Heavy Artillery

It's a nice, lazy morning, and Ray might be content to finish this way if Nate would just surrender to sleeping in the nude, as God intended, but there's a layer of slippery, moisture-wicking whatever-the-fuck fabric between them and Ray is too old to come without dicks touching, at least a little.

He hooks a finger under Nate's waistband and mutters, "Off," against his mouth. Nate hums into the kiss and complies, tugging his underwear down as soon as Ray clambers far enough out of the way for him to manage. He makes a pretty picture, the LT—ex-LT, technically, Ray supposes, but old habits die hard—all splayed out like a Greek statue against their rumpled sheets. He's sleek and lean, same as he was in the Corps, with a sweet pink flush spilling down his throat and staining his chest. His big blue eyes are hooded and glossy, mouth wet and bee-stung from Ray's attentions, his standard choirboy neatness all mussed and thoroughly debauched. Ray curls a hand over Nate's knee and slides it up his thigh, brushing the sparse hair in the wrong direction and reveling in the way Nate shivers.

"I know we've talked about it before, but I really think we could make bank doing gay pornos," Ray says, arching his eyebrows enticingly.

Nate snorts and tucks his arms under his head, beating the pillow into place as he does so. "I thought we put that idea to bed when you couldn't decide on a porn star name."

"You try picking between Dick Bigger and Fist Jaxem and see how far you get."