dump post!
Okay, so, it's been a long time since anything worthy of being called fic has been posted here. Again. Three random GK ficlets of varying length, taken from prompts around the place. Also, I should shut up because my preference for men/women is showing.
After Midnight
[Brad/Ray, g, 345wds]
If Ray’s not asleep by midnight, then he won’t sleep at all. It’s a thing. He would call it a leftover thing from That Clusterfuck (trademarked to Ray Person, thank you) but it’s gotten too easy to just blame everything on that and leave it be.
Ray just thinks he’s always been a twitchy fucker, and sleep has never come easy.
So he’s found things to occupy his time. Last week Brad bought Ray a travel-sized book of Sudoku puzzles, and after rolling his eyes and leaving it on the coffee table for a couple of days where Brad can see it hasn’t been touched, Ray got bored enough to flick it open and read the instructions.
Two days later, he’s done the first five easy puzzles (and what an insult to his intelligence they were), and moved onto the hard level, bypassing the intermediate level entirely. He’s a goddamn Recon Marine, he doesn’t do intermediate.
So he’s sitting in bed, back leaning against the headboard while Brad sleeps next to him. It’s like they’re fucking retired or something, all Ray needs is a pair of glasses, grey hair and a chronic Viagra habit.
He’s fucking stuck, it’s like his eyes keep drifting to the same squares and he knows a nine is meant to go in there somewhere but he hasn’t filled enough spaces to see it. He’s squinting at the black and white numbers - and Jesus, if he really does need glasses he’ll be fucking someone up with a 40 mike-mike real quick. It will probably be Brad because, knowing him, he won’t stop laughing for a week.
The clock has just ticked over to 12:35 when there’s a soft laugh from beside him. Brad’s skin is sleep-flushed, but his eyes are wide open.
“Bottom right corner, second square in,” Brad says. “Nine.”
“Fuck you, I would’ve got it,” Ray says without heat.
“But now we’ll never know.”
“I would’ve got it.”
“Mmmm-hmm,” Brad hums, sitting up. He points to another square. “Two.”
Ray huffs as he fills it in, but he’s smiling.
Unrepentant Porn Doesn't Need a Title
[Walt/OFC, nc17, 662wds]
“Walt, Walt,” she says, panting. “I want -”
His lips graze her shoulder when he speaks, mouth still so close to her skin that the words are slightly muffled. “What? You’re going to have to ask for it.”
She groans, putting both hands on his shoulders and trying to push him down. He doesn’t budge, smiling slightly.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” she says, arching so her breasts rub against him, and okay, maybe he gets distracted for a second, swiping a rough thumb across her nipple, but then she makes a little bitten-off sigh, the length of her body loose underneath him, and he remembers.
“You’re going to have to say it,” he tells her, mouthing his way across her collarbone, biting gently at the small hollow there.
“You fucking know what I want,” she hisses, the most adorable little blush spreading across her cheeks, highlighting the flush of summer freckles on her nose.
Walt forgets that most normal people (ie, civilians) have a functioning brain-to-mouth filter, and do stupid little things like get embarrassed or tongue-tied. He slips a finger under her sheer pink panties, a pair she must’ve worn especially for him, because he knows she’s only got two nice pairs and the rest she gets in a five-pack from Walmart. And, oh god, she’s trimmed, the hair short and neat, close enough that she must’ve done it last night. In anticipation of this. Heat squirms its way through Walt’s stomach, throbbing in his dick. He presses a finger deliberately against her clit, stroking once, twice, to see her breath stutter.
“I want to hear you say it,” he says, circling his finger, and she clenches her eyes shut and grits out, “Walt, fuck, Walt, I need you to go down on me, okay?” and Walt’s heart thuds a little against his ribcage. “Yeah, yeah, yes,” he breathes against her stomach on the way down, hooking two fingers in the waistband of her underwear and pulling. He positions her how he wants her, legs spread wide and hips tilted up, and she watches it all through heavy-lidded eyes, teeth caught at the corner of her mouth.
He doesn’t bother trying to draw it out, thumbs digging in at the crease of her thighs, peeling her apart so he can see how wet she is, flushed red with blood. He fixes his mouth over her, flicking his tongue, and she swears thickly above him, her syrupy accent coming out in full force.
Her hips surge upward when his tongue catches the right angle across her clit, bumping against his chin and getting him wet right across his face. One hand winds through his hair, clutching at the base of his skull, and a good Marine knows how to follow direction, so he tries to get impossibly closer, sucking harder, shifting so one hand grips her thigh so tight he’s going to leave five little bruises in the shape of his fingertips, and he sneaks the other underneath, collecting her wetness on a fingertip.
“Just - just do it,” she pants, so Walt slips one finger in her, pumping in and out slowly, before pulling out and easing two deep inside.
She makes a throaty groaning sound, little soft ah-ah-ah’s falling from between her lips, and he can feel the telltale tremble of her thigh under his hand, but then she says, “Walt, Jesus, I’m almost - almost -” and he sucks on her clit hard, tonguing her clit over and over while he’s crooking his fingers inside her because Walt is just that good.
She comes like a force of nature, muscles locking around his head, her breathing completely shot. Walt’s pulse is pounding in his ears, he’s so fucking turned on his dick feels like it’s drilling into the mattress, but he lifts his head to see her grinning at him, chest heaving prettily.
“Oh, I had missed that,” she says, laughing, using his hair to pull him up. Walt goes willingly.
Gotta Have
[Ray/Faith (GK/BtVS), nc17, 1,349wds]
“I fucking love Cali,” she says, and Ray looks away from blowing cigarette smoke in a blonde bimbo’s face. The bimbo runs by, wrinkling her nose. Her boobs are tiny, packed so tight in an extra-small tank top that it’s hardly even worth a look. Ray does anyway.
The woman standing next to him is everything the bimbo is not; dark and leggy, mouth a red slash, boobs that make Ray believe in God. Or if not God, then genetic engineering: there’s no way somebody can have breasts like that completely by accident. No fucking way. “I bet that bitch is on her way home to pop a Valium and put her two-year old down for a nap,” she says. “Then she’ll have a shower, powder her face, and suffer through the weekly sex she has with her husband.”
“You got it all fucking wrong,” Ray says, and the woman crosses her arms in front of her, cocking her hip. Ray wonders if she wears underwear underneath those jeans, because Jesus Christ they’re tight and he can’t see no panty line.
“Yeah? Enlighten me.”
“She’ll pop two Valium, get the nanny to cook her kid dinner, and she’ll pretend to be asleep when her husband gets home. She’s stone-cold frosty - a woman with a tan like that doesn’t spend much time caring about much else.”
That red-slash mouth widens, smiling with just a hint of white teeth. She swaggers closer - and shit, she’s as tall as he is. Between her and Brad, he’s going to get a complex. “Do you have a light?” she says, even though he can see the Bic lighter tucked into her carton when she taps out a smoke.
**
She has a prison tattoo along her side, blue-black ink just under her ribcage.
“Done time?” he says.
She traces the USMC logo on his chest with hands that have hardened skin over the knuckles. “You too?”
**
This woman fucking spits fire in bed. She bends in ways that Ray’s never seen, as if she’s got half the usual amount of bones. She just pushes him down, hand square on his chest, rolls the condom on, and slides down slow. She takes what she wants from him, bucking her hips, and maybe the Marines have finally succeeded in breaking Ray because he doesn’t even care that she’s wrestled every bit of control from him. For a second, he’s tongue-tied, but then she groans, arching her back, and it’s like he’s come undone: the dam breaks and he can’t stop fucking talking.
“Oh, shit, honey, look at you. You can’t get enough.” He runs a finger down the center of her, down to where he’s buried in her, and her hips snap forward, taking him deeper, and “keep fucking going, darling, I could watch you all fucking day,” and she rolls her eyes a little at the term of endearment but doesn’t tell him to stop or anything, so he figures it’s fine.
Her cunt is fucking magical, tight and wet, and she fucking squeezes down around him when she comes, panting. He tries to thrust up, he’s so close, but she lifts off, still keeping him pinned.
“I’m not nearly done with you yet,” she says, grinning, and Ray doesn’t know why they spent millions of dollars training him to die in Iraq when this woman is clearly going to do it for free.
**
They lay in bed, smoking, after Ray finally protests that she’s wrung his cock dry. She hasn’t even bothered to cover herself up with a sheet, so Ray’s just been drinking her in: round, full thighs, milky-white. Definitely not a California native, then. She’s got muscles - scary muscles, the kind that ripple quietly under her skin. They don’t look gym-bought. Her pussy is covered in dark, thick hair, and not much of a move has been made toward taming it. And her breasts - her breasts are perfect, just over a handful, spilling over his palm when he cups them. She notices him watching, and only gives him a lazy smirk.
They talk about shit all - bar fights, homoerotic tension, and Starbucks’ singlehanded stranglehold on the world’s economy. She’s not a communist - she mentions she used to work as an enforcer, collecting on debts and such, and Ray drifts off for a little imagining her with a handgun. Not the snub-nosed civilian shit, but a proper gun, something sleek and sexy like a Berretta. When she says every child should be taught how to correctly throw a knife, he agrees. Except he means that every child should be taught how to reassemble a rifle in under a minute. They both agree all children should be taught safety measures first - they’re not careless sociopaths.
When her phone rings, she sits up, flicking her ash into the ashtray between them. She’s all fluid grace, bending over - and Ray does not choke on his tongue, not at all - to rummage in her duffle, flicking open her phone.
“Yo,” she says. Then, “I’m on vacation. Vay-cay-shun.” She drums her fingers against her naked hip. She doesn’t seem overly concerned about privacy. “Yes, I’ll be careful. I’m always fucking careful.” Ray doesn’t know who’s on the other end of the line, but if they know her at all, they’re probably rolling their eyes. “I’ve got -” and here she pauses, looking at Ray.
“Ray,” he supplies.
“- Ray here to take care of me. Yes. What? No.” She gives Ray an appraising look, like she’s cataloguing him the way he just did her - the definition in his stomach, the way his fingers curl around his cigarette. Then she snorts like she’s said something funny. Ray narrows his eyes.
She hangs up with a, “I’d say I’ll miss you, but I’d be lying,” and prowls back over to the bed, slinging a leg over him so she’s perched above him on all fours. “Ray,” she says, her voice smoky-deep. “I’m Faith.”
“Well, Faith, how do you know I’m not dangerous?” Faith looks at him. “I could be dangerous,” he says plaintively, because he’s got, like, fucking mystique and shit thank you Bradley, but Faith just gives him what he’s privately deemed her sharp-edged ‘don’t fuck with me, I could kill you with an eyelash’ smile. She takes a wrist in each hand, putting them above his head and keeping them there.
He opens his mouth to say something - an ill-advised joke about BDSM, perhaps? - but she slaps a hand over his lips. Her other hand shifts to pin both his wrists. He tests her, subtly, but he doesn’t budge. She must be putting all her weight into it. “I’ve noticed that you have a problem with running your mouth,” she says, and since he can’t say anything, he raises an eyebrow. “So I want you to eat me out.”
She slithers up his body, knees on either side of his face, and says, “And if you’re really, really good I’ll let you fuck my ass.”
**
She’s on all fours on his mattress, and he’s easing himself in, and God she’s so much tighter, her ass just giving around his cock - he has to breathe deep as he reminds himself to go slow, but then she shoves herself back, taking him in all the way so fast his thighs slaps against her ass, and there’s a single moment where they’re both completely still, breath caught in their throats - then he palms her hips, drawing her off him, and he starts to move. For as long as he lives, he will remember this: the tumble of her dark hair over her shoulders, the tremble in her thighs, the echo of her damp breathing as she meets him thrust for thrust.
**
Look me up if you’re ever in Cleveland,
F.
Ray doesn’t know why the fuck anyone would ever want to go to Cleveland - ‘The Forest City’, his fucking ass, he could die there of pollution as easily as he could here in prissy-as-fuck California.
Still. If he ever has the abject misfortune to end up there.
After Midnight
[Brad/Ray, g, 345wds]
If Ray’s not asleep by midnight, then he won’t sleep at all. It’s a thing. He would call it a leftover thing from That Clusterfuck (trademarked to Ray Person, thank you) but it’s gotten too easy to just blame everything on that and leave it be.
Ray just thinks he’s always been a twitchy fucker, and sleep has never come easy.
So he’s found things to occupy his time. Last week Brad bought Ray a travel-sized book of Sudoku puzzles, and after rolling his eyes and leaving it on the coffee table for a couple of days where Brad can see it hasn’t been touched, Ray got bored enough to flick it open and read the instructions.
Two days later, he’s done the first five easy puzzles (and what an insult to his intelligence they were), and moved onto the hard level, bypassing the intermediate level entirely. He’s a goddamn Recon Marine, he doesn’t do intermediate.
So he’s sitting in bed, back leaning against the headboard while Brad sleeps next to him. It’s like they’re fucking retired or something, all Ray needs is a pair of glasses, grey hair and a chronic Viagra habit.
He’s fucking stuck, it’s like his eyes keep drifting to the same squares and he knows a nine is meant to go in there somewhere but he hasn’t filled enough spaces to see it. He’s squinting at the black and white numbers - and Jesus, if he really does need glasses he’ll be fucking someone up with a 40 mike-mike real quick. It will probably be Brad because, knowing him, he won’t stop laughing for a week.
The clock has just ticked over to 12:35 when there’s a soft laugh from beside him. Brad’s skin is sleep-flushed, but his eyes are wide open.
“Bottom right corner, second square in,” Brad says. “Nine.”
“Fuck you, I would’ve got it,” Ray says without heat.
“But now we’ll never know.”
“I would’ve got it.”
“Mmmm-hmm,” Brad hums, sitting up. He points to another square. “Two.”
Ray huffs as he fills it in, but he’s smiling.
Unrepentant Porn Doesn't Need a Title
[Walt/OFC, nc17, 662wds]
“Walt, Walt,” she says, panting. “I want -”
His lips graze her shoulder when he speaks, mouth still so close to her skin that the words are slightly muffled. “What? You’re going to have to ask for it.”
She groans, putting both hands on his shoulders and trying to push him down. He doesn’t budge, smiling slightly.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” she says, arching so her breasts rub against him, and okay, maybe he gets distracted for a second, swiping a rough thumb across her nipple, but then she makes a little bitten-off sigh, the length of her body loose underneath him, and he remembers.
“You’re going to have to say it,” he tells her, mouthing his way across her collarbone, biting gently at the small hollow there.
“You fucking know what I want,” she hisses, the most adorable little blush spreading across her cheeks, highlighting the flush of summer freckles on her nose.
Walt forgets that most normal people (ie, civilians) have a functioning brain-to-mouth filter, and do stupid little things like get embarrassed or tongue-tied. He slips a finger under her sheer pink panties, a pair she must’ve worn especially for him, because he knows she’s only got two nice pairs and the rest she gets in a five-pack from Walmart. And, oh god, she’s trimmed, the hair short and neat, close enough that she must’ve done it last night. In anticipation of this. Heat squirms its way through Walt’s stomach, throbbing in his dick. He presses a finger deliberately against her clit, stroking once, twice, to see her breath stutter.
“I want to hear you say it,” he says, circling his finger, and she clenches her eyes shut and grits out, “Walt, fuck, Walt, I need you to go down on me, okay?” and Walt’s heart thuds a little against his ribcage. “Yeah, yeah, yes,” he breathes against her stomach on the way down, hooking two fingers in the waistband of her underwear and pulling. He positions her how he wants her, legs spread wide and hips tilted up, and she watches it all through heavy-lidded eyes, teeth caught at the corner of her mouth.
He doesn’t bother trying to draw it out, thumbs digging in at the crease of her thighs, peeling her apart so he can see how wet she is, flushed red with blood. He fixes his mouth over her, flicking his tongue, and she swears thickly above him, her syrupy accent coming out in full force.
Her hips surge upward when his tongue catches the right angle across her clit, bumping against his chin and getting him wet right across his face. One hand winds through his hair, clutching at the base of his skull, and a good Marine knows how to follow direction, so he tries to get impossibly closer, sucking harder, shifting so one hand grips her thigh so tight he’s going to leave five little bruises in the shape of his fingertips, and he sneaks the other underneath, collecting her wetness on a fingertip.
“Just - just do it,” she pants, so Walt slips one finger in her, pumping in and out slowly, before pulling out and easing two deep inside.
She makes a throaty groaning sound, little soft ah-ah-ah’s falling from between her lips, and he can feel the telltale tremble of her thigh under his hand, but then she says, “Walt, Jesus, I’m almost - almost -” and he sucks on her clit hard, tonguing her clit over and over while he’s crooking his fingers inside her because Walt is just that good.
She comes like a force of nature, muscles locking around his head, her breathing completely shot. Walt’s pulse is pounding in his ears, he’s so fucking turned on his dick feels like it’s drilling into the mattress, but he lifts his head to see her grinning at him, chest heaving prettily.
“Oh, I had missed that,” she says, laughing, using his hair to pull him up. Walt goes willingly.
Gotta Have
[Ray/Faith (GK/BtVS), nc17, 1,349wds]
“I fucking love Cali,” she says, and Ray looks away from blowing cigarette smoke in a blonde bimbo’s face. The bimbo runs by, wrinkling her nose. Her boobs are tiny, packed so tight in an extra-small tank top that it’s hardly even worth a look. Ray does anyway.
The woman standing next to him is everything the bimbo is not; dark and leggy, mouth a red slash, boobs that make Ray believe in God. Or if not God, then genetic engineering: there’s no way somebody can have breasts like that completely by accident. No fucking way. “I bet that bitch is on her way home to pop a Valium and put her two-year old down for a nap,” she says. “Then she’ll have a shower, powder her face, and suffer through the weekly sex she has with her husband.”
“You got it all fucking wrong,” Ray says, and the woman crosses her arms in front of her, cocking her hip. Ray wonders if she wears underwear underneath those jeans, because Jesus Christ they’re tight and he can’t see no panty line.
“Yeah? Enlighten me.”
“She’ll pop two Valium, get the nanny to cook her kid dinner, and she’ll pretend to be asleep when her husband gets home. She’s stone-cold frosty - a woman with a tan like that doesn’t spend much time caring about much else.”
That red-slash mouth widens, smiling with just a hint of white teeth. She swaggers closer - and shit, she’s as tall as he is. Between her and Brad, he’s going to get a complex. “Do you have a light?” she says, even though he can see the Bic lighter tucked into her carton when she taps out a smoke.
**
She has a prison tattoo along her side, blue-black ink just under her ribcage.
“Done time?” he says.
She traces the USMC logo on his chest with hands that have hardened skin over the knuckles. “You too?”
**
This woman fucking spits fire in bed. She bends in ways that Ray’s never seen, as if she’s got half the usual amount of bones. She just pushes him down, hand square on his chest, rolls the condom on, and slides down slow. She takes what she wants from him, bucking her hips, and maybe the Marines have finally succeeded in breaking Ray because he doesn’t even care that she’s wrestled every bit of control from him. For a second, he’s tongue-tied, but then she groans, arching her back, and it’s like he’s come undone: the dam breaks and he can’t stop fucking talking.
“Oh, shit, honey, look at you. You can’t get enough.” He runs a finger down the center of her, down to where he’s buried in her, and her hips snap forward, taking him deeper, and “keep fucking going, darling, I could watch you all fucking day,” and she rolls her eyes a little at the term of endearment but doesn’t tell him to stop or anything, so he figures it’s fine.
Her cunt is fucking magical, tight and wet, and she fucking squeezes down around him when she comes, panting. He tries to thrust up, he’s so close, but she lifts off, still keeping him pinned.
“I’m not nearly done with you yet,” she says, grinning, and Ray doesn’t know why they spent millions of dollars training him to die in Iraq when this woman is clearly going to do it for free.
**
They lay in bed, smoking, after Ray finally protests that she’s wrung his cock dry. She hasn’t even bothered to cover herself up with a sheet, so Ray’s just been drinking her in: round, full thighs, milky-white. Definitely not a California native, then. She’s got muscles - scary muscles, the kind that ripple quietly under her skin. They don’t look gym-bought. Her pussy is covered in dark, thick hair, and not much of a move has been made toward taming it. And her breasts - her breasts are perfect, just over a handful, spilling over his palm when he cups them. She notices him watching, and only gives him a lazy smirk.
They talk about shit all - bar fights, homoerotic tension, and Starbucks’ singlehanded stranglehold on the world’s economy. She’s not a communist - she mentions she used to work as an enforcer, collecting on debts and such, and Ray drifts off for a little imagining her with a handgun. Not the snub-nosed civilian shit, but a proper gun, something sleek and sexy like a Berretta. When she says every child should be taught how to correctly throw a knife, he agrees. Except he means that every child should be taught how to reassemble a rifle in under a minute. They both agree all children should be taught safety measures first - they’re not careless sociopaths.
When her phone rings, she sits up, flicking her ash into the ashtray between them. She’s all fluid grace, bending over - and Ray does not choke on his tongue, not at all - to rummage in her duffle, flicking open her phone.
“Yo,” she says. Then, “I’m on vacation. Vay-cay-shun.” She drums her fingers against her naked hip. She doesn’t seem overly concerned about privacy. “Yes, I’ll be careful. I’m always fucking careful.” Ray doesn’t know who’s on the other end of the line, but if they know her at all, they’re probably rolling their eyes. “I’ve got -” and here she pauses, looking at Ray.
“Ray,” he supplies.
“- Ray here to take care of me. Yes. What? No.” She gives Ray an appraising look, like she’s cataloguing him the way he just did her - the definition in his stomach, the way his fingers curl around his cigarette. Then she snorts like she’s said something funny. Ray narrows his eyes.
She hangs up with a, “I’d say I’ll miss you, but I’d be lying,” and prowls back over to the bed, slinging a leg over him so she’s perched above him on all fours. “Ray,” she says, her voice smoky-deep. “I’m Faith.”
“Well, Faith, how do you know I’m not dangerous?” Faith looks at him. “I could be dangerous,” he says plaintively, because he’s got, like, fucking mystique and shit thank you Bradley, but Faith just gives him what he’s privately deemed her sharp-edged ‘don’t fuck with me, I could kill you with an eyelash’ smile. She takes a wrist in each hand, putting them above his head and keeping them there.
He opens his mouth to say something - an ill-advised joke about BDSM, perhaps? - but she slaps a hand over his lips. Her other hand shifts to pin both his wrists. He tests her, subtly, but he doesn’t budge. She must be putting all her weight into it. “I’ve noticed that you have a problem with running your mouth,” she says, and since he can’t say anything, he raises an eyebrow. “So I want you to eat me out.”
She slithers up his body, knees on either side of his face, and says, “And if you’re really, really good I’ll let you fuck my ass.”
**
She’s on all fours on his mattress, and he’s easing himself in, and God she’s so much tighter, her ass just giving around his cock - he has to breathe deep as he reminds himself to go slow, but then she shoves herself back, taking him in all the way so fast his thighs slaps against her ass, and there’s a single moment where they’re both completely still, breath caught in their throats - then he palms her hips, drawing her off him, and he starts to move. For as long as he lives, he will remember this: the tumble of her dark hair over her shoulders, the tremble in her thighs, the echo of her damp breathing as she meets him thrust for thrust.
**
Look me up if you’re ever in Cleveland,
F.
Ray doesn’t know why the fuck anyone would ever want to go to Cleveland - ‘The Forest City’, his fucking ass, he could die there of pollution as easily as he could here in prissy-as-fuck California.
Still. If he ever has the abject misfortune to end up there.