There is Kissing

Shay Sheridan


There is Kissing. Lots of kissing. Making out all over the place, and sometimes it's even Ray's idea.

The rest of the time, it's Fraser's.

Ray had forgotten what it's like when you're in that first flush of lust/crush/sex It's been so long since he had sex that was more than sex, since he really cared about someone, that it takes him by surprise sometimes how ardent, to use one of Fraser's words, the whole rigmarole can be.

Ray's used to being the aggressive one.

Fraser's aggressive. And ardent. He kisses like a lamprey eel, like he's starving, like he's drowning, like someone might pull the plug any minute and take Ray away from him. Ray gets that; he's had more than a few moments himself of grab for the gusto, pal, it could all end tomorrow. It's scary, sometimes, how Fraser kisses him, how he grabs Ray and takes him over. At first Ray was overwhelmed by the kissing. Maybe he expected something a little gentler from Fraser, Fraser who is so polite and considerate to everyone except the bad guys. Fraser who danced around all this for ever, oblivious (or so it seemed) to Ray's yearning.

Turns out Fraser's not really like that. Not even the first time, that night they got back to Ray's apartment, sweaty (at least Ray was), dirty, tired, angry (Fraser was too, though he didn't look it), frustrated by a system that let a rapist out of jail to rape again. Even then, when Ray opened the door, tossed his keys onto the bar and went to the kitchen for a beer for him and water for Fraser, even then when nothing had ever been said between them, he turned to find Fraser right behind him, close enough to feel his heat, close enough to smell him. The hunger in Fraser's eyes – Ray had a flash of vampires, werewolves, Dief going after a bone, all of them salivating. That's what Fraser looked like then, his eyes dark with wanting. Ray swallowed once and took a step back, but the counter was behind him, so he had nowhere to go. "Frase—"

Fraser kissed him then, mauling his mouth, sucking the life force from him, lips, teeth, tongue, hands bruising Ray's shoulders, fingers clutching, one thigh between Ray's, moaning, grunting. Ray's dick hardened in a nanosecond, filling, growing, the lust rising up, cresting, until he came in his jeans, without a touch.

This is the truth: Fraser kisses dirty.

Ray doesn't know when he lost control of the situation, if in fact he ever had it. Mind you, Ray is not complaining. Fraser calls the shots, though in truth no words have ever been uttered about what's going on.

Fraser kisses Ray every chance he gets, everywhere, except at work. And sometimes he kisses him on the way to work, or on the way back from it. He waits till Ray gets in the car, then launches himself across the wide black seat to plunder Ray's mouth. He waylays Ray coming out of a building to drag him into the nearest alley, force him against the dirty wall and bite, suck and lick Ray into a stupor, while one hand makes short work of Ray's jutting cock. He accosts Ray in the hallway outside his apartment. He sticks his tongue down Ray's throat behind the Consulate, in broad daylight, protected only by the high hedge separating the building from the neighboring apartments. Beside a dumpster, Fraser falls to his knees, sucking Ray off and then licking his way up Ray's belly and chest until he reaches Ray's mouth. Something has come apart inside Fraser, something wild and uncontrollable.

Ray's like that dog he read about once, the one who drools when a bell rings. One hot look from Fraser saying a kiss is coming, one touch with intent from Fraser's broad, strong hand, one grunt as Fraser shoves him against the nearest wall, and Ray is hard, hard, hard. He can come just from the kissing. He never knew he was the kind of person who likes it rough, violent, even. And it's not like Fraser is raping him – Fraser's just being intense, and forceful and dominating. And apparently Ray likes it that way. Certainly when they get home and Fraser pushes him onto the bed, or yanks down Ray's jeans and bends him over the dining room table, or the back of the couch, and shoves his tongue or one of those blunt fingers into him, or grunts as his cock slides into Ray, Ray doesn't worry about whether or not he's a bottom boy. He's too busy spiraling into orgasm. Maybe he'd like to slow down; maybe he's too quick off the starting block, but right now the thought does not disturb him, because Fraser usually can make him come twice, once from kissing, once from fucking or sucking.

Right now they're in the kitchen, where it all started, and Fraser is devouring his mouth, and Fraser is jerking him off with a hot slippery hand. Ray can barely breathe; he feels light-headed, like his lungs are about to burst. Like when he was drowning in Lake Michigan. And he is drowning, in Lake Fraser, kissed into unconsciousness, or as near as doesn't matter.

Fraser groans, and that's all Ray needs – he's coming in Fraser's hand, breath stolen completely. He shudders to completion, Fraser's hand wrapped around his dick, almost painfully working him. His legs are rubbery with lack of air and he begins to collapse, but Fraser holds him upright against the refrigerator, his mouth sliding off Ray's to pant in Ray's ear. The moans increase and Ray reaches for Fraser's cock, but his hand is slapped away. Fraser groans, shakes, shoves and comes on Ray's stomach and pants.

Ray gulps for air, one breath, two, and then Fraser is kissing him again, bruising his mouth, breathing Ray's breath, sucking his life force. As if it isn't enough, can never be enough. As if Fraser breathes through him, exists through him. Now that they've begun, Fraser's need is relentless, terrifying.

Ray should be afraid; and sometimes he is. But he will give Fraser whatever he needs.

To his last breath.


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