[ Patient he definitely is not. Fraser had been vibrating out of his skin without moving a single inch since that kiss in the closet at the police station. Now he was actually allowed to expel some of that energy, it poured out of him in physical waves, first writhing in response against Ray's thrust, rising back up against him willfully, then twisting and fighting his way to freedom from the shirt, flinging it carelessly aside even if the temptation was to wind it around his bruised wrists.
It was much better to have the freedom to tangle his fingers back in Ray's hair instead, he thought. At least this time - this first time - he wanted to be able to do that. He'd developed, he thought, a fascination with Ray's hair that defied explanation, but it went a little something like this: Ray's hair was soft, the shafts were fine, so much softer than it looked to touch. It wanted to lay flat across his forehead, down over his ears, and so the resistance Fraser met when he pushed it back up with the whole of his palm was such that the strands tickled between his fingers as they sprang back toward where nature meant them to be. Everything about Ray's hair was everything that Fraser's was not, pale where his own was dark, soft where his own was coarse and dense, disobedient where his own - given a splash of water and a comb - did precisely what he meant it to do.
He liked Ray's hair, he decided. He especially liked tugging on it rhythmically, like a cat kneading a pillow, when Ray's teeth were dancing patterns down his throat.
If the thrust of Ray's hips had made him moan, the murmur of words against his neck and the teeth and tongue and lips and Ray's wandering hands play out the bridge. Even that symphony of small touches was enough to make Fraser whimper and gasp, and really he forgot what Ray was talking about too, because - as before - this was exactly what he'd wanted.
To be touched. To be adored. To have Ray's hands all over him and more. To have a warm body close against his own. He dug his nails in a little deeper. Ray could tie him up again on the submarine, he thought. This would do just fine for now. ]
You were telling me-- [ He said clearly. ] --That you thought I was dumb. Dumb, stupid, a damn fool, for not thinking of doing this sooner. Think about all those stupid things we did that could have--ah--been much more enjoyable if only we'd thought to have lots and lots of "how the blue blazes are we still alive" sex afterwards. And the boring days, the--like when you...Consulate and...
[ Ray had it right; what were they even talking about? The hand on his stomach was making him tremble. He was out of his own mind. ]
no subject
It was much better to have the freedom to tangle his fingers back in Ray's hair instead, he thought. At least this time - this first time - he wanted to be able to do that. He'd developed, he thought, a fascination with Ray's hair that defied explanation, but it went a little something like this: Ray's hair was soft, the shafts were fine, so much softer than it looked to touch. It wanted to lay flat across his forehead, down over his ears, and so the resistance Fraser met when he pushed it back up with the whole of his palm was such that the strands tickled between his fingers as they sprang back toward where nature meant them to be. Everything about Ray's hair was everything that Fraser's was not, pale where his own was dark, soft where his own was coarse and dense, disobedient where his own - given a splash of water and a comb - did precisely what he meant it to do.
He liked Ray's hair, he decided. He especially liked tugging on it rhythmically, like a cat kneading a pillow, when Ray's teeth were dancing patterns down his throat.
If the thrust of Ray's hips had made him moan, the murmur of words against his neck and the teeth and tongue and lips and Ray's wandering hands play out the bridge. Even that symphony of small touches was enough to make Fraser whimper and gasp, and really he forgot what Ray was talking about too, because - as before - this was exactly what he'd wanted.
To be touched. To be adored. To have Ray's hands all over him and more. To have a warm body close against his own. He dug his nails in a little deeper. Ray could tie him up again on the submarine, he thought. This would do just fine for now. ]
You were telling me-- [ He said clearly. ] --That you thought I was dumb. Dumb, stupid, a damn fool, for not thinking of doing this sooner. Think about all those stupid things we did that could have--ah--been much more enjoyable if only we'd thought to have lots and lots of "how the blue blazes are we still alive" sex afterwards. And the boring days, the--like when you...Consulate and...
[ Ray had it right; what were they even talking about? The hand on his stomach was making him tremble. He was out of his own mind. ]
Keep doing that.