably Ray’s smell, too, after all this time they've spent together. Brad watches him, steady cool Iceman gaze, and Ray’s hand definitely doesn’t shake, not at all, as Brad reaches out and absently relieves him of one of the cups. Brad sets the styrofoam down, doesn’t comment on the lack of beverage inside it.

Ray stands there and waits.

A moment passes, torturously, and then Brad looks back up. Ray has a moment of panic. Nate was fucking with him. This isn’t real, Brad doesn’t want this, and Ray’s fallen for a trap and given himself away for nothing.

Then Brad slowly lights up, like someone’s cranking up a lamp in the night, a warm glow spreading all through the darkness. It’s a good smile, one of the sorts of smiles that Ray usually has to pull out a really spectacular ramble for, the kind that reaches Brad’s eyes. He looks happy, surprised.

Holy shit, Ray thinks again, trying to remember to breathe. And really, that’s just going around his brain in a loop. Holy shit holy shit holy shit, I am about to get laid. Laid by the two hottest Marines to ever exist, at the same time. They want me, holy shit holy shit holy shit.

Maybe this shows on his face a bit, because Brad’s smile grows, tilts into something soft and fond and hungry, and Ray has to move on fast before he just straddles the Iceman right here, in front of God and all Ray’s fellow members of the United States Marine Corps, sticks his tongue down Brad’s throat, gets him all messy and sloppy and wet, and rides him until they both jizz their BDUs.

He faintly senses Brad walking off; it takes almost every ounce of restraint that he’s ever possessed not to turn and watch him go. He can do this, keep cool and calm and not blow their cover. Everyone’s crowded around a laptop, and Ray focuses on the screen, barely seeing it at first. And Christ on a fucking pogostick  — Apparently Lilley’s put together some sort of slideshow of the shit that’s been going down. It’s a montage of everything they’ve been through, dark and gritty and all too familiar. Because it’s not enough he sees this shit whenever he closes his eyes; he has to see it in grainy Technicolor, too.

Anyway, the thing is, he gets sort of lost in watching for a moment, and it takes him a while to shake off. The memories, the look on Trombley’s face, like he’s watching porn instead of all the stupid shit they’d done, the ways they’d fucked up and failed. Ducking outside for a cigarette, Ray hears a low chanting begin from the nearby minarets. Musallah. People out here are still praying. He finishes his cigarette, Iraqi brand, thick unfiltered tobacco buzzing in his veins, and then lets himself think about what’s waiting upstairs.

He doesn’t deserve this, but he sure as hell isn’t turning it down.

He takes the stairs three at a time, reaches the top and before he can even look around he’s slammed into a wall.

“You’re late,” Brad says, and kisses him.

Brad kisses like he’s invading a country, demanding and thorough, like he’s mapping Ray out, tasting him down to the core. It’s just as hard and hot and wet as Ray imagined. He curses into Brad’s mouth, says his name, and Brad’s hands tighten on his biceps. He breaks off the kiss and leans his forehead against Ray’s.

“You dumb fucker,” he breathes out, and rocks his hips against Ray. Ray’s vision briefly whites out as all the blood in his head flees south to his cock. “Shoulda said something.”

“Oh, right,” Ray bitches, trying to shove his hands in Brad’s waistband, fighting belts and buckles with nervous fingers. “‘Hey, Brad, I noticed you seem to be schtupping our Lieutenant. Mind if I get in on that action?’ Yeah, that would’ve gone swimmingly. You’d have decked me.”

“Decked you and then dragged you off into the bushes, maybe,” Brad hums, and Ray’s hair’s grown out just enough for Brad to get a grip on it, tug sharply. Ray can, contrary to popular opinion, take an order, so he tilts his head back, moans as Brad sucks a sharp kiss onto the skin just beneath his ear.

“Fuck, Brad, fuck,” he chants, and tries to get some kind of leverage, maybe wrap a leg around Brad’s waist, when he’s interrupted by a hoarse voice.

“As fantastic a show as the two of you are putting on,” Nate says, and Ray manages to turn his head slightly. Nate’s standing in a doorway across the hall, leaning against the frame, and Ray can see even from here that he’s hard, erection tenting the front of his pants. Fuck, Ray wants to taste that. “I worry that the rest of our colleagues wouldn’t appreciate it. I suggest we relocate. This door locks from the inside.”

“Solid copy, LT,” Ray says cheerfully, but Brad growls when he tries to move, pins him back against the wall. The remainder of Ray’s braincells take a waltz off into La La Land. He was supposed to be doing something, going somewhere, but it seems way less important that humping the fuck out of Brad’s leg and arching his back like a thousand dollar whore from Vegas. Brad seems to appreciate it, anyway, rumbling and pleased, sliding a hand around and gripping Ray’s ass.

“Brad,” Nate says sharply, and Brad sighs. He backs off and Ray slides down the wall a few inches before he can get his feet under himself.

“Fuck me,” Ray swears weakly, and Brad smirks, mouth red and wet.

“In due time, Corporal,” he says smugly, and then strides across the hall, holds the door open. He meets Ray’s eyes. “After you.”

“Going to be such a goddamned gentleman when you’re taking me up the ass?” Ray inquires, and manages to get himself under enough control to stagger across the hall. Nate takes ahold of his arm when he gets there, drags him up into a kiss.

It’s a different kiss than Brad’s, slower. Nate’s the one setting the tempo, doesn’t let Ray speed things up or get any leverage of his own. He’s got a hand on Ray’s jaw, tilting him to the angle he wants, and somehow before Ray realizes it, Nate’s supporting both of their weights, because Ray’s melted into him, knees gone to shit. Ray’s had dive training; he should be able to hold his breath for five minutes or more. Instead, Nate has him gasping in less than two, all deep, slow kisses and languid, self-assured possessiveness, and suddenly Ray can't breathe.

“You’ll have to wait to find out,” Nate says, breaking away and smirking when Ray tries to follow him, dazed. Then he’s dragging Ray the rest of the way into the room, shoving him up against the closed door. If all the blood in Ray’s body wasn’t honed in on his dick at the moment, the smug smile on the LT’s face would worry him a bit. “I’ve got first dibs on that ass, Ray.”

Ray blinks and Nate spins him, marches him across the room and shoves him onto one of the couches. It’s a swanky fucking room, Ray notices dimly. Couches and a mirror and nice art on the walls.

He doesn’t have time to think much of it, though, because Nate drops between his knees and rubs his face against Ray’s pants and Ray’s thought process is pretty absorbed by that, to be honest. Recon Marines are supposed to have excellent situational awareness, no matter what the conditions, but all of Ray’s extensive experience as a Recon Marine hasn’t prepared him for this. Nate Fick, his pupils blown and eyes dark, rubbing against Ray’s cock like a fucking cat, like he’s hungry for it. Ray can barely remember his own name. He can barely believe this is happening. But seriously, even Poke hasn’t imagined a wet dream this fucking intense, so it must be real.

Brad settles next to him on the couch, cups a hand around the back of Ray’s head and pulls him into a kiss. Ray keens and arches his back, but Nate holds his hips down.

“Shh,” Brad says, kissing the corner of Ray’s mouth. “Gonna take such good care of you.”

“I don’t need ‘taking care of,’” Ray protests, but not as vigorously as he might have otherwise, since Nate’s managed to undo Ray’s pants and is currently coaxing said pants down his hips, breath hot and moist and so close to Ray’s cock it’s probably violating some ROE or another. They’ve barely started and Ray already feels like he’s about to die. “I’m not — ah, fuck — not a toddler. Christ, Nate.”

“And yet, you do act like it sometimes, Corporal,” Nate says, and licks another hot wet stripe up Ray’s cock, eyes still on Ray. “You’ve been fucking with me this whole campaign; you think I haven’t noticed?”

“I’m so, so sorry,” Ray says fervently. “Really sorry. I’ll never do it again. Please put your mouth back on my cock.”

Nate tongues the head of Ray’s cock, lashes lowering so there’s only a hint of green showing, and Ray tries to buck his hips, can’t. Brad breathes out a slow curse next to him, grip tightening on the back of Ray’s neck.

“Did that sound sincere to you, Brad?” Nate inquires, and Ray can practically feel Brad’s smirk, the evil bastard. “What do you think?”

Brad nuzzles Ray’s temple, hums thoughtfully. “I think Ray can beg a hell of a lot better than that.”

“You fucking traitor,” Ray swears, and Brad laughs and kisses him, bites his lower lip and smiles into his mouth, and Ray can’t even be mad, because at the same time Nate’s mouth starts a slow slide down his cock and he’s pinned between the two of them, can barely even breathe. Brad makes a pleased noise, drinking in the helpless sounds Ray’s making.

“How’s it feel?” he whispers into Ray’s cheek, his free hand sliding under Ray’s arm and across Ray’s chest, hard, smooth movements, and then he pinches a nipple and Ray can’t even breathe. “He’s good, isn’t he? Look at him, Ray. Open your eyes.”

Ray realizes his eyes have fallen closed sometime in the middle of him achieving the closest thing possible to Nirvana on Earth. He manages to open them and oh god, he is seriously about to blow his load everywhere, because as good as it feels it’s nothing next to feeling it and seeing it. It ramps everything up exponentially. His hand flies out involuntarily, and he rubs a thumb against Nate’s cheek disbelievingly, catches some of the wetness at the corner of Nate’s mouth and spreads it. Nate’s eyes flicker closed for a second and then open again and fuck, what the fuck, he’s backing off.

“No!” Ray says, indignant, and tries to struggle up and shove his cock back in Nate’s fucking fantastic, perfect, gorgeous mouth. “Get the fuck back here!”

“No hands,” Nate says huskily, smirking, and Ray moans and yanks his hand back. “Fine, fine, whatever, just—please, Nate, what do you want?”

“Talk,” Nate says, and licks his lips. “Tell me what you’re feeling. What do you want, Ray?”

“What, are you kidding me? Talk?” Then Brad bites his collarbone, and shit, that is going to be the mother of all fucking hickeys, it’s sharp and painful and feels so fucking good. “Yes, okay, you want me to beg, you kinky motherfuckers? I’ll fucking beg, Nate, please, oh God, please put your mouth back on my cock, I’ll do anything, I really fucking will. Oh Jesus, your tongue, fuck.” Nate hums around him and Ray almost forgets and puts his hands back on Nate’s head, remembers at the last second and moans in frustration. It’d be so much easier if Brad would just hold him down, but Brad’s not, because he probably knows that. Brad can’t ever make anything easy for Ray, the evil fucking Viking, sent straight from some kind of sex Valhalla to torture Ray. He’s busy smirking into Ray’s neck and stroking his hand along Ray’s stomach, and oh, there’s a thought. Ray’s having a thought, he feels like he should get a medal for this.

“Brad, Brad,” he pants, and Brad leans back, looks at him questioningly. “Your hand, please, fuck, wanna see it, please. Just, yeah, like that, oh my god, yes, you like that idea, don’t you? Do it, please, fuck, want your hand on my cock, wanna see you feed him your fingers, please, Brad.”

“Ray,” Brad says hoarsely, and looks down at Nate, who must agree through nonverbal mindmeld or something, because Brad wraps his hand around Ray’s cock, and fuck, it’s so – Ray never even let himself think of something like this, and now it’s happening. Brad jerking him off, at a steady, almost painfully slow pace, and Nate’s lips are following it. His eyes are closed now, catching the head of Ray’s cock in his mouth and the tips of Brad’s fingers, and he’s moaning and Ray just cannot even fucking take it.

“Can I come, Nate, please, let me,” and Nate’s eyes slowly open and Ray wants so bad, he’s having a hard time believing he’s ever wanted something this bad in his entire life. “Let me come on you, can I? All over your pretty fucking face, so dirty for me, can I?” And Brad hisses, “Yes,” in Ray’s ear and it’s all in slow motion, almost, Nate pulling off and his mouth red and used and waiting and letting him, and when Ray comes it’s like everything in the entire world goes quiet for a second and then blacks out.

When his vision comes back again, Nate’s staring at him, smoldering and panting.

“Go on, Person,” Brad says in his ear, tonguing the whorls and making Ray shudder. “Clean him off.”

Ray slides off the couch obediently into Nate’s lap, and Nate lets out a little noise when Ray grinds down on him. He takes Nate’s chin in his hand and kisses him, his cheek and chin and jaw, and then Nate's kissing back. It's all mess and open mouths and wet noises. Some distant peripheral part of Ray’s mind, ever a Marine after all, notices Brad taking his cock out of his pants and starting to stroke himself with his spit-slick hand.

“Good boy, Ray,” Brad says hoarsely. Ray moans into Nate’s mouth and Nate shudders against him, grabs Ray’s head with his hands hand holds him still, fucks into his mouth with his tongue. Ray is pliant and sated and limp, lets him, keens as Nate rocks up against him.

And then Brad’s hauling him off, practically lifting him bodily into the air.

“Come on, Ray,” he says darkly. “On your knees, you’re not done yet.”

“Fucking right, I’m not done yet,” Ray says, and rubs against Brad, snakes a hand down and finds the hard, wet length of Brad’s cock and takes it in his hand, practically purring. “I haven’t even gotten fucked yet, what kind of philanthropic threesome is this?”

“Ray, I hate to disillusion you,” Nate says from behind them. “But there’s nothing philanthropic about this threesome.”

“He’ll realize that soon enough, sir,” Brad agrees, and shoves Ray to his knees. “Ray may be a whiskey tango hick raised on NASCAR and Natty Light, but he’s quicker than he looks. Now open your mouth for me, Ray.”

“Wait, wait,” Nate says, and Ray settles for just rubbing his lips against the flushed head of Brad’s cock, listening smugly to the bitten-off curse this produces. “There are entirely too many clothes on the both of you, and while I am amenable to slicing Ray’s shirt off with my KA-BAR some other time, it would be a shameful waste of resources given our current position.”

“Might give some shit away, too,” Ray agrees, rocking back on his heels and hurriedly wrestling out of his shirt, getting his head briefly caught on the collar of it. “What, would I just tell Ferrando I was attacked by roving bands of horny, homosexual Iraqis bent on stealing my virtue but not my life?”

“Your point is crude, but valid, Ray,” Brad agrees, and somehow in the space of Ray getting trapped in his own shirt and his removing it and throwing it off into a corner of the room, Brad’s gotten completely naked. Ray’s mouth goes a bit dry. “Although I have to doubt that you were ever possessed of any virtue. Maybe when you were still in the womb.”

Ray makes a mental note to rebut this later – he is chock full of fucking virtue, okay, he has virtue dripping out his ears – but at the moment he’s rather busy leaning forward and finally getting to taste Brad.

“Ray,” Brad says, voice choked off, and when Ray looks up he’s thrown his head back, eyes closed, and his body is one lean taut line of muscle, and fuck, what the fuck has Ray ever done to get to see something like this? It’s almost enough for him to take up religion – whatever the fuck Brad wants, Hebrew God, Allah, Jesus. “Fuck, yes. I knew you’d be good with your tongue. All that fucking talking had to be good for something.”

Ray pulls back just enough to say indignantly, “Fuck you, Brad, you fucking love it.”

“He does,” Nate agrees, and then his hand’s on Ray’s back, hot against his skin. “I’ve heard about it often enough. Lean forward. Yes. Like that. So fucking good, Ray.”

Ray makes a choked noise and pulls away, rests against Brad’s thigh for a moment, panting. Brad’s hand comes down and strokes through his hair, so fucking gentle out of nowhere that it makes Ray’s chest go tight and his eyes sting.

“Fuck, LT,” he says shakily, and then sucks in a startled breath, arching and pushing back into Nate’s fingers. “You’ve had KY this whole time and were holding out on us? You dog.”

“It’s baby oil I got off the black market, actually, but I think you’ll agree it serves the same purpose,” Nate says, sounding distracted, and then, “Relax, baby, you ready for another?”

“He’s ready,” Brad says, sounding wrecked. He rubs his fingers over Ray’s mouth and Ray opens automatically, lets Brad push in, sucks and swirls his tongue, and then Brad’s cursing and guiding Ray’s head back down to his cock. “If you fucking use your teeth on me, Ray, I swear, I will set your corpse on fire and feed it to the dogs.”

But Brad’s letting him, trusting him, and he sounds almost tender, and fuck, like Ray would do something like that to Brad anyway, even if he is about to fucking die from how Nate’s finally found the angle he wants and is hitting his prostate with his fingers every two seconds, kissing his lower back and murmuring sweet nothings or something, fuck if Ray knows. Ray can barely concentrate on breathing right now. Brad’s gasping above him, hand fisted in Ray’s hair, and Ray fucking loves it, loves the sting of it, the ache in his jaw. He’d say so, but he can’t, he’s so fucking full, Brad on one end and Nate at the other.

Nate says roughly, “Ray, you look so fucking hot, you should see yourself right now, such a whore for it, so good for us. Brad loves it, look at him. Look how hard he’s trying not to come.” Ray manages to look up, and fuck, Brad’s staring down at him, and Ray can’t even stand what he sees in Brad’s eyes right now, open and blown and bright.

“Fuck,” Brad says hoarsely, and blinks, looking dazed. “Ray, your mouth. I can’t fucking – where the fuck did you learn to deep throat, Person?”

Your mom, Ray thinks, and manages to raise one eyebrow, and Brad bursts out laughing even as he thrusts harder into Ray’s mouth.

“You sick little bastard,” he says fondly, and Ray swallows, lets his throat close tight around the head of Brad’s cock, and fuck, he never wants to stop. “Ray, Ray,” Brad says suddenly, trying to tug him off. “Nate’s going to fuck you. Pull off just a second, baby, and then you can have my cock again. So fucking hungry for it, aren’t you? I’ll never make you wait like that again, you can suck me whenever you want, in the fucking Humvee, whenever.”

“Generous, Brad,” Nate says thickly, and then he’s pressing in and Ray’s trying to breathe, but it stings. It’s been a long time, and Nate’s not little, feels fucking huge, like he’s shoving a Mach 19 up Ray’s ass. But he’s talking Ray through it, voice tight and stuttering, and Brad’s praising him, and then suddenly Nate’s all the way in, pressed against Ray’s back and cursing.

“Jesus,” Ray says after a moment, long after he’s adjusted and tried to thrust back against Nate and been held still by the hands gripping his hips. “Fucking move, already. What are you waiting for, the Iraqis to surrender? Because I’ll fucking take over Baghdad myself if – Nate.”

“Something that shuts up Ray Person,” Nate says raggedly, and thrusts again. “I’ll make a note of it. Later. Fuck, you’re tight. Jesus.”

Ray moans into Brad’s thigh, rocks back into Nate’s hips and fuck, fuck, fuck. “Like that, Nate, right fucking there, fuck.” Nate groans and speeds his thrusts, gets a hand around Ray’s chest and hauls him up, changes the angle slightly, and fuck, Ray’s seeing fucking stars, here. He gives it another second, adjusts, blinking the sweat out of his eyes, and then nuzzles Brad’s legs, tries to get closer. Brad hisses between his teeth and guides Ray’s mouth, moves him back onto his cock. Ray can’t do anything fancy now, can barely keep a decent rhythm, all his concentration on staying upright and tasting Brad and feeling his hand on Ray’s cheek, the noises he and Nate are making. Then Brad says Ray’s name, and he’s coming. Ray chokes on it, then swallows, and when Brad’s done, he sinks to his knees in front of Ray and kisses him.

“Brad,” Ray says, dazed and helpless, rocked into Brad by Nate’s thrusts. “Brad, fuck, I—god, it’s so—Brad.”

Brad just kisses him again, bruising and hard, and Ray can’t tell if his lip has split open again or not, everything’s just hard and hot and wet and moving, and then Brad leans back, looks over Ray’s shoulder and smirks. “Come on, you can do better than that, Lieutenant.”

“Fuck you, Brad,” Nate grates out, hands tightening on Ray’s hips, and Ray collapses against Brad, moaning, can’t hold himself up.

“Maybe later,” Brad muses. “I think he could come just from you fucking him if you’d just pick the pace up a bit, sir.”

“Backseat fucking is not encouraged,” Nate snarls, and then the fucker slows down. Ray scrabbles at the floor, tries to get some leverage to shove back against Nate and some breath in his lungs to complain vociferously about the new torturous pace, but he can’t seem to make his mouth do anything useful at all. He can barely breathe.

“Oh, fuck, Nate, you should see his face, he fucking loves it,” Brad whispers, and Nate laughs raggedly.

“Next time, we’ll do it facing that mirror over the table. How’s that for — fuck —for problem solving, Sergeant?”

“Fuck, yes,” Brad hisses, holding Ray up. “You like that Ray? Yeah, you’ll like that, watching yourself get split open, seeing Nate’s face, how much he loves it too. Watch every single fucking stroke, we won’t let you close your eyes, you’ll see it all—”

And Ray lets out a strangled moan and comes, and Nate says, “Oh, fuck, Ray,” in a choked voice, speeding up again, and a few seconds later collapses on Ray’s back, hot and sticky and perfect and completely crushing all the air out of Ray’s lungs. Ray doesn’t mind so much.

“Y’all some kinky fucks,” he says muzzily a few minutes later, fighting a yawn.

“Your mirror fetish is my mirror fetish,” Brad says smugly, and after a bit of rearranging and wincing, and Ray bitching about the ginormous throbbing bite wound on his shoulder, they’re all piled up with some couch cushions and a blanket. Ray drifts off, head against Brad’s shoulder and Nate curled around him, and he thinks maybe a conversation of some sort’s happening, but he can’t really be bothered to pay attention.

When he wakes up later, Nate’s gone. Ray snuffles in disapproval.

“Sleep okay?” Brad says gruffly, and shit, this position can’t be comfortable for him, but he rumbles threateningly when Ray tries to sit up.

“Jesus, clingy much?” Ray says, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“It’s called savoring the moment, you incredible heathen,” Brad says, and strokes a hand over Ray’s back. Ray involuntarily arches into the touch, follows the movement, purring. Brad makes a smug noise and tugs Ray into a kiss. Then he tilts Ray’s face up, looks at him critically.

“What, is your jizz still all over my face, Brad?” Ray asks, squirming a little and going pink under Brad’s piercing gaze. “You’ve got a lot of nerve getting all prissy now.”

“You look better,” Brad says, sounding satisfied, and then tugs Ray back up against his chest. “Nate’s checking out the sit-rep. He’ll be back soon. Go to sleep. We’ve got you.”

“I don’t need more sleep,” Ray gripes, even as he snuggles down into Brad’s chest. He feels lazy and content, feels safe, which is stupid. This is Iraq, there’s nowhere safe, and any number of Marines could burst in the room at any moment. “I need more sex.”

“True,” Brad says quietly, and kisses the top of Ray’s head. What is this gay-ass homosexual shit, Ray thinks, dimly outraged. Brad’s been holding out on him. “But that’ll wait. Sleep, Ray.”

And somehow Ray just says, “Okay,” and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t dream.

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novembersmith

May 2010

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