[ Fraser listens for commands as minute as freckles from Stanley, the shift of his arm, the angle of his shoulder, the tilt of his head. He watches, and understands this language, here, as fluently as he understands it when they're chasing a perpetrator together. Ray Kowalski's body language is something he knows, and it serves him well enough here too, so that when his partner's hand slips further back Fraser merely divides his attention to follow after those fingers, still stroking upward with one firm left hand while the other ghosts against Stanley's wrist, and tenderly cradles Ray Vecchio's balls against his palm. He can feel the flexion against the back of his knuckles, the pressure being exerted, and it thrills him no end to be a part of it.
He just isn't aware how much of a part of it he is.
Fraser studiously kept his lips down and his eyes on Stanley, watching him warily as his mouth moved for that other nipple as though he were preparing himself for Ray kicking and swearing in his grip again. But it's not that at all: he's finding himself drinking it in, feeling as though through Ray's body his partner's mouth on his own chest. God, how he longs to have Stanley's hands and mouth on him--and how alien is that feeling? How new, and strange? His tongue lathed against Ray's trapezium, licked upward, kissed low behind his ear, lapped the curve of it, and then Fraser was pulling back in anticipation of Stanley wanting to take over, for his partner was finally straightening up, leaning into that same ear to lick where Fraser's mouth had been only moments before.
His mouth had never felt so dry.
Fraser's eyes glazed, his grip faltered and fell still, and it was almost as though his knees were about to collapse from underneath him--all in the space of a second - two - three. Who knew how long it had taken for Ray to say those words? Not long enough. They were so quick, like a knife slashed at him or one of those famous Kowalski smiles, and it was as though they ripped his stomach out and pooled it on the floor at his feet. It wasn't that the idea repulsed him; quite the opposite. It was dizzying, full of impact and deeper meaning and filthy. Even the choice of words, the decision to tell him at all, was impossibly erotic in a way Fraser hadn't known Stanley was capable of being.
And more than that it was true, wasn't it? Ray really had thought of him like that. Lying in the dark alone with his own cock in his hands, or maybe on one of those bathroom breaks where Fraser had pursued him only as far as the door. Why hadn't he known? How could he have guessed?
But that was only half of it, wasn't it? Stanley had thought about it too. So when the two of them had been going at each other days ago, probably drunk beyond comprehension, had they both been thinking of him? Had those bruises been meant for him? The rough, biting kisses, the claw marks? Were they all from a raging battle of competing heterosexuality gone awry or had they been expelling only the frustrations that Fraser had visited on them? Had they called his name? Had Fraser's sleep been disturbed, half a city away, without his realising it?
Was it maybe a little from column A and B?
He didn't know what to say or what to do. He didn't know how to even begin to approach this, and he was half afraid that his immense physical arousal was coming across more as deer in the headlights terror, the way he was staring back at Stanley. Motor function saved the day. He exhaled the shaky breath he'd been holding, licked his dry lips, and pressed in suddenly to close his mouth around Ray's chin, just drawing back so that the flat blunt of his teeth dragged across stubble and snapped shut with a click as his mouth dropped away. I'm okay, He told him, then. The world is spinning out of control, but I'm okay. With maybe a subtext of I can't handle it; these are good things, the things you're doing to me.
His mouth moved up to Ray's ear, his teeth biting harder at the nub almost in mirror of Stanley's earlier actions. It put his mouth very close to Stanley's still, as he mirrored the echoing hush. His arousal was in his voice: it was practically the low roll of a post-orgasmic keen, all smoky and ragged. ]
no subject
He just isn't aware how much of a part of it he is.
Fraser studiously kept his lips down and his eyes on Stanley, watching him warily as his mouth moved for that other nipple as though he were preparing himself for Ray kicking and swearing in his grip again. But it's not that at all: he's finding himself drinking it in, feeling as though through Ray's body his partner's mouth on his own chest. God, how he longs to have Stanley's hands and mouth on him--and how alien is that feeling? How new, and strange? His tongue lathed against Ray's trapezium, licked upward, kissed low behind his ear, lapped the curve of it, and then Fraser was pulling back in anticipation of Stanley wanting to take over, for his partner was finally straightening up, leaning into that same ear to lick where Fraser's mouth had been only moments before.
His mouth had never felt so dry.
Fraser's eyes glazed, his grip faltered and fell still, and it was almost as though his knees were about to collapse from underneath him--all in the space of a second - two - three. Who knew how long it had taken for Ray to say those words? Not long enough. They were so quick, like a knife slashed at him or one of those famous Kowalski smiles, and it was as though they ripped his stomach out and pooled it on the floor at his feet. It wasn't that the idea repulsed him; quite the opposite. It was dizzying, full of impact and deeper meaning and filthy. Even the choice of words, the decision to tell him at all, was impossibly erotic in a way Fraser hadn't known Stanley was capable of being.
And more than that it was true, wasn't it? Ray really had thought of him like that. Lying in the dark alone with his own cock in his hands, or maybe on one of those bathroom breaks where Fraser had pursued him only as far as the door. Why hadn't he known? How could he have guessed?
But that was only half of it, wasn't it? Stanley had thought about it too. So when the two of them had been going at each other days ago, probably drunk beyond comprehension, had they both been thinking of him? Had those bruises been meant for him? The rough, biting kisses, the claw marks? Were they all from a raging battle of competing heterosexuality gone awry or had they been expelling only the frustrations that Fraser had visited on them? Had they called his name? Had Fraser's sleep been disturbed, half a city away, without his realising it?
Was it maybe a little from column A and B?
He didn't know what to say or what to do. He didn't know how to even begin to approach this, and he was half afraid that his immense physical arousal was coming across more as deer in the headlights terror, the way he was staring back at Stanley. Motor function saved the day. He exhaled the shaky breath he'd been holding, licked his dry lips, and pressed in suddenly to close his mouth around Ray's chin, just drawing back so that the flat blunt of his teeth dragged across stubble and snapped shut with a click as his mouth dropped away. I'm okay, He told him, then. The world is spinning out of control, but I'm okay. With maybe a subtext of I can't handle it; these are good things, the things you're doing to me.
His mouth moved up to Ray's ear, his teeth biting harder at the nub almost in mirror of Stanley's earlier actions. It put his mouth very close to Stanley's still, as he mirrored the echoing hush. His arousal was in his voice: it was practically the low roll of a post-orgasmic keen, all smoky and ragged. ]
Tell me more.