E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
ARCHIVE: Ask, please.
RATING: NC-17
POSTED: Sept. 6, 2005
SUMMARY: He lost track of shame some time back when Fraser didn't hurry up and apologize and let go.
AUTHOR NOTES: When I was finally tagged for the Stop Drop Porn challenge. Thanks to Auburn for the beta.
DISCLAIMER: Read
Teeth scrape against his hip bone, deliberately light, and Ray's about to fall apart, real messy and violent, pieces everywhere, because people weren't made to be this fucking tense.
It's not that he minds, oh no, not a hardship, never has been. Not until -- with the evil extra perfect timing that he saves for the really important stuff -- Fraser backs off. Again. Ray hears a sob, and then another, louder. He knows they're coming from him, those needing sounds, but it doesn't matter, he doesn't-- can't--
He lost track of shame some time back when Fraser didn't hurry up and apologize and let go. Ray went from laughing to moaning, from "What, we're doing this now?" to "Oh god, yeah, that's..." It wasn't long or far from there to begging. And Fraser answered with a rough promise, then a bite, sharper than he'd ever taken before, and didn't that just do it? Ray jumped, or would've if he could've, if Fraser hadn't rumbled something that Ray didn't have to understand; just hearing it smoothed everything in him out to a sigh of, "Anything, whatever." At least that's what he thinks he said.
Which maybe wasn't such a good idea, even if it does keep getting better. That thought zips right by, with "getting so much better" gleefully hard on its tail. Fraser's known for a while now where he's going when it comes to Rayville -- hell, he found a couple of alleys that Ray'd never known to even look for -- but now it's like he's searching for hidden passageways and tunnels and stuff that only comes in castles, which Ray isn't, Fraser has to know that. But Fraser's hands and mouth are covering every single tiny inch going down, down, down, down, fuck, not down enough. Ray's dick doesn't ache any more, it's his whole god damned body; he wants to shout, but breathing is more important. If Fraser sucks on Ray's knee, hell yeah, that'll make him come, oh god, please.
He's begged before. He begs on a regular basis, in fact; for coffee most often, but for anything when it's just the two of them, and not just because it still blows his mind that he almost talked Fraser into coming once. It's usually just talk, though, not "hanging onto sanity, here" straight out begging. And Fraser can hear him. Ray can tell. When Ray gets louder, Fraser's fingers press deeper, sliding finally down to tease where it counts for only a second. Ray's hands cramp when the fingers keep on sliding down his legs, he's clenching his fists so tight, hoping for more.
Or maybe less. Sensitive doesn't even begin to describe what it's like for a breath across his shoulder to make his hips jack up. The first one just happens. The second one, Ray's got his heels in the mattress and he's looking for anything -- a hip, a knee, a hand, where're all the damn pillows? -- to just touch his dick already, let him come. And he gets a touch, all right: he gets Fraser's palm flat and hot against his stomach, force applied straight down, no caressing. And he gets a promise: he gets Fraser's voice rumbling in his ear and making him shudder, saying that if he wants Fraser to stop...
Shaking his head. Ray's shaking it hard, he realizes, back and forth. No, no, no. No stopping when there's shaking. You gotta push past the shakes, drive it faster, drive it through until the ride's smooth again, does Fraser even know that?
Ray always was a bundle of nerves, everyone's been telling him that for forever, but now they're exposed and snapping live wires, and Fraser's just...wandering. He's moving over and over Ray's body, setting off sparks like they're a fireworks show that he's having too much fun watching to think about, to appreciate that Ray is one massive ache of too much, yes, more, and his body has to do something, damn it, please, do it now, do it before he dies -- and like a blessing from above, his body twists.
His wrists, slick, slip in Fraser's other hand, the one that Fraser used to clamp and press, press, press into the mattress, so now he's holding Ray down with it, holding Ray caught between that hard point and all those teasing nips and licks and flicks and fuck, just driving him. Which is just hunky dory fine, if Fraser will get the hell on with it, Ray tries to get across with another groan; a strangled one, maybe, but he got it out, he's pretty sure.
It's not like there was a question, there was never any, "Is Fraser doing this on purpose?" or anything. Fraser's totally doing this on purpose. There is nothing but purpose in what Fraser is doing, the way his fingers keep getting tighter, then looser, then tighter around Ray's wrists, like a cat, like he's kneading Ray and the "holding Ray down as good as handcuffs" part is just a happy coincidence or something.
Maybe it was the twisting, or maybe that whimper that happened right there, but Fraser shifts. Fraser moves, and for a second Ray thinks, Now, now, gonna have it, gonna do it now.
Until Fraser really tightens his grip and starts right back up, and Ray groans and digs in.
Ray moves again, his body torquing silently now; those fighter's instincts, or perhaps the dancer's, using Fraser's confining grip as a fulcrum. Fraser looks up, up along the graceful lines that he can't seem to stop traveling to see Ray's eyes squeezed shut. As Fraser takes in that sight, Ray's head tilts further back between his bent arms, and Fraser's breath catches at the extra liberty being granted.
Something let loose, he corrects his earlier thought. And Fraser knows that he's smiling -- not quite smug, too relieved for that, but more than content -- while he lowers his head once more, this time to trace with his tongue the long ridge of a rib that he's already measured with fingers and lips.
Even more than that throat-baring move, it is singularly intimate to feel this slim line forced into unnatural relief by the arch that Ray bends into at the touch. Skin and strong bones. Need and determination and trust. Fraser closes his eyes, and he wonders, Is that in me? Do I have that in me?
Another cry breaks free into the shadowed room. It's not in response. It is as much of a demand as any sound ever uttered by a hunter circling high in the wild, and Fraser is the one who answers, returning to his path back up Ray's torso instead of fleeing.
He stops halfway, though. He has to stop for another taste of the heartbeat pumping hard in Ray's chest. It's faster than his own; not by far, but the difference is enough that it draws Fraser like North. He presses his open mouth there to breathe in the vitality fueling Ray; he doesn't feed off of it, no, he wants, wishes that it were actually capable of entering and becoming a part of him the way Ray has and did.
The thought, the sound his act pulls from Ray, the feel of Ray writhing under him in another desperate try for more -- something pushes Fraser from want to need as well. He'd been aware of the strength of his body's response to Ray's abandonment, the temptation to feel their desire spark higher with full, tight contact. In that moment, however, it truly turns into possession.
Ray is his; there is no doubt about that.
He doesn't need the harsh skip of "F-fra-serrr..." to finally shift to brace himself over Ray and slide their erections together. He doesn't need the relieved groan to rise and drown out his own. But Ray is still pushing him, pushing up, taking, and with his eyes open on Ray's triumphant grin, Fraser gives over.
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