With Glowing Hearts, by Stars [F/K, NC-17]
Title: With Glowing Hearts
Author: Stars (simplystars)
Pairing: F/K
Word Count: 3500 (unbeta'd; no time, you know how slow I write :-/)
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: Olympics
Summary: A winter pentathlon.
With Glowing Hearts
by Stars
Bobsled (Bobsleigh)
It all started with the bobsledding.
(Bobsleigh, Ray, Fraser says with long-suffering good humor. Long-suffering, because Fraser's put up with Ray's antics for some few years now, but it's all good because Fraser likes Ray just the way he is - even when he's doing his darndest to get under Fraser's skin.)
Whatever. Anyway, it really started before that, with the two of them all hot and sweaty and stuck inside a suber-, sumber-, in a little mini submarine thing.
The submersible, Ray?
Where Ray had kinda wanted to lick Fraser's neck; just run his tongue along the hairline at the damp, vulnerable nape of Fraser's neck...
Okay, okay. The trapped-together-in-a-sardine-can incident had come after the whole buddy-breathing-not-a-kiss-thing, which confused Ray for a time (he figured his brain cells were still scrambled from blooming and closing without the closure of kicking Fraser in the head, not that it would've been very satisfying underwater, anyhow). Then, later, there was more: the tending of wounds and potentially meaningful hand-holding. Fraser was a first class tender-er, even if his concoctions were stinky and slimy and gross; his hand clasped in Ray's felt soft and strong at the same time.
And they'd slept together once.
Technically.
(Even if it was in Mrs. Tucci's backyard and in the morning Fraser'd kicked Ray in the head, instead of the natural order of Nature where Ray's firmly established role was as the kick-er, not kick-ee.)
So fine, maybe it started before the bobsledding, but all that was imm-, irr-, beside the point because the bobsledding was what made Ray wake up and smell the Smarties in his coffee. There he'd been, plonked on his ass on a piece of wooden crate in front of Fraser, hurtling down the face of a mountain toward certain death and/or a whole lot of pain - and the part of his brain that wasn't gibbering noticed Fraser's arms, wrapped around holding him tight.
It felt... nice.
They were sturdy arms, muscular under the padding of Fraser's parka. Stalwart arms, holding Ray close to Fraser's body, deflecting the assault and battery of felonious tree branches that leaped out into their path.
So... yeah, it was the bobsled that started it. Because maybe Ray could rationalize asking his brand-new partner if he was attracted to Ray wanted to jump Ray's bones thought Ray was attractive; and every cop knew adrenaline could explain away weird things, like popping a boner at just the sight of his Mountie partner (snatching Ray's tossed weapon from mid-air and shooting the crap out of a target, as cool as anything)...
But rolling out of a snowdrift - after crashing into it at the bottom of a Canadian mountain at the end of a death-defying run - and just lying there, arms and legs tangled pleasantly together, because it felt good to be there, to be plastered against Fraser from shoulder to thigh and basically hugging the stuffing out of the guy?
Yeah, that was when lust and love kicked Ray's ass with a helluva double-whammy.
* * *
Skijoring
Once Fraser decided that Ray wasn't going die the moment he set a boot outside the sled, the Adventure became a lot more exciting. Not that Ray wasn't having enough adventure in his Adventure, what with camping every night and setting up the tent and starting a fire and feeding the dogs and untangling the dogs and untangling himself from the dogs, and changing into his sleeping clothes inside his sleeping bag and untangling himself from his sleeping bag, and sleeping next to Fraser and untangling himself from Fraser in the morning, and eating and melting snow to drink and packing everything up to do it all again that evening.
But after a few days, Fraser started to show Ray how to do more stuff, like drive the sled (which was cool) and harness the dogs (which was tangly) and make tea (wow, Fraser was touchy about boiling water). Ray liked those things, too; but mostly he liked the way Fraser would show him something, and if Ray didn't get it quite right Fraser would show him again, and maybe even another time, until Ray got it or until Ray got frustrated and stomped off to do something less frustrating. (Ray didn't do his happy snow-dance anymore, not since he'd slipped and fallen on his ass and all the dogs laughed with rude lolling tongues, and even Fraser couldn't bite back a smile.)
One day, after the second time the sled tipped over, Fraser called a halt. Ray scowled and kicked at the snow, grumbling I said gee, not haw under his breath while Fraser fussed around with the sled-bag, shifting this and moving that until, eventually, he pulled out a pair of skis and an odd-looking jumble of nylon strapping. "Put these on, Ray."
Then Fraser went up the line of dogs, unhitching Bonnie and Clyde from the team. He clipped a long tether to their tandem harness and led them back to Ray.
With the straps untwisted and turned right-side-up, Ray was able to shimmy (the best a person could shimmy, wearing a parka) into what appeared to be a rock climbing harness and strap the skis to his boots. Fraser passed the tether line around Ray's waist, clipping it to the harness. He passed Ray the ski poles and clapped him on the shoulder. "Use the same commands as when you drive the team."
Bonnie (she was a pretty dog, fluffy white with one blue eye) looked back at him, yapping happily; at her side, Clyde waited patiently for Ray to get his act together and set them on the trail. Steady, dependable Clyde - he was like a Mountie in sled-dog clothes.
"Hike!" Ray said, and they were off. A few yards behind and to their left, Fraser drove the sled.
Getting pulled on skis by sled-dogs was the most fun Ray'd had in a long time. Sure, he wiped out a few times, when he lost an edge or crossed his skis or hit a rock, but Bonnie and Clyde licked him encouragingly and he bounced right up, brushed the snow off his ass, and set off again.
That evening, high on fresh air and exercise, the warmth of the campfire and the amazing aurora overhead, Ray leaned into Fraser and prodded him with a friendly elbow. "That was a blast, Frase. Thanks."
"Skijoring suits you, Ray," Fraser said, smiling into his mug of tea.
"It was greatness." Ray unwound his arm, throwing it around Fraser's shoulders and squeezing.
Fraser turned his head just as Ray looked up; someone's breath caught audibly, but Ray had no clue if it was Fraser or him. Fraser's eyes were so dark, shining softly in the firelight; Ray hesitated and then, remembering he was on an Adventure, decided to go for it and be really adventurous.
Fraser's lips were a little bit rough, chapped by the wind and his habit of licking them; Ray decided it would be a companionable thing to do, to give Fraser something better to lick. Ray leaned into him, pressed into the kiss, licking Fraser's mouth, coaxing it open. Fraser settled back with a pleased moan; Ray gulped a breath and pressed his advantage, slipping his tongue boldly between Fraser's lips so they could meet hot and wet and bitter-tea-sweet.
They drew apart at last. Ray searched Fraser's face a little anxiously - this was good, this was greatness, he didn't want to fuck this up - and Fraser looked back steadily. Ray exhaled softly, feeling his whole face crinkle into a shit-eating grin as he recognized the relieved wonder mirrored in Fraser's expression.
They sat by the fire, necking, until the temperature dropped and the dogs curled up to sleep. Ray shuffled toward the tent, tugging his mittens off with his teeth, while Fraser hastily rinsed his mug with snow and kicked more over the fire. Ray changed into his sleeping clothes, just as he had every night before; when Fraser came in he did the same, and then showed Ray how to zip both sleeping bags together.
They lay quiet, arms and legs twined, kissing between ferocious yawns until they fell asleep.
* * *
Biathlon (Military Patrol)
When Fraser's on patrol he can be gone for days, sometimes weeks. Ray gets a little antsy.
Oh, there's plenty to do. Chopping firewood, fixing things, working with the dogs, making trips to town for supplies or work - Ray has more than enough to keep himself busy. He's got entertainment, too. Part of their deal was that Fraser got to choose the spot, wild and untamed and the ass-end of Bumfuck, the Yukon if he wanted; Ray got indoor plumbing, satellite tv and radio, his own sled team, and a permit to carry. (Ray also negotiated periodic mail-order delivery pizza, donuts, and Chicago-style hotdogs on behalf of Diefenbaker, who'd promised to share.)
When Fraser's been gone too long, Ray gets reacquainted with his right hand. Sometimes he closes his eyes, picturing Fraser there with him, rosy-cheeked and panting hard as Ray brings him off; sometimes it's Fraser who closes his eyes in blissed-out concentration as he sucks Ray's cock, all wet-lipped and slurping obscenely. But other times - when Fraser's gone long enough that Ray refuses to let himself worry - Ray doesn't close his eyes. He can't get lost in imaginary Fraser, so sex becomes jerking off, pleasure turned mechanical, physical relief.
Then, eventually, when Ray's just about reached the point where he can't take being alone anymore, and he's had all he can stomach of pool and darts and curling in town, Fraser finally comes home. Ray's first clue is usually the dogs, prick-eared and tails wagging, barking and howling in a frenzied chorus of welcome.
Parts of Ray prick up and wag, too. He shoves extra wood into the stove and sets out a generous bowl for Dief before making his way to the door, where he lies in wait and jumps Fraser as soon as he opens the door.
When Fraser's been gone, neither of them can wait. They barely get the door shut before Ray slams Fraser back against it, fingers already at work on frozen fastenings. He unwinds the woollen scarf from Fraser's neck, shoves back the hood and knit cap to comb warm fingers into Fraser's hair, pulling his head down to shove his tongue in Fraser's gasping mouth.
Fraser groans, gloved hands clutching awkwardly at Ray's waist, pulling him closer. Ray drops his hands, struggling with the parka's zipper; the moment he has wrestled it into submission he slides his arms around Fraser, leaning in to suck hard at the newly exposed skin of Fraser's neck.
"Ray," Fraser says, low and rough.
"Missed you," Ray growls back, yanking at Fraser's collar to worry the tendon beneath.
Fraser moans again, locking his knees as Ray settles between his legs, resting belly-to-belly against Fraser as he pushes Fraser's parka off his shoulders. Next, the suspenders of his snow pants; Ray yanks at them, shoving them down with the pants themselves, seeking the flap of Fraser's thermal underwear.
Fraser bites his lip hard when Ray touches him; he's hard and hot in Ray's hand, already beginning to leak. Ray kisses Fraser, replacing Fraser's teeth with his own on the bruised, throbbing lower lip; first he licks, then he nips while his fingers close around Fraser's length. A soft squeeze, then stroking, slow like Fraser likes it, twisting just a little over the head and then back down. Fraser thrusts up into Ray's grip, breath hissing in rhythm with the hand on his cock as Ray begins to pick up the pace.
"You hurt?" Ray asks.
"Not - at - all," Fraser assures him, panting.
"Good," Ray says. He'll check for himself later. Right now, Fraser's close; he's having a hard time keeping his eyes open. Ray grinds against Fraser's thigh, the denim of his jeans soaking up snow, but he's almost painfully hard and the friction burn is fire he wants, needs. It'll be his time, soon - but now is for Fraser.
"C'mon," Ray says, alternating his strokes. Short and quick, looooooong and slow, handling the foreskin with confident assurance and familiarity, rubbing a callused fingertip softly over the glistening cockhead. Fraser freezes, sucking in a breath; Ray presses close and feels a spurt, two, three as Fraser comes in his hand.
* * *
Hockey
"So what are you saying?"
"That we failed to consider the possibility of such an outcome."
"It's a game, Fraser. One guy wins, the other guy loses."
"Clearly, Ray, it's not always quite that simple."
"Yeah, well. So they tied. I can't believe you actually bet me. And there's still overtime." Ray slouches in a stiff-elbowed, disgruntled sprawl beside Fraser, heads resting together where they share the sofa cushion (Ray's sofa, also a part of their agreement, along with the television).
"We didn't account for overtime. And I've bet you before."
Ray rolls his head to the side, mock-glaring at Fraser from the corner of his eye. "For air, you freak. This is for blowjobs. Who in their right mind would expect overtime? It's Switzerland, home of the biker army of neutrality. Playing Canada."
Fraser smiles (smugly, the bastard). "Biker army of neutrality?"
Ray waves one hand in disgust. "Biker, bicycles. Same diff. It's not like I wasn't expecting to pay up, anyway - but you're not getting off that easy, Benton buddy. Shut up and lie back, I got an idea."
Fraser cocks an eyebrow, but slides down obediently to lie on the sofa. Ray unbuttons the fly of Fraser's jeans and pulls as Fraser lifts up; then he wads Fraser's jeans and boxers in a sloppy ball and tosses them on the floor.
"Now me," Ray says, stripping off his sweatpants; he wears nothing under them. Fraser hums appreciatively at the sight.
"Socks stay on," Ray continues, slithering over to fit himself between Fraser and the back of the sofa. "It's cold in here."
"Ah," Fraser says, as he comprehends Ray's plan. "An admirable solution."
"Always been a fan of sixty-nine," Ray murmurs, nuzzling Fraser's bare thigh. "Make it fast, yeah? If they're still tied after overtime it's a sudden-death shootout. Don't wanna miss it."
"Mm," Fraser agrees, his warm, wet mouth closing around Ray's hardening cock.
* * *
Curling
Ray expects Fraser to be a fanatic about hockey. They'd bet mostly in jest, neither expecting two games to end up tied - even after overtime - and eventually decided in a shootout.
Unexpected, but a fun diversion nonetheless.
What Ray doesn't expect is how crazy Fraser gets over the curling (he should have known, given the freakishness with Turnbull back in the consulate in Chicago; though to be fair what he mainly remembered about being arrested in Canada was the thing with Fraser's pants).
The whole town, really. Hell, the entire nation. Give a guy some rocks and a broom and a patch of ice and watch the wacky hijinks ensue, who knew?
Fraser gets insanely turned on by a curling victory. He'll glance over at Ray in that way he has, where he's so obviously not looking, it's a dead giveaway, and his eyes glitter a little, hot and brooding - the way he gets when he wants Ray bad. Ray loves it when Fraser looks at him like that; it means he's in for a thorough fucking.
Fraser might warn him, with a low-voiced, gravelly "Ray," that his inner Mountie politeness seems to think is only right and proper for Fraser to give as a heads-up that he wants to fuck Ray through the mattress - fuck him 'til the caribou come home, if that's all right?
Sometimes, though, Fraser observes Ray from the corner of his eye, and comes up behind him in the kitchen, or when he goes to put wood in the stove; Fraser's strong arms encircle Ray, one hand sliding down to fondle Ray's cock through his pants while the other gently, inexorably presses Ray back flush against Fraser's very aroused body. Then Fraser herds Ray toward the bedroom, their legs moving in unison; they might pause in the doorway for a somewhat clumsy sideways kiss before stripping off their clothes.
When Fraser is really turned on, he'll lay Ray out on the bed like a beloved toy (Ray is sure he never had as a child) and play with him for hours. Because when Fraser puts his mind to it, he can bank his arousal, turn all of his attention to Ray and focus his entire being on driving Ray out of his fucking mind.
Fraser might sniff him, first, from head to toe and all the nooks and crannies along the way, his nose brushing through the soft spikes of Ray's hair, along the crease of his elbow, in the cleft of his ass. Licking often accompanies the sniffing, but sometimes Fraser starts all over again from the top, tasting every bit of Ray's exposed skin. He samples the rough texture of Ray's heel, runs the flat of his tongue over the soft, salt-damp palm of Ray's hand, nibbles at the tip of Ray's finger or the rim of his ear.
He does not lick Ray's cock, which desperately wants licking by this juncture.
Next, Fraser... well. He pets Ray. Fraser traces his fingers oh-so-lightly, like the flutter of a butterfly wing, all over Ray's arms and chest and stomach and knees and feet; he smoothes his palms over the contours of Ray's biceps, shoulders, the curve of his ass. Fraser rests one hand like a heavy collar not quite encircling Ray's neck, and finally places it on Ray's stiff cock or cradles Ray's balls, rolling and massaging them while Ray sweats and writhes and begs for Fraser's mouth.
Then - oh, then. Fraser turns Ray over and, so carefully, lies entirely atop him, covering Ray's body completely with his own, lacing their fingers together. He licks at the sweat, following the rivulet down Ray's spine, mouthing knobs of vertebrae before ultimately settling between Ray's wide-spread legs to plunder his hole. A single finger, followed by the soft-lapping wet heat of tongue; two fingers, curling wickedly inside Ray to generate a bolt of electricity shooting upward and outward with every brush of Fraser's knuckles. Ray's toes curl with delirious pleasure, his cock stiffening impossibly further with every jolt of sparkling white heat.
Fraser's hands withdraw, then, soothing and grounding Ray, rolling him onto his back and lifting his legs to settle them over Fraser's shoulders. A pause for condom and lube; by now Ray is nearly incoherent with need and desire, knowing only that he needs Fraser now and welcoming that first blunt press of cock to his hole with a relieved sob.
Slowly, so slowly; inch by centimeter Fraser pushes inside Ray, whispering broken phrases in fervent languages that Ray doesn't recognize. For Ray there is nothing outside of his own body and Fraser's, filling it up - the stretch, the brief sliding burn as Fraser penetrates him; the odd shifting of Ray's ass, accommodating Fraser's size and shape and the rhythm Fraser sets.
Slowly, again. Fraser is a glutton for Ray; he'll savor Ray for as long as he can, even down to the actual fucking. Sink in, pull out; press forward, retreat until one of them can't wait any longer. Usually it's Ray, tightening around Fraser and driving his heels deep into Fraser's lower back, or shoving back forcefully against Fraser's driving thrusts; but on rare occasions Fraser loses the iron grip of his control and ruts mindlessly into Ray until there is only the heaving rasp of their breath, the slap of flesh against flesh, the whisper of skin on sheets and guttural groans as first one, then the other finds their completion, collapsing down to lie curled together.
One in front, one behind; arms entwined, bodies sharing heat and breath. Soft lips against a sweat-sheened shoulder blade, hands clasped tightly and held next to the heart.
The partnership once more victorious.
* * *
1 Skijoring at Wikipedia
2 Military Patrol at Wikipedia
Next up: I tag kirvash with the prompt hibernate
Author: Stars (simplystars)
Pairing: F/K
Word Count: 3500 (unbeta'd; no time, you know how slow I write :-/)
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: Olympics
Summary: A winter pentathlon.
With Glowing Hearts
by Stars
Bobsled (Bobsleigh)
It all started with the bobsledding.
(Bobsleigh, Ray, Fraser says with long-suffering good humor. Long-suffering, because Fraser's put up with Ray's antics for some few years now, but it's all good because Fraser likes Ray just the way he is - even when he's doing his darndest to get under Fraser's skin.)
Whatever. Anyway, it really started before that, with the two of them all hot and sweaty and stuck inside a suber-, sumber-, in a little mini submarine thing.
The submersible, Ray?
Where Ray had kinda wanted to lick Fraser's neck; just run his tongue along the hairline at the damp, vulnerable nape of Fraser's neck...
Okay, okay. The trapped-together-in-a-sardine-can incident had come after the whole buddy-breathing-not-a-kiss-thing, which confused Ray for a time (he figured his brain cells were still scrambled from blooming and closing without the closure of kicking Fraser in the head, not that it would've been very satisfying underwater, anyhow). Then, later, there was more: the tending of wounds and potentially meaningful hand-holding. Fraser was a first class tender-er, even if his concoctions were stinky and slimy and gross; his hand clasped in Ray's felt soft and strong at the same time.
And they'd slept together once.
Technically.
(Even if it was in Mrs. Tucci's backyard and in the morning Fraser'd kicked Ray in the head, instead of the natural order of Nature where Ray's firmly established role was as the kick-er, not kick-ee.)
So fine, maybe it started before the bobsledding, but all that was imm-, irr-, beside the point because the bobsledding was what made Ray wake up and smell the Smarties in his coffee. There he'd been, plonked on his ass on a piece of wooden crate in front of Fraser, hurtling down the face of a mountain toward certain death and/or a whole lot of pain - and the part of his brain that wasn't gibbering noticed Fraser's arms, wrapped around holding him tight.
It felt... nice.
They were sturdy arms, muscular under the padding of Fraser's parka. Stalwart arms, holding Ray close to Fraser's body, deflecting the assault and battery of felonious tree branches that leaped out into their path.
So... yeah, it was the bobsled that started it. Because maybe Ray could rationalize asking his brand-new partner if he was attracted to Ray wanted to jump Ray's bones thought Ray was attractive; and every cop knew adrenaline could explain away weird things, like popping a boner at just the sight of his Mountie partner (snatching Ray's tossed weapon from mid-air and shooting the crap out of a target, as cool as anything)...
But rolling out of a snowdrift - after crashing into it at the bottom of a Canadian mountain at the end of a death-defying run - and just lying there, arms and legs tangled pleasantly together, because it felt good to be there, to be plastered against Fraser from shoulder to thigh and basically hugging the stuffing out of the guy?
Yeah, that was when lust and love kicked Ray's ass with a helluva double-whammy.
* * *
Skijoring
Once Fraser decided that Ray wasn't going die the moment he set a boot outside the sled, the Adventure became a lot more exciting. Not that Ray wasn't having enough adventure in his Adventure, what with camping every night and setting up the tent and starting a fire and feeding the dogs and untangling the dogs and untangling himself from the dogs, and changing into his sleeping clothes inside his sleeping bag and untangling himself from his sleeping bag, and sleeping next to Fraser and untangling himself from Fraser in the morning, and eating and melting snow to drink and packing everything up to do it all again that evening.
But after a few days, Fraser started to show Ray how to do more stuff, like drive the sled (which was cool) and harness the dogs (which was tangly) and make tea (wow, Fraser was touchy about boiling water). Ray liked those things, too; but mostly he liked the way Fraser would show him something, and if Ray didn't get it quite right Fraser would show him again, and maybe even another time, until Ray got it or until Ray got frustrated and stomped off to do something less frustrating. (Ray didn't do his happy snow-dance anymore, not since he'd slipped and fallen on his ass and all the dogs laughed with rude lolling tongues, and even Fraser couldn't bite back a smile.)
One day, after the second time the sled tipped over, Fraser called a halt. Ray scowled and kicked at the snow, grumbling I said gee, not haw under his breath while Fraser fussed around with the sled-bag, shifting this and moving that until, eventually, he pulled out a pair of skis and an odd-looking jumble of nylon strapping. "Put these on, Ray."
Then Fraser went up the line of dogs, unhitching Bonnie and Clyde from the team. He clipped a long tether to their tandem harness and led them back to Ray.
With the straps untwisted and turned right-side-up, Ray was able to shimmy (the best a person could shimmy, wearing a parka) into what appeared to be a rock climbing harness and strap the skis to his boots. Fraser passed the tether line around Ray's waist, clipping it to the harness. He passed Ray the ski poles and clapped him on the shoulder. "Use the same commands as when you drive the team."
Bonnie (she was a pretty dog, fluffy white with one blue eye) looked back at him, yapping happily; at her side, Clyde waited patiently for Ray to get his act together and set them on the trail. Steady, dependable Clyde - he was like a Mountie in sled-dog clothes.
"Hike!" Ray said, and they were off. A few yards behind and to their left, Fraser drove the sled.
Getting pulled on skis by sled-dogs was the most fun Ray'd had in a long time. Sure, he wiped out a few times, when he lost an edge or crossed his skis or hit a rock, but Bonnie and Clyde licked him encouragingly and he bounced right up, brushed the snow off his ass, and set off again.
That evening, high on fresh air and exercise, the warmth of the campfire and the amazing aurora overhead, Ray leaned into Fraser and prodded him with a friendly elbow. "That was a blast, Frase. Thanks."
"Skijoring suits you, Ray," Fraser said, smiling into his mug of tea.
"It was greatness." Ray unwound his arm, throwing it around Fraser's shoulders and squeezing.
Fraser turned his head just as Ray looked up; someone's breath caught audibly, but Ray had no clue if it was Fraser or him. Fraser's eyes were so dark, shining softly in the firelight; Ray hesitated and then, remembering he was on an Adventure, decided to go for it and be really adventurous.
Fraser's lips were a little bit rough, chapped by the wind and his habit of licking them; Ray decided it would be a companionable thing to do, to give Fraser something better to lick. Ray leaned into him, pressed into the kiss, licking Fraser's mouth, coaxing it open. Fraser settled back with a pleased moan; Ray gulped a breath and pressed his advantage, slipping his tongue boldly between Fraser's lips so they could meet hot and wet and bitter-tea-sweet.
They drew apart at last. Ray searched Fraser's face a little anxiously - this was good, this was greatness, he didn't want to fuck this up - and Fraser looked back steadily. Ray exhaled softly, feeling his whole face crinkle into a shit-eating grin as he recognized the relieved wonder mirrored in Fraser's expression.
They sat by the fire, necking, until the temperature dropped and the dogs curled up to sleep. Ray shuffled toward the tent, tugging his mittens off with his teeth, while Fraser hastily rinsed his mug with snow and kicked more over the fire. Ray changed into his sleeping clothes, just as he had every night before; when Fraser came in he did the same, and then showed Ray how to zip both sleeping bags together.
They lay quiet, arms and legs twined, kissing between ferocious yawns until they fell asleep.
* * *
Biathlon (Military Patrol)
When Fraser's on patrol he can be gone for days, sometimes weeks. Ray gets a little antsy.
Oh, there's plenty to do. Chopping firewood, fixing things, working with the dogs, making trips to town for supplies or work - Ray has more than enough to keep himself busy. He's got entertainment, too. Part of their deal was that Fraser got to choose the spot, wild and untamed and the ass-end of Bumfuck, the Yukon if he wanted; Ray got indoor plumbing, satellite tv and radio, his own sled team, and a permit to carry. (Ray also negotiated periodic mail-order delivery pizza, donuts, and Chicago-style hotdogs on behalf of Diefenbaker, who'd promised to share.)
When Fraser's been gone too long, Ray gets reacquainted with his right hand. Sometimes he closes his eyes, picturing Fraser there with him, rosy-cheeked and panting hard as Ray brings him off; sometimes it's Fraser who closes his eyes in blissed-out concentration as he sucks Ray's cock, all wet-lipped and slurping obscenely. But other times - when Fraser's gone long enough that Ray refuses to let himself worry - Ray doesn't close his eyes. He can't get lost in imaginary Fraser, so sex becomes jerking off, pleasure turned mechanical, physical relief.
Then, eventually, when Ray's just about reached the point where he can't take being alone anymore, and he's had all he can stomach of pool and darts and curling in town, Fraser finally comes home. Ray's first clue is usually the dogs, prick-eared and tails wagging, barking and howling in a frenzied chorus of welcome.
Parts of Ray prick up and wag, too. He shoves extra wood into the stove and sets out a generous bowl for Dief before making his way to the door, where he lies in wait and jumps Fraser as soon as he opens the door.
When Fraser's been gone, neither of them can wait. They barely get the door shut before Ray slams Fraser back against it, fingers already at work on frozen fastenings. He unwinds the woollen scarf from Fraser's neck, shoves back the hood and knit cap to comb warm fingers into Fraser's hair, pulling his head down to shove his tongue in Fraser's gasping mouth.
Fraser groans, gloved hands clutching awkwardly at Ray's waist, pulling him closer. Ray drops his hands, struggling with the parka's zipper; the moment he has wrestled it into submission he slides his arms around Fraser, leaning in to suck hard at the newly exposed skin of Fraser's neck.
"Ray," Fraser says, low and rough.
"Missed you," Ray growls back, yanking at Fraser's collar to worry the tendon beneath.
Fraser moans again, locking his knees as Ray settles between his legs, resting belly-to-belly against Fraser as he pushes Fraser's parka off his shoulders. Next, the suspenders of his snow pants; Ray yanks at them, shoving them down with the pants themselves, seeking the flap of Fraser's thermal underwear.
Fraser bites his lip hard when Ray touches him; he's hard and hot in Ray's hand, already beginning to leak. Ray kisses Fraser, replacing Fraser's teeth with his own on the bruised, throbbing lower lip; first he licks, then he nips while his fingers close around Fraser's length. A soft squeeze, then stroking, slow like Fraser likes it, twisting just a little over the head and then back down. Fraser thrusts up into Ray's grip, breath hissing in rhythm with the hand on his cock as Ray begins to pick up the pace.
"You hurt?" Ray asks.
"Not - at - all," Fraser assures him, panting.
"Good," Ray says. He'll check for himself later. Right now, Fraser's close; he's having a hard time keeping his eyes open. Ray grinds against Fraser's thigh, the denim of his jeans soaking up snow, but he's almost painfully hard and the friction burn is fire he wants, needs. It'll be his time, soon - but now is for Fraser.
"C'mon," Ray says, alternating his strokes. Short and quick, looooooong and slow, handling the foreskin with confident assurance and familiarity, rubbing a callused fingertip softly over the glistening cockhead. Fraser freezes, sucking in a breath; Ray presses close and feels a spurt, two, three as Fraser comes in his hand.
* * *
Hockey
"So what are you saying?"
"That we failed to consider the possibility of such an outcome."
"It's a game, Fraser. One guy wins, the other guy loses."
"Clearly, Ray, it's not always quite that simple."
"Yeah, well. So they tied. I can't believe you actually bet me. And there's still overtime." Ray slouches in a stiff-elbowed, disgruntled sprawl beside Fraser, heads resting together where they share the sofa cushion (Ray's sofa, also a part of their agreement, along with the television).
"We didn't account for overtime. And I've bet you before."
Ray rolls his head to the side, mock-glaring at Fraser from the corner of his eye. "For air, you freak. This is for blowjobs. Who in their right mind would expect overtime? It's Switzerland, home of the biker army of neutrality. Playing Canada."
Fraser smiles (smugly, the bastard). "Biker army of neutrality?"
Ray waves one hand in disgust. "Biker, bicycles. Same diff. It's not like I wasn't expecting to pay up, anyway - but you're not getting off that easy, Benton buddy. Shut up and lie back, I got an idea."
Fraser cocks an eyebrow, but slides down obediently to lie on the sofa. Ray unbuttons the fly of Fraser's jeans and pulls as Fraser lifts up; then he wads Fraser's jeans and boxers in a sloppy ball and tosses them on the floor.
"Now me," Ray says, stripping off his sweatpants; he wears nothing under them. Fraser hums appreciatively at the sight.
"Socks stay on," Ray continues, slithering over to fit himself between Fraser and the back of the sofa. "It's cold in here."
"Ah," Fraser says, as he comprehends Ray's plan. "An admirable solution."
"Always been a fan of sixty-nine," Ray murmurs, nuzzling Fraser's bare thigh. "Make it fast, yeah? If they're still tied after overtime it's a sudden-death shootout. Don't wanna miss it."
"Mm," Fraser agrees, his warm, wet mouth closing around Ray's hardening cock.
* * *
Curling
Ray expects Fraser to be a fanatic about hockey. They'd bet mostly in jest, neither expecting two games to end up tied - even after overtime - and eventually decided in a shootout.
Unexpected, but a fun diversion nonetheless.
What Ray doesn't expect is how crazy Fraser gets over the curling (he should have known, given the freakishness with Turnbull back in the consulate in Chicago; though to be fair what he mainly remembered about being arrested in Canada was the thing with Fraser's pants).
The whole town, really. Hell, the entire nation. Give a guy some rocks and a broom and a patch of ice and watch the wacky hijinks ensue, who knew?
Fraser gets insanely turned on by a curling victory. He'll glance over at Ray in that way he has, where he's so obviously not looking, it's a dead giveaway, and his eyes glitter a little, hot and brooding - the way he gets when he wants Ray bad. Ray loves it when Fraser looks at him like that; it means he's in for a thorough fucking.
Fraser might warn him, with a low-voiced, gravelly "Ray," that his inner Mountie politeness seems to think is only right and proper for Fraser to give as a heads-up that he wants to fuck Ray through the mattress - fuck him 'til the caribou come home, if that's all right?
Sometimes, though, Fraser observes Ray from the corner of his eye, and comes up behind him in the kitchen, or when he goes to put wood in the stove; Fraser's strong arms encircle Ray, one hand sliding down to fondle Ray's cock through his pants while the other gently, inexorably presses Ray back flush against Fraser's very aroused body. Then Fraser herds Ray toward the bedroom, their legs moving in unison; they might pause in the doorway for a somewhat clumsy sideways kiss before stripping off their clothes.
When Fraser is really turned on, he'll lay Ray out on the bed like a beloved toy (Ray is sure he never had as a child) and play with him for hours. Because when Fraser puts his mind to it, he can bank his arousal, turn all of his attention to Ray and focus his entire being on driving Ray out of his fucking mind.
Fraser might sniff him, first, from head to toe and all the nooks and crannies along the way, his nose brushing through the soft spikes of Ray's hair, along the crease of his elbow, in the cleft of his ass. Licking often accompanies the sniffing, but sometimes Fraser starts all over again from the top, tasting every bit of Ray's exposed skin. He samples the rough texture of Ray's heel, runs the flat of his tongue over the soft, salt-damp palm of Ray's hand, nibbles at the tip of Ray's finger or the rim of his ear.
He does not lick Ray's cock, which desperately wants licking by this juncture.
Next, Fraser... well. He pets Ray. Fraser traces his fingers oh-so-lightly, like the flutter of a butterfly wing, all over Ray's arms and chest and stomach and knees and feet; he smoothes his palms over the contours of Ray's biceps, shoulders, the curve of his ass. Fraser rests one hand like a heavy collar not quite encircling Ray's neck, and finally places it on Ray's stiff cock or cradles Ray's balls, rolling and massaging them while Ray sweats and writhes and begs for Fraser's mouth.
Then - oh, then. Fraser turns Ray over and, so carefully, lies entirely atop him, covering Ray's body completely with his own, lacing their fingers together. He licks at the sweat, following the rivulet down Ray's spine, mouthing knobs of vertebrae before ultimately settling between Ray's wide-spread legs to plunder his hole. A single finger, followed by the soft-lapping wet heat of tongue; two fingers, curling wickedly inside Ray to generate a bolt of electricity shooting upward and outward with every brush of Fraser's knuckles. Ray's toes curl with delirious pleasure, his cock stiffening impossibly further with every jolt of sparkling white heat.
Fraser's hands withdraw, then, soothing and grounding Ray, rolling him onto his back and lifting his legs to settle them over Fraser's shoulders. A pause for condom and lube; by now Ray is nearly incoherent with need and desire, knowing only that he needs Fraser now and welcoming that first blunt press of cock to his hole with a relieved sob.
Slowly, so slowly; inch by centimeter Fraser pushes inside Ray, whispering broken phrases in fervent languages that Ray doesn't recognize. For Ray there is nothing outside of his own body and Fraser's, filling it up - the stretch, the brief sliding burn as Fraser penetrates him; the odd shifting of Ray's ass, accommodating Fraser's size and shape and the rhythm Fraser sets.
Slowly, again. Fraser is a glutton for Ray; he'll savor Ray for as long as he can, even down to the actual fucking. Sink in, pull out; press forward, retreat until one of them can't wait any longer. Usually it's Ray, tightening around Fraser and driving his heels deep into Fraser's lower back, or shoving back forcefully against Fraser's driving thrusts; but on rare occasions Fraser loses the iron grip of his control and ruts mindlessly into Ray until there is only the heaving rasp of their breath, the slap of flesh against flesh, the whisper of skin on sheets and guttural groans as first one, then the other finds their completion, collapsing down to lie curled together.
One in front, one behind; arms entwined, bodies sharing heat and breath. Soft lips against a sweat-sheened shoulder blade, hands clasped tightly and held next to the heart.
The partnership once more victorious.
* * *
1 Skijoring at Wikipedia
2 Military Patrol at Wikipedia
Next up: I tag kirvash with the prompt hibernate