by BrooklineGirl



Ray gets in touch with himself whilst thinking about Fraser.

I couldn't have done this without my wonderful, lovely betas: Spacebabe and Estrella. They do such wonderful, in-depth work for me and make my stories so much better than they ever would be otherwise. Estrella gets special recognition for letting me annoy the fuck out of her with rewrites all fucking morning. *smooch*

Once the idea occurred to him, Ray just couldn't get it out of his head. And it was pretty damn distracting to sit here and try to concentrate on work when he couldn't stop wondering what Fraser looked like when he came.

It was just one of those things. It had been a long-ass, crappy day, with too much tension and no way to blow it off. Work sucked more than usual, what with the backlog of paperwork-type crap he’d been putting off for so long that he had to spend the whole goddamn day filling out reports and signing his name in triplicate. Frannie had been breathing down his neck since he’d walked in the door this morning. Which was really fucking annoying and, as he leaned back in his chair and arched his back, trying to work out some of the kinks, the grumpy thought crossed his mind that if he could have someone breathing down his neck, his first choice wouldn’t be Frannie, of all people.

This day just had to end. This week had to end. Thank God it was Friday. Thank God it was pretty much over. Thank God he was almost done with this form. The only thing that had kept him going on the paperwork all day was the knowledge that as soon as he finished it, he was out of there, so very out of there. He was gonna head home, gonna pick up a six-pack, gonna order a pizza.

He ran a hand slowly through his hair. Then? He was gonna jerk off, nice and slow, trying to do something to take care of this low buzz of arousal that seemed to be sticking with him today. He was in the type of mood where he could feel it in his fingers, his cock, the base of his spine; the type of mood where the least little thing would turn him on, turn him on hard.

He cracked his neck, trying to loosen the tension a little. He just had to get through it, get through this last bit of work for the week - he shot a dirty look at the half-finished report on the Collins burglary - and he could go home and take himself in hand, and - yeah. He needed that. Really needed that a lot. God. Long fucking week.

He looked at Fraser, who was across the room, anally returning some files to their proper places. Ray wondered what he did to relax. Uptight guy like him had to release all that pressure sometime. It wasn't like he was having sex any more than Ray was. It was sad, was what it was. Really fucking sad.

Ray chewed on his pen and watched Fraser walk back and sit down. "So what do you do?"

Fraser looked up. "Do, Ray?"

Ray shrugged. "To relax. What do you do to relax?"

Fraser looked uncomfortable. Like he didn't even want to admit he ever loosened up. "Actually, Ray, there's an Inuit method of balancing on one's head and counting to thirty which I find to be-"

Ray held up his hand. "Yeah, yeah. That's what I figured."

Fraser nodded, looking relieved, and started searching Ray's desk for more files buried under the rubble. Ray sighed. He knew he had issues, but he was at least in touch with himself. Or - he scribbled his signature on another page of the form - would be soon. He understood that the release was necessary. Fraser - Ray snuck another peek across the desk at him - Fraser was sort of a different story. Maybe. Could be it was just a front. That buttoned-up look. Fraser was a guy like any other guy. Maybe he handled things just the same as Ray did. Huh. There was a thought.

There was a thought that made his last few minutes at work real uncomfortable. There was a thought that made him shrug into his coat and make sure to button all the buttons before turning to offer Fraser a ride home.

Because yeah. That was a thought that was going to have him rearranging his schedule for the evening, putting the jerking off way before the pizza and beer plan.


Man. How long had it been, exactly, since he'd gotten laid? Long enough that he had to think about it, and that was too damn long. He'd been half-hard in his jeans the whole way home in the car. It wasn't that he couldn't stop thinking about jerking off - he just couldn’t stop thinking about Fraser jerking off. How he did it. Where he did it. What he looked like.

Ray dropped his keys on the table by the door as he walked in to his apartment and stripped off his jacket, tossing it to a chair. He nudged his boots off his feet, then headed to the bedroom, his hand going to his crotch to adjust himself.

Just because the guy didn't broadcast his sexuality didn't mean it wasn't there. Frannie would argue that it was in every move Fraser made, whether it was walking across the bullpen or taking out the damn garbage. Though, okay, Ray would give her the fact that Fraser had a way of catching his attention by simply walking across the squad room. He was just so - he just carried himself so - he just - fuck it, the man was sexy, whether he played it up or not. It was just something inher - inherit - natural to the guy, and besides, if he had to take out the garbage, he'd have to bend over to pick it up, and even a completely straight guy - which Ray was not - would appreciate a view like that.

Ray stood there in his bedroom, taking off his watch and putting it on the dresser, then absently rubbed himself through his pants. Fuck this just thinking about it: he needed to jerk off and he needed to jerk off now. He sprawled on the bed and opened his pants, settling back comfortably. Adjusting the pillows under his head, he let his other hand run over his cock through the fabric of his boxer briefs. He stuck his fingers under the waistband, just a little, pulling them out before he managed to do more than brush the head of his cock. Even that was enough to send tingles up his spine. Finally, he lifted his hips, pushed his jeans and boxers down, then stroked himself, first lightly, then tightening his hand just a little.

He wanted to do this now, sure, but he also wanted to let it build up slow - he had something good to think about, and he was gonna make this last.

The way he figured it was this: Fraser, man, he seemed the type to not give in too easy. Knowing him, he'd probably have this low buzz going on in the back of his mind from the second he got home, but not let himself do anything about it. He'd just walk around, half-hard - no, you know what? Probably Fraser, with his super-senses, would get fully hard on even the anticipation. It would be there, in the back of his head, this sex-sex-sex vibe, but you'd never even know it by looking at him.

He liked that thought; Fraser being all turned on but still with that damn poker face. Ray kept the pace of his hand nice and slow. No rush here. He could take as long as he wanted. Like Fraser would. Fraser would never come home and just flop down on the bed and go at it. Ray, however, was a normal, red-blooded American male. Ray didn't mind thinking about taking it slow, so long as he got to do so with his hand around his dick to take the edge off.

So. There Fraser would be, probably still in uniform and all. Okay, maybe he'd have taken the jacket off (and hung it up in the closet), but he'd have everything else still in place, boots on, suspenders up, not a hair out of place.

Ray looked down at himself, sprawled on the bed: barefoot, shirt hitched up his belly, jeans open, dick hard in his hand.

He allowed as to how he was maybe a little different than Fraser.

Fraser would probably do all his paperwork, and get a head start on tomorrow's too. Then he'd file every damn thing that needed filing, all the while ignoring the ache between his legs, pretending he wasn't enjoying the feel of being hard as he moved around. He wouldn't even stop to adjust himself, Ray thought.

Fraser would just deal with it, would tell himself somewhere in the back of his head that this was good for him, that it built character or something. When really - Ray stroked just a little faster, his hips moving up as he did so - when really what it was, was Fraser sort of just digging the feeling of it. Liking that feeling of being turned-on, liking the feel of his cock jutting up hard against his stomach - god, what a picture, and Ray heard himself groan a little. He bet Fraser liked letting that feeling of need build.

Fraser would straighten up the place, probably, after filing, maybe even pull out the oil and make himself sit down and shine up all of that leather he wears - stroke that belt and that strap when he'd really rather be stroking himself. Ray thrust up, hard, into his fist again, and let his thumb run across the dampness at the head of his dick. That was so like Fraser, just like Fraser, to draw it out, to put it off, to pretend at being all virtuous when what he was really doing was letting it build and build

Ray took a breath, slowed his stroke. Back it off a little; this was too good to rush.

Okay. After everything was done - paperwork put away, leather neatly shined, Consulate locked up safe and sound - even after all that, and the hard-on he'd have had for hours at this point, probably since Ray dropped him off - Fraser still wouldn't touch himself. Nope, not yet. What he'd do is strip off the rest of the uniform, pull those crisp white boxers out and over his cock, carefully, carefully - maybe fumbling just the tiniest bit, maybe letting the elastic scrape the length of his cock just a little, just enough to make him take a breath and firm his resolve. Oh yeah, that's how it would work. Nothing for Fraser to do then but pull his red long johns on, and button them (not letting his fingers drift over his hard cock in the process) and then reach for the boring-ass History of Canadian Dust or whatever book he keeps on his bedside table.

Ray could picture it, oh yeah, he could just picture it, Fraser lying there on top of the covers, the room dim around him, book open, and he's trying to be all focused on it and not at all on the hard-on that Ray would bet, would bet money, would be clearly visible against the fabric of the long johns, and oh god, what a damn fine mental picture that was.

Ray heard himself panting out loud, harsh in the quiet room, his hand moving fast, too fast, over his cock, his hips moving up, and up. He took a long breath again, and moved slower. Hold it back, make it last, because fuck, maybe it was just him and his right hand here, but even in his imagination, Fraser was the best sex he'd ever had.

There would have to come a point where even Fraser couldn't pretend the book was more interesting than his hard cock, so he'd have to (finally, finally) put the book aside, and then - oh yeah, this is what he'd do - he'd just lie back for a second, looking at the ceiling, like he doesn't know his hand is sliding down, down, like he can't feel his own fingers nimbly undoing the buttons one by one till, oh yeah, his hand's finally right down where it's wanted to be all damn night. And this time, he'd maybe let his fingers fumble a little again, let them brush up against that hard length as he undoes the last few buttons.

Ray bet that even a light touch at that point would be enough to get Fraser's cock to twitch a little, and he'd bet even more money that that touch and that twitch would be enough for Fraser to let out a little gasp. Maybe not even quite a gasp, maybe just a long exhalation of tightly-held air, and man, wasn't that a trip, how the fuck could the guy make even breathing sexy?

So there he'd be - Ray closed his eyes tight, like he could squint into his imagination and get a closer look at this particularly perfect jerk-off picture that was going to stick with him for, oh god, days - there Fraser would be, stretched out on the bed, long legs spread. One knee would be bent a little, foot flat on the bed, long johns completely unbuttoned, hard cock curving up over his stomach. He'd have been hard so long by now that the head would be wet and leaving little smears on his belly as he breathed, and his hand would be hovering just over his cock, still holding out on himself, still forcing himself to wait.

Till finally, god, fucking finally (easy, Ray, easy, not so fast, hold on, not long to go now) Fraser's hand, that big, square hand, would close over his cock. He'd stroke up once, twice, roughly, wouldn't be able to stop himself. Even his hips would jerk up into that hold, before he'd back off, forcing himself to open his grasp. He'd run the tips of his fingers up the length once, and then again, liking the feel of it, the sensation of it being not quite enough, but knowing that soon, soon…

God. God. Soon, so fucking soon, Ray wasn't going to last much longer at all.

Fraser. He'd be lying there, sweating now, desperate for it, and finally, he'd have to give in, would have to. He'd grab himself, just the right grip, just tight enough, and stroke himself steadily. He'd let his thumb swipe the moisture from the head of his cock, let it ease the way of his strokes. Ray thought Fraser might be the type who'd leak a lot, he bet Fraser's hand would be slick with it.

He'd just totally give in at this point, would jerk himself hard and fast. His hips would be moving up into it, he wouldn’t be able to help himself, after all this time. He'd be lying there, thrusting up. His eyes would be shut tight, and his hair damp with sweat. Not just his hair, Ray thought, probably his whole body would be damp with it, and that Fraser would shove the long johns open further with his other hand.

And he'd be breathing in smothered gasps - kinda like Ray was right now - and his whole body would be thrumming with it - come - need to come - gotta come nownowNOW - as his hand moved faster and faster over his slick cock. His head would be tilted back against the pillow, and sweat would be coating his neck, and now he'd be moaning a little in the back of his throat at each stroke. He'd still be wanting to hold back, wanting to make this last, because god, so good, this felt so fucking good, so goddamn fucking good, nothing like it, nothing like this moment where you're right on the edge, right on the goddamn motherfucking edge, and it's not even under his control anymore, he's gonna go over, god, any minute, any fucking second now.

Fraser'd thrust hard, and again, shoving himself into his fist, and it would hit him like lightning, his orgasm rushing through him and he'd lose it, a strangled moan, and come, shooting up over his stomach, again, and again, and god, god, so hot, so fucking hot. Fraser covered with his own come, all over himself, gasping with his release, god, Ray was gonna come, was gonna come, wanted to come all over Fraser, wanted to be there, wanted to fucking be there, to come all over that messy stomach so - fucking - bad -

"God!" Ray's cock jerked in his hand, hard, and he spurted up over his fist, and again, and again, god, so good, so fucking, fucking good

He collapsed back, his heart pounding, his hand still clutched around himself. God. He was just a limp puddle on his bed. His throat felt raw, like he'd been shouting, and maybe he had. He felt dizzy with this, with the sheer intensity of it. He managed to open his eyes and raise his head to peer down, saw that he had come, not only all over his stomach, but far enough up that his t-shirt had splotches on it. Man. Man. It was always good, but sometimes you got hit with orgasms like you read about, like you cannot believe. The kind that, when you have them with someone else, can be enough to make you think you're in love.

He blinked up at the ceiling and then grinned to himself, swiping his hand through the come on his stomach. Okay, maybe not entirely emotionally healthy to be getting quite so turned on by his partner, but - that had been hot, that had been just so fucking hot. Something that felt that good wasn't something he could make himself feel bad about. He just - he wouldn't think about it right now. He'd think about it later. Much later.

Like, bedtime, maybe.


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