Work Text:
For once, Ray is home in bed. At peace, as much as he -- with where he has been and what he has done -- can be at peace. But he is far from war, here. Safe. Like a POG.
It is just him and his left hand, which he lay on till it went numb -- an old trick and a good one.
The pins and stings in his thumb start first, as soon as he gets his hand on his dick. With his right hand, he cups his balls, and starts to stroke with the left. He thinks of girls -- wet cunts rich with scent, taste, and feel, deep and sweet and salt, mouths just as slick with gloss and come.
He thinks of butts, both guys' and girls', full in his hands, soft, fat, hard, thin -- there are lots of good butts in the world, and Ray wants to grab them all.
He thinks of guys -- of dicks like his and not, of the thrill of what he may not have, not and do his work, not and say he wants it out loud where he could be heard. Of Brad, who's cut, of Nate, who might not be -- Ray knows how to look and not get caught, but he needs at least one chance. And fuck, Nate's mouth, and what Brad would say to them. He'd tell them what to do, all mean. Ray wants to blow them both; he wants them both to blow him, then share a kiss.
And, damn, he wants to fuck his way through all the cunts and butts and mouths there are, Brad's and Nate's and all the girls.
A dream of a girl, now. It won't hurt as much as if he thinks of Brad or Nate.
Ray can have all the girls he can get.
He thinks up a blonde girl with big tits who screams for him when she comes on his dick. She thrusts up and down -- his hand apes the moves -- and she's tight and wet. She needs him. He wants her so bad.
His hand speeds up on his dick, and he bites back a groan. Not so soon -- but soon. His heart pounds, and his hand is not numb now. He goes with it, and gives a squeeze, and strokes with his thumb.
The blonde girl in his mind screams, "Ray, Ray, Ray, oh god," and he grasps his dick tight, so tight, just so, just like that, and he comes, too, his voice caught in his throat. He does not say her name; she has no name. He does not say a word, not to her, not to the room where his bed is, where he is. She is a dream girl, and she will be there the next time he needs her.
He wipes off the come and throws the wet sock on the floor. He will deal with it, but not right now. Sleep, first, and he might dream of the blonde. He has in the past.
He might dream of Brad. He might dream of Nate.
He hopes for the girl. He's strong, sure, but dreams can be a bitch.