Fraser hissed and arched under Ray's attention, under the tongue that swirled hot and heavy and perfect around the nub of first one nipple and then the other. He couldn't rise far off the bed with Ray on top of him, but every muscle strained as it tried, and as soon as his abused back made contact with the bed beneath it again his poor abandoned nipples were left to the cool air, prickling and wet and hard. His head swam.
Backwards. He had no idea what Ray was talking about. Were they doing something backwards? He couldn't remember. Maybe he was talking about how Fraser should have stripped out of his clothes before they made it to the bedroom, because right now that felt like it would have been a much better idea. He was smoking hot, aching, his cock trapped painfully against the stiff starch of his boxers, which he now had the insight to think was the worst kind of self abuse known to man because it felt like he was rubbing his erection against a raw brick wall.
And god, he felt like he'd been hard for hours, hard since he woke up nestled against Ray, hard since they'd kissed in front of all those people in the club, hard since the closet, and the interrogation room, and the car. He'd been patient for what felt like years, and he couldn't stand it any more.
Letting him go with one hand to reach upward, Fraser managed to snag the corner of a pillow and yank it down, shoving it awkwardly under his head. It let out a welcoming whuff of Ray-smell that he instantly wanted to press to his face and drown in, but also improved the angle no end, let him look at Ray looking at him, watching the projected innocence in those gray blue eyes and not believing in it even for a second. Ray had taken his belt to him, had handcuffed him and left him to sleep with them on, had kneaded his shoulders and neck and hair when Fraser had gone down on him. Ray wanted to fuck on Thatcher's desk and a submarine and an alley in his car and the top of the Sears tower. Ray was about as innocent as Bonnie and Clyde. He had more sexual appetite in him than the entire playboy mansion on a Saturday night. Ray--
When Ray's hand wandered he quickly regretted the pillow. His neck ached from the effort to slam his head as far back as possible, but there was almost nowhere for him to go, and instead Fraser's face contorted precisely where Ray could see it, eyes closing, pain and glorious pleasure mixed like fertilizer and nitroglycerine, and he bucked and twisted helplessly under his partner's restraining weight. He cried out once, as loud as he had back at the consulate - maybe louder because Ray hadn't asked him to be quiet this time - and having let out that wail from the bottom of his now spent lungs, Fraser began to pant ragged, earnest breaths, trying to hold himself back from exploding on the spot.
It wasn't going to be the high speed chases and throwing himself at moving vehicles and jumping from third story rooftops without a parachute that was going to kill him. It was going to be this. Ray was going to kill him with sex, and ruin all his good clothes at the same time. They'd have to bury him in his blue suit, and he'd be forced to haunt Ray forever wearing the outfit he hated most in the whole world--and how was that fair?
Gritting his teeth, he forced his eyes open, though the effort brought a whole new wave of trembling over him. He couldn't talk, so he tried to convey that this was torture - torture torture torture - with his pupil black eyes alone. But he wouldn't have it any other way; God, he wouldn't have Ray be anything else, do anything else, because torture and dying had never felt so good. ]
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Fraser hissed and arched under Ray's attention, under the tongue that swirled hot and heavy and perfect around the nub of first one nipple and then the other. He couldn't rise far off the bed with Ray on top of him, but every muscle strained as it tried, and as soon as his abused back made contact with the bed beneath it again his poor abandoned nipples were left to the cool air, prickling and wet and hard. His head swam.
Backwards. He had no idea what Ray was talking about. Were they doing something backwards? He couldn't remember. Maybe he was talking about how Fraser should have stripped out of his clothes before they made it to the bedroom, because right now that felt like it would have been a much better idea. He was smoking hot, aching, his cock trapped painfully against the stiff starch of his boxers, which he now had the insight to think was the worst kind of self abuse known to man because it felt like he was rubbing his erection against a raw brick wall.
And god, he felt like he'd been hard for hours, hard since he woke up nestled against Ray, hard since they'd kissed in front of all those people in the club, hard since the closet, and the interrogation room, and the car. He'd been patient for what felt like years, and he couldn't stand it any more.
Letting him go with one hand to reach upward, Fraser managed to snag the corner of a pillow and yank it down, shoving it awkwardly under his head. It let out a welcoming whuff of Ray-smell that he instantly wanted to press to his face and drown in, but also improved the angle no end, let him look at Ray looking at him, watching the projected innocence in those gray blue eyes and not believing in it even for a second. Ray had taken his belt to him, had handcuffed him and left him to sleep with them on, had kneaded his shoulders and neck and hair when Fraser had gone down on him. Ray wanted to fuck on Thatcher's desk and a submarine and an alley in his car and the top of the Sears tower. Ray was about as innocent as Bonnie and Clyde. He had more sexual appetite in him than the entire playboy mansion on a Saturday night. Ray--
When Ray's hand wandered he quickly regretted the pillow. His neck ached from the effort to slam his head as far back as possible, but there was almost nowhere for him to go, and instead Fraser's face contorted precisely where Ray could see it, eyes closing, pain and glorious pleasure mixed like fertilizer and nitroglycerine, and he bucked and twisted helplessly under his partner's restraining weight. He cried out once, as loud as he had back at the consulate - maybe louder because Ray hadn't asked him to be quiet this time - and having let out that wail from the bottom of his now spent lungs, Fraser began to pant ragged, earnest breaths, trying to hold himself back from exploding on the spot.
It wasn't going to be the high speed chases and throwing himself at moving vehicles and jumping from third story rooftops without a parachute that was going to kill him. It was going to be this. Ray was going to kill him with sex, and ruin all his good clothes at the same time. They'd have to bury him in his blue suit, and he'd be forced to haunt Ray forever wearing the outfit he hated most in the whole world--and how was that fair?
Gritting his teeth, he forced his eyes open, though the effort brought a whole new wave of trembling over him. He couldn't talk, so he tried to convey that this was torture - torture torture torture - with his pupil black eyes alone. But he wouldn't have it any other way; God, he wouldn't have Ray be anything else, do anything else, because torture and dying had never felt so good. ]