Summary: He could, as a rule, take care of this in a timely manner, simply allow the necessary release and get on with things.
As ever, Lynnmonster provided multiple wonderful, detailed, patient betas. She kicks my ass and doesn't let me get away with a damn thing and I fucking love her for it. Thanks go also to Dira, for a long-ago conversation helping me figure out a little bit more about Fraser.*
Fraser shoved the door shut behind him and continued forward, not even pausing to see if the lock caught. Then he stopped, took a deep breath, and went back, tugging on the broad metal handle to make sure it had latched. He forced himself to pause there for a moment, breathing. Stepping back, he tugged at the handle once more to make certain, then turned, running a hand across his forehead. Dief stuck his nose out from behind the reception desk to gaze at Fraser for a moment. He then sniffed and made a judicious retreat, settling himself back down, hidden from view under the desk.
Wonderful. Even his wolf knew better than to risk his mood.
It had been too long day. Too long a week. Fraser was usually better at dealing with this. At having self-control, at not allowing himself to get in a state over things. He could, as a rule, take care of this in a timely manner, simply allow the necessary release and get on with things. At times, however, it seemed to encroach upon his every waking thought. When he couldn't move or even breathe without… When every time he closed his eyes, even for a moment, he was inundated with a flood of images…
When he couldn't possibly stand to be around anyone, not even Ray, especially not Ray, when every damn thought in his head revolved around nothing but… Nothing but… Nothing at all but extraordinarily inappropriate thoughts. His agitation was made that much worse by a long, dull night at a long, dull stakeout, during the course of which his uniform became increasingly uncomfortable, until he was as fidgety and twitchy as Ray. Their mutual restlessness grated upon one another and by the time their shift was up at midnight, Fraser was as desperate to get away from Ray as Ray was to get rid of him.
And now, finally alone in the Consulate, his desperation continued unabated. His erection was a deep and not-unpleasant ache between his legs as he strode across the dim reception area. By the time he arrived at his office, he was sweating, and it had nothing to do with the temperature in the Consulate, which was, as ever, set to a temperate twenty degrees Celsius. He pushed the door shut behind him with one hand, hastily unbuttoning his uniform jacket with the other.
He tore the jacket off, tossing it carelessly onto his chair. His pencil-holder fell to the floor with a crash, caught and dragged off the desk by a heavy serge sleeve, but Fraser barely noticed and certainly didn't care.
He yanked the suspenders off his shoulders and undid his jodhpurs with shaking fingers. Shoving his pants and boxers down his thighs, he finally, finally took his aching erection in hand and turned his back to the room. He leaned his arm against the door, leaned his forehead against his arm. God. God. He needed - he needed -
More than this. More than just a hand, or, at least, more than just his own hand. It could be - perhaps - here, alone, finally - it could be someone else's hand. There could be someone else, perhaps. There could be someone with his mouth on Fraser, tongue running up the ridge underneath, and that tongue would be hot, yes, but nowhere near as hot as the heat that would engulf him as the mouth closed - around - him - God….
His hand moved on his erection, stroking it swiftly, as he pressed his forehead hard into his arm where it rested against the door. He could - someone could be sprawled on his knees between Fraser's braced feet. In such a position, with his mouth on Fraser- enthusiastically on Fraser - he imagined desperate, wanting sounds - Fraser could - he would be able to - he'd hold himself against the door and he'd thrust into that mouth, that hot, willing mouth, driving himself in over and over again…
It wouldn't be long - it wouldn't take long - for Fraser to get close to release. He rocked his hips forward desperately, feeling his erection sliding, slick now, in and out of his fist, into what could be someone's mouth. And yes, that someone would be opening his throat, would maybe be clutching at Fraser's half-clad thighs with one hand, would be frantically tearing open his own pants with the other, trying to get a hand on himself where he, too, would be hard, hard merely from giving Fraser pleasure - such pleasure, such -
God. He sucked in a gasp, and breathed it out as a moan, and he didn't care, he didn't care, because he was close to…he was almost… It was building, and he lost the rhythm of his thrusts, hips erratically driving forward. He half-sobbed a breath into his lungs, squeezing his eyes shut, and he stroked himself harder, faster, thinking of that hot mouth engulfing his erection, imagining the man, on his knees, jerking himself, close, wanting to - needing to - come, oh god, he was going to come, come in that mouth. He thrust forward again, and again, and he was close, god, so damn close, right…on…the edge of - god. Sucking in air desperately, he was coming, spurting again and again, and imagining that someone swallowing around his final thrusts, swallowing Fraser's orgasm as he came himself, groaning deep in his contracting throat…
Fraser slumped forward limply against the door, gasping, his eyes still screwed tightly shut. Dear lord. Dear lord. He turned his head, pressing his hot cheek against the cool wood paneling. He felt dizzy with release, and somewhere far back thought that he ought to be shocked at himself, at his actions, but dear god, he had needed that.
Sighing, he blinked his eyes open, pushing himself back from the door and tugging his pants up. He was suddenly, staggeringly tired. He cleaned up mechanically, carefully wiping down the door, then removing the remainder of his uniform, rescuing his jacket and pulling the sleeves out the right way, hanging everything up properly. He looked at the paperwork on his desk, then resolved to get up early in the morning to deal with it.
Opening his office door, Fraser padded down the hall to the bathroom in boxers and t-shirt, cleaned up and brushed his teeth. By the time he got back to his office, Diefenbaker had made his way to the cot, curling up indolently in the center. He lifted his head and gave Fraser an offended look as Fraser stared at him, eyebrow raised. Fraser shoved him firmly to the floor, and Dief settled down next to the cot with a mournful sigh.
The bed was still warm where Dief had been, and Fraser stretched, long and lazy. Such unrestrained self-indulgence he'd shown tonight. No restraint whatsoever. Yawning, he rolled onto his side. He really ought to plan these interludes at more regular intervals…
dira: oh, man.
me: I don't want him to think about Ray. Not specifically.
me: my thought? Is he's really sort of selfish. Wants release. Has a sort of faceless mouth/hand/fingers on/in him, and he doesn't know who or how.
me: just - some sort of imaginary possibility.
dira: This could be some other hand, there could be someone else, I could... someone could...
me: he's not - he can't really think about it being a particular person. Is what I think.
me: not yet. Anyway.
dira: Like, in the sense that even when he's jerking off he's still keeping certain mental barriers down?
me: Seriously? On the train home tonight? Deeply intent on trying to figure out Fraser's masturbation thoughts.
me: exactly. Even if he wanted to think it was Ray - he couldn't allow that. dira: *nodsnods*
me: but - I don't want Ray involved at all. Just want to show how very different the reality of how Fraser masturbates is different from Ray's thoughts of it.
dira: Because it could also read as - even just jerking off is allowing himself so much, physically, that he can't/needn't allow himself the mental as well.
me: Fraser, man. He has issues.
dira: *pats Fraser, gingerly*
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