By
the time
they reach Ray's apartment, they are drenched. They had thought that the
rain would hold off until they arrived, but the treacherous summer storm
was able to fool even Fraser's keen weather eye. They enter quickly, their
boots sliding and squeaking on Ray's hardwood floors. It's summer, so
they weren't cold before, but Ray's apartment is air-conditioned and their
clothes feel cold and heavy. Turnbull slips a little and falls against
Fraser's chest, accidentally-on-purpose. They
move to the bathroom, its tiles safe from being damaged by rainwater.
There's hardly room for the both of them there, but they manage. They
undress quickly, letting their sodden clothing fall to the floor.
Turnbull
looks at his superior officer and stops moving, riveted by the sight.
Fraser still starches his underwear, but you wouldn't be able to tell
it now. The shorts are thin white cotton-- regulation issue, but this
pair is old. Fraser has mended the seam with thread that doesn't match.
Turnbull
remembers how they came to be torn.
Clammy
with water, the material clings to Fraser, turning faintly pink as the
color of his skin shows through. He is facing away. His hands go to
the waistband, ready to skim out of the wet garment.
"Stop,"
Turnbull says. "Please."
Turnbull
steps up behind Fraser, letting his big hands settle on Fraser's hips.
He bends his head and bites, very softly, at the tendon on the back
of Fraser's neck. Fraser's skin is cool and damp but starts to warm
beneath his touch. He kneels, slowly, dragging his mouth down Fraser's
spine as he goes.
On
his knees, he is just the right height to mouth at the hollow of Fraser's
back. He neither avoids the bullet scar nor seeks it out; he is concerned
with more important things, such as the sounds that Fraser makes and
the tremors running over his skin when Turnbull breathes.
He
sits back on his heels and looks. Fraser's back is flushed, the blood
drawn to the surface of his skin by Turnbull's sucking mouth. One or
two places where he lingered a bit will probably bruise a little by
the morning. Fraser's skin shows the color well.
Fraser
is still, waiting. A gust of air pushes through the crack in the bathroom
door, and they both shiver. Turnbull leans forward and brushes his mouth
across Fraser's ass, sucking rainwater out of the wet cloth, and the
powerful muscles clench beneath him as Fraser sucks in a breath through
his teeth.
The
door opens.
"You
guys have no patience, you know that?" Ray says. "I *said*
six-thirty."
"We
got caught in the storm," Turnbull explains. "We needed to
change."
Ray
raises an eyebrow. “And there's a new rule I didn't know about
that you have to take off everybody's underwear with your teeth? Don't
be greedy.”
“Terribly
sorry, Ray,” Turnbull murmurs, and draws Fraser backwards, making
room for Ray between him and the wall, and then removes Fraser's boxers
neatly. He taps an ankle, and Fraser steps out of one leg of the shorts,
then kicks them into the corner.
“Thanks,”
Ray says, and slides into his spot. His face is inches away from Fraser's.
“Hey,” he says to him, his voice warm and amused. “Having
a good day?”
Satisfied
that his verbal input isn't currently required, Turnbull takes the opportunity
to run the flat of his tongue from the base of Fraser's spine straight
downwards; Fraser's reply to Ray comes out as a strangled moan, and
Ray laughs. He can hear them kissing, and nudges Fraser's feet a bit
farther apart so that he can continue his ministrations. He can feel
Ray's hands settle on his head, carding through his rain-damp hair,
and he hums happily; he's always had a sensitive scalp.
“There's
a towel rack in front of you,” he hears Ray saying, his voice
a bit muffled as he kisses Fraser in between words. “When you
need it.”
“We
hadn't actually used any--” Fraser begins, but melts into a sigh.
Ray's arms are moving; he pulls back a little to watch Ray sink gracefully
to his knees, dragging his mouth and body down over Fraser as he goes.
Ray meets his eyes around Fraser's hip, and leans forward for a kiss.
His agile mouth feels shockingly good, and Turnbull presses into it,
craving more. His weight makes Fraser overbalance a bit; Ray has to
pull away from the kiss to catch him.
“Towel
rack, Fraser,” he says.
Turnbull
glances up. Fraser flushes, a bit-- it's funny the things that get to
him-- but he grasps either end of the bar in front of him. He shifts
uneasily and spreads his feet wider apart, seeking stability. Ray arches
an eyebrow at Turnbull and grins, then pulls Turnbull's hand up to his
mouth, pulling his first two fingers in. He sucks for a bit, then draws
back, flicking the webbing between them with his tongue, making Turnbull
shiver. His eyes gleam, and Turnbull nods at him, feeling his face crease
with a conspiratorial smile.
Ray
turns back to Fraser, who has been waiting, patiently, for them to finish
their byplay and return their attention to him. He is tense and trembling
beneath Turnbull's hand.
Fraser
hates waiting, but he does it beautifully. Turnbull slides an approving
finger into him as Ray applies himself to Fraser's cock.
He'll
start out slowly, Turnbull knows, matching the movements of his own
hand to the flexing of Fraser's thighs. Fraser has excellent control,
and is usually able to keep himself from thrusting until the very end.
Ray likes to try to make him do it sooner.
Ray
will speed up soon, he thinks, and waits for the evidence of it. There--
a stuttering of Fraser's hips. Turnbull slides another finger in.
Turnbull
sits back on his heels, keeping his fingers moving, and looks through
Fraser's legs at Ray. He is hard, straining against the fly of his jeans,
fumbling at his belt buckle with his unoccupied left hand.
Turnbull
reaches across and unfastens Ray's jeans, easing him gently out of them.
Ray hums his thanks, pushing up into Turnbull's hand, and Fraser clenches
around Turnbull's fingers.
Turnbull
spares a moment to be idly thankful that the occasional clumsiness that
has always plagued him does not appear to extend to the metaphorical
bedroom. Despite his late arrival, Ray is already close to orgasm, and
Turnbull wonders momentarily how long he was standing behind the bathroom
door.
They
must make an interesting sight, knotted together in the middle of the
bathroom. Holding Ray's silky cock in one hand while Fraser's heat surrounds
the other, he feels powerful, as though he could control them both with
little effort. He moves both his hands at once, smiling at the responses
the motion draws from his lovers. They're moving in unison now, following
his lead.
Ray
comes first, jerking roughly into Turnbull's calloused hand, and something
he does then sets Fraser off, too. It happens that way often; they've
both found themselves becoming very attuned to Ray. Turnbull is only
distantly aware of Fraser coming down heavily on his knees beside him
as Ray presses himself against Turnbull's chest, reaching eagerly for
Turnbull's cock as he parts Turnbull's lips with a tongue that tastes
of Fraser. Turnbull feels the handle of the bathroom cabinet pressing
into his back as he lets himself fall into his orgasm.
They
lie for a while on the bathroom floor, and then Ray stretches lazily,
smiling happily when he notices Turnbull watching, and drapes himself
over Fraser's motionless torso to catch him in a kiss, resting his head
on Turnbull's shoulder when he pulls away. “We should get up,”
he says. “Floor's cold.”
“Fraser's
lying on top of my legs,” Turnbull says. “Also, he broke
the towel rack again.”
Ray
laughs. “He's always been destructive,” he says, and Fraser
makes a sleepy and not very vehement noise of protest. They lapse back
into contented silence, and the rain outside continues to fall.
~End~
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