Fraser was gonna get the what-for this time, that he was. Mr. Could-I-Trouble-You, with that silky-snide way he just knew, knew, that Ray would show up even though he had other stuff to do and today was practically Ray's day off, except for the kid thing.
Ray knocked something sludgy and gross off his shoe on the edge of the brick doorway and pounded on the back door of some porn shop with the side of his fist. He'd let this ring in the nose routine slide before, but an extra half-day off was sacred, it was like a religion, and Fraser was fucking with it.
Now he wasn't even answering the door; Ray banged harder, and added a "Hey, anybody in there?" for good measure. He was losing his happy thoughts, here. Fraser had a great way of getting his partner loose and crazy, but it had been a couple of days since they'd gotten nice and naked together, and Ray was definitely beginning to feel the burn - or lack of burn - and why, again was he here?
The door swung open under his hand as Ray drummed frenetically on the door, revealing a thin, heroin-chic guy with a do even spikier than Ray's, brown peaks of hair alternating with bleach-blonde ones. His eyes widened under his wire-rimmed glasses, and he scratched his stomach, moving the billowing white t-shirt across his slight body. "Police?"
"Gee, what gave it away?" Ray felt like the goofball king of goofballs, standing here in his blues, which he would normally rather wear women's underwear in public than. Fraser's timing, piss-poor like usual.
"Can I help-"
"Yeah, you can bug out of my way. I'm meeting someone, here."
Ray's luck, though - Fraser was nowhere to be seen inside the porn shop, which meant he was gonna have to ask the help for help again. He made his way toward the large desk at the front of the shop, down an aisle with cheap, hastily labeled gag gifts lining it like runway lights, a kitsch barrier between the safe, well-lit zone through the store's center and the shadowing rows of videos and other less family-friendly merchandise that stretched in the other direction. Ray was vaguely aware of a few pairs of eyes watching him from hiding places in the stacks, but they weren't Fraser's, and he wasn't interested. Yeah, like Ray You-Heard-Me-I-Said-Vecchio, Detective First Grade, was here to raid some creepy skin-flick shop.
The wasted-looking employee was leaning against the counter, watching Ray with a sharp interest that hovered between curiosity and - interest. Ray flipped out his ID, flashed it at Crack Boy, and said, "You seen a Mountie?"
"Mountie," he repeated.
"Yeah, Mountie. Canadian guy, brown hair, blue eyes, dresses like a traffic light. Maybe held the door for a little old lady on the way in."
"With a wolf?"
Jackpot. "He was here?"
The kid pointed off to Ray's left, to a door with By Invitation Only written on it with strips of masking tape - that plus a gun added up to Invitation, the way Ray saw it.
As Ray entered the back room, his mind was turning in three different gears at once: what was Frase doing in the back room of a place like this, it was kind of a bar back here, like a little private club, not half as seedy as some of the joints Ray'd had to detect his way through back in his old precinct, place smelled like leather, it was like Cow Hell in here, that damn well better be Dief licking his fingers, hey, Dief, good wolf, thrust-grind music but nobody dancing, after all it was just after noon, not exactly happy hour, even though there were four completely dressed business-type guys here and three others who were dodging nakedness on technicalities, not bad for middle of the day Friday, Dief, where's he and what's he getting us into, huh, boy?
"Whaddaya drink, Officer?" the bartender asked - Ray hadn't remembered to put the bartender into his head count, stupid rookie mistake. The blues were probably cursed, infected with the spirit of generations of beat cops and their asinine first-year pooch-screws, no offense, Dief, buddy. The bartender was a big guy - put him together with the kid at the front counter, and you'd have two regular guys - bearded like a biker and leathered up like one, too. Ray was feeling more and more like a complete fucking nerd, and he had to fight down the impulse to rip his shirt off and prove that he had a tattoo, which equaled coolness.
Since Fraser would take his own sweet time getting here, Ray grabbed a seat at the bar. "Just...gimme a shot of tequila." Conscience nagged him - was Frase in some trouble? Should he be less day-offy and more to-the-rescue? But Fraser hadn't seemed freaked out when he'd called, not even in that weird, drugged way that Fraser got freaked out. Just said, "Ray, could I trouble you to meet me," this and that, pop a "thank you kindly" on the end and get any given week with Ray's partner. Same ol', same ol'. Something about "need your expertise," which maybe should worry him a little, but if Fraser wanted him to shoot somebody, he was SOL, cause Ray didn't have his glasses on him, and if he wanted Ray to kick somebody in the head, one little tequila shot wasn't gonna make any difference. If Ray had any other expertise, he couldn't think what it would be, since Fraser wasn't likely to need anyone to drive, dance, box, or screw him on short notice like this.
"No charge for Chicago's finest." Ray looked over his shoulder, and was surprised to see Crack Boy from up front. Somehow, back here, he looked more on his game, less like a skinny McDonald's fry cook and more - rangy, graceful, playful in almost a gangbanger kinda way. There was something about the eyes behind the glasses that said smart, and something about the casual way he held onto a leather riding crop that said owns this whole place.
"Thanks," Ray said shortly, and did his shot.
"Bryan." Ray shrugged eloquently. After a moment, Bryan shrugged his own thin shoulders and walked past him.
Everyone seemed to be staring at Ray, and he glared back at each of them in turn. Freaky weirdos. Why couldn't they embezzle, like nice little white-collar boys? No, they had to spend their lunch hour here, sexually harassing Ray - and were they staring at Ray's crotch, or the handcuffs on his belt? At least the two naked ones were keeping their eyes to themselves, kneeling on the floor and looking down passively. Two - the third was closer to halfway dressed, wearing snug jeans and red welts across his broad, bare back, facing a wall with his hands chained up over his head. Floor show? Nah, everybody was pretty much minding their own business here - except Ray, who was still half casing the place and half keeping tabs on Bryan, who was the only person in here who registered a blip on Ray's trouble radar. He was tracing the handle of the riding crop over his guy's skin, weaving in between the marks and making his breathing deeper and less steady. Bryan glanced back over his shoulder, catching Ray's eyes, and he gave Ray a polite little nod of acknowledgment. Ray answered it with a half-quizzical, half fuck off, pal frown.
Dief whined at the exact same moment that Ray's brain kicked into gear with an almost physical kick inside his head that propelled him to his feet and straight across the room, all the panic lights on. Only sheer surprise made him drive bodily forward instead of drawing his gun, and he hit Bryan against his undefended side as the motherfuckingmotherfuckingkillyoukillyou little shit had his arm raised to hit Fraser again. Bryan hit the corner wall with a gasp, twisted up funny and pinned by Ray's weight as Ray's fingers sunk hard into his neck and he yelled semi-coherently into Bryan's ear, "I'm gonna eat your head! I'm gonna fuck you, you skinny piece of crap, you're gonna be six feet under and still feeling my boot up your ass."
Dimly, he could hear Fraser calling his name: "Ray! Ray! Ray!" Couldja shut up a second, Frase, til I'm finished here?
There was barking, and a little bit of yelling, and Bryan making satisfying squeaky noises as Ray smacked his head against the wall, then pushed him down, knee in the guy's chest and his fist back all the way to his ear, ready to make Crack Boy Bryan a permanent part of the floorboards, but Ray wasn't really aware aware of anything until the bartender had him seized by one arm and the back of his shoulder holster, dragging him bodily up off the floor and Bryan.
"Ray. Ray?" Blearily, Ray focused in on Fraser, who was trying very hard to twist around so he could get some eye-contact on his partner. "Please, Ray, listen to me. Are you listening to me? Can you hear me, Ray?"
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," he managed, twitching off the bartender's grip. The mad-dog rage was fading away, and Ray could see and hear again. Fraser was fixing him with that you know I know best look, which only Frase could manage in his position.
He nodded, confirming that Ray had done the right thing by stopping - implying that he'd done okay by attacking, too - telling Ray without words that it was all cool, everything was on track, which couldn't be true, but it sounded good when Fraser said - didn't say - it. Keeping one eye squarely on Bryan, who was sitting up but wisely staying crouched in the corner, Ray moved close enough to Fraser's flushed, heated body to hear his voice as Fraser spoke in that low, hypnotic storytelling voice.
"Look at me, Ray. This is my choice. I'm in no danger. Ray? I know this must have taken you by surprise...."
It was - it was - he didn't see anything that exactly answered to the name danger. Fraser was warm and strange-looking, blows like cruel finger marks showing up on his winter-pale back, stretched up so that the muscles in his thick arms showed plainly, his fingers lying loosely open above the circle of the cuffs. But the voice, the knowing blue eyes, it was Fraser, real Fraser, not drugged or mind-whammied or anything like that. "But of course you believe me, don't you, Ray? Believe that everything is all right."
"Sure, Frase, sure thing," he said out of habit, and saying it made it closer to true.
"Kiss me." It was not quite a command, or at least not more of one than most things that came out of Fraser's mouth. Fraser's eyes drifted closed softly, and his lips parted, red and wet, and Ray did it, not because it seemed like a good idea, but because he was shot so full of adrenaline that he just needed an excuse. Fraser's kiss was silky, juicy, and it made Ray's fingers itch, made him touch Fraser's shoulder and slide his fingertips up that strong arm, skipping over the metal bonds, tickling the inside of his palm. His hips bucked sharply into Fraser, and that was a warning sign that dropped Ray back into what passed for his reality.
He stood back, favoring both employees with a warning look that kept them quiet. "C'mon, Fraser. I wanna get out of here."
"Ray, I've never seen you in uniform before."
Ray grimaced down at his now unforgivably wrinkled uniform. "That's because I'm what you call a plainclothes detective."
"Oh, I realize that, Ray. Hence my surprise now."
"Well, I had that thing this morning. The kid thing." It was a strange conversation, almost marital, like a how-was-your-day-honey kinda thing, and Fraser was still dangling in chains but looking serene, if flushed, and very attentive, if lost. Ray scratched his fingers through his hair, trying to squirm the weirdness out of his neck and shoulders. "I hadda, hadda -" Fuck. Words. "-hadda go to the, you know, the school and talk to the kids. Kids dig the uniform."
"Schoolchildren, is that so?"
"Yeah, I told you about that. How Welsh said I got the afternoon off if I did the Officer Friendly gig." It was tempting to kiss Fraser again, when he fixed those warm blue eyes on Ray as if this trip to PS 174 were the most interesting, important thing he'd heard all day, all while still - not to dwell or anything, but still fucking chained to the ceiling.
"I'm not sure I follow you, Ray."
"You know, I gotta go sometimes and tell the kids, tell 'em, hey, cops are cool, don't talk to strangers, gangs bad, just say no, leave your guns at home. That kind of thing. Your basic community-building crap."
Fraser nodded thoughtfully. "Did you have a good time?"
"A good-?" Kiss his shoulder, run his fingers over Fraser's pecs and make his eyes glitter like they were a minute before....
"I know you like children."
"Like-? Yeah. Yeah, I like kids. Hey, Fraser?"
"Am I here for some, you know, specific reason?"
For the first time, Fraser looked vaguely embarrassed, and even avoided Ray's eyes. "Well...no. I thought I had a lead, but I suppose it...didn't, as it were, lead anywhere."
"You're here on a case?" Ray wasn't sure whether he liked that better or worse than the other option. A dedicated Fraser was a good thing, terra non-incognita and cute, too, but there was such a thing as way too dedicated for a guy's mental health. On the other hand, this was no kind of Fraser hobby that Ray was ready to figure on.
"Uh-huh. What kind of case?"
Mumbling, mumbling that had to be deliberate, because Fraser might - did - do a lot of wacky things, but enunciating poorly wasn't one of them.
"Fraser. Straight up, Frase, lemme have it. What's the civic evil of the hour?"
"Imp-um-impersonating a police officer."
"Someone's been impersonating a police officer."
"Yes, Ray, I'm certain of it."
"Yeah, I just bet you are. Fraser, we're leaving. Where's the keys to these things?" He wheeled on Bryan, allowing anger out of its box for just a second, just enough to scare the little punk without getting Ray all worked up again. "Give me the fucking keys, or I kick you in the head!"
"Ray! I have them. I have them."
Ray started to argue, to insist that Fraser was practically naked, so how could he have anything, and then he got it. Sighed, squared his shoulders. Promised himself that Fraser was gonna regret this six ways from Sunday. "Left or right?"
It wasn't that there wasn't fun to be had here; even Ray wasn't so ticked at his partner that he couldn't see the appeal of standing like this against Fraser's back, his fingers sliding snugly between layers of denim, over Fraser's solid hipbone, as the Mountie breathed deeply, working for every inch of his famous composure. It was just the here part of having fun here. Been a couple of weeks, almost, since he'd been anywhere this close to any hard-on of Fraser's, and this was nothing like what he wanted to do with it, and he couldn't do what he wanted to do with it, not...here.
"There," Fraser hissed softly, and then Ray saw his eyes spring open suddenly, as if surprised to hear himself talk.
Irresistible. How did Fraser manage, even now that Ray had known him more than long enough to see the strings, to always look so sweetly shocked with himself like that? Ray felt his lips curve against Fraser's skin, a wolfish smile, and he stroked again with the side of his finger, same way, felt Fraser's cock and his knees quiver. "There?"
The jeans were tight, but with a little wriggling, Ray got his hand turned around sideways, got a decent grip on the bulge that he could feel fire-hot through thin cotton layers of pocket and boxers. Fraser's hips pressed forward, intensifying his contact with Ray's fingers, at the same time as his head dropped backwards, supported by Ray's shoulder. That thick hair was tickling Ray's neck, and the only way he could turn his head to make it stop brought his lips into Fraser's hair, and that felt too good, smelled too Fraser, and he had to fling his free arm over Fraser's shoulder, hand splayed across his chest as he humped his own hardening cock against Frase's ass. Oh, my was right.
Stoppit. Bad. God and everybody, maybe staring right at them, and maybe not, which might have been worse - if Ray had turned and seen nobody looking or giving a shit that Ray was going at his partner right in front of them. Perversely, it was that idea, that maybe they'd all seen so much in their lives that Ray about to come in his pants from the smell and the feel of Fraser would be boring, nothing, invisible to them, that made him stop.
He unlocked Fraser's cuffs and turned away, only seeing Frase out of the corner of his eye as the Mountie located his flannel shirt and slid it carefully over the marks on his back, buttoning it slowly so it didn't rub too harshly against his skin. He didn't look at Ray; Ray wondered if Frase was embarrassed, if he should be, if what Ray had seen was cool or fucked up or both - probably both - and if he should just forget it.
Well, not forget it. It was too crazy right to forget, the way Fraser stretched, the way he looked strong and still like a marble statue, but with his ribs expanding and falling inward hypnotically, his head bowed, his body exposed to Ray's hands, vulnerable. Mr. Control Freak Canadian, just...there, there where everybody could see his desire, where anyone (fucking crack whore) could have him, try him, see him, try to take him where they wanted him to go.
Joke was on them, though. There might be a lot Ray didn't know about Fraser, but he knew a thing or two. Like Fraser went where Fraser was going, and if Bryan or Ray or anyone else thought they did anything to Fraser, then hardy har har to them. Fraser did. Other people went along for the ride.
That was true even when Ray was driving, when he got Fraser into the car and took him across town, back to Ray's place. Fraser sat rigidly in the passenger seat, staring out the window, but they wouldn't be here if it weren't for Fraser and his hinky impersonating a cop case, and everybody in this car knew it, down to the dog. Fraser was forever making shit happen, and Ray was so dog fucking beat that he was just here, driving. Couldn't even make up his mind what to say, or whether he should say anything. Words. He didn't have the script, didn't know where Fraser was taking him this time.
So by the time they got up to Ray's apartment, he'd given up on what the hell do you think you were doing and how long has this been going on and I can't believe you called me on my day off. He was doing Fraser things, in his Fraser way, starting whenever he felt like it and ending whenever he picked some random day, irregardless of Ray's schedule or lack thereof, to let Ray in on it. So, fine. So be it, whatever you say, Frase. Have it your own fucking way, cause you will, you always will. All he could do was gesture sharply, fiercely, and say, "What the hell's the matter with you, huh? You go to that skinny-ass headcase - you thought I couldn't handle it, didn't you, huh? Didn't you?"
"Ray, I don't know what you mean. While in the course of my investigative-"
"Fuck that, Fraser. Okay? You weren't there because of any freaking case. You wanted him to beat you. You don't think I can beat you? Cause, lemme tell you, Fraser, right now there's nothing I think I'd be better at."
The shutters closed over Fraser's eyes, delicately wounded innocence turning to flat stubbornness. "Understood."
"No! Don't understand. Listen to me - I'm the one who gets to understand. You got the - the control issues, you got the perfect-Mountie pressure, you wanna check out, go on vacation so you don't have to keep on being so good at everything. It's, you know, submission. You let him be the badass, you don't have to be. Nothing's your job and nothing's your fault. I understand - you had no right to decide ahead of the game that I wasn't going to."
"That's...very thoughtful, Ray."
In spite of his mood, there was something about getting compliments from Fraser, especially in the brain department, that made him go all light and warm. "Yeah. Well. I got a buddy in sex crimes. We talk about this shit." Ray sat down on the couch beside his partner and touched his fingers lightly to Fraser's thigh; it made Fraser look away from the hole he was burning in Ray's carpet, but not exactly up directly at Ray. "The stress goes with the job, Frase. We've all been there. Jesus, I bet there's not ten guys in the precinct who never got their wives to put 'em in their own cuffs."
Fraser did look up at him, through a forest of lashes. "Including yourself, Ray?"
"I...nnerghr. Yeah. Me. Sure." He could feel the heat in his face, remembering. Back when everything had seemed bigger and badder, the world a wicked, hellbound place with only Ray and his wife in the eye of the storm, holding the line for law and honor. Back when the blues and the badge and the gun and the cuffs were new, and they made Stella crazy, as crazy as she made him with the pearls and the swept-back hair and the suits they could barely afford, the smell of leather, his holster and her briefcase, always about them. Suited up and shielded against real life, in love with what they were. Back when Stella had more faith, back when Ray let more get inside him.
Only Fraser had hands that could be so gentle without having any give in them at all as he slid one behind Ray's head and the other up Ray's forearm, wrist to elbow. He gave in to Fraser kissing him, and giving up to the feel of Fraser's wet tongue and burning breath made him realize - how long, how long it had been since he was as open as he'd seen Frase being today, since Ray trusted anyone to put the kind of chains on him that Stella had. It was too lonely, being the only one who wanted to be tied down, bound up, roped in. Lonely in a way that he could cover up except when Fraser was cradling him like this, heavy arms coiling around him, trembling just the tiniest bit as he pressed against Ray. Ray's fingers scrabbled at the waistband of his jeans until he could get a thumb through a belt-loop, get a grip on this weird, fucked-up, kinky, beautiful, powerful man.
"It's okay, Frase," he whispered against Fraser's closed eyelid, letting his head fall back so that Fraser's mouth could kiss slowly along his neck. "Everybody needs something."
"Oh, indeed, Ray. And you have a very keen grasp of the psychosexual dimensions of dominance and submission."
"But I'm afraid you're mistaken about me."
Fraser's palms walking up his ribs, thumbs pressing up up up. Fraser's legs between his, Fraser's weight sinking him helplessly into the cushions of the sofa. "Nyuh?"
"I'm not a sexual submissive."
"I'm a masochist."
"Mmmmm...." Hard to think, hard to turn words from words in his head into thoughts, Fraser just sounded like Fraser saying some damn thing that nobody wanted to hear when there was stuff to get done, Ray to get done - something dance to the masochism tango, which made Ray think of the Addams Family, who was always tangoing, and the way Angelica Huston half-closed her eyes in catlike pleasure, just like Stella, and how Raul Julia had been pure sex before he was dead, even in that funny, greasy little moustache. Fraser was a somethingorother, but as long as it meant he would work his fingers in agonizingly slow circles around Ray's nipples like that, then it was all just so much Fraserbabble, which Ray loved and was in no mood to listen to. "Masochist."
His hand was sweaty against Ray's cheek, and Ray peeled his eyes open, trying to focus when his brain wanted to go foggy, smoke and mirrors. Fraser was looking at him, eyes glittering and intense. "I didn't go to that place to be controlled. I went to suffer."
Part of Ray still didn't know what the hell he was jabbering about, but the talking part of Ray must have, because it had an answer that sounded almost too cogent to be coming out of his mouth. "Everybody's gotta suffer, Frase. Not like you have to go looking for it."
"The world's cruelty is impersonal. I need more."
"Is that sick?" Ray asked meekly, sure that Fraser would tell it to him true, one way or another. It was beginning to make a little sense to Ray, just enough to make him sure that it didn't make much sense.
Fraser frowned a little, not disapproving, but - sad, sorry, bad somehow, some way Ray didn't like at all, and he kissed the shape of Fraser's lips gently back to neutrality. "In my case, it seems just, more than anything else."
"Yeah, cause you're so fucking bad."
"You don't know...."
"Some things you don't have to know to know, y'know?"
Fraser started at his waist, unbuckled Ray's belt and twisted one end around his hand, jerking it free with one long pull. His hard-on was nestled almost flat up against Ray's, and Ray could feel the grin spread across his face as his hips started to move, dancing by themselves, teasing his rhythmless partner. Fraser ignored him steadfastly, keeping his concentration on the buttons of Ray's dark uniform shirt as he freed each in turn, and the slowness, the waiting was driving Ray so crazy that when it was done and Fraser began to lift up Ray's undershirt, Ray let him, helped him, didn't once think that it was weird, since his shirt and his shoulder holster were still on him - until it was too late, and it was off over his head, the twist of cloth chafing the back of his neck, prisoning his shoulders and arms backwards in a terrible tangle of leather and cotton that made Ray shake like a wet dog, stupidly trying to squirm away. Then he met Fraser's eyes, and he understood that he wasn't supposed to get away, and he didn't know what to think about that, so he stopped moving and thinking both. Just looked at Fraser, those endless blue eyes, that implacable certainty in his face. Fraser did what Fraser was gonna do. Always. Ray tried not to shiver.
He could count the cracks in the plaster of his ceiling, his head tipped back on the same arm of the sofa where his elbows were braced, even though without his glasses on Ray couldn't tell if some of them were maybe shadows and not cracks at all. Fraser's unbelievable mouth, so wet and slippery and patient over his chest and his stomach, making Ray want, making Ray need. He could hear his own breath, voicelessly forcing out a long litany of fuck fuck fuck fuck in a tone that was chanting, prayerful. He wanted out from under Frase, wanted to grab and tackle him and rip him naked and nail him right here on the couch, but something held him down and back, some knowledge just underneath the conscious that Fraser wanted him this way, and that Ray still had something to prove. Fraser was mumbling something, too, and Ray had this awful feeling that it might be Latin, maybe part names for the muscles and bones he was tonguing in long, slow strokes.
By the time Frase had voted him sufficiently licked, Ray's vision was almost gone - nothing but cream-colored plaster and waving spider-legged cracks, blowing like reeds in water. He dropped one foot off the edge of the couch, the only move he could make, and arched his hips up into Fraser, forcing a friction with the hard denim that brought all the rest of Ray's awareness straight down into his cock.
Pausing for a few loving strokes over Ray's back and shoulders, Fraser unknotted and removed the layers of shirt and holster that kept Ray pressed into this position. He moved his arms slowly, getting used to the feel of them again, a little more comfortable, a little more lonely. He squirmed, trying to sit up straighter, look Frase in the eye, suggest taking this party to the bed. Still, when the metal of his handcuffs closed around Ray's wrists, he'd been expecting it somehow. He looked down at them, just looking. Silver around his wrists, displacing the golden hairs. His hands were open, drowsy looking, like Fraser's had been. Without thinking about it, Ray moved his arms out of the way as Fraser leaned over him, pressing his ear to Ray's damp chest. Having nowhere else to put his hands, Ray let his bound wrists rest lightly on top of Fraser's head, the soft dark hair a million times softer in comparison to the cold brightness of the cuffs.
"Your heart is racing, Ray."
"It's supposed to do that. That means you're getting me all turned on."
"Are you aroused because of the handcuffs, or in spite of them?"
"Neither one." Fraser glanced up at him, thinly displeased with Ray's lack of an answer. "I like 'em, okay? Remember the time you arrested me?"
How easy, how basic and natural it had been, stretching out his arms for Fraser's chains. Didn't even take thinking. He'd known, somewhere in him that had never seen the light of thinking before today, the meaning of asylum, the nature of being Fraser's prisoner. "You don't like 'em, though? That's what you said - not a sub?"
"I like them in a different way. They make it possible for me to endure the pain long after my courage has failed me."
Creepy, the way Fraser talked about pain, like it was one more duty instead of something he did for fun, which Ray couldn't believe because of his breathing, his hard-on, his eyes back in that place. That was all pleasure, all for Fraser and nobody else, which Ray still didn't get, but since when did he get Fraser, anyway? Ray had him, which was way, way better than getting him. "Let me see."
"Oh, they won't scar, Ray."
"Aw, for crissakes, Fraser, you know what I mean. Let me see."
Fraser took off not just his shirt, but every single thing he was wearing, and turned his back to Ray, settling between Ray's legs. Unconsciously, Ray wrapped his legs around Fraser, letting the Mountie discard his shoes and socks so that he could run bare feet over Frase's inner thighs and calves. Ray let his hands take careful hold in Fraser's hair and pushed him forward, exposing the broad expanse of his back to Ray's eyes.
The scars - welts - were broad, red and white and just a little bit blackly bruised at one shoulder. While there was some variance in the angle of each blow, overall they made a thick, hard line from Frase's right shoulder down to the left side of his waist, just like the - the sideways half of his Mountie belt, only backwards, to where it would make the other limb of an X if he had the belt on. Ray leaned over, touching the marks with his lips, and he was positive he heard Fraser groan, even if the Mountie pulled it fast back under control.
But he'd gone over the edge when Frase did, and for Ray it wasn't as easy to return. He dropped his head back, surged helplessly against Fraser's weight, let out a noise that was almost a howl, but embarrassingly like a sob. Immediately, he felt Fraser's strong touch on his knee, promising to take care of him, and he knew Fraser would, but dammit, wouldn't kill him to hurry, would it?
Not knowing where else to put his hands, Ray stretched his arms straight up in the air as Fraser did his thing, messing around until Ray's pants were open and he was thrusting into air, then into Fraser's slick hand, then hard into Fraser himself. Viciously, Ray pulled outward against the cuffs, trying to fight his hands further apart than the chain would let them go - trying and wanting to fail, failing and wanting to do something that would make Fraser feel this way, too, pinned and owned, wanting and having only one tool.
He bit roughly on the back of Frase's neck, luring Fraser, getting his attention just like magicians did - misdirection. The sound of Fraser humming in pleasure as Ray's teeth traveled his shoulder, almost but not quite biting into his bruises, assured him that he had Fraser exactly where he wanted him, thinking what Ray wanted him to think, totally unprepared for the moment when Ray's arms dropped, and the chain pulled hard and fast across Fraser's throat.
Fraser thrashed, which Ray's dick loved, though his ribs weren't so crazy about it, but when he tried to cry out, Ray just jerked the chain harder across his throat until surprise or pain made him shut up. There was a qualm of conscience - hurting Fraser - but Ray steeled himself against it, holding steady until his arms trembled from the tension. Fraser thought he couldn't do this. Fraser was dead fucking wrong. Ray could follow anywhere, for a real partner. He could hold up his half of anything.
He knew the metal links were gouging into the delicate skin of Fraser's neck. They would mark, black and blue and red-purple tattoos that the stiff collar of his serge jacket would hide and probably hurt like a bitch rubbing against. Ray thrust up harder and faster inside Fraser, ignoring the way Fraser's fingers were carving into the muscles of his thighs, even though it hurt and that was somebody's thing here, but it wasn't Ray's. In its own way, though, the pain was a good sign; it meant that Fraser still had all his strength, and he was plenty able to reach right up and probably break Ray's fucking arm if he were scared, if he thought Ray was taking it too far. He wasn't fighting, though. He was hanging on, and after a couple of minutes he managed to let go of Ray, his shaking hands finding his own hard dick and pumping it in a jerky, but regular rhythm.
He came in a spray of pearls, and Ray came in blessed darkness, his whole body finally allowed to go slack and restful. He felt but ignored Fraser thrashing around on top of him, until he realized they were lips to lips, and he indulged in a kiss while Fraser slipped his arms underneath Ray's body. "Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray."
"Knock it off, Fraser. I'm - whaddaya - reveling."
Fraser brushed a kiss under his eyes, stirring Ray's eyelashes. "I love you, Ray."
Instinctively, Ray opened one eye, but then thought better of it and closed it again. "Doesn't count after sex."
"But, Ray, I-"
"Yeah, well, then it'll keep."
No hurry, and anyway it was something Ray would rather hear when he was banging on all cylinders, not through the bliss-haze he was locked and twisted up inside. Later there would be plenty of time to put a name on the steel Fraser had wrapped around him to hold him where he belonged, and on the dark, ruthless strength Ray knew suddenly he had inside himself, just waiting to answer Fraser's every crazy wish.