Work Text:
Okay All Right
Pairing/warning/rating: Slash (Fraser/Kowalski), restraints (of a kind),
NC-17
If you don't like slash or kink, you'd best turn back now.
This is a kind of "how did they/he get that way" (he=Fraser) musing on what might have drawn F/K to B&D initially, what made them realize they liked it.
Note: in this story, F's "home" is still the Consulate. But instead of sleeping on the floor in a bedroll or on a cot, he has an extra-long twin bed.
Many thanks to Judi for the question, comments, and musings that inspired
this story. Thanks also to Erica for beta reading.
Okay All Right
The young detective is handsome in the typical clean cut way.
He is also very attentive to Ray. Too attentive.
A phrase comes back to me from a conversation between Jack Huey and his partner Dewey. "The 23rd. They're all gay over there. They have to be, to work in that neighbourhood. Well, okay, not all of them. Only eighty to ninety percent of 'em are gay."
And this young man is from the 23rd district.
* * *
The feeling is white, but unlike my usual cold feeling of whiteness (or white feeling of coldness), this feels white hot. It washes through me as I stand at the door to the precinct room, and look at young Detective Patterson. Ray is showing him something on Francesca's computer, and the detective leans over him, one hand on the back of Ray's chair, and the other on the desktop next to Ray.
He's almost completely encircled by the young man's arms.
In theory they are both looking at the computer screen.
But I am certain that Detective Patterson's inordinate closeness to Ray has nothing to do with the computer screen.
And Ray, what is he doing? Smiling. Talking and grinning that sly smile and his eyes are crinkling up in that way he would call "fun-lovin'" -- and why is he doing this at Detective Patterson?
Right then, of course, Ray looks up, and his expression changes immediately when he sees me.
But it's too late. I saw what I saw. I'm not sure what it means but it certainly seems that whatever it is, it is mutual. I turn on my heel and leave, seeing Ray jump up and push past Patterson out of the corner of my eye.
"Fraser! Frase!" he calls after me, but I won't listen. I hear the sound of jogging footfalls behind me but I cannot break into a run myself without everyone paying attention to me. For the umpteenth time in my life, I regret that the official uniform is red Serge.
His hand is upon my shoulder, but it is a companionable hand, not a lover's hand. Not that he could touch me as a lover here in the middle of the 27th, I reflect sadly. An absurd thought to tell Ray to transfer to the 23rd district occurs to me, and then I instantly disregard it. More homosexual police? Around Ray? With the reaction I am now having, I must be mad.
"Fraser, what the--"
"It's quite all right, Ray," I say stiffly. "I saw you were busy and waited for a while, but apparently you're busier than I thought." The mean edge and emphasis come out of me involuntarily.
He stops, and his hand upon my shoulder now grips it and won't let it go. So when he stops, I must stop, unless I'm willing to tear myself away here in the middle of the police station. Which I am not. That would be giving away more than my emotional reaction to Detective Patterson is probably already giving away. At least, to those with the eyes to see it.
"No, Frase, I wasn't that busy. I was just trying to show Jimmy some stuff, but we were goofin' off more than workin'," he explains. "I was waiting for you to stop by."
"Were you?" I reply coldly. Cold enough that he takes his hand off me and steps back.
"What crawled up your butt and died, Frase?" he mutters, sotto voce, through clenched teeth that superficially appear to be a smile.
"Nothing. That's quite a colourful phrase, Ray." I turn on my heel again.
"I'll give you colourful -- Fraser," he calls after me, but I won't stop, won't turn around.
"See ya later, Frase. The usual," Ray calls after me.
I can picture the thinly disguised anger, or perhaps frustration, on his face. He's never been good at hiding that.
* * *
"The usual" is that we meet at his apartment -- to which I have a key -- and order food for delivery. And usually he ravishes me.
But not tonight. Tonight I just want to lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling. There is something terrifyingly familiar about doing this, but I can't think what it is. I don't generally look at the ceiling, much less spend hours examining it. But tonight I have, while listless thoughts flit across my conscious mind, which attempts to drift but cannot. I tried reading. Ordinarily it is an escape I find both pleasant and edifying. But tonight I read the same page so many times without comprehension that I finally had to put the book down and admit defeat. I could not see the words on the page.
All I can see is Detective Patterson, arms enclosed around Ray. My Ray. Who isn't, I remind myself, really mine, any more than Dief is mine. We're bonded, yes, but... there is really nothing to stop either of them from going their own way.
A possibility which seems frighteningly likely to me, suddenly.
After all, he wouldn't have to explain "Jimmy" to his friends by saying, "He's Canadian." I'm afraid I've never understood why common courtesy and politeness should be considered abnormal, but in this environment they do seem to be in relatively short supply.
Jimmy. He called Detective Patterson "Jimmy".
Familiar. The way he said that name.
Suddenly a hundred swift visions of "Jimmy" doing things to Ray, to my Ray, explicit things, flood my mind and I almost physically recoil. But there is no way to recoil from one's own mind.
No. No. It can not be. Ray would never...
But I stop and think about Victoria suddenly. Prior to her return, I could not conceive of myself doing the things I did.
And yet I did them. For her. Because of her. In the end, almost went with her.
I'm a textbook example of the ways in which a person you think you know can suddenly become someone you've never seen.
And Ray is as human as anyone else.
Since "the usual" didn't happen tonight, and I am at the Consulate, and Ray is presumably at his apartment, I wonder if Ray will come looking for me. Ordinarily, he would.
I wait. I've been waiting. Shut up in my room, which Diefenbaker does not approve of. But I can't school my features into a semblance of normalcy and calm tonight. I walked Dief earlier, and would have walked from here to Ray's apartment... but I can't let people see this expression on my face.
I'm not sure what my expression is, only that it feels natural. My face has settled into it, seemingly of its own volition. It feels natural and yet foreign, too.
I cannot think when was the last time we spent a night apart.
It feels unnatural not to be at Ray's apartment in the evening. This evening. Yet I can't bring myself to pick up the phone in the next room to call him.
And he, apparently, has seen fit to punish me by not coming to see me tonight.
I can't believe he would do such a thing. But if it is not punishment for my earlier jealous behaviour, I don't want to know what it is that is keeping him away.
And yet I do.
But I won't call. No. That would be... an admission that I was in the wrong.
Was I? I don't think I did anything untoward. But of course, that is not the point. It shouldn't matter what I did or did not do... I am wrong to stick to the principle of the thing.
Which is... was... Oh, I can't fool myself.
I won't call because I suddenly -- or is it so sudden? -- can not bear to let Ray know he means that much to me, so much so that I would feel compelled to check up on him. To check to see if he has had "Jimmy" Patterson over for beer and pizza -- beer of which Patterson would partake, unlike myself. Check to see if he still cares. It is perverse. I care so much that I am making myself distraught with thinking these thoughts.
But to really articulate them... to really make them known, to make known the depth of the fear in me... would require calling Ray. Letting him know how much it worries me... plagues me... aches.
And that I can not do. Then he would know -- know without a doubt -- how much power he had over me.
Superstitiously, I pretend that 1) he does not know and 2) that not knowing will keep him from abusing that power.
That Ray not knowing the power he has over me will somehow magically prevent him from doing anything to hurt me. Though he already has, in my twisted perception of things. I can stand back from it enough to know that he hasn't actually done anything with Detective Patterson. That I am aware of, anyway... but truly I doubt that he has.
Intellectually, that is. Intellectually, I doubt Ray has done anything with Patterson.
But in that space between what I know intellectually, and what I feel... between what I feel and what I fear... Ray has done something with Patterson. Or will. Or would like to.
This is petty. And it must stop.
I hear the creak of a foot fall on the carpet in the hall and sit bolt upright immediately. The footfalls are steadier now. The cadence is Ray's.
I stand and quietly rush to the door to my room. I wait - why am I waiting? -- until I hear him just on the other side of the door, and then pull it open forcefully but silently, just as he is reaching for the knob.
He sways back slightly, and blinks. His hair seems freshly washed, newly spiked. He smells of deodorant soap and the warm, cottony smell of Ray. Why did he shower? I wonder suspiciously... and then realize what a stupid thought it is. He showered because he was coming to see me. Like a "date" as they call it. Because it isn't 'the usual'.
"Frase... What?" He says. I can not imagine what my expression must look like. But his is one of consternation. "I waited for ya at my place... 'the usual' ...ya didn't show. Where you been?"
"I..." Now I feel foolish and can feel the hot blood rushing to my cheeks. I am thankful for the semi-darkness. "I felt a bit under the weather," I prevaricate.
"Under the weather?" Ray asks doubtfully. "That weather wouldn't have anythin' ta do with Patterson and earlier at the precinct, would it?" he asks more quietly.
Of course. He would know. I may, in my occasionally petty moments, feel smugly certain that I am a good deal more intellectually knowledgeable than Ray. But I forget how instinctually he responds to everything. Instinctually -- and accurately.
"No, of course not," I say stiffly, stepping back into my room.
"That's good, Frase," he says, taking advantage of the opening I have made in the doorway to walk through. He passes a hand lightly and swiftly across my genitals as he does so. "Cuz whatever it was, you got it all wrong."
I am instantly erect, of course. And can not hide it, in my boxer shorts.
"Hey, Frase," he says, slipping his jacket off and dropping it to the floor. He sinks down on the extra long twin bed, all lean legs and arms, feet hanging carefully over the edge.
He still has his shoes on and is aware of -- and catering to -- my fussy nature. Outside shoes -- not on the bed. And he obeys my wishes without my even reminding him.
"Join me?" he smiles, that rakish smile. The burr in his voice is especially for me, a vibration I've not heard directed at anyone else, ever... And my hearing is, I believe, very acute.
As much as I am excited, unwillingly, purely physically excited, I am also suddenly sunk into despair and guilt.
He hasn't done anything with Patterson. Doesn't even want to. And I am a heel for even thinking he might.
And still, with a gulp, I realize that that doesn't even matter. Because more than Ray is involved. What if it is one-sided... on Patterson's side? He's not unattractive. A handsome, clean-cut young man. He could turn Ray's head. If he really tried, he probably could... even if Ray didn't have that in mind at all.
"Frase?" Ray queries, and I realize I have been standing mutely holding the door knob. "Whaddaya doin'?"
"Nothing, nothing, Ray," I reply quickly, shutting the door and locking it. The skeleton key I found buried once in the old filing cabinets we had to clean and organize is all that stands between us and discovery by the rest of the world.
I hesitate and step toward the bed, not wanting my guilt and fear to show, but knowing I am terrible at lying and hiding things.
"What is up with you today? I mean, I'm sorry I put it the way I did earlier." Oh, yes, that 'what crawled up your butt and died' comment of his, very colourful. "Ya kinda caught me at a bad time. But what's wrong?"
"Nothing," I reply, sitting down heavily on the bed, looking away from him. His legs extend at an angle so his feet can hang off the side of the bed... So close I can feel their warmth. But I don't touch him and my hands clasp into fists that rest on my knees.
"Ah, come on. You don't mean ta tell me yer worried 'bout that Patterson boy?"
I don't reply for a beat and then sigh, "No. Just under the weather, Ray."
"Under the weather..." he mutters, and then curls his dancer's body around me, his lean, flat stomach and torso. He brings his knees up so that, as I sit on the edge of my bed, his body has made an encircling U around me on the bed. His stomach is up against the small of my back, his pelvis curved around me, his thighs alongside my right thigh.
"Gimme a kiss," he pouts, and reaches up his hand to touch my chin.
Why can't I be like this? Why can't I be like Ray? Why don't I ever ask for what I want, say what I really mean or what I really think -- why can't I simply reach out and ask for the things I need, simply and directly, the way Ray does?
He doesn't care that I know that he wants a kiss. He doesn't care that I know that he wants affection. He doesn't care that I know he is being especially solicitous of me because he cares about me that much. That he worried what had upset me earlier and why I didn't go to his apartment for 'the usual'.
None of it seems to frighten him. None of it ever seems to make him feel he has effectively shown his underbelly to me, the soft spots which can be most grievously hurt. It never seems to bother him to reveal his emotions and -- ipso facto -- his vulnerabilities to me. It never seems to occur to him that I would ever use that information against him.
Am I that jaded -- that embittered -- that those are the split second thoughts that go through my mind when the impulse to reach out occurs to me? And is effectively quelled by my fears before my hand even begins the gesture?
The touch on my chin strokes my cheek and then I can not control myself and must lean down and kiss him, hungrily, as if I can not get enough. The alkaline taste of stale coffee is on his tongue. Suddenly I smell the soft tang of my own fearful sweat in my nostrils. I hear the thunk-thunk of his shoes hitting the floor as he kicks them off before backing up on the bed. His mouth moves away from me as he makes room on the narrow mattress for me.
"C'mon," he whispers, scooted back against the wall the bed is against. He pats the blanket beside him and smiles, half lusty, half sweet.
What have I done, thinking what I've been thinking about you, Ray?
"Get over here," he growls, softened by his grin.
I bring my legs up from the floor and sink down onto the bed. He reaches for me, but before he completes that movement, I pull him roughly toward me and roll over on top of him. My erection grinds against the tumescence under his jeans, the friction of the thin cotton firing my mind. I thrust it against him and feel the gratifying hardening of his organ in response.
"Yeah," he breathes, just before I devour his mouth with an intention I didn't even know I had until this moment.
My hands slide down his lean muscled arms to his wrists and grasp them. When he tries to bring his hands up to hold me, I hold them down and continue devouring his mouth and grind harder against him.
"Mmmmmmph," he moans under me, under my mouth, in the grip of my hands, held down by my weight. I feel his forearms and wrists tense under the firm grasp of my hands. His wrists are thin and almost delicate, like his hands. He is testing how firm my grasp is.
My muscles lock involuntarily and my grasp becomes iron. He could move, no doubt, if he chose to truly fight me. I am heavier, that is true. But he is equally strong in that wiry, whipsmart way of his. If he chose to truly exert himself, he could throw me off him.
Why am I daring him -- for it is a dare, inarticulate as it may be -- to do so?
The harder I hold him down, the gentler I kiss him. Paradox. The tension in his limbs increases under me. His muscles steel as well but do not completely flex into action. I feel him weigh the possibility of throwing me off in irritation, with the desire to please and placate me. I feel him consider, for good measure, the potential pleasure to be had by letting me have my way. Even his tongue is poised to thrust mine out of his mouth.
And then I feel him relax completely under me. His arms slacken. The bunched tendons in his wrists loosen and slip back into the lean flesh under the steel circles of my hands. His thighs loosen and part. His chest and stomach settle under me, inhaling a deep breath and sighing it out into my mouth. But now he is kissing me back more fiercely than I was kissing him when we first began.
He likes it.
That thought slowly simmers as I taste his watering mouth, his ever more active tongue... and then it boils over.
He not only likes it, he wants it. He wants more.
I pull back to breathe, tightening my hands around his wrists again.
"Yeah..." he murmurs, leaning his head up to kiss my chin, my cheeks, rubbing his face alongside mine. I can feel his stubble and the ticklish strokes of the soft spikes of his hair as he lets his mouth travel to my neck, my Adam's apple.
"C'mon, Frase... c'mon..." he whispers. The burr is back in his voice.
I like it. To have this long, lean, fiery man, under me, under my control, literally at my mercy. Of course, that's not strictly true. He could throw me off if he wanted to. But I am shocked to find an emotion welling in me which I think I have never known. A joy in his ...surrender. In my physical control of him. My lust fires, misfires -- I shouldn't be enjoying this -- and then flares again.
He likes it. He is slack beneath me. Waiting, hoping, breathing. He does not complain, does not struggle, does not fight me. I hold his wrists ever tighter. I steel my arms so that, if he tried, he could not bring his own hands up to his face (or mine). I have the advantage in terms of weight, but also in position and leverage. And he pushes against my hold on him. Tenses his muscles against my hold on him just enough to test my strength.
Just when he has flexed them enough to begin to move my firm grasp, he relaxes.
Surrenders.
He throws his head back. "Come on, Fraser," he whispers. Edge of need in his voice, need and a desperation I have not heard before. (Or is it my own desperation I hear in the mirror of my Ray's voice?) The aching hardness of my erection against his is nothing compared to the sudden fire I feel pushing my limbs to act.
I feel as I did when the travelling carnival came to Yellowknife and I rode their rickety and no doubt dangerous roller coaster. It was assembled mere hours before I rode it. At the peak of the first drop, I had never felt such anticipation. Suddenly I realized: it could derail, crash and fall apart, or it could roll on down the tracks. I looked down the tracks, seeing the drop before me. I felt my stomach weightless inside my body for milliseconds before the descent began...
The exhilaration, the heart-pounding deliverance from that exquisite moment of expectancy as the cars began to roar down, was unparalleled. It didn't crash and fall apart. It threw me back in the seat and thrust my stomach up to my throat as it accelerated in descent.
No doubt the possibility of real danger had a great deal to do with my excitement.
As it does now. I don't know what I am doing. I don't know what he is doing.
I only know I like it. I love it. I want it and need it. His submission. His surrender. I want to take him.
And, most surprising and exhilarating and frightening of all, he wants me to take him. Wants to submit, wants to surrender. Wants to give up control over his limbs, his movement, his needs...
We want the same thing. Want me to take him.
I can not believe the force of lust and-- and-- feeling rolling through me, almost in waves.
I slide off him, then, but only to the side. Relinquish my hold on his wrists -- but only to begin roughly unbuttoning and unzipping his fly with one hand while with the other I slowly touch my thumb to his lips. The strange dichotomy of what both my hands are doing does not deter me. One hand feverishly opens his pants. The other slowly, in a controlled and gentle yet firm motion, thrusts my thumb between his lips.
His pupils are wide. Semi-darkness or desire -- it does not matter.
The violence with which I jerk his jeans down to his knees moves his entire body and my thumb gets inadvertently bitten when his teeth snap together. Ray tries to soothe it with strokes of his tongue over the pad of my thumb. But the swift and sharp pain that made me wince is still a dull ache That will teach me.
No it won't.
He is hot and very hard and slippery at the tip in my other hand. I stroke him roughly and thoroughly. Long, hard strokes. Too much friction, too tight, from the tip to the base. The jerky strokes -- the slipperiness of his pre-ejaculate is not enough to lubricate his entire cock -- must hurt at least a little.
But he only moans and bites my thumb again, closing his eyes.
With that, I can not stand it anymore. I wrench my hands from his body, sit up to strip off my T-shirt as quickly as possible, and reach down to yank him into a sitting position. Once he is half upright, I rip his shirt off him over his head and throw it somewhere in the room behind me. With one hand on his chest, I thrust him back down on his back, and then yank his jeans and briefs the rest of the way off, leaving him in only his socks.
I am possessed. I can not stop myself. And he is meek, quiescent -- and moaning -- beneath me as I inhale his organ and bury my chin in the coarse curly hair.
I have never asked him what he likes. He has asked me many times. I have never asked him because he is so vocal, I know when I am doing something he likes. "Yeah" or "Fraser" or "Uh-huh" -- these all tell me when I am getting it right.
He is moaning continuously. Even though my hands on his hips must be hard enough to bruise, he moans.
Well, that's simply because I am fellating him like a wild animal that would eat him if it had fangs. I think.
But then I slow down and stop.
"Nuh, nuh, c'mon..." he breathes, thrusting his pelvis up at me.
"Ray," I whisper, and sit back on my haunches.
"Whuh..." he replies, dazed. His eyes open.
"Sit up," I say, getting up from the bed. I quickly strip off my boxers and they drop to the floor.
He sits up, too. Doesn't even ask me why, just sits up.
Is this trust? Am I about to abuse it?
I pull him by his arm, gently but firmly, to the edge of the bed, and hold his face between my hands. I tilt it up toward me. His hands seek my thighs, the backs of my legs.
There is nothing but love -- well, and lust and desire and fire and need -- in his face, in his eyes. I must be mad. I must be losing my mind. But I half-believe I see a sly look on his face that entices, that tempts me, to take his mouth as I have taken his cock. To plunder.
I move his head, tilt his face forward again to a level position, and step nearer the bed. The head of my penis meets his lips and he opens his mouth. And then I can not help myself. I thrust in, smoothly but determinedly and fully, until I hit a soft stopping point. I can feel the tendons and muscles that run up the nape of his neck stiffening involuntarily. The muscles of his throat move around the head of my cock, a ticklish tightening. But he makes no sound. His hands clutch the backs of my thighs tightly. He does not resist.
I pull back slowly, watching almost the entire length of my organ emerge from his mouth. I hear the breath come back in through his nostrils, see his chest rise and fall again. It is a curious mixture of fascination, lust, love and horror with which I watch myself thrust back into his mouth and throat again, a little more roughly this time.
It is as if I am having an out of body experience. I don't just see him, his beautiful face and lips wrapped around my organ, in this very intimate caress... I see both of us, as if from above and to the right. Am I dreaming? I can't be... I feel everything. The tremble in my weakening knees. The bite of his fingertips in the backs of my legs. The hot wetness of his mouth. The convulsive, airless swallow his throat makes reflexively when I have thrust my organ into it as far as it will go, so far that he can not breathe around it while I hold it there.
Beautiful, terrifying scenarios sweep through my mind and I can not maintain my control. I must thrust madly into his mouth, gradually letting him control my pleasure more and more. Ray's sure and deft mouth brings me almost to that crashing point. Somewhere in my head I am dimly relieved. Orgasm will wipe these ideas out of my surely madding brain.
But no. Now that he has control again, he is making the most of it... and making me suffer. To the edge... and back. To the edge again... and back. I open my eyes because to close them means I picture my next loving revenge for this sweet torture... and what I picture can not be normal. I have never been entirely sure what "normal" is, only that I wasn't it. But therefore I have a very good idea of what is not normal... and I know my thoughts are not. Definitely not.
Abruptly, with a wet smacking sound, Ray releases my cock with a fine suction at the last stroke off of it. I gasp with the mingled relief and regret that, once again, he has pulled me back from the edge.
He looks up at me, my hands move from his mussed hair.
"Frase?" he says hoarsely.
"Y-yes, Ray?" I answer unsteadily.
He scoots back on the bed, making room for me again. I sit, erection bobbing comically. It is all too much. I can not think or contain my thoughts. They veer wildly from the utter mundane -- which Serge tunic will I wear tomorrow -- to the sublimely erotic: Taking Ray. Right now. On his hands and knees.
Trembling I turn toward him again, and pull him to me. For some strange reason, right now a hug seems the only thing that will calm this bizarre lust to ...force him, all right, I admit it: to force him. To make him do what I want.
He strokes my back a moment, crushed in my silent embrace. Then -- because he is who he is -- he wriggles a bit and I let him. My hold on him loosens and he pulls back and searches my eyes.
"It's okay, Frase," he says, half-serious, half-sultry.
How does this man know what I am really thinking? How does he ferret that out, without me saying a word, time and again? Instinct. I suppose it is instinct.
"It's really all right. Okay?" he whispers. "Now, come on," he purrs, sliding out of my arms and back into a horizontal position. "Finish the job..."
He smiles with a sincere joy, arms crossed behind his head.
He said it was okay. That it was all right.
I stretch out beside him, stroke his body from his chin to his testicles a few times, until he is fairly humming beneath my hand...
And then I slide my hand under his slim buttock and lift slightly, pressuring him to roll over.
It was only a very light upward pressure -- but he flips over onto his stomach almost immediately. The paradoxical thoughts trickle through me... he is letting me control things. Letting me direct his actions. But if he is "letting" me, how much am I really controlling things?
Will it matter, once I am inside him and holding him down? Once I am greedily taking my pleasure in roughly sodomizing him?
I sit up and climb on him, softening my approach with a few soothing back-rub-like strokes from his hips to his shoulders. Softening my approach for who, him or me? I don't know. He sighs deeply under me, head pillowed on his crossed arms.
But once again, I can not help myself. I reach for his elbows and tug his arms out from under his cheek, and pull his forearms down to his sides, so that his wrists are alongside his hips. And I hold them there as I slide down his body, deftly insinuating myself between his legs where before I was sitting on top of them. I hold his wrists tight at his sides as I kiss down his spine to the tops of his buttocks, sensing the prickling of gooseflesh on his back. I hold his wrists tighter and tighter as I move my mouth down and press my tongue against his spine between his hips. I slide the wet underside of my tongue down the length of his tailbone, slide my tongue down the warm furry cleft to where it ends in the soft, yielding ring of muscle.
He moans.
I can not stop and must lavish many licks and much saliva on the puckered opening. I try not to mentally count the number of self-imposed inhibitions I have unthinkingly swept aside this evening. And yet now more than ever it seems confusingly as if I am the slavishly devoted one. Even though I hold him down, hold his wrists fast at his side. Even though he wriggles and moans and I can feel him trembling and it is all contained and controlled by me.
I spread my knees, which forces his thighs farther apart. Can I guide it in, without using my hand? Can I sink myself deeply into him without letting go his wrists to make sure my approach is right?
Does it matter?
I continue to hold his wrists and stretch my legs out, holding my weight up only by my knees and the hands so tightly bunched around his wrists. I thrust between his cheeks, feeling the slick sliding of my organ through the wetness of my saliva, feeling the sweet friction of the cleft, his hair...
He helpfully flattens his chest harder against the mattress and hikes his pelvis. I should have thought to put my pillow under him, but I didn't think of that when he first rolled over.
It is okay, though. It is all right. With each thrust, he relaxes more. Each slow slide between his buttocks, over the hair, through my saliva, further arouses me. And we both reach our respective points of arousal and relaxation when, on the next pass, the tip of my penis hits the dip in his flesh, the relaxed opening, and catches.
I thrust it in deeper. After some small resistance, I feel the ring of muscle give way and the shock of pleasure when most of the head goes in.
Ray moans.
"Yeah, Fraser, yeah..." he whispers.
I thrust again, deeper still. The second ring of muscle gives way.
"Ohhhhh," Ray sighs, throaty and low.
"Yes," I murmur.
I, Constable Benton Fraser, can not even speak colloquially in the midst of passion. It is "yes", after all, not "yeah". Yet I hold his wrists. My grip on them is slippery with my sweat and the exertion of holding my weight up by my hands and knees only. His wrists. They must be crushed under mine. I would never even have thought of holding him down, restraining him, before tonight. Yet I say 'yes' in proper English in the midst of passion.
It is passion that causes me to thrust in the rest of the way, all at once, in one fast movement. The heady sensation of invading his tight and not entirely yielding flesh is only slightly more arousing than the way his wrists simultaneously bunch under my hands in a reflexive -- and natural -- impulse to get away. To move away from a penetration that is painful, whether in instinct or in actuality. His arm and forearm muscles bunch and flex, and the wiry tendons rise up under my tight grasp on both his wrists. His whole body tenses slightly -- exactly the wrong thing to do, for him. I feel him tense around me, inside him, sunk to the hilt. And it is good and I do not let him get away.
"Frayyyy-zerrrrrr..." he moans beneath me. "Oh, God."
There is a wet sound to his voice and I can not tell whether it is a good wetness of passion, or a bad wetness of tears from pain. And yet it is throaty and beckoning when he says it again, slowly, slurred, as if drugged and happily so.
"Frayyyy-zerrrrr."
I pull out much more gently than I went in, but then ram myself home again, and he again involuntarily clenches around me for a moment. I can not stop myself. In the space of an hour, I have articulated to myself the fact that I can not stop myself more often than I inarticulately acknowledged my complicity with Victoria. I have admitted my lack of self control more times in this hour than in my entire life up to this point. I do not know what will happen in the next hour or the next twenty-four. And at this point, I do not care.
All that matters is taking Ray.
Another deep thrust, this one slower, and he moans again. Whispers.
"Come on... Frayyyyz... please ..."
I have heard him beg for release before. Surely the vocalization can not be that much different this time.
The only thing that is different is my hold on his limbs... the way the tension and resistance in his wrists and the rest of his body give way to relaxation... surrender... submission.
I begin a rhythm, steady and smooth. One two, one two. In two, out two. It accelerates when I feel him tilting his hips, angling them upward to meet my thrusts. The sweat trickles down from my temples, across my cheekbones like slashes of wet, and collects in the channels alongside my nose before dripping off my upper lip onto Ray. I feel it trickle down along my neck, and between my pectoral muscles, in an itchy trail to my navel. More sweat drips off my chest onto Ray's arched back. Arched away from me. Thrusting his chest into the mattress for a better angle of penetration.
A half-gasped, half-snarled word squeezes out from my clenched teeth before I even realize I am speaking.
"Mine."
A wave of exhilaration and fear sweep through me again. He likes it. What next? He likes it. His moans clearly indicate this.
And I like it too. And soon we are both liking it so well and so uncontrollably that he is moaning continuously. Then the rings of muscle spasm around me. The penetration becomes faster and friction-y: tight, hot and squeezing as his orgasm overtakes him and then mine is pulled through his.
The half-sobbing grunts I hear rising over Ray's low and incoherent moans come from my throat.
Legs trembling, arms trembling, no longer able to hold me up over him, I collapse gently onto Ray's back. Still deep inside him, I feel the fluttery twitches of his aftershocks around my still-twitching organ.
It is wet between our bodies with the sweat that dripped off me onto him. Our bodies shake with our heartbeats, or so it seems to me... Until our decelerating heart rates come to coincide. Then our two bodies throb as one each time our hearts beat.
I slowly release his wrists. Now I do not know what to do with my hands. I slide them up alongside his body, afraid of his reaction. And yet I need this reassurance as much or more than I needed his surrender. I slip them under him, between his hot, sweaty flesh and the coarse cotton of the blanket, and I hug him to me. Though I suppose it is not much of a hug, since he cannot hug me back and is compelled to permit it since I am lying on top of him with all my tired weight.
And I would not be surprised if he now really threw me off him. And I would let him if he tried to. What I have done... what have I done? I don't even know. I know what I've just done, physically. But what it portends I don't know. The brain chemistry of orgasm clouds my thoughts, but not my fears.
His hands steal up under his own chest and stomach, between his body and the blanket damp beneath him. And they find my hands.
And encircle them. And squeeze.
And that is all it takes to make me clutch him to me desperately, then, even as my softened organ slips out of him. Tears squeeze out of my tightly closed eyes. Whether of happiness or shame, I can not be sure. I only know that something in me manifested itself, something I had not even been aware was in me... And it was met by something that manifested itself in Ray, that I had also not been aware was there.
And now I know. And what should I do?
Ray wriggles under me and I move off him, to lie next to him. I can not open my eyes. I do not know what I will see in his face but I know I can not face it right now. I can hardly face myself. I wish sleep would come, now, instantly, as one expects post-orgasm.
"Mmmmmmm," he purrs, throwing an arm and a leg over me as I lie on my stomach beside him. The coolness of evaporating sweat might be enough to bring a chill, but for the heat of our bodies. I hear him yawn and then feel the warmth and tickle of his breath as he pulls me close enough to kiss my cheek, nuzzle my face.
"That was... unbelievable."
After one last kiss, he flops his head back down tiredly. I open one eye slowly, but he is already descending into sleep, licking his lips -- no doubt dry from breathing through his mouth in gasps -- and working his mouth before a slight smile crosses it and he sighs.
Don't leave me, Ray. Don't leave me alone with my thoughts. I move closer, impulsively, to kiss that mouth. He drowsily opens his eyes, half-lidded, and kisses me back, languidly but thoroughly.
"We have to do that again, Frase," he says, momentarily tightening his hold on me, and then relaxing it to give in to the sleep-inducing post-orgasmic endorphins. "You... so wild... so good."
Again?
No.
No.
Okay, Ray. All right.