[ It was hard not to flinch when red serge hit the floor underneath six feet, knowing that there it would lay for the foreseeable future. It would be trampled, and abused, and quite unlikely to hold its shape ever again--and Fraser was just fine with that. (After a moment of fighting down his compulsion to break off and fold up everyone's clothes.) No, he was fine with that. It was, after all, the perfect representation of his own inevitable undoing: trampled under three pairs of feet, bruised and freshly worn and inevitably bent clean out of shape, possibly forever.
He was just fine with that.
So he didn't fight any of the efforts Stanley made to strip off his clothes, and a moment later he was being rewarded for his own patience, as his partner's T-shirt was whipped off over his head.
Ray was covered - covered - in bruises. How he could have ever have thought this was done in a boxing match Fraser didn't know, because there were teethmarks and fingerprints pushed into Ray's ribs, his arms, the very clear shape of a hand impressed around his neck. The bruises around his wrists, usually hidden under the long sleeves of his hoodie, were quite clearly inflicted by handcuffs--or rather by the strain of his weight being pulled down against them. If Fraser were to guess, judging by the angle of the wounds, the bruises from the bar that crossed toward Ray's palms, the angle would be consistent with being bound with two pairs, facing down.
He was so dazed by Stanley's appearance, so caught up in his clinical detection and his simple exploration od muscle and bone and bare skin, that he barely acknowledged his own arms rising above his head cooperatively, his Henley pulled away and discarded. Hands were exploring his back - skilled hands - but they ceased their wandering too at the vision in front of them. Maybe Ray was concerned about what he'd done; worried. Fraser, too, wanted to reach out, to soothe, to stroke his hands over those bruises and kiss them better, but all he could do was watch as Ray's hand slid in from behind him to briefly caress Stanley's chest. It was gone again in an instant, replaced with the sound of movement, cotton against silk, the rumple of clothes falling into a pile on the floor, and Ray's warm chest pressed up against his back.
Gasping, he fell back obediently into that hold, though it put him further away from Stanley. The lips on his neck made him sag, the hands circling to run across his ribs, his chest, and he shuddered helplessly, reached out with both hands as though he were reaching for a distant shore. This was so far beyond a dream it was impossible to comprehend, but then there was a command - or maybe a suggestion - and he was pulling away from Ray's wonderful hands, falling down to one knee on his rumpled tunic between them and tugging Stanley Kowalski's bruised left wrist to his mouth. He lashed it with his tongue, kissed it, soothed and stroked, oblivious to the non-verbal communication carrying on above him. He could feel Ray looking at Stanley, and they had to be discussing something with their eyes because all he knew was that Ray wasn't pressing in behind him, he was just standing there. Gloating or waiting for a command or...or something.
But it didn't matter. Stanley's skin mattered, the taste of him, salt and copper as the roughness of his tongue opened up abrasions and pressed into fresh bruises. He sucked on the center of Ray's palm, both his hands clasped possessively around his fingers, and the whole world melted away into that one spot, the taste of him, the feel. ]
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He was just fine with that.
So he didn't fight any of the efforts Stanley made to strip off his clothes, and a moment later he was being rewarded for his own patience, as his partner's T-shirt was whipped off over his head.
Ray was covered - covered - in bruises. How he could have ever have thought this was done in a boxing match Fraser didn't know, because there were teethmarks and fingerprints pushed into Ray's ribs, his arms, the very clear shape of a hand impressed around his neck. The bruises around his wrists, usually hidden under the long sleeves of his hoodie, were quite clearly inflicted by handcuffs--or rather by the strain of his weight being pulled down against them. If Fraser were to guess, judging by the angle of the wounds, the bruises from the bar that crossed toward Ray's palms, the angle would be consistent with being bound with two pairs, facing down.
He was so dazed by Stanley's appearance, so caught up in his clinical detection and his simple exploration od muscle and bone and bare skin, that he barely acknowledged his own arms rising above his head cooperatively, his Henley pulled away and discarded. Hands were exploring his back - skilled hands - but they ceased their wandering too at the vision in front of them. Maybe Ray was concerned about what he'd done; worried. Fraser, too, wanted to reach out, to soothe, to stroke his hands over those bruises and kiss them better, but all he could do was watch as Ray's hand slid in from behind him to briefly caress Stanley's chest. It was gone again in an instant, replaced with the sound of movement, cotton against silk, the rumple of clothes falling into a pile on the floor, and Ray's warm chest pressed up against his back.
Gasping, he fell back obediently into that hold, though it put him further away from Stanley. The lips on his neck made him sag, the hands circling to run across his ribs, his chest, and he shuddered helplessly, reached out with both hands as though he were reaching for a distant shore. This was so far beyond a dream it was impossible to comprehend, but then there was a command - or maybe a suggestion - and he was pulling away from Ray's wonderful hands, falling down to one knee on his rumpled tunic between them and tugging Stanley Kowalski's bruised left wrist to his mouth. He lashed it with his tongue, kissed it, soothed and stroked, oblivious to the non-verbal communication carrying on above him. He could feel Ray looking at Stanley, and they had to be discussing something with their eyes because all he knew was that Ray wasn't pressing in behind him, he was just standing there. Gloating or waiting for a command or...or something.
But it didn't matter. Stanley's skin mattered, the taste of him, salt and copper as the roughness of his tongue opened up abrasions and pressed into fresh bruises. He sucked on the center of Ray's palm, both his hands clasped possessively around his fingers, and the whole world melted away into that one spot, the taste of him, the feel. ]