thelockbox | Benton Fraser

Benton Fraser | Due South

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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[ Or at all, actually, but details.

But here he is, flat on the floor, and he grunts slightly, rolling himself over onto his back with a huff and staring up through his eyebrows at Ray, crouched above him. ]

I'm quite alright. Apart from the minor bruises sustained by my pride.

[ But no broken noses or wrists despite the fall, and at least in a way they're close to each other again. He blinks, huffs, then closes his eyes for just a few moments, going back over everything that had just happened. They'd really been interrupted by Turnbull. With an axe. And it was totally routine, like this was something that happened every day to everyone, not just people who hung around with crazy Mounties.

He opened his eyes again slowly, fixed them on Ray, and lowered his voice just slightly. ]

I think I broke all of your rules but the last one, Ray. I don't suppose I could trouble you for a reprieve, citing extraneous circumstances?

[At least Fraser isn't dead. That's a bonus. Barely even hurt, in fact, which is actually fairly impressive considering the fall he just had, but Fraser is practically infallible and a faceplant like that won't hold a guy like him down for long.

Ray remains where he is, eyebrows lifting as he glances down at Fraser in return, curious and questioning as he listens. At least he understands Canadian now enough to make sense of it all.]

I dunno, buddy. Rules are rules and as an officer, I gotta uphold 'em.

[Staring for just a little longer before:] You want up?

[ English, Ray. It's English. ]

I--yes of course.

[ And there was an edge of something approaching excitement in his voice, a subtle change from the usual apprehension that went hand in hand with those particular words. Maybe they hadn't lost the thread entirely; there could still be hope for them.

As for the question: before he answered it, Fraser shimmied himself up onto his elbows, blinking down along his body at his ankles, before looking back over his shoulder at Ray again. ]

Might I first trouble you to remove my boots? I'd do it myself, but-- [ He jangled his chain. ]

[English. Canadian. Same diff. It's sure not American either way.]

I guess I gotta do everythin' around here.

[But he's hardly going to decline, not when it comes to helping a buddy out. And also undressing him. Especially not when it's his handcuffs that have otherwise incapacitated his friend.

He shifts alongside Fraser, stopping by his feet to eye the boots up for a long pause. Never before had Ray noticed quite how much lacing there is to those things, but he'll do as requested, if only because Fraser asked so nicely. With a sigh he reaches out, still crouched, to tug at the neatly tied bow at the laces of one boot and then attempt to loosen off what he can of it.]

These aren't boots, Fraser, they're uh, they're torture devices.

[ Fraser stays perched on his elbows, cuffed hands in his lap as he watches Ray struggle with his boots. Not that he has any intention of helping him unless it actually looks like he means them harm, in which case he might ~~would definitely~~ intercede on their behalf. ]

And yet, Ray, with the greatest of luck I hope to be buried in them.

[ Okay, so that wasn't actually a very good thing to say if you didn't want to bring an avalanche down on your head the next second, but the sentiment remained: these boots were very special to him; irreplaceable, in fact. Fraser studied Ray while he tried his very best, then pulled himself up into a sitting position, knees slightly bent, and leaned just a few inches in toward Ray. ]

They should be loose enough now.

[Must Fraser really mention death around Ray? The only reason he's not getting reprimanded for such a comment is that Ray's far too engrossed in the masses of lace to even bother offering anything more than an eye roll. It's only when Fraser prompts that Ray even attempts to tug, gripping with both hands and using his whole body to tug it off. Not so hard, other than the whole unlacing process. Give Ray some zipper biker boots any day over this mess. At least he has enough respect to carefully place it aside.

But he carries on, leaning over just slightly to angle himself to tackle the next lot of laces, head tilted close to Fraser's as he works, a little more swiftly this time around.]

Woulda been quicker just to un-cuff you.

It might.

[ But it was too late for that now, and Fraser was enjoying the effort Ray was going to. It wasn't every day that you could ask someone else to unlace your boots, and there was something very appealing about having Ray slow down enough to actually do it. It wasn't like his partner changed pace often.

More importantly, it gave Fraser all the opportunity he needed. ]

But then I couldn't do this. [ As soon as Ray had plucked the second boot off, Fraser threw his arms over his head, hefting forward, then rolled onto his back again, taking Ray with him. Back on the ground, he had all the time he needed to wriggle one foot up his pantleg and firmly pull the entire mess of clothing off his legs. He hugged him firmly, arms around Ray's waist. ]

Now who's in whose custody, Detective?

[Ray may have had to slow down for that, but it hadn't stopped the energy from building inside, pent up frustration at not being able to do it quickly and toss them aside afterwards. It was a lesson in patience, and Ray's never good at those.

Ray doesn't register the words quick enough to really work out what's going on, realising Fraser's moving too later to dodge even if he'd wanted to. Arms envelop him and pull him down, but he at least has the good sense to catch himself with a hand before landing too heavily on Fraser, drawing back just enough to arch an eyebrow at his partner.]

I guess that's open for debate, huh?

[Squirming against Fraser to try and get comfortable, trapped as he was.]

I'm still on top. [Apparently he thinks this gives him some sort of advantage.]

[ Fraser doesn't take it as a proclamation, rather as a question, and he concedes: ]

You're still on top.

[ Without making it clear whether he means in the literal or metaphysical sense...not that it really made much difference either way. Ray was still on top, and though Fraser tightened his grip slightly, it was only because Ray was wriggling against him, unable to - or perhaps determined not to - keep still.

Fraser set his head back at last, looking straight back up into Ray's eyes. ]

I'd like to negotiate new terms, and for that I needed leverage. Specifically, given the change in circumstances, I'd like to request some degree of vocal leniency; guttural sound under 60 decibels, and permission to give yes or no answers.

[ He licked his lips. ]

In addition, I'd like a kiss.

[The tightening grip doesn't seem to work, at least not initially. Ray appears intent to get himself into some level of comfort only known to him, but once he catches Fraser's gaze he finally stops to stare back, curiosity remaining.]

I left my decibel detector in my other pants. But I uh, I can accept the yes/no stuff.

[The furrow of his brows finally breaks away as a smirk spreads to his lips, leaning down to give that requested kiss with the energetic force expected from Ray. It's firm, fast and easy, lacking in the hesitancy from earlier as though he's finally stripped himself of any doubts. With the amount of interruptions they'd had tonight, Fraser would have been able to back away plenty of times by now and as for possible regrets in the morning... well... they'd have to cross that bridge when they came to it. Ray's a live for the moment kinda guy, after all.]

[ Fraser looks distinctly confused for a second in his other pants, is he serious? before deciding it was a joke, and by the time he's done that Ray is pressing down into the kiss with a new freedom and abandon. They haven't kissed since...well, since they were back on the desk panting orgasms against each other's mouths, and this one more than reminds him of just how good Ray's mouth could feel, how warm and firm his lips are.

But it's a different animal of a kiss. While Fraser had been unleashing parts of himself that were hidden beneath the surface, here Ray submitted everything that made Ray Kowalski who he was; cocksure, energetic, demanding, passionate. Ray poured all of himself into the kiss, and it was all Fraser could do to respond, tongue and lips rising to the clash of Ray's against his own, the dull sting from the cut, the electric heat that jumped between them.

Instinctively, Fraser raised one knee slightly off the ground, hooking it against Ray's side. His hands rose back up along his back, first settling on his shoulders, then - deliberately releasing him - moving up to Ray's hair so that he could wind his fingers through the feathery strands. He let him go, fully with the understanding that they'd sealed the deal with a kiss, and an expectation of Ray taking back over, as before. ]

[Ray really does give himself over to the kiss. Every last bit of him, like an unspoken 'I'm yours' that only Fraser will ever understand. Ray's an open book with very little hidden away or repressed, what you see is what you get. He can't give Fraser any more than what he already is, but that's okay. Fraser does, after all, know what he's getting into when getting involved with Ray, either as a friend or as something more.

He lasts the kiss out while cuffed hands trail up his back, hums out his approval at the fingers in his hair and only once he's sure he's clear of those arms does he break it, ducking back in briefly for one final brush of lips. Part of him would love to stay in that embrace, to explore Fraser's mouth like he'd never previously had a chance to, but right now he understood there was plenty more to explore.]

Roll over. Like before.

[And like before Ray shifts back enough to give Fraser the space he needs, eyes sweeping the body before him, starkly contrasting Ray's own fully clothed self. But hell, he wasn't the one who needed to be baring skin here.

The floor will give Ray more space to work, although being a little less comfortable. If nothing else, the two of them are making their way around the office quite effectively.]

[ He understands. He'd understood what they were playing for when this began, even if he'd been unprepared to admit his commitment to it, but shortly thereafter he'd put his head down, determined to take what he could get. Having Ray give himself like this is more than what he wanted, but he understands it when it comes, accepts it in close against his heart.

Any question of things being difficult subside at once, like a sandcastle collapsing under a wave; Fraser already knew how he expected things to be come morning, how they'd wake up sprawled on the floor or the couch, how the buzz of affection would still hum on his skin. They'd go for coffee, drive to the station, work on this case together. Nothing would change, except for the warmth in their occasional, professional glances. And of course, hopefully, the sex.

Because he was really enjoying that aspect so far. Fraser gave himself fully, emotionally and physically. He'd been burned before. But not every person he let himself love was going to betray or try to kill him. And if he could trust anyone not to do either of those things (or at least not to mean it if he did), it would be his partner; his friend; the man in whose hands he lay his life every day.

When the order came, the kiss broken, his mouth freshly bruised from the unrepentant assault, Fraser was silent. His assent came in the form of action; Fraser turned over on the spot in a single heft, then drew himself up onto his forearms and knees, careful to spread his weight so that if Ray leaned his own against him it would be a little less comfortable than their previous position. Almost the moment he was there, anticipation burst in his chest like bubbles in champagne, so palpable that he felt them tickle the back of his throat. He waited. ]

Yeah, like that.

[What happens after this is something that still remains at the back of Ray's mind. The concept of a fairly normal day tomorrow is a perfect scenario, but Ray still thinks the worst when it comes to these things, still half expecting a complete change by the time they've woken up. He knows that it wouldn't be like Fraser to love and leave, especially not to lie like this, but it's difficult to reassure his mind with logic. But now? Now he has Fraser on his knees, waiting, and that's far more important.

The moment Fraser's eye line breaks away from Ray he moves, pushing himself to his feet and taking the few steps towards the couch to snatch up a certain holster. When he approaches again he stays out of sight, boots stomping heavily against the floor and the quiet clink of buckles as he shifts behind, remaining directly away from view. If Fraser hadn't already guessed (or seen) by now Ray prompts with a sharp snap of leather as he swings it into the palm of his own hand for effect.]

You broke the rules big time, buddy. Almost got us found out. [Another snap of leather against his palm and then a quiet thump as Ray drops to a knee, tucked in right behind his partner.]

I can't let it slide. I gotta rep to uphold.

[And whatever this rep of his might be, it apparently involves keeping with his own set of rules and expecting the same from Fraser. Might be something he expects once they actually go undercover for this whole thing. The act will certainly be a convincing one at this rate.]

Same as before. Keep quiet. We don't want any more disturbances. [He reaches out his free hand to run the flat of his palm down Fraser's back, a quiet warning of what's to come. The second that hand withdraws his other moves into action, swinging back and then down in a short arc to lash the leather strip sharply against the upper back exposed to him. He has a little more manoeuvrability this time thanks to the added space the ground provides but his lash isn't much firmer than the first time, sharp as that initial contact undoubtedly is.]

Two more.

[ Seen, no, but Fraser listened, knowing why Ray was heading back for the couch, listening for the telltale whisper of leather on brocade that said that he'd picked up the strap. And really, even if he hadn't heard, he would have been able to guess that it was Ray's intention. He had broken the rules, after all, and while it was true that unless he'd interceded as he did Turnbull would have rushed in on them, the younger man simply wouldn't have been there at all if Fraser had managed to keep from screaming bloody murder.

All actions deserved fair reward; in this case reasonable punishment as befit the crime.It was an acceptable consequence. It was also, bizarrely, a consequence he found he was looking forward to as Ray slapped the leather against his hand for effect.

The hand is a gentle reassurance; a warning, but more importantly it helps Fraser time his own response. When the lash comes, though his body jerks naturally underneath it, Fraser has already exhaled, and there's no air in his lungs to snap out in a cry. The pain is still something else, though; it's remarkable how, without seemingly any sense at all, such a simple snap of leather has blood pooling downwards to quick effect.

Cool air makes the new welt sting, and there's a particular sharpness to the sensation where the second stripe crosses over the first. His skin burning with anticipation, Fraser deliberately, still only breathing more heavily, shifts back against Ray's hip, indicating wordlessly that he's ready. He exhales again, transfixes a spot on the floorboards inches from his nose, and tries not to tense up too much. ]

[Clever thing, that exhaling before the impact. Ray catches onto the trick swiftly and takes note. Like the steady exhale and trigger squeeze Ray has practised so many times at the firing range, the point after an exhale giving his body a stillness to focus, let his muscles relax and let his concentration lock purely onto the target. This exhale for pain method might be something he can use to his advantage one day, but for now he can use it to Fraser's and at least time the blows at the appropriate moments.

Ray takes the pause between strikes to assess the damage, gaze sweeping across the curve of Fraser's back to take in the growing redness. No cuts, abrasions, or anything else that'll indicate any lasting damage. It might bruise or sting for a few days but that can't be helped any more than Fraser's self inflicted lip cut. The Mountie was always doing something to injure himself anyway, what with his penchant for throwing himself out of moving cars, apartment buildings, in front of bullets, fists and anything else most would deem unsafe.

The push back against him jerks Ray from his staring, raising the holster above his head again and waiting for that tell-tale exhale. When he does strike again, it's almost perfectly timed, but notably more forceful as he uses his upper body to aid with the momentum rather than relying on arm strength. He's testing the boundaries, like he always does, seeing what he can get away with before he's told otherwise. This isn't about hurting Fraser, never was and never will be, this is about asserting himself, building his confidence in something that he's all too uncertain of, while offering Fraser the chance for his own control. It's a test for both of them, although Fraser certainly has the harder job.

That strike doesn't linger long, a whisper of leather as he drags the strip softly away, trailing a path against the fresh mark before lifting upwards once more. There's little in the way of pausing this time, just enough time for Fraser to manage a few sharp breaths before Ray's prompting with a quiet mutter of 'exhale' under his breath that might be for his own benefit just as much as Fraser's. Like squeezing a trigger, Ray waits until the breath has left them both before he lashes out again, sharp and hard with his body behind it again, the effort enough to leave him out of breath.]

Should be enough to think on. [He pants out, carelessly dropping the holster to the floor as it slips easily from his grip.]

[ Delicate Fraser is not; not as a whole, at least. He bears savage injury without flinching, vicious knife wounds and gunshots in the back and the occasional deliberate (or accidental) blows to the head. Jumping through third story glass windows and rolling out of moving cars would hurt normal people, but he takes his scrapes and bruises without making a sound. This is different because of the physical effect it's having on him, overcoming the pain isn't in his best interests at all considering the drill of pleasure each strike instills in him.

He's not afraid to be hit a little harder, and in fact when Ray hits him the second time, and pauses in the beat that follows, Fraser's inhale-exhale becomes the soft whisper of a moan under his breath. No, not quite a whisper. It's deliberately loud enough for Ray to hear, though not loud enough to break the 60 decibel rule of normal conversation.

He hears Ray, too, when his partner readies the next strike, feels him shift his upper body and murmur 'exhale' under his breath, hears him exhale, follows suit. It occurs to him too the similarity between this method and Ray's careful judgement of aim and trajectory before he fires his gun. It's a question of concentration, he knows; Ray is judging his own power and direction, balancing the weapon in his hand, and the path he lays down is the one he's chosen, exactly where he intended it to be, with as much force as he meant. It means more to Fraser like that; it means Ray is listening to his body, and making decisions based on how Fraser responds. They're working as a team even now, even like this.

The next strike sends another thrill through Fraser that he simply can't ignore, his fingers curling into his hands, flushed and panting. Afterwards he tilts his head very slightly forward, slightly to the right toward he clatter of the fallen strap, and Fraser lets the comment linger at the forefront of his mind.

It is enough to think on. The sting to his back is brutal, and perfect for it; after all it was Ray who had inflicted those bruises, and if they ached for a week it wouldn't be long enough. He rolled his hips back toward Ray again, a shiver catching him, and resisted the urge to beg for the warm soothing caress of fingers on stinging flesh, no matter how much the thought of them appealed to him. He wanted Ray to feel what he had done, and he wanted to feel Ray feeling it. ]

[Ray's seen the sort of abuse Fraser can take first hand, seen that nothing will drag him from work beyond physical paralysis and even then he seems keen to continue. Maybe it's madness, maybe it's bravery, maybe it's just stupidity, but it's Ray's Mountie and he's proud of him no matter what. Perhaps that's why he can strike with such force without huge concern.

It's that moan that concretes it. Reassures Ray all over again that he can't hit too hard. Fraser's enjoying this and Ray- the man who could barely hurt a fly despite all the usual bravado- enjoys it because of his partner. He reads off Fraser's reactions and tries to keep it pleasurable for them both, the sadism only stretching to the extent of what his friend wants from it. The moment Fraser shows displeasure is the moment Ray will stop enjoying it. At least for now their bodies work in unison, reading off one another through pleasure and pain, building on a connection- a foundation- that was always there.

The roll of hips against him is met with a lazy roll forward of his own, tilting down enough to better inspect the redness of Fraser's back. Urging or not, Ray can't help but reach out to touch it, careful as though putting his hand on a hotplate, laying his palm flat against the burning flesh beneath. He hums out a low noise, soothing, one that seems to vibrate through him all the way to the touch, the flat of his hand resting for a moment before there's the careful creep of fingers. His thumb brushes broad, slow strokes, following the strips of red with curiosity, marvelling at the the points where one strike crosses over another.

When he does lean closer, it's to press his lips against previously touched skin, tender in contrast to the earlier force. He speaks, breaking through the panting and light moans to mutter against skin.]

You like that?

[ As Ray presses forward, Fraser rolls with him, pushes back again as Ray meets the apex. It's all careful balance, give and take, and it's part of why they function so very well together. Fraser has no complaints, at least, particularly since the fact that Ray is so close to him means that his partner reaches across his back at last, warm fingers damp with sweat a refreshing sting that as much helps Fraser to map out the marks as it lets him get a feel of Ray's mindset. He can feel Ray settling down, confident and comfortable, no longer as afraid of doing harm as he'd been in those first apprehensive moments after the first strike, when what he'd done had at first caught up to him.

Even this much had changed their relationship. Fraser hadn't known pain could be something he liked, and Ray hadn't known he had it in him to inflict it. It wasn't as if he'd ever deliberately explored it before--even if he'd ever had opportunity. Fraser was the kind of man whom despite his strength people seemed to endeavor to protect; if he so much as hinted that he was ill, or injured, wellwishers would appear within moments. And Ray - Vecchio - had been the most protective man he knew; if this was a big city thing, Fraser had been well insulated from it.

But Ray wasn't Ray Vecchio. Ray was all rough edges and occasionally going too far, and the spark in him was frightening sometimes, but he'd brought them to this point as much as Fraser had pushed for it in the first place. Pushed in a way he never would have done with his former partner.

Now Ray being comfortable is what he wants. Fraser wanted, most of all, for Ray to be enjoying this as much as he was. Ray's almost breathless moans against his skin, when he did finally lean down to press his kisses to the wounds, reassured him that that was the case. They were both enjoying this, even if Fraser was sure from the buzz of his own pleasure that he was getting the best out of it. He hissed softly at one particular spot where all four of the lashes had crossed over each other--there was a line of abrasion there four inches long, more a graze than a cut. Fraser arched and shuddered, and panted out one of the words he'd negotiated to be able to use. ]

Yes.

[It's a shame that Fraser couldn't see, if only for just that second, the brilliant smile that washed onto Ray's features, hidden away against Fraser's skin as it was. That all encompassing yes that dragged forth from the Mountie was perfect, encouraging and accepting in every way with no hesitation in it's meaning. They both wanted this and both enjoyed it, that couldn't be doubted.

Ray's careful with his lips, soft even as he tongue lashes out to add to the warmth, lapping a couple of times before dragging out a languishing lick against the salty stretch of that four inch graze. It's soothing up until a point where he decides to push it once again, alternating a warm tongue for a sharp scrape of teeth, dragged smoothly across the redness of Fraser's back.

He makes up for it with a simple reach around, fingers finding their target with ease to curl tightly about Fraser's arousal. He alternates his grip, his rhythm, his approach, trying to find the right reactions from his partner. Anything to work out how to do it just right. But it's not easy to judge what's causing a reaction when he continues the assault of his mouth, the soothing touch of lips and tongue occasionally integrated randomly with a scrape of teeth.

He'll learn in time, but for now it's just about their presence with one another. Getting to learn a whole new side of someone takes time.]

[ Fraser feels the smile. Like letters drawn on his back, he senses the subtle meaning in the change of shape of Ray's mouth through his kisses, and exhales another happy moan, his eyes drifting closed. Looking at the ground wasn't helping, but with his eyes closed he could stretch out with all of his other senses, feel more, hear more.

Feeling more was the priority. Particularly when feeling more meant feeling like this; meant feeling Ray's tongue lathing against abused skin, lapping at the sensitive graze, teeth scraping at bruises as Ray tugged down almost the full length of his shoulder blade with his mouth. It wasn't painful so much as a tingling sensation - Ray could have done more harm with a comb than with his teeth - but it was pleasurable none the less. Not at all anything that needed to be apologized for.

When Ray slipped his hand around his arousal again, there was no holding Fraser still. He rocked forward at once, his back dipping under Ray's mouth before arching back toward it, the muscles in his back undulating in time with the movement. Enough time had passed that he wasn't quite as sensitive as he'd been five minutes before, but it was an improvement because of that--he could actually feel Ray rather than at the first touch only being aware of there being too much sensation all at once. Not that there isn't too much sensation. Between Ray's mouth, his hips and his hands, it was already becoming difficult to think, difficult to do more than pant soft yesses over and over again under his breath. ]

Yes. Yes, Ray, yes.

[ Technically breaking his own rules, the slip of the name comes when Ray's touch is at its most rough, its most firm, in contrast to the gentle, soothing searching of Ray's tongue. He whimpers out loud when the touches to his cock are instead too gentle, but the teeth catch rough against the swell of bruising welts. Fraser is all contrast; he thrives on it. ]

[The movement underneath him is worked with, trying to keep his own body in tune with the shifts of Fraser. It all draws back to the the rhythm of his hand, both of them trying to add to the stimulation of one another.

While Fraser's back arches and bows beneath him, he tries to match his head in with the movements, the up and down shift helping along with the lapping of his tongue and the occasional bump of teeth against skin is hardly cause for concern. Ray's hips rock in behind, rolling against Fraser with each stroke of his clenched hand, flattening himself across his partner's lower back as he does so. It's surprisingly easy to find a balance between synchronising all these movements, but it's no different than dancing, not really.

With the movements as fluid as he can manage, his free hand reaches out to ruffle fingers through Fraser's sweat-slick hair, grabbing a handful for leverage to tug his head back. He shifts himself upwards, chest pressed so tightly to Fraser that there's a constant friction against those burning welts, his mouth instead shifting to give attention to the bared neck with a similar treatment of tongue and teeth. He's close enough that he barely has to speak above a quiet murmur.]

You got enough in you to come again, buddy?

[And there's that fiendish little smirk again, curled against Fraser's neck before sinking his teeth against the quickened pulse of his jugular.]

[ Synchronisation--that's exactly what it is. The rhythm is so much like dancing that Fraser can hear the music again, although to be fair he's leading the harmony with his own little noises; harder, harsher though they've inevitably come to be. He dances, follows Ray's lead as before, and then as fingers curl deep in his hair he groans, the sound a deep, louder rumble that he doesn't even care to try and subdue.

Fraser doesn't just let himself be pulled back, he moves up with the tug, coming up onto his knees in such a way as he's almost sitting in Ray's lap, torso upright and pressed against him, chest heaving. His eyes flash open open again, lashes fluttering as he gets his bearings, his head pulled back nearly against Ray's shoulder. The tension there is visible. Benton swallows, gasps in another eager mouthful of too-hot air. The sweat on his neck glistens in the low light, and his whimper at Ray's mouth - tender, affectionate, a little rough against his neck - almost smothers the sound of Ray's murmur.

He doesn't have an opportunity to answer before Ray's teeth sink deep against his neck, and again, even unable to see the grin he knew without doubt it was there--not that the shape of Ray's mouth was the first thing on his mind. Teeth and wonderful, contrarily euphoric pain, a peppering of shock, all of which contribute to one distracted Mountie; one who cries out loud, but perhaps not as loud as before, under the unexpected assault.

And distantly his mind goes to the impossibility of hiding this particular mark underneath even the high collar of his uniform, and whether or not he would want to even if he could. He almost anticipates the perverse pleasure of dancing around the inevitable questions without ever actually straight up lying about it.

And if there's an answer to Ray's question, he's really in no position to answer it. ]

[As Fraser moves, so does Ray, letting the momentum of the tug carry them upright while making sure to keep their bodies connected as much as possible. Ray needs the wet warmth of Fraser's skin against him, loathe to have them part for too long to feel the cool air of the office take over. He needs the assurance, wants Fraser wrapped against him. Clingy could be one word for it, but Ray just prefers the term 'affectionate'.

In hindsight he didn't exactly give Fraser much of a chance to reply before he was sinking teeth into flesh, but it could be included as rhetorical anyway. Whatever the reply is, Ray's still going to see Fraser through to the end with the aid of a skilful hand, eager mouth and excitable body shifts.

The noise issue has all but been discounted now, difficult as it is to punish the Mountie in their current position beyond biting him, which... Ray did before there was even a necessity to bite. It's difficult to punish when pain has become pleasure. Turnbull will just have to listen to Fraser winning this game, because Fraser is definitely winning something.

Ray's teeth never quite pierce skin, but they'll undoubtedly leave a mark, especially with the pressure he sucks and licks against it, a school yard trick. He doesn't care if it can be covered or not, wouldn't even mind the odd glances or careful questions Fraser would get about it. It's Ray's marking on Fraser, to show where he's been. Once he's certain of marking, he moves onwards to the more obvious target, lips dusting kisses across his partner's jawline as they make a path upwards, settling quickly at latching around an earlobe, teeth delicately wrapping around as he sucks softly.

The relative softness from his mouth is countered with a firm, sharp grip of his hand, working with the upward thrust of his hips as he grinds against without shame, his breath breaking out into heavy pants and soft whimpers around Fraser's ear, occasionally mingled with an almost pathetic sounding groan.]

[ 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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