[ Clingy, affectionate; both words work just fine for him. Truth be told he can't think of a position he'd rather be in, even with Ray's teeth in his neck and the hard floorboards under his knees. They twist and move together in a symphony of perfection, and Fraser doesn't resist any of it, not Ray grinding against his ass or the hand buried firmly in his hair to hold his head back, or the other hand working more and more insistently as the moments begin to blur into one.
He doesn't fight the urge to make noises, either. Now that they're approaching that level, Fraser justifies his noisemaking with the idea that if he were to perhaps let out some of the noises a little at a time, he might not be wound so tight that more death throes were the only way to expel the built up tension.
Adding to the security is the meticulous mark making against his neck. Fraser knows what it is, knows it's Ray autographing his work, knows he's stamping his ownership right where nobody could help but see it. He knows, too, that come the next evening the bruise would be better than bright red; it'd be mixed with mottled purple, clear semicircular teethmarks black against the other colors. It'd be impossible to pretend he'd been bitten by an animal--animals didn't hang around and suck on the skin afterwards, and perfectly strong, capable Constables in the RCMP didn't just hold still and let them have their way even if they did. And then Turnball would mention that it was inflicted during a game Fraser was playing with Ray and--oh dear.
No, he could barely even follow that line of thought. All he cared about was that he was marked, that he belonged to Ray and that the bruises on his neck would be a visible reminder of this night for long enough that the memory wouldn't slip through his fingers.
And more importantly it actually feels incredible. There's something about the applied pressure, the burning of his skin against Ray's mouth that had Fraser groaning pitifully. His panting, by the time Ray's mouth finds his jaw, is that of a man who can no longer properly process air, and as Ray begins to suck on his ear, Fraser feels the last of his defenses swelling to a fine crescendo, a roaring sound in his ears, a comet crashing into dazzling splinters behind his eyes.
There was nowhere else for his head to go backward, but Fraser lifted himself up on his knees several inches, permitted himself to cry out, and without anything like as much noise as last time - but still loud none the less - spilled over. It wasn't as physically spectacular as the first time, but the sensation was richer, more explosive, as though the sentiment and the rules and the confidence that had grown between them leant itself to fantastic orgasms in particular. Fraser felt safe, he didn't need to hold back and so he didn't, secure in the knowledge that he was in the hands of a man who cared what became of him when all this was over.
And then trembling, panting, more spent than he'd ever been in his life, he slid back the two inches into Ray's lap, face still upturned, mouth wide open, throat working at the air. ]
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He doesn't fight the urge to make noises, either. Now that they're approaching that level, Fraser justifies his noisemaking with the idea that if he were to perhaps let out some of the noises a little at a time, he might not be wound so tight that more death throes were the only way to expel the built up tension.
Adding to the security is the meticulous mark making against his neck. Fraser knows what it is, knows it's Ray autographing his work, knows he's stamping his ownership right where nobody could help but see it. He knows, too, that come the next evening the bruise would be better than bright red; it'd be mixed with mottled purple, clear semicircular teethmarks black against the other colors. It'd be impossible to pretend he'd been bitten by an animal--animals didn't hang around and suck on the skin afterwards, and perfectly strong, capable Constables in the RCMP didn't just hold still and let them have their way even if they did. And then Turnball would mention that it was inflicted during a game Fraser was playing with Ray and--oh dear.
No, he could barely even follow that line of thought. All he cared about was that he was marked, that he belonged to Ray and that the bruises on his neck would be a visible reminder of this night for long enough that the memory wouldn't slip through his fingers.
And more importantly it actually feels incredible. There's something about the applied pressure, the burning of his skin against Ray's mouth that had Fraser groaning pitifully. His panting, by the time Ray's mouth finds his jaw, is that of a man who can no longer properly process air, and as Ray begins to suck on his ear, Fraser feels the last of his defenses swelling to a fine crescendo, a roaring sound in his ears, a comet crashing into dazzling splinters behind his eyes.
There was nowhere else for his head to go backward, but Fraser lifted himself up on his knees several inches, permitted himself to cry out, and without anything like as much noise as last time - but still loud none the less - spilled over. It wasn't as physically spectacular as the first time, but the sensation was richer, more explosive, as though the sentiment and the rules and the confidence that had grown between them leant itself to fantastic orgasms in particular. Fraser felt safe, he didn't need to hold back and so he didn't, secure in the knowledge that he was in the hands of a man who cared what became of him when all this was over.
And then trembling, panting, more spent than he'd ever been in his life, he slid back the two inches into Ray's lap, face still upturned, mouth wide open, throat working at the air. ]