(no subject)
First off, I have just given up any chance of redemption. Hi,
brooklinegirl now owns my soul.
Author:
llassah
Pairing: Ray/Ray, allusions to Fraser/Ray/Ray
Rating: uhh, not for priests
Kink: Religion
Length:1208 words
Notes: Sex. On a stakeout. In a confessional box. I don't think I need to say much more than that really.
“Sssssh.”
I hold Kowalski in place, pinned to the back wall of the confessional box, the squares of light from the open grid to the side leaving half his face in shadow. He’s twitchy, real twitchy, all impatience and forward movement, all here and now, a bundle of want and need, whiny-voiced, bratty-grinned.
Two hours into a stakeout. Two hours of listening to him fidget, crack his knuckles, run his teeth along the beads of his bracelet with a wet clacking sound. Two hours, and it’s like Benny took all the patience with him on the four day course in Ontario, and we’re stuck snapping and snarling in the hushed stillness of the church.
He stays quiet, head down and to one side, smiling his fighter’s smile, everything close to the surface, bright flashes and sparks. I don’t know when I lost myself to him, but we walk in step now, and sometimes he dances with me, not around me and I figure that’s enough. I smell incense, wood polish and think of all my unmade confessions as I knead his tense shoulders, leather jacket supple under my grip. I trap, hold, comfort, and he only struggles because he can. His breath is warm in the space between us, I lean in to lick the stubble on his jaw and it’s like I’ve pulled the trigger because his hand’s on the back of my neck and he’s kissing me, nipping at my lower lip, hungry, Christ, so hungry. He’s not bothering with the usual press and retreat of our games, not hiding anything, just growling deep in the back of his throat as he tries to pull me in and keep his balance, half standing, half sitting on the hard bench.
I push his shoulders down so he’s sitting- sprawling- legs splayed, head thrown back so I can see his throat, pale, bared and I can’t decide whether I want to look or touch more. All those sermons on the sins of the flesh and this is what I’m worrying about. I grin down at him and he raises an eyebrow. I cover his mouth with one hand, bring the other to the fly of his jeans and his gasp is like a prayer, cock hard and hot, hips jerking up at the touch of my palm. No boxers, so his cock is outlined by denim. His hands are braced on the wooden seat, long fingers curled around the edge. The salty musk of his precum mingles with the incense and dust, and I let go of his mouth and kneel, running my hands along his thighs to his knees then up again, the muscles of his legs trembling under my fingers even through the denim of his jeans.
“Christ, you’re actually going to do it,” he whispers, voice no more than a breath with this mix of horny and amused. It’s brinkmanship, raising the stakes, challenges and defeats, and Benny can never understand why we argue so much about nothing but it’s worth it when I can wink and he smiles like it’s summer already, all lazy summer days and nights of fucking in the humid heat. We’re on the same page even when we don’t agree.
This is the point now where we couldn’t stop even if we wanted to, his hand goes to the back of my head and it’s tempting to resist, tease a little but he’s still tense so I let him bring my head forward, wrap my hand around his cock, lick a circle around the head, surprised it doesn’t taste sweeter because of his five-year-old eating habits. He hisses in a breath, jerks his hips up, his head hitting the wall with a thud and I lean in, put my arm across his hips and pin him there. He bites on his wrist to stop from moaning as I take him into my mouth, slow and lazy, tongue pressed flat to the underside. Slow and sweet, not the knockout blowjobs he gives, making Benny into a hoarse shaking mess, making me promise things I didn’t know I even had. I draw it out, getting into a rhythm, the jump of his stomach muscles and his muffled gasps more of a high than any drug, more power than I ever had in Vegas.
Touch and taste, smell and sound, my eyes closed as I move my hand up in counterpoint, my whole world shrunk down to this little box, enclosed and restricted. My knees ache, and his hand is tight on the back of my neck, my cock painfully hard and through it all I keep on moving, into it, past it, whatever. He’s moving continuously even now, his hand flexing, muscles clenching and unclenching and he seems to move into orgasm too, except it’s a move into stillness, a tensing and suspension, then his come’s hitting the back of my throat, bitter, salty-
He takes in a breath, shuddering and loud in the silence that seemed to follow him coming, and I sit back, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and look at him. Funny thing about Kowalski, after he comes he just sprawls like a puppet when the strings have been cut. You could drape him anywhere and he wouldn’t mind, would just stay there like breathing was the most complicated thing he could do. There’s this real sweet fucked-out smile on his face, and he’s just- he’s relaxed. And then you realize how much he actually moves normally.
He looks down at me like he’s forgotten I’m there and I could come just from looking at him, beautiful as a stained glass angel but far more real, the flaws making him- there’s this word for it, Benny would know it. He kneels down next to me, breathing ‘turn around’ into my ear, breath hot on my neck, then lets the bench support him as he leans me back, licking the side of my neck but without the starving urgency of before. He opens my pants, reaches into my boxers and I feel him grinning into my neck as I swear at the sensation.
“Vecchio, we’re in church, show some respect,” he murmurs, distracting me from hitting him with the sweetest slide of his hand against my cock, other hand trailing up and down my chest like I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I relax back into him, look up at the red curtain, the stones, the dark polished wood- forgive me Kowalski, for I’m sinning and I don’t want it to ever stop- and just let him do whatever he wants because everything’s gonna feel good, everything’s adding up and I’m arching back against him, clenching my hands on empty air, practically whimpering as I come, orgasm seeming to grow from everywhere at once, to be drawn out of the air around me, from the stones of the church.
We slump together, both remembering why we’re actually here at the same time as we sit up, putting clothes on, cleaning up- I keep a handkerchief just in case on stakeouts- and taking our positions, the smell of sex rich and heavy in the air. It goes kinda well with the incense. I could get used to it.
brooklinegirl now owns my soul.
Author:
llassah
Pairing: Ray/Ray, allusions to Fraser/Ray/Ray
Rating: uhh, not for priests
Kink: Religion
Length:1208 words
Notes: Sex. On a stakeout. In a confessional box. I don't think I need to say much more than that really.
“Sssssh.”
I hold Kowalski in place, pinned to the back wall of the confessional box, the squares of light from the open grid to the side leaving half his face in shadow. He’s twitchy, real twitchy, all impatience and forward movement, all here and now, a bundle of want and need, whiny-voiced, bratty-grinned.
Two hours into a stakeout. Two hours of listening to him fidget, crack his knuckles, run his teeth along the beads of his bracelet with a wet clacking sound. Two hours, and it’s like Benny took all the patience with him on the four day course in Ontario, and we’re stuck snapping and snarling in the hushed stillness of the church.
He stays quiet, head down and to one side, smiling his fighter’s smile, everything close to the surface, bright flashes and sparks. I don’t know when I lost myself to him, but we walk in step now, and sometimes he dances with me, not around me and I figure that’s enough. I smell incense, wood polish and think of all my unmade confessions as I knead his tense shoulders, leather jacket supple under my grip. I trap, hold, comfort, and he only struggles because he can. His breath is warm in the space between us, I lean in to lick the stubble on his jaw and it’s like I’ve pulled the trigger because his hand’s on the back of my neck and he’s kissing me, nipping at my lower lip, hungry, Christ, so hungry. He’s not bothering with the usual press and retreat of our games, not hiding anything, just growling deep in the back of his throat as he tries to pull me in and keep his balance, half standing, half sitting on the hard bench.
I push his shoulders down so he’s sitting- sprawling- legs splayed, head thrown back so I can see his throat, pale, bared and I can’t decide whether I want to look or touch more. All those sermons on the sins of the flesh and this is what I’m worrying about. I grin down at him and he raises an eyebrow. I cover his mouth with one hand, bring the other to the fly of his jeans and his gasp is like a prayer, cock hard and hot, hips jerking up at the touch of my palm. No boxers, so his cock is outlined by denim. His hands are braced on the wooden seat, long fingers curled around the edge. The salty musk of his precum mingles with the incense and dust, and I let go of his mouth and kneel, running my hands along his thighs to his knees then up again, the muscles of his legs trembling under my fingers even through the denim of his jeans.
“Christ, you’re actually going to do it,” he whispers, voice no more than a breath with this mix of horny and amused. It’s brinkmanship, raising the stakes, challenges and defeats, and Benny can never understand why we argue so much about nothing but it’s worth it when I can wink and he smiles like it’s summer already, all lazy summer days and nights of fucking in the humid heat. We’re on the same page even when we don’t agree.
This is the point now where we couldn’t stop even if we wanted to, his hand goes to the back of my head and it’s tempting to resist, tease a little but he’s still tense so I let him bring my head forward, wrap my hand around his cock, lick a circle around the head, surprised it doesn’t taste sweeter because of his five-year-old eating habits. He hisses in a breath, jerks his hips up, his head hitting the wall with a thud and I lean in, put my arm across his hips and pin him there. He bites on his wrist to stop from moaning as I take him into my mouth, slow and lazy, tongue pressed flat to the underside. Slow and sweet, not the knockout blowjobs he gives, making Benny into a hoarse shaking mess, making me promise things I didn’t know I even had. I draw it out, getting into a rhythm, the jump of his stomach muscles and his muffled gasps more of a high than any drug, more power than I ever had in Vegas.
Touch and taste, smell and sound, my eyes closed as I move my hand up in counterpoint, my whole world shrunk down to this little box, enclosed and restricted. My knees ache, and his hand is tight on the back of my neck, my cock painfully hard and through it all I keep on moving, into it, past it, whatever. He’s moving continuously even now, his hand flexing, muscles clenching and unclenching and he seems to move into orgasm too, except it’s a move into stillness, a tensing and suspension, then his come’s hitting the back of my throat, bitter, salty-
He takes in a breath, shuddering and loud in the silence that seemed to follow him coming, and I sit back, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and look at him. Funny thing about Kowalski, after he comes he just sprawls like a puppet when the strings have been cut. You could drape him anywhere and he wouldn’t mind, would just stay there like breathing was the most complicated thing he could do. There’s this real sweet fucked-out smile on his face, and he’s just- he’s relaxed. And then you realize how much he actually moves normally.
He looks down at me like he’s forgotten I’m there and I could come just from looking at him, beautiful as a stained glass angel but far more real, the flaws making him- there’s this word for it, Benny would know it. He kneels down next to me, breathing ‘turn around’ into my ear, breath hot on my neck, then lets the bench support him as he leans me back, licking the side of my neck but without the starving urgency of before. He opens my pants, reaches into my boxers and I feel him grinning into my neck as I swear at the sensation.
“Vecchio, we’re in church, show some respect,” he murmurs, distracting me from hitting him with the sweetest slide of his hand against my cock, other hand trailing up and down my chest like I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I relax back into him, look up at the red curtain, the stones, the dark polished wood- forgive me Kowalski, for I’m sinning and I don’t want it to ever stop- and just let him do whatever he wants because everything’s gonna feel good, everything’s adding up and I’m arching back against him, clenching my hands on empty air, practically whimpering as I come, orgasm seeming to grow from everywhere at once, to be drawn out of the air around me, from the stones of the church.
We slump together, both remembering why we’re actually here at the same time as we sit up, putting clothes on, cleaning up- I keep a handkerchief just in case on stakeouts- and taking our positions, the smell of sex rich and heavy in the air. It goes kinda well with the incense. I could get used to it.