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crime_and_inkTitle: And You Are Ragged Around The Edges
Rating: Let's say NC-17 to be safe.
Word count: 1,867
Disclaimer: This is based on the depiction of the characters in the HBO miniseries Generation Kill. No offence is meant to the real men.
Characters and pairings: Ray Person, Walt Hasser; Ray Person/Walt Hasser
Summary: Walt’s not really sure what he’s supposed to do.
Note: For the Porn Battle for the prompts prostitution and first, and it kind of grew legs. There will... almost definitely be more of this.
Special thanks to Katy (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
softshinythings) who looked over this and spotted things I'd missed.
Walt’s not really sure what he’s supposed to do—well, he knows what to do (sort of) and he managed to find someone (with Brad’s unsolicited help) who comes from a reputable company.
He’s not really sure what ‘reputable’ means when it comes to paying people to have sex with you, but he’s assuming it means that he isn’t going to wake up with his wallet missing and no memory of the night before. Just to be safe, Walt’s sticking to bottled water that he isn’t letting out of his sight. He’s seen firsthand what people will do when they want something, and even Brad’s testimony that the people who work for this company – it makes Walt a bit sick; a business built on people having sex with strangers, but he’s not really in a position to judge – are good isn’t enough to make him let his guard down.
So, ten minutes before the guy’s supposed to arrive (the receptionist called him Ray), Walt’s sitting in a good hotel and wondering who’s going to call his cell and ask to be let in. All he knows is the guy’s about his age, has dark hair and didn’t object to only having two hours notice.
“You’re Ray?” Walt asks, looking outside, but not seeing any sign that Ray, or whatever his name is, waiting outside. All he sees are some guys who look like they’ve just gotten out of class or are on their way home from working in bars: none of them look like prostitutes or rentboys or whatever they’re called.
“You can call me whatever you want as long as you let me in. It’s freezing out here.”
The first thing Walt’s struck by when he opens the room door to let Ray in is that he doesn’t look anything like Walt expected him to, although Walt’s not entirely sure what he expected. Ray’s wearing a t-shirt, jeans, sneakers and has a cell phone in one hand. He runs his fingers through his hair as he walks in the door, bounces on his toes a little as he admires the view, fidgets when he starts to walk around the room. He’s a little manic, fast movements that aren’t quite smooth enough, but other than that...
He looks normal. There’s nothing about this guy, this Ray who said you can call me whatever you want, that says what he does for a living.
“I forgot the label and the neon sign, but if you’ve got some magic markers around here I could improvise.”
“What?”
“The sign. What did you think it would say? Whore? Escort? More importantly, did it flash or was it glittery?” Ray toes off his sneakers and kicks them across the room – no glitter on them, Walt notes – before taking a look around the room, rifling through the drawers. “This is a pretty fancy place so they should have magic markers here, or the cheap sort. I don’t think they’ll have glitter pens but—how the fuck did you get an X-Box?”
“I’m a Marine.” That was the problem with coming right from the airport: everyone could tell.
“I thought you looked familiar;” Ray abandons his search and throws a few items on the couch and digs in his pockets instead. Walt just catches a glimpse of the lotions, shampoos and conditioners before Ray’s pulling the stack of cushions away and piling them up. “These good places never have the decent shit. At least the motels have lube, even if you might catch something from it. Do you want that sign? You could draw it on yourself, if that’s your thing, but the really kinky stuff costs extra and the really kinky stuff costs more than you said your limit is.”
Walt blanches at that because kinky? Not what he’s looking for. He just wants... he’s not sure what he wants, which is the big problem, doesn’t even know if he really wants this or not.
“I’m gonna say you’re not paying for a fuck.” Ray looks like he belongs in a humvee when he says that, cocky grin and his tone just bordering on predatory. He’d probably be able to get Trombley to shut up as well. “You’re not a virgin are you? And not in the I’ve-never-fucked-a-guy way, I mean in the if-you-touch-my-dick-I’ll-come-in-a-second-because-no-one-but-me’s-touched-me-there-since-I-was-a-baby-and-they-were-a-doctor way. Real virgin, not half a virgin.”
“I’m not a virgin,” Walt manages, face hot and, oh, this is a bad idea. He should go back on it all, apologise and go out to a bar – maybe catch Brad before he leaves – and pick up a woman who’s not going to care about who he is, or what he wants because she’s just out to get laid. “I don’t even know why I’m doing this, I shouldn’t be doing this—ˮ
It all changes pretty quickly. Ray isn’t standing halfway across the room, but right in front of him, and he’s staring at him in a way that’s a complete 180 from the flickering attention he showed the room a second ago. This is more intense, the slow slide of his eyes down Walt’s face and to the faded USMC t-shirt, which he tugs at with one hand.
“Still want to do this?”
“Yeah,” Walt says, reaching for his own belt as Ray unbuttons his jeans.
It’s not the fastest or most graceful strip, but Ray sits on the edge of the bed, one foot on his jeans, and his shirt hung over the back of a chair. He watches, smiling a little the whole time, and that’s enough to make Walt hard. That look, that intensity, it isn’t the sort of thing Walt thinks can be faked (or he doesn’t think it can, because most of the people in porn always look bored and someone who goes to someone’s hotel room and has sex in exchange for money probably will as well).
I don’t know what to do, is on the tip of Walt’s tongue, but he doesn’t manage to say it before Ray pulls him towards the bed – he’s stronger than he looks, that much Walt can feel in the tight grip Ray has his wrist in – and kisses him, tasting like cigarettes and mints.
Ray pushes him back onto the bed, gesturing for him to move up the bed and lie down unless you want to smash your skull on the headboard when you come.
Opening the condom wrapper and sliding it on so slowly that Walt’s glad that Ray’s holding him down (even if he could overpower him easily if he wanted to) before opening one of the little foil packages of lube with his teeth and throwing it to the side.
“Just in case,” Ray says, catching Walt’s eye and licking his lips in a way that doesn’t seem like it’s supposed to be seductive, just a nervous tic or bad habit, before he leans down and all Walt can think is fuck.
In the back of his mind, Walt hopes that the condom’s a decent one, one of the flavoured ones instead of the ones that taste like latex and shitty generic lube.
Ray builds up a slow rhythm, never taking him deep enough to choke and Walt lets one of his hands drift down to tangle in Ray’s hair (wet at the roots, like he washed it before coming over). He almost lets go when he feels Ray tense and draw back a bit, as if he’s preparing to be manhandled (which is probably a distinct possibility, Walt realises with a sinking feeling) but a second later Ray’s back to tracing patterns on his thigh with one hand while he does things with his tongue that Walt’s pretty sure he’s only seen in porn.
When he comes, he digs his fingers into Ray’s hair and tugs hard because it’s nothing like it usually is. There’s no fast release that winds him. Instead, it’s a slow, coiling build-up that happens so slowly that Walt doesn’t really notice it until his hands are shaking and he’s making hurried, wordless pleas and trying in vain not to thrust up into the heat of Ray's mouth.
Breathless, Walt slumps back onto the pillows, blinking up at the ceiling and wondering if this is what people mean when they talk about once in a lifetime experiences, those things that are better than anything you’ve done before and you’re sure that nothing can ever top it.
Beside him, Ray begins to talk. He isn’t talking about anything in particular, so it’s more like a stream of consciousness that starts with I’m glad you didn’t come when I put the condom on because then you would have ended up being one of the stories that gets passed around the bar and you’re too hot for that and just keeps going.
“If it starts raining again I’m gonna be pissed, I had to walk home last night in the fucking rain because some dumbass decided that a little rain was enough to shut down half the transportation, but I’m not really surprised because they did it when it snowed last winter and I was stuck uptown for a fucking week.”
Walt gets the distinct impression that a lot of Ray’s... clients pay him to shut up. Fuck, Walt’s half tempted to do the same since he isn’t quite sure what’s going to come out of Ray’s mouth next, but Ray’s running his mouth off and it makes this feel normal, like they’re friends or something, instead of two strangers: one paying and one being paid. It’s comforting. Much like the way Ray drums his fingers against the mattress and nudges Walt’s leg with his toes absentmindedly. He likes it.
“Aren’t you going to tell me shut up?” Ray asks when he’s been almost ten minutes without Walt saying anything, or even opening his eyes.
Okay, so Walt was right.
“Do you want me to tell you to shut up?”
Silence. Then, “No.”
But Ray doesn’t say anything else.
It’s only been a few minutes when Ray sits up and sneaks (or Walt thinks he tries to sneak, but it’s more like he scrambles along like he’s desperate to escape) towards the end of the bed and starts to put his sneakers on.
“You don’t have to go, you know that, right?” Walt says and Ray pauses at the edge of the bed, one foot on the floor, the other on the edge of the mattress. “Unless you’ve got other plans, or someone waiting for you,” he adds because he almost forgot that this is Ray’s job. He deliberately doesn’t think about other clients.
Ray throws himself back onto the bed, kicking his sneakers away. “I’ve got time.” He looks at Walt, as if trying to puzzle something out, but turns his attention to the X-Box before Walt has a chance to say anything. “Did they send up any decent games with that thing? I’ll slaughter you.”
Brad’s cardinal rule about whores (and his favourite one) is neither of you has to get attached to the other. Walt’s pretty sure he’s screwed, but he doesn’t object when Ray starts raking through the drawers again until he comes out with some games.
Rating: Let's say NC-17 to be safe.
Word count: 1,867
Disclaimer: This is based on the depiction of the characters in the HBO miniseries Generation Kill. No offence is meant to the real men.
Characters and pairings: Ray Person, Walt Hasser; Ray Person/Walt Hasser
Summary: Walt’s not really sure what he’s supposed to do.
Note: For the Porn Battle for the prompts prostitution and first, and it kind of grew legs. There will... almost definitely be more of this.
Special thanks to Katy (
softshinythings) who looked over this and spotted things I'd missed. Walt’s not really sure what he’s supposed to do—well, he knows what to do (sort of) and he managed to find someone (with Brad’s unsolicited help) who comes from a reputable company.
He’s not really sure what ‘reputable’ means when it comes to paying people to have sex with you, but he’s assuming it means that he isn’t going to wake up with his wallet missing and no memory of the night before. Just to be safe, Walt’s sticking to bottled water that he isn’t letting out of his sight. He’s seen firsthand what people will do when they want something, and even Brad’s testimony that the people who work for this company – it makes Walt a bit sick; a business built on people having sex with strangers, but he’s not really in a position to judge – are good isn’t enough to make him let his guard down.
So, ten minutes before the guy’s supposed to arrive (the receptionist called him Ray), Walt’s sitting in a good hotel and wondering who’s going to call his cell and ask to be let in. All he knows is the guy’s about his age, has dark hair and didn’t object to only having two hours notice.
“You’re Ray?” Walt asks, looking outside, but not seeing any sign that Ray, or whatever his name is, waiting outside. All he sees are some guys who look like they’ve just gotten out of class or are on their way home from working in bars: none of them look like prostitutes or rentboys or whatever they’re called.
“You can call me whatever you want as long as you let me in. It’s freezing out here.”
The first thing Walt’s struck by when he opens the room door to let Ray in is that he doesn’t look anything like Walt expected him to, although Walt’s not entirely sure what he expected. Ray’s wearing a t-shirt, jeans, sneakers and has a cell phone in one hand. He runs his fingers through his hair as he walks in the door, bounces on his toes a little as he admires the view, fidgets when he starts to walk around the room. He’s a little manic, fast movements that aren’t quite smooth enough, but other than that...
He looks normal. There’s nothing about this guy, this Ray who said you can call me whatever you want, that says what he does for a living.
“I forgot the label and the neon sign, but if you’ve got some magic markers around here I could improvise.”
“What?”
“The sign. What did you think it would say? Whore? Escort? More importantly, did it flash or was it glittery?” Ray toes off his sneakers and kicks them across the room – no glitter on them, Walt notes – before taking a look around the room, rifling through the drawers. “This is a pretty fancy place so they should have magic markers here, or the cheap sort. I don’t think they’ll have glitter pens but—how the fuck did you get an X-Box?”
“I’m a Marine.” That was the problem with coming right from the airport: everyone could tell.
“I thought you looked familiar;” Ray abandons his search and throws a few items on the couch and digs in his pockets instead. Walt just catches a glimpse of the lotions, shampoos and conditioners before Ray’s pulling the stack of cushions away and piling them up. “These good places never have the decent shit. At least the motels have lube, even if you might catch something from it. Do you want that sign? You could draw it on yourself, if that’s your thing, but the really kinky stuff costs extra and the really kinky stuff costs more than you said your limit is.”
Walt blanches at that because kinky? Not what he’s looking for. He just wants... he’s not sure what he wants, which is the big problem, doesn’t even know if he really wants this or not.
“I’m gonna say you’re not paying for a fuck.” Ray looks like he belongs in a humvee when he says that, cocky grin and his tone just bordering on predatory. He’d probably be able to get Trombley to shut up as well. “You’re not a virgin are you? And not in the I’ve-never-fucked-a-guy way, I mean in the if-you-touch-my-dick-I’ll-come-in-a-second-because-no-one-but-me’s-touched-me-there-since-I-was-a-baby-and-they-were-a-doctor way. Real virgin, not half a virgin.”
“I’m not a virgin,” Walt manages, face hot and, oh, this is a bad idea. He should go back on it all, apologise and go out to a bar – maybe catch Brad before he leaves – and pick up a woman who’s not going to care about who he is, or what he wants because she’s just out to get laid. “I don’t even know why I’m doing this, I shouldn’t be doing this—ˮ
It all changes pretty quickly. Ray isn’t standing halfway across the room, but right in front of him, and he’s staring at him in a way that’s a complete 180 from the flickering attention he showed the room a second ago. This is more intense, the slow slide of his eyes down Walt’s face and to the faded USMC t-shirt, which he tugs at with one hand.
“Still want to do this?”
“Yeah,” Walt says, reaching for his own belt as Ray unbuttons his jeans.
It’s not the fastest or most graceful strip, but Ray sits on the edge of the bed, one foot on his jeans, and his shirt hung over the back of a chair. He watches, smiling a little the whole time, and that’s enough to make Walt hard. That look, that intensity, it isn’t the sort of thing Walt thinks can be faked (or he doesn’t think it can, because most of the people in porn always look bored and someone who goes to someone’s hotel room and has sex in exchange for money probably will as well).
I don’t know what to do, is on the tip of Walt’s tongue, but he doesn’t manage to say it before Ray pulls him towards the bed – he’s stronger than he looks, that much Walt can feel in the tight grip Ray has his wrist in – and kisses him, tasting like cigarettes and mints.
Ray pushes him back onto the bed, gesturing for him to move up the bed and lie down unless you want to smash your skull on the headboard when you come.
Opening the condom wrapper and sliding it on so slowly that Walt’s glad that Ray’s holding him down (even if he could overpower him easily if he wanted to) before opening one of the little foil packages of lube with his teeth and throwing it to the side.
“Just in case,” Ray says, catching Walt’s eye and licking his lips in a way that doesn’t seem like it’s supposed to be seductive, just a nervous tic or bad habit, before he leans down and all Walt can think is fuck.
In the back of his mind, Walt hopes that the condom’s a decent one, one of the flavoured ones instead of the ones that taste like latex and shitty generic lube.
Ray builds up a slow rhythm, never taking him deep enough to choke and Walt lets one of his hands drift down to tangle in Ray’s hair (wet at the roots, like he washed it before coming over). He almost lets go when he feels Ray tense and draw back a bit, as if he’s preparing to be manhandled (which is probably a distinct possibility, Walt realises with a sinking feeling) but a second later Ray’s back to tracing patterns on his thigh with one hand while he does things with his tongue that Walt’s pretty sure he’s only seen in porn.
When he comes, he digs his fingers into Ray’s hair and tugs hard because it’s nothing like it usually is. There’s no fast release that winds him. Instead, it’s a slow, coiling build-up that happens so slowly that Walt doesn’t really notice it until his hands are shaking and he’s making hurried, wordless pleas and trying in vain not to thrust up into the heat of Ray's mouth.
Breathless, Walt slumps back onto the pillows, blinking up at the ceiling and wondering if this is what people mean when they talk about once in a lifetime experiences, those things that are better than anything you’ve done before and you’re sure that nothing can ever top it.
Beside him, Ray begins to talk. He isn’t talking about anything in particular, so it’s more like a stream of consciousness that starts with I’m glad you didn’t come when I put the condom on because then you would have ended up being one of the stories that gets passed around the bar and you’re too hot for that and just keeps going.
“If it starts raining again I’m gonna be pissed, I had to walk home last night in the fucking rain because some dumbass decided that a little rain was enough to shut down half the transportation, but I’m not really surprised because they did it when it snowed last winter and I was stuck uptown for a fucking week.”
Walt gets the distinct impression that a lot of Ray’s... clients pay him to shut up. Fuck, Walt’s half tempted to do the same since he isn’t quite sure what’s going to come out of Ray’s mouth next, but Ray’s running his mouth off and it makes this feel normal, like they’re friends or something, instead of two strangers: one paying and one being paid. It’s comforting. Much like the way Ray drums his fingers against the mattress and nudges Walt’s leg with his toes absentmindedly. He likes it.
“Aren’t you going to tell me shut up?” Ray asks when he’s been almost ten minutes without Walt saying anything, or even opening his eyes.
Okay, so Walt was right.
“Do you want me to tell you to shut up?”
Silence. Then, “No.”
But Ray doesn’t say anything else.
It’s only been a few minutes when Ray sits up and sneaks (or Walt thinks he tries to sneak, but it’s more like he scrambles along like he’s desperate to escape) towards the end of the bed and starts to put his sneakers on.
“You don’t have to go, you know that, right?” Walt says and Ray pauses at the edge of the bed, one foot on the floor, the other on the edge of the mattress. “Unless you’ve got other plans, or someone waiting for you,” he adds because he almost forgot that this is Ray’s job. He deliberately doesn’t think about other clients.
Ray throws himself back onto the bed, kicking his sneakers away. “I’ve got time.” He looks at Walt, as if trying to puzzle something out, but turns his attention to the X-Box before Walt has a chance to say anything. “Did they send up any decent games with that thing? I’ll slaughter you.”
Brad’s cardinal rule about whores (and his favourite one) is neither of you has to get attached to the other. Walt’s pretty sure he’s screwed, but he doesn’t object when Ray starts raking through the drawers again until he comes out with some games.
