Benton Fraser | Due South

[dogsled]

BENTON FRASER。

"You know, Fraser, when they offered me this assignment, they made it sound kind of normal. They say, 'Hey, Ray, here's a chance to start over, ditch the past.' 'What's the catch?' I say. 'Oh, your partner's Canadian.' Canadian? I got nothing against Canadians, except for the time when they won the World Series, which I'm willing to overlook. But at no time did they say, 'you'll be working with a Mountie who's got a wolf that's a florist'"

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[kickem]

[Wet dream, indeed.

This is like all of those ridiculous fantasies that Kowalski's barely dared to dream about, all rolled up into a neat little package. Sure, he dreams about the Mountie occasionally. He's not gay or anything. He just likes to fawn over a guy sometimes. So what?

He's expecting rejection, ready for Fraser to twist or pull away and stutter out some overly polite apology, because real life is nothing like those dreams of his. Real life is reality, where he's forced to work alongside the most infuriating partner ever, receiving smiles and reassurances and never anything more. Reality isn't meant to involve a locked room and an apparent three way with two other guys. That's not real. That's porno status.

And yet Vecchio's hands are encircling him, gripping out a strong encouragement as Stanley pressed forward and dusting kisses across Fraser's jawline to match the kiss that he'd given. All at once Ray felt the man before his loosen into the touches and his heart fluttered, his own knot of anxiety slowly untying as those lips reciprocated and accepted. Benton wasn't running from this. He was returning it. Maybe, just maybe he wanted this, just like Kowalski had wanted, needed, that time with Vecchio.

All at once Stanley moves, shifting a hand to Fraser's hip, the other to Vecchio's shoulder, gripping tight as he pushes forward against the kiss, mouth opening just enough to lick at Fraser. There's only the briefest withdraw, just long enough to meet with Vecchio, brushing lips against his cheek in what might be gratitude, before he's straight back to the Mountie. So maybe it took Ray to make all this happen. That's fine. That's okay. He's welcome to keep making it happen.]

[bluntobject]

[ This wasn't supposed to happen. Beautiful Canadian Mounties who had been their best friend for years weren't supposed to soften like butter under their warm touches. They weren't supposed to shudder and melt and lower their weight against his support, or reciprocate kisses the way that Fraser was reciprocating Stanley's kiss. It just didn't happen.

His heart was in his throat, Ray realised, thumping hard in terrible perilous fear and overwhelming desire pressed in tight like a stormcloud against him. And yet he was being relied upon to lead this, and somehow that was completely okay. Fraser was Stanley's. This...interlude between the three of them, it wouldn't last forever, if it lasted beyond today at all, but in the grand scheme of things now, Fraser was Stanley's. It looked right, he thought, bringing his mouth away from Fraser's skin for a moment so that he had the opportunity to look. They were partners, they were comfortable with each other, and that kiss was so, so sweet, like the beginning of something beautiful. Ray had seen Fraser kissed before, but he'd never seen anything like this, like Fraser reciprocating with such heartbreaking earnestness that even a crying puppy would be jealous.

Mia madre, he thought. Maybe they love each other.

So he became instructional, slotted into the position of guidance because heaven only knew he understood how all this became functional a lot better than either of these two goofs did. He stroked his thumb against Stanley's jawbone before he retreated his hands, and then they were busy at work, taking off Fraser's hat and tugging the velcro catch open at his throat, unclipping his Sam Browne and setting it aside with everything else. The loosened tunic gave him a little more throat to kiss, a swathe of wool bruised skin exposed under Fraser's jaw. How he could stand to wear that stuff all day Ray didn't know.

Ray paused to loosen and abandon his own tie, then went to work on the friction burn with his tongue, his hands settling on the back of Fraser's, instructing him to pull Stanley hip to hip with him, groin to groin,as he bumped up against Fraser's backside himself. ]

That's right, Benny. [ He whispered, the words wet against his ear. ] Just relax.

[dogsled]

[ Was this really happening? Maybe he was sick. He was having a fever dream, or he was hallucinating--something. Because how could this be happening? Or was it just him? Was this a thing that happened to people all the time, and Fraser was just too Canadian to have noticed it carrying on right under his nose? If only his father was here, he'd be able to explain--no, scratch that. He didn't want his father seeing this. He'd only say something smug and self satisfied like 'I knew it all along', and that wasn't helpful to anybody.

Stanley's tongue flicked out against his mouth, and instantly he was struck by the desire to chase it, touch it with his own, and that solved nothing because Stanley's head went to the side, and Fraser was left mouthing against his ear for a moment, inhaling the scent of gel out of his partner's hair.

His hat came off before the kiss was resumed, and this time Fraser went at it with renewed fervor, seeking his partner's tongue with his own and twisting against it, around it, writhing and needy. Stanley's lips were at once rough and soft. The bristles of his stubble ground against Fraser's naked skin, but he couldn't find it in him to mind the discomfort. Nor did Fraser pay a great deal of attention to Ray stripping off his belt and loosening his collar; the kiss was too distracting, too overwhelming, and too important.

He almost lost focus completely at the mouth on his sore neck, the hips on hips on hips as Ray's arousal bumped against his own, and his own bumped against--oh. Oh, it had been too long. His breath hitched, and he moaned into Stanley's mouth, a low, rumbling moan that was subdued only because of their current whereabouts. These rooms were only soundproof up and to a point, and softening his noises was the only discernible control Fraser was currently capable of demonstrating.

His nose jarred against Stanley's as he tried to work himself enough breathing space to talk, but his words were husky and low as he tried to use the opportunity to drink in every line of his partner's face, imprint the color of his eyes, the moistness of his own saliva left behind on Stanley's parted lips. ]

Don't let this be a dream. [ He tightened his hands, huffing a breath outward as - almost imperceptibly - he rocked into Stanley. He was still clear headed enough to be able to wrap his head around an idea: if he could make a distinction, even if this all went to hell, they might be able to save their working relationship. ] Ben, Ray. Don't call me anything but Ben. Can you do that?

[kickem]

[The second he'd shifted back to Fraser's lips he was greeted with eagerness, assaulted almost immediately with that tongue wrapping around his and matched just as quickly. That reserved chasteness of his initial brush of lips was all but gone, replaced by a desperation that had him groaning out against Fraser's mouth. This was so much better than anything he could have hoped for. Paling in comparison to those frustrated nights alone in his room unable to think of anything but this damned Mountie. He couldn't have even dreamt of this, of Fraser grappling against him, pulling him in close, yearning for this just as much as Stan was.

As Vecchio sorted out the uniform, Kowalski's hand shifts instead to Fraser's shoulder, fingers kneading into the muscle underneath that red serge. He doesn't even register the lack of leather or the loosened collar until Fraser breaks away, barely a breath from Stanley but enough to give the American a moments reflection.

Oh God. Oh God. This was real. It was too far fetched not to be. They were really hip to hip to hip, pushed against each other, panting and moaning. That was really Fraser speaking, really Fraser carefully rocking against him, really Fraser's lips so close to his.]

Ben. [He gasped out, not even concerned with what Ray the request had been aimed at. He'll call Fraser whatever the fuck he wants if they can just keep going with this. God, he was barely able to think straight with the Mountie of his dreams and the Italian that had kept him horny for days now. This could be beautiful or dirty. Or possibly both. Either way, Stan's just hoping it keeps going.

Had he thanked Ray for this, yet? He can't remember. He can't remember anything beyond about two seconds ago when he was gasping out that almost foreign name on his lips. But the thanking can be done now easily, breaking away again to shift towards Fraser's neck, up towards his ear and inevitably to Vecchio's lips. Stanley nuzzles in against his partner's skin, in close enough to get his lips touching Vecchio's, his tongue flicking first out against Fraser's ear and then at Ray's mouth, pushing for attention. Kowalski can be grateful when he chooses to be, but it might also have something to do with urgently trying to get back some of that night back into his physical memory, craving it all over again, just with an extra body between them. Or under them. Or on them. He really didn't care.]

[bluntobject]

[ A single moment had never been as depraved and as gorgeous as this at the exact same time. The muscles of Fraser's jaw and throat tensed and worked under his mouth as he abandoned himself unto the kiss, and when he moaned against Kowalski's mouth, all Vecchio could think was 'Enjoy that, it's going to be the first of many'. Stanley groaned back, and Vecchio couldn't blame him, biting down on his own noises, because he could feel Fraser rocking minutely forward almost instinctively between them, and that just had to be driving Kowalski mad.

They were going to do this. They were going to do this, and they had to do it here, because there was just no way that they could adjourn this, move it out of the room, take it out of the police station. Maybe Ray ought to have thought about that before it started, but it had been so spur of the moment following up on Fraser's anxious little lip-lick, that he hadn't had time to think about where it would inevitably lead. All the way. It had to go all the way. He couldn't fathom not, when it seemed like years were culminating in this single burst of activity. They'd be quiet, and yes, the room would smell of bodily fluids and sweat by the time they were done, but when had it ever not?

As Stanley nudged in toward him, Ray let their tongues touch, sliding hot against each other on Fraser's skin - the Mountie shuddered - and then Stanley was kissing him, a painfully eager kiss that screamed of wanting. Okay--okay, he got the message. Right hand tightening in the scrub of hair at the back of Kowalski's neck, he pulsed upward into the kiss with passionate hunger, broke open the wound on Ray's lips that had only just been healing and lashed his tongue into the other man's mouth, kissing like it was a battle. His fingernails dug deeper into scalp, and his other hand--his other hand slid around Fraser and imposed itself between him and Stanley, squeezing Fraser roughly through his breeches.

But all of that was a front for his real intention. His hips slammed forward, and he stepped into the space he made, sending the three of them stumbling toward the wall until they collided almost painfully with the plaster. Only his hand on Ray's neck kept the impact from his head, but there'd be bruises on his knuckles to show for it sure enough. The hand he'd put on Fraser tugged free, but he used it to work open the buttons of his tunic absently, still absorbed in the kiss, fighting and biting and battling Stanley's mouth as though he'd made kissing a national sport. He wanted to kiss him breathless, kiss him until his head span with dizziness, kiss him until-- ]

[dogsled]

[ The groan murmured against his lips was almost as beautiful as the sound of his name. It was good, he realised, when Ray broke away to look at him, because if he'd said 'Fraser' right then, then he'd have never been able to hear his name spoken without needing a brisk roll in the snow to shake himself out of it ever again.

Stanley's hand was on his shoulder. It stayed there, kneading into muscle he'd never so much as touched before as he leaned in again, not to actually kiss Fraser this time but to brush cheek to cheek, pressing in warm and real against him on the same side as Vecchio. Briefly he felt not one but two tongues clashing warm and hot against his ear, and he shuddered between the two warm bodies between which he was sandwiched, convinced his own strength was going to fail him.

He wasn't given the opportunity to find out if it would. All at once there was the wet sound of a mouth on another mouth, clashing with wet smacking noises that reeked of passion and violence, and then with a force that shocked him, Ray's hand was reaching between his legs and the wall was coming up to meet him. He bleated out a ragged cry into Stanley's ear, seeing stars, panting as he tried to get some physical motor control back. His erection thrummed from the squeeze, and Ray's hand was still there, firm and hard, long fingers wrapped around him.

He needed to see. He just had to see. And sure enough as soon as he turned his head, craning his neck backward, it was everything he'd wanted and more.

He barely even noticed as Ray's hand slipped away to tug open his tunic, rapt as he was by the display, by Ray's mouth on Ray's mouth, or not on it, or inside it--or something. It was pure animal ferocity, and yet it was passionate and beautiful because of it. They'd kissed like this before, and they were bringing some part of that death-defying coupling into it now. But that wasn't Fraser. He wasn't so easily rough or mean.

Just as it seemed Stanley might lose consciousness from lack of air Fraser was interceding on the situation, slipping his hand against Ray Vecchio's jaw and pulling his former partner's face toward him. He kissed him then, kissed him with the same sweet, urgent tenderness with which he'd kissed Stanley, his eyes drifting closed as though he were sipping wine, drinking in the moment. He kissed him only for the space of a few seconds, tasting the blood on his lips, tomato paste, doughnut sugar, cherry lozenges - the residual Stanley taste of mint and tobacco - then withdrew, knowing Stanley would be watching. He looked shyly back into the face of a man he'd known so well, loved so much: Ray Vecchio, his partner. It was all so surreal.

And then he looked across into the face of a man he knew so well, loved so much: Ray Kowalski, his partner, for some kind of acknowledgement, or encouragement. If they were going to realise that this was all a horrible idea, this would be the moment, but Fraser wasn't going to be the one doing it. Nothing had ever felt so right. ]

[bluntobject]

[ --Fraser's hand tugged him away, and Fraser's lips brushed sweetly against his own, and holy shit it was like getting whiplash, this sweet tender mouth against his own. And God, if he hadn't been jealous of Stanley before he was now. He might be wooing Stella, and she might be the woman of his dreams, the future mother to his kids, but this...this was heaven.

When Fraser pulled back he was flushed, impossibly beautiful looking like a renaissance painter had made him. His tunic was open, his hair a little wild, his lips glistening wet. His eyes... His attention snapped back toward Stanley, and he was still trying to catch his breath. His mouth hurt. It tasted of Fraser and Stanley; of rendered meat and spun sugar, of Wrigley's gum and cigarette ash. His head was swimming with it all. ]

You're a lucky fucking bastard, Ray Kowalski. Now let's have that shirt off.

[kickem]

[Vecchio is unrelenting. He shouldn't have expected anything else after last time. Within seconds, Stan's lips and tongue are given a thorough reminder of just what he'd been through only a few days earlier, wounds reopened and new bruising and bites already happening. After his and Fraser's chaste and sickly sweet kiss they'd just shared moment ago, this was like a rude awakening, like stepping over the border only to be kicked in the teeth with a welcome to America reminder, but he's just as prepared to give his own welcome. Kowalski battles back with just as much determination, leaning into and against Fraser as he wrestles over the Mountie's shoulder with tongue and teeth and a eagerness to prove himself. He can get intimate and doe eyed with his partner and still be ready for a battle in the middle of it all.

He's barely even paying attention to anything outside of their warring mouths, until a stumble and slam has him hitting against the plaster walls, the weight of the two others hitting it with him winding him as he exhales heavily into the kiss. It's enough to kill his back but doesn't seem to stop him beyond a visible flinch, although he won't deny he's just a little grateful that Fraser chooses to intervene. The moment his lips break away from Vecchio's he's gasping for air, chin nestling against Benton's shoulder just long enough for him to suck in enough oxygen to keep his brain somewhat functioning, although breathing is really damn hard when his attention is being drawn to the other two locking lips. This must be what it was like for Vecchio to see the two of them at it earlier, although possibly with a little less trembling and anxiety twisted into it. It was ridiculously tender, Canadian-ly polite and sickeningly sweet and fuck it was far too hot to exist. Stanley's surprised he doesn't just come right there when he sees the face Benton makes as he withdraws, it's pretty much a miracle he stays dry when those wild but forgiving eyes gaze directly at him, all hopeful, expectant and seeking approval. There's no way Kowalski could stop this now, not even if he'd wanted to, not after that look.

He wants so desperately to encourage Fraser. Show him he'd done a good job, and as his hand wanders down from the Mountie's shoulder he finally notices that tunic had been undone, giving him a perfect opportunity to lift both hands, hook his thumbs into each of those suspenders and flick them down Fraser's shoulders along with that red serge. He wants his partner undressed yesterday. In fact, he'd really love to tear the rest of that uniform off right this fucking second but then he's hearing the breathy voice of Vecchio break the surface and Stan's suddenly blinking away from that Mountie gaze.]

Don't I know it. [He comments in return, but then his brain catches up with his mouth and he's trying to work out what that means. He's lucky? Vecchio's right there with them. Unless. Unless Ray means after this. After they've all tangled in each other and part ways, and Vecchio goes back to retirement and Kowalski's still there with Fraser, working and meeting and fucking... oh. Yeah. Maybe he's pretty lucky. Especially if this whole ordeal doesn't scare the Mountie off forever more. And even if it does? This might almost be worth it.]

You really gonna try givin' the orders again? That's how you think this is gonna work? [Which it apparently is, because even as he speaks those biting words, Stanley's quite willingly managing to shrug off his holster and squirm out of his t-shirt, even with the restriction of the wall and the Mountie that he's sandwiched between. But he'll blame the clothing removal on the quick temperature rise and not at all because Vecchio said to do it.]

[bluntobject]

[ Between them, Fraser was getting the strip down treatment, serge and suspenders tugged down over muscular shoulders. That was good; really good. He'd watched Fraser's business like strip show in his rearview mirror enough times to be able to appreciate the reverence even in Stanley's rough stripping, because how often had he dreamed about doing that himself? Ripping off Fraser's clothes and leaving them rumpled and abandoned on the floor as the sex got rougher?

Ray's hands came up to assist in the process, skimmed across Fraser's hips, before hooking the bottom of his shirt and - with a little of the other man's cooperation - tugging it smoothly up over his head. That left him the entire expanse of Fraser's back to run his hands over while--

Oh. Oh that was pretty.

Out of his shirt, Stanley Kowalski was a picture. There were bruises around his throat and down his chest, his arms, his wrists; black and purple and red. All the places where Ray had bitten and clawed and kneed and squeezed; across the top of his ribs and his forearms where he'd held on from behind as he tore into him. This was what he'd wanted. He'd been able to tell the story with his own bruises, but there was something so very rewarding about being able to refresh his memory via Stanley's bruises too.

Oh yes, they were beautiful. His open hand strayed to Stanley's chest, thumb brushing one bruised nipple, and then he was pulling his hand back abruptly, stripping out of his own crisp silk jacket and pressed shirt with rough efficiency, as though the heat of it were suddenly suffocating him. ]

Nothing to lose by trying. [ He quirked his eyebrows at Stanley as his mouth brushed the back of Fraser's bare neck, a column of unbelievable strength that none the less bowed under his touch. ] I didn't do so badly out of it last time. [ His hands settled again, this time on Fraser's chest, and he was pulling him back, hands splaying across a glorious expanse of pectorals, tilting his weight away from Stanley in order to give the other man a little freedom--or maybe just to torture him with the show. ]

Hey Benny. [ It was a stage whisper murmured into his ear. ] Ray doesn't look so good. How about we kiss him better?

[dogsled]

[ 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. ]

[kickem]

[The second his top is off, Stanley starts to feel exposed. Two sets of eyes falling on him and causing him to glance down at himself just briefly, and wow, yeah, he supposes there's a fair few bruises to witness, but they were signs of a good fight, just like they would be if they'd been from a boxing match. He took a good beating, but you should see the other guy. It's good to get them out in the open, if he's honest with himself, rather than spend far too long trying to keep himself covered up with long sleeves in hot rooms and uncomfortable shirts against far too sensitive nipples. Nipples that have him gasping out a sharp breath the second Vecchio reaches out to brush a rough pad against them, teasing as his hand withdraws immediately after. He wants to chase that hand, to pounce after it, but as his gaze lifts again he's suddenly noticing, as if for the first time, Fraser bared before him.

Jesus, that's a good sight. A proper display of good health, of thick muscle and good skin and a build perfectly tailored for outdoor pursuits. Kowalski can't even help the hiss of what might be annoyance as Ray tugs the Mountie further away, and Stanley's left with a sudden bubble of jealousy that the asshole is getting to put his hands all over his partner before he even gets a touch in. Stan wanted that to be his lips at Fraser's broad neck, and his hands at his chest. That should be his Mountie gasping into his hold and shuddering against him.

But then Vecchio's whispering far too loudly about kissing him better and Fraser's falling forward like he can't manage anything but do as he's told. Obedient little sod when he wants to be, not that Kowalski's complaining, his gaze dropping to catch sight of his hand being enclosed in Benton's grip and Benton's tongue. God, he was licking things again, but this... this was something Stanley was a hundred percent cool with him licking. He's not even sure how something as simple as a mouth at his wrist and hand can get him excited, but it's working, that tongue and those lips wrenching soft little gasps from him, especially as Fraser unhelpfully opens up a few healing grazes. This was his life now, getting horny from a damn tongue on his palm, but as Benton sucked, Ray was right there with him, lifting his free hand to tangle into the usually perfect mess of brown hair.]

Yeah. [He gasps, encouraging and reassuring as his attention finally lifts back up to Vecchio. Stanley's just a little too smug that he's got a Mountie at his feet, unable to resist the wolfish grin finally tugging at his lips as his gaze flicks down and straight back to Ray again, suggestive.]

It's not gonna kiss itself better, Ray.

[bluntobject]

[ He'd encouraged Fraser forward, but Ray didn't expect him to buckle like that, to go immediately down to his knees and start sucking on Stanley's bruised wrists like he was some sort of skin starved Mountie vampire. It was everything he could do to keep his eyes off Fraser, because he knew that if he looked he'd lose the game, he'd lose some part of himself that could still stand that this was all Stanley's now and not his own.

So he watched. He stared into Stanley's face as Fraser's tongue made him pant and gasp, and cocked his head over to one side, desperately keeping his eyes up, challenging. Come on, just try it.

And then Stanley grins, and his eyes flick down and up again and fuck fuck fuck Ray's eyes follow, and snap immediately back up, but already there's the snapshot of Fraser prostrate at Stanley's feet, his neck straining from pressure as he sucks on Stanley's wrist, the wet noises of a mouth on bare skin. Jealousy and desire flare up in equal measure, and his instinct is to punch that stupid grin right off Kowalski's face, because Fraser was his Mountie first, but all he does is clench his fist and unclench it again, squeezing the life out of his fingers in the hope that it stops him from breaking Stanley's jaw for no good reason.

Easy Vecchio. Temper. They were, after all, back in Vegas. Or at least in Nevada. God only knew this wasn't ending when they left this room. ]

You'd like that, huh? Both of us on our knees?

[ So fight it was.

He stepped forward at once, careful not to trip over Fraser, and seized a handful of Ray Kowalski's hair, tugging his head back. In he ducked, quick like a fox, inhaling deeply through his nose from the corner of the other man's jaw. There was a pause, suspense, and then he was nuzzling into the bruise there, soft and gentle at first, then harder as his mouth closed over the spot where his teeth had left a mark against the bone, digging back into it with renewed and vicious vigor.

His free hand, though, that reached out to curl across Ray's in Fraser's hair, keeping the Mountie between them still like he was using him as a metaphorical shield to hold back Stanley's ability to fight back. Hell, they were all going to end up on the floor at some point. Being upright was overrated. ]

[dogsled]

[ God this...the two of them riling each other up was turning him on. It was like a battle was being fought above him, and though Fraser was really far too into sliding his tongue over each of Ray Kowalski's digits to really pay any great deal of attention to any of it, he still couldn't miss the verbal jousts, or the way Ray's fingers twisted hard around Stanley's fingers in his own hair, pinching and tugging unrelentingly.

It's not going to kiss itself better, Ray.

You'd like that, huh? Both of us on our knees?

Fraser - visual Fraser, who lived in his own imagination half the time anyway - could see it in his own mind's eye, both of them, lips catching and tangling as they kissed every inch of Stanley they could, competing for it. Or maybe it was his own fantasy, this desire to drink in every inch of skin until he'd sucked all the flavor out of it. Maybe he was fantasizing both of them fighting over him--the combinations were endless.

One hand stayed twisted around Stanley's wrist, holding it against his throat as he earnestly kissed his way upwards. The second, free, first raised to brush the inside of Ray Vecchio's wrist behind him before reaching across for Stanley's bare waist, for the arch of his hip dipping downward under the waistband of his jeans. His fingers hooked under the seam, running down the length of it with just his flat hard fingernails touching Ray's belly, and then as he reached the fly they hooked in deeper, anchoring in warmth, the bristle of stray pubic hair against the back of his fingertips shockingly intimate. His thumbnail counted the teeth, hopping from one to the other, torturously, all the way down.

Fraser was sometimes too patient for anyone's good, and this was a prime example of that. Anyone else would have ripped them off already. Instead he was busy nibbling into the delicate skin on the inside of Stanley's elbow, working his teeth in experimentally in his tender too-Canadian efforts to leave a bruise without actually causing any harm, almost afraid of his own efforts to do so. He licked at it again apologetically. Sorry, Ray.

Far too busy on other things to realise he literally had the key to all of this curved against - pressing eagerly against - the palm of his hand.

Or maybe he did know, and he was just that much of a dick. ]

[kickem]

[With both his hands occupied, Stanley distantly realises he left himself open for attack. He'd expected retaliation, of course, especially after his little display of smugness at his Mountie, and he'd certainly not expected Vecchio to drop to his knees and willingly join in, he just also realises he's pretty stupid to have no form of fighting back.

Vecchio's quick, but Kowalski already knew that, the hair tug and the mouth enough to have him growling out a low noise of complaint as his view is forced upwards and his neck's exposed. There's a brief moment where his apple bobs as he tries to swallow despite the angle, and then his minds kicking him into gear to try and retaliate.

By the time he tries to lift that hand from Fraser's hair, Ray's already on it, wrapping around and keeping a painfully firm grip in place, and Stanley's other hand is still in the clutches of an apparently clueless Mountie. Or maybe he's not clueless. These two fighting out is what all this was originally about, after all, so surely Fraser expects it again, even if he is proving to be a somewhat unintentional anchor.

Everything that follows seems to happen far too quickly and yet somehow far far too slowly; the teeth at his jawline biting down hard enough that he's half expecting Ray to take a chunk out of him, a ridiculous comparison to the careful nibble and suck on the sensitive skin at the fold of his arm that Fraser was occupied with. And then. Then the teasing brush of fingers as they trail along his waistband, against his zipper and far too close to growing arousal.

He feels like his knees are going to buckle out from under him, but he keeps the wall for support, dropping less than an inch before his knees lock out and he stays where he is.]

Ngghhaah, Fr-- Ben!

[He tugs at the arm his partner is sucking on, instincts still calling for him to try and fight Vecchio off as he sinks his teeth in, but with little other way to try and retaliate, Stan goes for a tried and tested method of kicking. Or kneeing, awkwardly bringing up a bony knee to try and catch Ray in the leg, or the hip, or if he's really lucky, the balls. Just anything to try and ward him off or at least try and alert his partner to the fact he's got a fucking vampire on him.]

[dogsled]

[ Fraser had very little clue what was happening above him. All he knew was that Ray was twitching, jerking, groaning. The muscles of his stomach jumped under the knuckles of his hand, and the arm he had tight hold of snapped taut full of tendon and strained muscle as though it were taking everything in Stanley's effort to keep from fighting his arm free with all the strength he had.

He felt the very moment when his partner almost fell, and shifted his shoulder into Ray's thigh to help, thinking that the request that he was sensing was 'Ben I'm going to fall!' and not 'Ben get this crazy Italian off me!'

Whoops.

He did at least pause to look up, though, to make sure that his partner was okay, and the view from below, Vecchio at Kowalski's throat--it put him off guard, took his mind entirely off the game and his own role in it, because just for a moment he was the secret voyeur looking into their hidden world of vicious biting, handcuffs, fucking against walls, and whatever else his delirious mind could dream up for them to have done.

He was so distracted that when Stanley jerked his leg out desperately (since Fraser wasn't helping), he fell back almost on his rump, very nearly knocking Ray's legs from underneath him in the process. He stayed upright only via his own knees and his grip on Stanley's waistband and wrist, but got a wicked painful tug on his hair as he fell too; more than enough to wake him back up.

Whose side was he on, anyway? If he wanted to see anyone win this battle it should be Stanley, his partner. Loyalty to that was important, after all, and maybe if he showed a little support... Yes, that was probably for the best. If he didn't, he'd never hear the end of it.

He let Ray's wrist go reluctantly, then reached up toward his own throat. His lanyard was still around his neck--it had slipped through his shirt as Ray had pulled it over his head, and now Fraser loosened it, tugged it up past his ears and pulled it tight around both Rays' wrists. Then his hand wriggled underneath the two hands in his hair, freeing himself, and he rolled out of reach, ducking into the space off to the side, and uncertainly finding his feet again. His legs were very wobbly.

Okay, so tying Stanley to Ray wasn't strictly helping him out, and the lanyard was really just a pulley, it could be tugged back open in a matter of seconds, but it gave him the vital time he needed to get around Vecchio's back, cross his arms across his elbows and twist Ray's arms downward, trapping them at his sides. As Fraser's hands were still helpfully free, he thumbed open Ray's zipper too, slipping both hands down under his waistband - down, down, groping and squeezing - his eyes on Kowalski over Ray's shoulder as though to say 'I've got him, partner, now what do you want to do?' ]

[bluntobject]

[ All of his ducks were falling just where he wanted them to; Fraser was being good, using that wonderful mouth of his to turn Kowalski into goo, and Kowalski was fighting back with his usual futile grace, pinned to the wall like a butterfly and flopping helplessly, groaning out his bitter appreciation. Poor guy, he really did get shafted - literally - and now even Fraser seemed to be picking up on that fact. Dangerous, that, letting the Mountie with the clever mouth know his weaknesses so early in the game.

Ray follows as Stanley slips several inches down the wall, careful to maintain just the same amount of pressure on his hair. As mean as he might be with his bite, this is all still playing - it always has been - and it would be a problem if he ended up with a handful of dark blonde hair and no freak detective.

But even the best laid plans, right?

Unlike his curly haired companion, Ray heard the bleating request under Kowalski's desire: Help me, he said, and so Ray chuckled out a laugh against his throat--and then Fraser was falling against him, and Stanley was kicking helplessly and everything almost went very, very awry. He stumbled back, yanking on Stanley's hair as he went, but managing to loosen his jaw enough to not rip out his throat at the same time. By some miracle - probably Fraser's quick thinking - they all managed to stay on their feet. But then things very quickly got worse. Fraser was wriggling free, and he couldn't pull his hand away from Stanley's when he tried to reach for him, and...

That cheating, lying, traitorous Canadian bastard!

Vecchio snarled, fighting viciously against his restraint, but it was already far too late. Fraser's arms were locked, snapped like vices pinning his own. His hands had none of Kowalski to hold onto, and now it was his turn to make one desperate, helpless kick, as though by doing so he could somehow wrench himself to freedom. The kick only made him slip a little further into Fraser's arms, embraced against the full length of his back by the strong, bare chest behind him. It was like lying on a gas-lit range.

Traitor. This is what he gets for saving a guy's life more times than he could count? For losing winning lottery tickets and taking bullets and exploding his own beloved cars? This is what he gets? This is-- ]

H-holy Christ, Fraser.

[ Fight it, Ray. Kick him in the balls, the knee--anything. No, no thank you. He couldn't move his legs, that would require blood, and sorry, the rest of his body would have to do without that because there were hands inside his slacks, inside his underwear, stroking and kneading, and just for a second his vision tunneled out completely, his heart racing. He couldn't take it. He was going to have a goddamn heart attack. Was that his arm tingling? Fuck. What was he supposed to be doing again? ]

[kickem]

[The almost fall had been a crisis easily averted, but his fumbling attempt at a knee had been less so. Fraser was caught in the crossfire and like a set of dominoes they'd all almost gone over. Stan's not quite sure how they managed to stay upright (other than Benton, who was already floor bound anyway) but the hand in his waistband had been an odd help as he shifted to catch his footing. He was still forced to pitch forward slightly as Vecchio went, that hand still agonisingly tight in his hair and causing a sharp bark of pain as that yank came. At least his neck is still intact, which is one small comfort in all of this.

Kowalski can't help but notice that Fraser's getting back to his feet once they all seem to have sorted themselves out, and he's not even that surprised at how quick the Mountie can move. One second he's on the floor, the next he's whipping around behind Vecchio and bear hugging like a true Canadian. Stanley can't even be annoyed when he notices (thanks to Ray's tugging) that they've suddenly got their wrists tied together, not when Fraser appears to finally be playing for the right team.

Now Vecchio's the one pinned and helpless, jerking uselessly against the too-strong arms and those outdoor worn hands that slip beneath his waistband.

Ray- Ray Kowalski, that is- grins. He grins just a little too triumphantly as he takes a moment to watch, eyes falling on Benton's gaze and nodding slow and knowing. Good job, he says without even opening his mouth.]

You were gettin' a little left out, Vecchio. Didn't seem fair. And y'know Fraser; he's all for fairness.

[And then he's closing the gap, stepping into those last few feet. The tethered hand curls around Vecchio's, fingers intertwining to keep a good grip, making sure that hand doesn't try and drag them both anywhere he doesn't want, but the other had free roam and he uses it to his advantage. Well. To all their advantage really as his fingers curl around the waistband of those slacks and underwear and tug sharply downwards to bring Fraser's groping out into the open. Kowalski's hand moves to join in, reaching under to palm and roll against the now exposed balls.]

Like that, huh? I think you'd enjoy some Canadian cock in you. We all gotta share the Mountie, after all.

[His lips far too close to Ray's ear, withdrawing just long enough to raise his eyebrows towards Fraser- Play along, buddy- and then he's ducking down, lips tongue and teeth trailing a path down Vecchio's breast bone, across a pectoral, and then lathing the flat of his tongue against a bare nipple. He licks and sucks just long enough to try and string along that sense of security. Just long enough to get the excitement rising, and then he's biting down, sharp and unrelenting as his teeth first bite into the nub, and then down against the sensitive flesh and muscle beneath.]

[bluntobject]

[ Fair. Nothing about this is fair. For one thing, being laid out, pinned, helpless for Stanley with no way of fighting back is viciously depraved. All he has is those fingers, into which his own tighten painfully hard, as much unwilling to let Ray go as he was trying to squeeze the feeling out of him. He kicked at the floor again, but Fraser only absorbed every ineffectual action he made as though he'd spared no energy at all. Fraser was a rock, and Stanley was a cock, because God...

God the air and freedom practically stung.

He had no disadvantage either. He could look down and see those broad hands, calloused from climbing up the side of concrete buildings and playing guitars and swinging on ropes--and whatever else it was Fraser did all the time. They were practically sandpaper, not at all soft, unlike Stanley's. The contrast was enough to make him whimper--and then instantly regret it.

And then whimpered again despite himself because those were dirty filthy words, and they were dirtier and filthier for the fact that he wanted it so bad. Fraser thought so too; or at least there was an imperceptible extra oomph to his next squeeze, the exposure of something... God was that a handgun or a rifle nudging against his ass? ]

I'm going to... Madre. I'm going to kill you-oh. Both of you. Whack you. Feed you to the ffff--

[ Words failed him again, and Ray watched entranced as Stanley's head bobbed down, a feeling of mounting horror rising in him. He was feeling great, flying high, and this could only end badly. It could only end badly. Because they were doing that whole silent communication thing, and there were teeth in Stanley Kowalski's mouth, he knew all about those, and the better he felt, the more amazing that mouth felt on his nipple, the surer he was that...

Holy fucking Christ!

Except he shouted it out loud. Oh well. Not like anyone in the police station would be remotely perturbed by that outburst. The groan of pain that came at the second bite, at least, he managed to keep between them. Stanley was intolerable. He was...he was the personification of sexual cruelty, and he knew it. Honey and sweetness and then viciousness--a fast learner. ]

[dogsled]

[ Unlike Ray lost in frustrated lust, or Stanley smug with his own superiority, Fraser was measured serenity. He was completely focused, as though he were simply attending another interrogation, and while there was a slight flush to his cheeks, he'd looked more worn out after running up twenty-four flights of stairs (i.e. not even remotely, but maybe breathing a little harder than usual.)

Fraser tightened his arms slightly; he was very happy with his position, very happy with Ray shuddering against his chest, and very happy with the affirmation he got from his partner. Good job, flashed Ray's expression, and Fraser had to fight down the urge to respond into something more reasonable, his eyes flashing downward then back up. They were both of them open wide in front of him, all bruises and bare skin, and he was given the ability to watch, drinking it all in as his partner slid Ray's trousers down past his hips, baring him to the open air, baring his ass to Fraser's still uniform-clad hips, and he shuddered, rocking upward despite himself, even before he heard Stanley's mocking remark.

If they'd expected him to be unsure, or offended, by the hushed words whispered so cruelly against Ray Vecchio's ear, they'd be waiting for a long time. He was aroused, positively glowing with anticipation, and he didn't need any of his partner's reassurance that it was okay - just play along. Instead he concentrated on Ray's erection, free to his hands now, squeezing it gently in reassurance before beginning to touch a little more reverently; tenderly.

He loved them, both of them. All of this was...unprecedented, unprepared for; but here they were none the less, and Fraser was the kind of man who adjusted very quickly to even the most unlikely scenarios. He was always ready with a ripost, and this was no different. Besides, it was just another expression of love--that was something he could do without hesitation, without even thinking twice about the details or complicating things with what it meant. It just was.

His lips brushed against Ray's throat, working up toward his ear, but his eyes were on Stanley as he worked down, anticipation curling in his stomach. He had to choke down his own surprise when the attentive mouth on Ray's nipple turned to teeth, holding tighter to the body against him as his former partner bucked and yelled in pain. ]

Easy, Ray. [ Murmured against Ray's ear, though his eyes were on Kowalski. Who knew which one he was speaking to. ] Take it easy.

[kickem]

[Those threats were music to his ears, as was the whimpering that hadn't even been covered for. Vecchio could complain all he wanted, but that growing arousal certainly countered far too much of his arguments. He liked this as much as Kowalski had liked it days before, despite the mild blow to pride. Or perhaps because of it. It was liberating to be under the mercy of someone else, to have them make the decisions while leaving little in the way to counter. It's not something they'd allow outside in the real world, Stanley knows that, but in here? In here they could be something else.]

You sure complain a lot for a guy who's harder than a rock.

[His mouth withdraws it's assault long enough to get those words out before trailing towards Ray's other nipple, the same careful treatment given then of soft sucks and attentive licks, lasting it out as he shifts his attention back towards his hand. Those curled fingers slowly creep further back, brushing against Vecchio's perineum and leaving Fraser to keep up that stimulation. There's a brief scrape of blunt nails until he finally settles at the tight muscle just past, fingers circling lazily and, with little warning, pushing against with pressure without ever actually entering.

His mouth never bites down, leaving that possibility lingering far too long as he adds one final, languid lick and one small scrape of teeth before straightening up, brushing a quick path of lips straight back to Vecchio's neck and onwards to his ear. There's only one swipe of his tongue against the curve provided before he settles in close, voice low as he keeps his gaze locked just over the shoulder at Fraser and grinning wickedly.]

What was it you said the other mornin'? 'Bout jackin' it off to your good buddy Benny? You ever picture it like this? With him stronger than a fuckin' mountain and slammin' in from behind like some wildman of the North? You ever even tell him you think dirty shit like that about him?

[dogsled]

[ 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. ]

Tell me more.

[bluntobject]

[ The lack of control really did feel good. It was powerful, like being on a row boat in the middle of a storm at sea, at mercy to the roll of the waves and the lash of the wind and rain. It was exhilarating and terrifying at once, almost death defying to have his pride ripped away and be able to do nothing - nothing - about the onslaught ripping into him. Hands and teeth and words were like swords and needles pressed into his skin, bleeding him out. The thrill of it - the thrill of feeling as though there was no coming back from this - more than rivaled the pleasurable superiority he'd felt, the power, of when he'd had Kowalski on his knees in front of him, similarly helpless, chained to the headboard.

It was hard to know where to align his focus. The mouth that had so injured him only moments before abandoned that nub to the air - and god it stung - languidly wandering toward the other. Ray couldn't help his anticipation, counting seconds: was it longer than last time? had that been a flash of teeth? bite me if you're going to bite me!

But it wasn't the only distraction. Stanley's hand was wandering back, replaced by Fraser's, fingers pressing against his perineum in such a way as it made his toes curl. One of his shoes had fallen off, and his pants had slipped halfway off on that side, but the mess of half-stripped outfits wasn't on anyone's mind right now. Not when Stanley was busy touching there, moving his devilish mouth up to lick at his ear where Fraser had been but a moment before, and purr into it all his secrets--right to the Mountie's face.

Oh shit.

Fraser's hands stopped moving, and for a second it felt like he might just get dropped on the floor, deposited on his back while Fraser ran for it. It seemed to take forever for Fraser to breathe again; Ray knew because he was holding his breath too, and then - blessed relief - that mouth moved to his ear and shit shit shit Fraser was taking too many fucking cues from his partner because that hurt. It was still throbbing when Fraser, voice like audio porn, murmured cool air and hot words against it.

Tell me more. He didn't; not right away. ]

Kowalski. Ray. There's lube...in my right pant pocket. ...And my ankle holster is right in the fucking way. [ In the way of kicking off the rest of his clothes. He made a plaintiff gesture with his left leg. ]

Fraser. Fraser--Benny. He's right. He's right, and I shoulda told you, I know, but how do you tell your best pal that sort of thing? Sat down over pizza watching the game 'Hey Fraser, I dreamt about doing you in the backseat of my car last night. So how about that touchdown, huh?' [ He groaned. ] But it's not just me. Ray here wants to take you back to Canada and have loads of warming-up-this-igloo-so-we-don't-freeze-to-death sex with you. You know, real fuck or die stuff. Jesus.

[ He shuddered all the way through, rolling his hips down against Stanley's hand, grinding against Fraser behind him, and he snarled into the open air as he tipped his head back. He was going to go down fighting one way or another. ]

Go on. What're you waiting for, a new Pope?

[kickem]

[There's a long dragged out moment where Ray considers regretting his words, staring at Fraser over Vecchio's shoulder as the Mountie slowly appears to lose all ability to think, let alone properly stand. It's that look that concerns Stan, that look that almost says I'm ready to bolt, but might as just likely be I have no idea how to process this new information. Fraser didn't even seem to be looking at him any more, eyes glazed as they are, oddly vacant compared to the usual alertness. Perhaps that truth was too far. The anonymous element of sex in an interrogation room with a guy called 'Ben' and some Italian might have been more appropriate.

But as quick as it had started, Fraser clicks back into reality and seems more than willing to continue. That reassuring drag of teeth was enough to get Stanley purring out a soft hum of agreement, and another as he witnesses the bite at Ray's ear. Good Mountie. Benton always was a quick learner. That purr turns more into a moan by the time he's hearing the ragged gold voice smooth out between them, and oh God he wants to hear more of that and see more of this.

He tilts forward enough to press a kiss to the corner of Fraser's lips and then withdraws just far enough to keep Vecchio in sight as the detective speaks. Lube. Right, that should be a thing that happens, even if there really should be some questioning as to why there's lube in his pocket to begin with. Fraser's supposed to be the one ready for anything, but that's an argument to save for another day.

With a final soft nod to Fraser, Stanley drops again, quick on his descent this time to get right to the issue, both hands withdrawing long enough for him to sort this holster and pants issue out. He knows how ankle holsters work considering how often he tends to wear his own, so his fingers work deftly at the fastenings. The struggle comes in trying to wrestle the pants fabric and holster away from one another but he does surprisingly well with it all, holster dumped aside (careful of the firearm inside) and the pants aided the rest of the way down for Vecchio to step out of. That sorted gives Kowalski free reign to fumble for the lube, retrieving it quickly and only giving it the briefest of glances before he's tearing it open and squirting a liberal amount on his fingers.]

Learn some fuckin' patience, Vecchio.

[While he's down there he gets himself comfortable, down on one knee and raising his other hand to reach around and grip at Fraser's hip for support. The fingers of his other hand trace a slick path up the inside of Vecchio's thighs, between them and then carefully creeping back. A single digit circles, smearing lubricant in it's wake before pushing up and in, wriggling itself deeper with a few twists and curls on it's way. When Stanley isn't snapping back retorts, he's mouthing against the sensitive skin at the top crease of thigh near to Benton's hands, nipping every now and then for effect and all too hopeful of bruising.]

We're both guilty, Ben, buddy. Both got Mounties on the mind. You're a real asshole for that.

[bluntobject]

[ The simple fact of it was that Ray had seen some sort of reciprocation like this coming, and like hell was he going to be on the receiving end of Stanley Kowalski's revenge without having some lube on his person. Might as well accidentally shoot his own ass cheek off, he'd be more comfortable sitting with a gunshot wound than going through anything like that. It could be at any time, in any place; a closet, an office, a washroom, the back alley behind a dive bar--who knew. But he wasn't going to go into it unprepared. Literally.

Okay, so he hadn't guessed 'In the Interrogation Room with Fraser', but life had a way of surprising you. It had surprised him with this sexual thing the first time around.

Patience. Hah, patience, that was funny. He'd shown Kowalski last time that he was overwhelmingly blessed with patience. He'd turned him to jelly with how patient he'd been. But he couldn't find it in himself to complain. His legs released, kicked wider in relief. He was depending entirely on Fraser to hold him up now; his heels were all of his feet that brushed the floor, and yet the full support of his former partner seemed allied with him, his bruised and scratched back supported on a slab of pure, smooth, perfect Mountie.

This was too good to think about distracting things like kicking Kowalski in the head for fun. He could have done it, with where Stanley was kneeling, and yet his mind was on everything but violence. Kowalski's finger was rolling a languid circle, teasing, the slick trail of lubricant left behind on his thighs cooling wonderfully in the hot air, and his mouth--as that finger pushed inside, Kowalski's warm mouth was pressing into the space between Fraser's hands and his thighs, so close to his cock that he could almost feel it.

He groaned, low and deep, a throttled and urgent sound, but it was a sound of anticipation and not pain. Kowalski couldn't hurt him with one finger if he tried. But Fraser? God, Fraser had to stop. The steady kneading had been building up as they talked, and the intrusion of the finger had been a reminder of just how close he'd been brought already. He wasn't sure how much more he could take. That voice, those hands, that mouth. ]

Hey Benny. Benny, you gotta stop okay? I'm begging you. I'm gonna go up like a Roman Candle if you keep this up. I can't take it. Benny, please.

[dogsled]

[ What Ray had been saying before, about wanting to have sex with him in the back of his car, and the comment about Stanley Kowalski's...well the thing about igloos, which sounded ridiculous and made up and therefore probably was--well, the thing about all of that was just how shocking it was. He'd never thought twice about it, had only become aware of his partners' desire for him moments ago, and hadn't had time to come to terms with the full extent of that, nethertheless any of the subtext they'd apparently been developing all along. He really was oblivious to other people's attention, wasn't he? If he couldn't interpret those long lingering looks as sexual desire, then how well could he really say he understood these two men? What else had he been missing?

Was he really that much of an asshole, as Stanley put it? Stringing them along with his red serge and dashing good looks? Yes, probably. He'd made the pair of them moan just by talking; it really was impossible to claim that there was nothing there. God, he'd literally felt the impact his words had had through direct contact with the responsive organ trapped in his hands. There was no misinterpreting that.

Ray ground down against him, and Stanley's lips brushed against his own for but a moment, and he was reminded once again of that moment of stars aligning and crashing to earth at once as their mouths met. It was like everything he'd been waiting for had happened without his realising it. That kiss had felt like...unfolding some part of him that he hadn't known existed, and the little peck was more than reminder enough that he wanted this; that he wasn't afraid.

Stanley peeled back, and Ray slumped against him, more boneless by the second. He wasn't even trying to support his own weight any more. Not that Fraser could blame him. He was still watching over Ray's shoulder, watching rapt as Stanley knelt in front of him and chewed bruises against delicate skin while his hand crept around underneath. He didn't have to see that to know what was happening, not when the tremor and snap of tension it caused went clean through the man in his arms.

Once again he really had to ask himself if this was really happening. Kowalski's threat to Vecchio - if it could even be called that - was that Fraser was going to do the honors, make love to his best friend. The idea thrilled and terrified him; he wanted to do it with every ounce of his courage, while the rest of him wanted to back off and insist on a demonstration first. It was hard to retain any focus, and yet Ray was begging him for something, asking him to... Oh. He looked to his partner for instruction. Stanley would know what to do. Was he supposed to carry on or not?

Looking to his partner for permission--now that was teamwork. The back of his hand brushed Stanley's cheek, but he addressed him by the name both of these men shared. ] Ray?