[ Take over? Fraser had no idea how to do this - how to do any of it - but the lube was pressed into his hands, and that apparently was that. Take over. He'd have been more confident juggling live grenades - at least he could juggle. Of course outside of his own sense of fear it was important to at least acknowledge that Ray didn't know how to do this either. The only person with any kind of experience was the man sinking in against his chest, murmuring softly in reassurance near his ear as though he'd somehow conveyed his trepidation through his arms.
It's alright, Benny. One at a time. You can't do it wrong.
Fraser released Ray's arms - he really had to - and his former partner navigated himself slightly forward, supporting his own weight against the wall over Stanley's head. Fraser shuddered despite himself: this was otherworldly still. He'd never made love to anyone he wasn't looking straight in the eye, and now both his partners were here - both his Rays - and they both had lovely eyes, and he couldn't see either of them. How was he supposed to know he was doing this right if there were no expressions to read?
But the long stretch of Vecchio's back in front of him was lovely - that much he had to admit. There was a long healed exit wound under his left shoulder, where Ray had taken a bullet for him, several well healed lacerations that had been the result of shrapnel from the explosion from which Ray had saved him on their very first case together. It was a story of friendship and love, of a man who would have done anything for him, and Fraser leant down and brushed his lips to one of those scars. He could do this.
Generously coating his fingers, he went to the work that had been prescribed for him, slipping his hands down. It wasn't difficult, as he'd feared it might be--pressing one finger inside where Ray's had been before was as easy as anything he'd ever put his mind to. And yet it was the emotion of it, the sensation of it, the meaning that rippled out from that one act that really gripped him. It felt like a becoming.
Ray was murmuring further instructions against the wall, and Fraser with his supernatural hearing was there to obey, but he'd barely pressed a second digit past that firm ring of muscle when Kowalski's fumbling hands on his on breeches finally managed to decipher the last of the clasps. There was a breath of cool air, the sudden tender touch of warm fingertips wet with lubricant, and then Stanley's hands were all over him, his breeches halfway down his thighs, and Fraser keened helplessly. He'd forgotten how good it felt to have another person's hands touching him, embracing him, skin on delicate hot skin. No feeling in the world even came close. Not even sex. And maybe he had a hand thing, but it really wasn't such a bad thing to have.
Ray Kowalski had lovely hands; soft from paperwork and hard from engines, wiry muscle, strong wrists and palms from boxing, and exercises on the firing range. He was steady and direct like a surgeon, exploring every inch of him, but these were the hands of an experienced gunman; firm, unrelenting and patient. Fraser rolled his hips forward, desperate for some kind of rhythm into which he could himself inhabit. The discoordination of his body had knock on effects: his fingers thrust, and twisted, trying to follow the urging of the body undulating against his own, but there was no rhythm to be spoken of.
It was excruciating, but it was natural, honest, and it would have been strange if it was anything but this. This was exactly the learning curve he'd been on becoming each of these men's partner in the first place, and now here they were altogether, finding a way to work together that suited them. Of course it wasn't going to be easy. ]
no subject
It's alright, Benny. One at a time. You can't do it wrong.
Fraser released Ray's arms - he really had to - and his former partner navigated himself slightly forward, supporting his own weight against the wall over Stanley's head. Fraser shuddered despite himself: this was otherworldly still. He'd never made love to anyone he wasn't looking straight in the eye, and now both his partners were here - both his Rays - and they both had lovely eyes, and he couldn't see either of them. How was he supposed to know he was doing this right if there were no expressions to read?
But the long stretch of Vecchio's back in front of him was lovely - that much he had to admit. There was a long healed exit wound under his left shoulder, where Ray had taken a bullet for him, several well healed lacerations that had been the result of shrapnel from the explosion from which Ray had saved him on their very first case together. It was a story of friendship and love, of a man who would have done anything for him, and Fraser leant down and brushed his lips to one of those scars. He could do this.
Generously coating his fingers, he went to the work that had been prescribed for him, slipping his hands down. It wasn't difficult, as he'd feared it might be--pressing one finger inside where Ray's had been before was as easy as anything he'd ever put his mind to. And yet it was the emotion of it, the sensation of it, the meaning that rippled out from that one act that really gripped him. It felt like a becoming.
Ray was murmuring further instructions against the wall, and Fraser with his supernatural hearing was there to obey, but he'd barely pressed a second digit past that firm ring of muscle when Kowalski's fumbling hands on his on breeches finally managed to decipher the last of the clasps. There was a breath of cool air, the sudden tender touch of warm fingertips wet with lubricant, and then Stanley's hands were all over him, his breeches halfway down his thighs, and Fraser keened helplessly. He'd forgotten how good it felt to have another person's hands touching him, embracing him, skin on delicate hot skin. No feeling in the world even came close. Not even sex. And maybe he had a hand thing, but it really wasn't such a bad thing to have.
Ray Kowalski had lovely hands; soft from paperwork and hard from engines, wiry muscle, strong wrists and palms from boxing, and exercises on the firing range. He was steady and direct like a surgeon, exploring every inch of him, but these were the hands of an experienced gunman; firm, unrelenting and patient. Fraser rolled his hips forward, desperate for some kind of rhythm into which he could himself inhabit. The discoordination of his body had knock on effects: his fingers thrust, and twisted, trying to follow the urging of the body undulating against his own, but there was no rhythm to be spoken of.
It was excruciating, but it was natural, honest, and it would have been strange if it was anything but this. This was exactly the learning curve he'd been on becoming each of these men's partner in the first place, and now here they were altogether, finding a way to work together that suited them. Of course it wasn't going to be easy. ]