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Fic! at long last!
So, um. Remember how I got a job?
And remember how I was happy, and bouncing?
And remember how I said that, as thanks to the gods who gave me employment, I was going to write submersible!sex?
Yeah, well. It doesn't really matter whether or not you remember, because here it is. Beta credit to the incredible![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
riverlight, who helped me figure out why the tense shifts were so awful in the first two drafts. Any remaining errors are mine and mine alone (and concrit is always welcomed).
Submersible
by etben
Ray Kowalski / Benton Fraser
3134 words
So Ray's leaning against the wall of the submersible, thinking about his day, and christ. It's been a hell of a day, no matter how you look at it. Even if you don't count what happened down on the lakeshore—and, God, Ray doesn't want to count that, doesn't want to fucking think about it—there's still the case, their last case, tense and awful. It reminds him of the last couple of years, with Stella, except that it was never this bad, with her, because that was a relationship, that was fucking marriage, and this isn't anything like that. Not that he'd expected it, what happened with Stella, but he'd at least known it was possible, the sort of shit they make daytime TV about, true love gone sour and brittle. Never thought it'd be them, but sure, he knew it happened.
With Fraser, though—it wasn't even supposed to be a possibility, because they're friends, buddies, partners, and this sort of shit isn't supposed to happen to them. When they go, it's supposed to be a blaze of glory, a shower of bullets, a six-car pileup on Lakeshore, blood and guts and one big finish. Maybe not beautiful corpses, but at least a clean ending, fast and simple and together. Fraser's safe, was supposed to be safe—it wasn't supposed to end in awkward silence and those half-sentences that are really essays—no, they're fucking books, goddamn libraries of things that aren't right, of reasons Ray sucks, sucks, sucks.
So they'd had the investigation, and then the lead, and then the goddamn drive—all night, up to Sault Sainte Marie, eyes front, neither of them talking. Driving—usually, it's one of the best damn things in Ray's life, a chance to get out and just go, be somewhere else, do something new and different. But last night—or maybe this morning, Ray's not sure—it was hell, because Fraser wouldn't talk and Ray couldn't talk, he just couldn't, it's not the way he is. He tried, with Stella, for Stella, but it wasn't enough, so these days he's back to what he knows works—feet and fists and attitude, running through life on coffee and sugar and nervous energy.
Except had to drive, and you can't fight and drive, not the good kind of fighting, where everything gets out there and it's all clean, sweaty and bloody but clean, quits, even-steven. He wanted to fight, but instead he had to just drive, hands tight on the wheel, not talking, even, not settling anything, and they couldn't find any decent radio stations. If there'd been anyone but truckers on the road, Ray's pretty sure they'd never have made it to Sault Ste Marie. That's the good thing about Michigan: it's not on the way to anything, except maybe for Canada, so traffic's usually pretty light, since who wants to go to Canada?
Except for Fraser, of course, who's transferring to Ottawa.
Fraser didn't even bitch about Ray speeding, through Indiana and up into Michigan—he just sat there, mouth tight and stern, looking away from Ray. That killed Ray, more than anything else, because he was going 80, 90, 100 fucking miles an hour, there, and he doesn't know what that is in kilometers, but if Fraser wasn't going to call him on it, it was because Fraser didn't fucking care anymore, because if there's one thing that Ray knows, it's that the only time you stop fighting is when you're dead, when it's over, when they turn off the lights and send you home, nice try, buddy. Better luck next time.
So, yeah, the drive was pretty shitty, but somewhere between Grand Rapids and Big Rapids and Who The Hell Gives A Fuck Rapids, Fraser took off his jacket, which you wouldn't think would be a big deal, but actually made things a lot better. Because of course Fraser wasn't going to take off his seatbelt, and they didn't really have time to stop, so he had to twist around, trying to get all the buckles and snaps and shit, and then to take it off, so when he finally threw it in the back, he was a little red in the face. He looked like a human being, when Ray glanced over his way, like someone who got tired and hurt and made shitty decisions and maybe socked his partner in the face and then regretted it afterwards. So Ray shook his head, and fiddled with the radio until something decent came on—NPR, which always made Fraser happy, and when he looked over at Fraser, he got a little smile, and a nod, and a "thank you kindly, Ray." Still lousy, still awkward, but a little better.
So that had been the drive, and then there'd been the ship. It's hard work, that kind of stuff, and mostly by the end of the day Ray just wanted to fall over in a bunk somewhere and pass out. Still, a case is a case is a case, even if it's their last case, and he's a cop, so during dinner, he'd leaned in, whispered to Fraser, told him to keep them occupied. Fraser'd just nodded, and it'd been like usual, like working together was supposed to be, with him doing the detective work and Fraser—singing songs, yeah, sure, of course. Why the hell not? It made as much sense as any of this shit, as anything they'd ever done together.
Anyway, that's when it really went to hell. He got the shit kicked out of him, woke up handcuffed to the pipe, with the water rising, and shit, he couldn't swim when Joey Mazziotti pushed him in the pool, back in 6th grade. For a while there, he really thought that was going to be it, the end, doneski, there on the boat, his head under a bucket.
Which really would have sucked, so Ray's pretty glad to be alive, even if he does kind of smell like fish right now.
For the sake of his brain not exploding, Ray's not going to think about the thing that happened underwater, with his lips and Fraser's lips. Didn't change anything, anyway, and then they'd had to focus on not drowning. Fire extinguishers, then, and not drowning some more, all like normal, like it was supposed to be, him and Fraser, partners. And then, just when he was getting the hang of it—bloom, close, kick 'em in the head, bloom, close, kick 'em in the head, because apparently he could swim, just like apparently he could do a lot of things—they were at the other boat, getting back on, because they were unhinged, and so of course that was a good idea.
That hadn't been so bad, though, apart from the licking things, which was still gross. They figured it out, which always gave Ray a little bit of a happy, and they worked together real well—smooth, clean. Like a machine, almost, except not really, not at all. Not a machine, like partners, which is what they were, at least until this case ended.
And then, of course, same as usual, there were people shooting at them, and so they had to make an escape, a wildly bizarre escape. They'd jumped into the submersible, shots going off all around them and jeeze, you could tell these guys were criminals, because they couldn't think for shit. They were shooting wild, shooting blind, almost, not caring about ricochet at all, which, when you've got enough toxic waste to choke Canada? not the best idea. Still, Ray'd been glad to see the submersible, glad that it was small and dense and not the sort of thing that caved when it took a bullet to the side, because, really, by that point, he'd been fucking sick of water.
Right now, though, he's not feeling a whole lot of love and affection for the submersible either. Because, sure, it's waterproof, and it beats the hell out of getting shot at some more, but it's also small. Really small. Fraser's driving, of course; partly because he's the one who knows what the hell they're doing, but mostly because he got in first, and there's no way for them to trade places now. And it's quiet down here, quiet like not even the car was, because the car had traffic, a little, and at least the rush of air past the windows. Here, he's just got Fraser's breathing, and his breathing, and the little whoosh that the engine makes.
Fraser's pressed up against him so hard that Ray can feel every bump of Fraser's spine. Fraser's squashing him, squashing him but good, crushing him against the back of the sub, and Ray is not good with this. Small spaces, sitting still, watching and waiting—none of those are things he's good at, they never have been. So he fidgets, except that there's no room to move, really, so mostly he just rubs up against Fraser a lot. Not on purpose or anything—just, his leg's trapped under Fraser's leg, and Fraser can't move his leg on account of how it's asleep, he says, which means that Ray can't move his leg, either, which means that he can't really move at all, but he has to move, so he fidgets, and that means he rubs up against Fraser.
And, you know, it's not like he's never thought about rubbing up against Fraser before. True, when he was thinking about it, it was usually naked, and not in a submersible, and not in Lake Superior, but it's not like the idea wasn't there, ever. He's not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, he knows that much, but Ray Kowalski is not blind, or stupid, which is what a person would have to be not to look at Fraser and think, yeah, sure. It's just—well, there was Stella, and that went to shit, and then there wasn't much of anyone except his right hand, and sometimes his left, if he was feeling adventurous or got a cramp. Then, boom! he took over Vecchio's life and there was Fraser, big and red and saving lives all over the place, doing the right thing and endangering Ray's life in wildly bizarre ways. They were partners, then, and partners was everything, once you got it right, and he wasn't going to trade that in for sex, or even for love. Those went bad, even when you swore they wouldn't, and what did you have then but a bottle of vodka and a shitty couch?
Except it doesn't work like that. Turns out partners can go to shit, too, and that's where they'd gone, him and Fraser, up shit creek without a paddle, without even a goddamn canoe between the two of them. They'd had—Stella would have called it a relationship conversation, and Ray would have called it a fight—there by the lake, all of the hurt, just the same, and, shit, why hadn't they warned him that partners could turn into this?
Although, really, right now it's not so bad. Sure, they were arguing, and Fraser's a pain in the ass who can't admit when he's wrong, and he's been looking at Ray funny, but hey, he's looking on the bright side. They aren't being shot at; they've outdone the bad guys, for the moment; all the water is safely on the outside; they're warm and getting drier; they're going the way he said to go; he's rubbing up against Fraser, who is—Fraser is—
—he's rubbing back. Ray blinks, and blinks, and leans in a little. Not much, of course, because if he's wrong about this, he doesn't want to freak Fraser out, not when any sudden moves on his part are probably going to result in sudden pain on Ray's part, what with how small the sub is. He's not in any rush, and if Fraser calls him on it, he's just fidgeting some more.
Now, though, he's fidgeting in Fraser's direction, scooting his hips forward, to be sure, and yeah, he's right, no question. Fraser is definitely rubbing back—not a lot, just inches and half-inches. It's more like shifting his weight, really, but he's shifting it right into Ray's cock, which is getting more than a little interested in this situation. Still, though, there are different kinds of rubbing and shifting, in a situation like this.
Not that Ray's ever been in exactly this situation, before, of course, but he figures some things are universal.
See, on the one hand, you've got your "do that some more, please" sort of rub, but on the other hand, you've got the rub that's really more of a squirm, that thing you do when you're trying to pretend this isn't happening, that you're just hallucinating the experience of your partner getting up close and personal with your lower half. Ray wants to know what kind of rubbing Fraser's trying to pull on him here, so he works his hands out, slides them around, and works them into Fraser's lap. It's maybe not the best idea he's ever had, but Ray's been doing stupid shit all day, here, and anyway, Fraser's going to Ottawa, so what does it matter?
For a second, Fraser just freezes. The way Ray figures it, though, there's probably not enough space for Fraser really to beat the shit out of him, so he might as well keep going. The angle's awkward, so for a while he's just kind of rubbing Fraser's stomach, but then he slides his hand down, and holy shit—Fraser's hard, making a pretty sizable tent in the sweats he's wearing, and his hips jerk forward, pushing his cock into Ray's hand. So, yeah: Ray's gonna bet it was the first kind of rubbing, for Fraser, and he can work with that. He gets his hand inside Fraser's sweats and wraps it around his dick, which is hot and hard and feels pretty damn good. Fraser makes this funny little sound when Ray tightens his grip, so Ray does it again, and then again, for good measure. Ray rests his head on Fraser's shoulder and just keeps going, jacking him off slow and easy. Fraser keeps up his end of the deal, too, groaning and rubbing, pushing forward into Ray's hand and back against his everything else.
From here, he's got a good view of Fraser's neck, right at the sensitive spot under the ear, and he's giving some serious thought to biting Fraser right there, really thinking about it, when Fraser turns around. Ray's not entirely sure how he manages it, that small a space, but he flips them around until Ray's stretched out flat on his back, feet facing the front of the sub. He's taking up pretty much all of the floor space, but that's not a problem, because Fraser's right on top of him, hands and knees, leaning in closer, closer, closer—
And then they're kissing, wet and messy, and this is better than before, because it's face to face, his face to Fraser's face, and Fraser's kissing him like he's been waiting a year to do this—which, who knows? maybe he has. It's all good, though—it's great, better than great. There's not much space to maneuver in, but that's no problem, because there's just enough space for him to get his hands down along the side of Fraser's body and onto his ass, squeezing, drawing him closer, pulling him in.
Fraser's got both hands on his face and is kissing him until he can't breathe, and the only thing that Ray can think is that Fraser's a liar, such a fucking liar. The buddy breathing changed everything—
—except, really, no. It didn't change anything, apart from making Ray live when he was pretty sure he was going to die, and that's just normal, where Fraser's concerned. This is normal, for them, except for how they haven't done it before.
So Ray kisses him, and kisses him, and he's almost got his hands down the back of Fraser's pants when Fraser pulls back. He's looking up, away from Ray, straight at the back wall of the sub, which can't be more than a few inches away from his nose, so Ray's not sure what he's seeing. He makes some seriously funny faces—well, all faces look funny, this close up, but these are even worse. Ray lets him go, for a while, but his dick's trying to poke a hole through soaking wet denim, here, and he's in serious need of some relief, so he puts a hand up and hooks it around the back of Fraser's neck, turning his face down until he's looking at Ray again.
Fraser's face gets all quiet, then, and he leans in to kiss Ray some more, long and hot, and then Fraser's breaking away again, this time to kiss and lick and fucking nibble all the way along Ray's neck. And Ray'd do something, anything, to help out or say thank you or whatever, but there's no room, Fraser's got him pinned to the floor and is just going to town on his neck, pulling the baggy stolen sweatshirt to one side so that the collar almost slides off Ray's shoulder and then biting, god, right there, right at the big muscle in Ray's shoulder. Ray's jerking his hips for real, now, and Fraser's jerking back, just as fast and just as hard, breathing hot and heavy in Ray's ear, even moaning a little, and Ray's ears are ringing, he's so hard, and this is so good, and—
—and that's not his ears, that ringing, that's the buzz from the headset. He gasps, and sits up, and the Fraser notices too. The look he gives Ray is sex-dazed and hungry, which is fair, since that's pretty much how Ray feels right now, too. He grins at Fraser, and helps him get turned around, until they're back like before, him up against Fraser's back. His arms are around Fraser, this time, just under his ribcage.
"What is it, Frase?" he asks.
"I don't believe it..." Fraser says, and then, "Prepare to surface, Ray."
As Fraser flips switches and twists knobs, pointing the nose of the sub towards the surface, Ray just smiles. Doesn't matter if Fraser believes it or not. Ray sure as hell does—it's normal, for them.
END.
...I'm kind of contemplating being very, very ashamed of myself. Or possibly rather proud.
And remember how I was happy, and bouncing?
And remember how I said that, as thanks to the gods who gave me employment, I was going to write submersible!sex?
Yeah, well. It doesn't really matter whether or not you remember, because here it is. Beta credit to the incredible
riverlight, who helped me figure out why the tense shifts were so awful in the first two drafts. Any remaining errors are mine and mine alone (and concrit is always welcomed).Submersible
by etben
Ray Kowalski / Benton Fraser
3134 words
So Ray's leaning against the wall of the submersible, thinking about his day, and christ. It's been a hell of a day, no matter how you look at it. Even if you don't count what happened down on the lakeshore—and, God, Ray doesn't want to count that, doesn't want to fucking think about it—there's still the case, their last case, tense and awful. It reminds him of the last couple of years, with Stella, except that it was never this bad, with her, because that was a relationship, that was fucking marriage, and this isn't anything like that. Not that he'd expected it, what happened with Stella, but he'd at least known it was possible, the sort of shit they make daytime TV about, true love gone sour and brittle. Never thought it'd be them, but sure, he knew it happened.
With Fraser, though—it wasn't even supposed to be a possibility, because they're friends, buddies, partners, and this sort of shit isn't supposed to happen to them. When they go, it's supposed to be a blaze of glory, a shower of bullets, a six-car pileup on Lakeshore, blood and guts and one big finish. Maybe not beautiful corpses, but at least a clean ending, fast and simple and together. Fraser's safe, was supposed to be safe—it wasn't supposed to end in awkward silence and those half-sentences that are really essays—no, they're fucking books, goddamn libraries of things that aren't right, of reasons Ray sucks, sucks, sucks.
So they'd had the investigation, and then the lead, and then the goddamn drive—all night, up to Sault Sainte Marie, eyes front, neither of them talking. Driving—usually, it's one of the best damn things in Ray's life, a chance to get out and just go, be somewhere else, do something new and different. But last night—or maybe this morning, Ray's not sure—it was hell, because Fraser wouldn't talk and Ray couldn't talk, he just couldn't, it's not the way he is. He tried, with Stella, for Stella, but it wasn't enough, so these days he's back to what he knows works—feet and fists and attitude, running through life on coffee and sugar and nervous energy.
Except had to drive, and you can't fight and drive, not the good kind of fighting, where everything gets out there and it's all clean, sweaty and bloody but clean, quits, even-steven. He wanted to fight, but instead he had to just drive, hands tight on the wheel, not talking, even, not settling anything, and they couldn't find any decent radio stations. If there'd been anyone but truckers on the road, Ray's pretty sure they'd never have made it to Sault Ste Marie. That's the good thing about Michigan: it's not on the way to anything, except maybe for Canada, so traffic's usually pretty light, since who wants to go to Canada?
Except for Fraser, of course, who's transferring to Ottawa.
Fraser didn't even bitch about Ray speeding, through Indiana and up into Michigan—he just sat there, mouth tight and stern, looking away from Ray. That killed Ray, more than anything else, because he was going 80, 90, 100 fucking miles an hour, there, and he doesn't know what that is in kilometers, but if Fraser wasn't going to call him on it, it was because Fraser didn't fucking care anymore, because if there's one thing that Ray knows, it's that the only time you stop fighting is when you're dead, when it's over, when they turn off the lights and send you home, nice try, buddy. Better luck next time.
So, yeah, the drive was pretty shitty, but somewhere between Grand Rapids and Big Rapids and Who The Hell Gives A Fuck Rapids, Fraser took off his jacket, which you wouldn't think would be a big deal, but actually made things a lot better. Because of course Fraser wasn't going to take off his seatbelt, and they didn't really have time to stop, so he had to twist around, trying to get all the buckles and snaps and shit, and then to take it off, so when he finally threw it in the back, he was a little red in the face. He looked like a human being, when Ray glanced over his way, like someone who got tired and hurt and made shitty decisions and maybe socked his partner in the face and then regretted it afterwards. So Ray shook his head, and fiddled with the radio until something decent came on—NPR, which always made Fraser happy, and when he looked over at Fraser, he got a little smile, and a nod, and a "thank you kindly, Ray." Still lousy, still awkward, but a little better.
So that had been the drive, and then there'd been the ship. It's hard work, that kind of stuff, and mostly by the end of the day Ray just wanted to fall over in a bunk somewhere and pass out. Still, a case is a case is a case, even if it's their last case, and he's a cop, so during dinner, he'd leaned in, whispered to Fraser, told him to keep them occupied. Fraser'd just nodded, and it'd been like usual, like working together was supposed to be, with him doing the detective work and Fraser—singing songs, yeah, sure, of course. Why the hell not? It made as much sense as any of this shit, as anything they'd ever done together.
Anyway, that's when it really went to hell. He got the shit kicked out of him, woke up handcuffed to the pipe, with the water rising, and shit, he couldn't swim when Joey Mazziotti pushed him in the pool, back in 6th grade. For a while there, he really thought that was going to be it, the end, doneski, there on the boat, his head under a bucket.
Which really would have sucked, so Ray's pretty glad to be alive, even if he does kind of smell like fish right now.
For the sake of his brain not exploding, Ray's not going to think about the thing that happened underwater, with his lips and Fraser's lips. Didn't change anything, anyway, and then they'd had to focus on not drowning. Fire extinguishers, then, and not drowning some more, all like normal, like it was supposed to be, him and Fraser, partners. And then, just when he was getting the hang of it—bloom, close, kick 'em in the head, bloom, close, kick 'em in the head, because apparently he could swim, just like apparently he could do a lot of things—they were at the other boat, getting back on, because they were unhinged, and so of course that was a good idea.
That hadn't been so bad, though, apart from the licking things, which was still gross. They figured it out, which always gave Ray a little bit of a happy, and they worked together real well—smooth, clean. Like a machine, almost, except not really, not at all. Not a machine, like partners, which is what they were, at least until this case ended.
And then, of course, same as usual, there were people shooting at them, and so they had to make an escape, a wildly bizarre escape. They'd jumped into the submersible, shots going off all around them and jeeze, you could tell these guys were criminals, because they couldn't think for shit. They were shooting wild, shooting blind, almost, not caring about ricochet at all, which, when you've got enough toxic waste to choke Canada? not the best idea. Still, Ray'd been glad to see the submersible, glad that it was small and dense and not the sort of thing that caved when it took a bullet to the side, because, really, by that point, he'd been fucking sick of water.
Right now, though, he's not feeling a whole lot of love and affection for the submersible either. Because, sure, it's waterproof, and it beats the hell out of getting shot at some more, but it's also small. Really small. Fraser's driving, of course; partly because he's the one who knows what the hell they're doing, but mostly because he got in first, and there's no way for them to trade places now. And it's quiet down here, quiet like not even the car was, because the car had traffic, a little, and at least the rush of air past the windows. Here, he's just got Fraser's breathing, and his breathing, and the little whoosh that the engine makes.
Fraser's pressed up against him so hard that Ray can feel every bump of Fraser's spine. Fraser's squashing him, squashing him but good, crushing him against the back of the sub, and Ray is not good with this. Small spaces, sitting still, watching and waiting—none of those are things he's good at, they never have been. So he fidgets, except that there's no room to move, really, so mostly he just rubs up against Fraser a lot. Not on purpose or anything—just, his leg's trapped under Fraser's leg, and Fraser can't move his leg on account of how it's asleep, he says, which means that Ray can't move his leg, either, which means that he can't really move at all, but he has to move, so he fidgets, and that means he rubs up against Fraser.
And, you know, it's not like he's never thought about rubbing up against Fraser before. True, when he was thinking about it, it was usually naked, and not in a submersible, and not in Lake Superior, but it's not like the idea wasn't there, ever. He's not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, he knows that much, but Ray Kowalski is not blind, or stupid, which is what a person would have to be not to look at Fraser and think, yeah, sure. It's just—well, there was Stella, and that went to shit, and then there wasn't much of anyone except his right hand, and sometimes his left, if he was feeling adventurous or got a cramp. Then, boom! he took over Vecchio's life and there was Fraser, big and red and saving lives all over the place, doing the right thing and endangering Ray's life in wildly bizarre ways. They were partners, then, and partners was everything, once you got it right, and he wasn't going to trade that in for sex, or even for love. Those went bad, even when you swore they wouldn't, and what did you have then but a bottle of vodka and a shitty couch?
Except it doesn't work like that. Turns out partners can go to shit, too, and that's where they'd gone, him and Fraser, up shit creek without a paddle, without even a goddamn canoe between the two of them. They'd had—Stella would have called it a relationship conversation, and Ray would have called it a fight—there by the lake, all of the hurt, just the same, and, shit, why hadn't they warned him that partners could turn into this?
Although, really, right now it's not so bad. Sure, they were arguing, and Fraser's a pain in the ass who can't admit when he's wrong, and he's been looking at Ray funny, but hey, he's looking on the bright side. They aren't being shot at; they've outdone the bad guys, for the moment; all the water is safely on the outside; they're warm and getting drier; they're going the way he said to go; he's rubbing up against Fraser, who is—Fraser is—
—he's rubbing back. Ray blinks, and blinks, and leans in a little. Not much, of course, because if he's wrong about this, he doesn't want to freak Fraser out, not when any sudden moves on his part are probably going to result in sudden pain on Ray's part, what with how small the sub is. He's not in any rush, and if Fraser calls him on it, he's just fidgeting some more.
Now, though, he's fidgeting in Fraser's direction, scooting his hips forward, to be sure, and yeah, he's right, no question. Fraser is definitely rubbing back—not a lot, just inches and half-inches. It's more like shifting his weight, really, but he's shifting it right into Ray's cock, which is getting more than a little interested in this situation. Still, though, there are different kinds of rubbing and shifting, in a situation like this.
Not that Ray's ever been in exactly this situation, before, of course, but he figures some things are universal.
See, on the one hand, you've got your "do that some more, please" sort of rub, but on the other hand, you've got the rub that's really more of a squirm, that thing you do when you're trying to pretend this isn't happening, that you're just hallucinating the experience of your partner getting up close and personal with your lower half. Ray wants to know what kind of rubbing Fraser's trying to pull on him here, so he works his hands out, slides them around, and works them into Fraser's lap. It's maybe not the best idea he's ever had, but Ray's been doing stupid shit all day, here, and anyway, Fraser's going to Ottawa, so what does it matter?
For a second, Fraser just freezes. The way Ray figures it, though, there's probably not enough space for Fraser really to beat the shit out of him, so he might as well keep going. The angle's awkward, so for a while he's just kind of rubbing Fraser's stomach, but then he slides his hand down, and holy shit—Fraser's hard, making a pretty sizable tent in the sweats he's wearing, and his hips jerk forward, pushing his cock into Ray's hand. So, yeah: Ray's gonna bet it was the first kind of rubbing, for Fraser, and he can work with that. He gets his hand inside Fraser's sweats and wraps it around his dick, which is hot and hard and feels pretty damn good. Fraser makes this funny little sound when Ray tightens his grip, so Ray does it again, and then again, for good measure. Ray rests his head on Fraser's shoulder and just keeps going, jacking him off slow and easy. Fraser keeps up his end of the deal, too, groaning and rubbing, pushing forward into Ray's hand and back against his everything else.
From here, he's got a good view of Fraser's neck, right at the sensitive spot under the ear, and he's giving some serious thought to biting Fraser right there, really thinking about it, when Fraser turns around. Ray's not entirely sure how he manages it, that small a space, but he flips them around until Ray's stretched out flat on his back, feet facing the front of the sub. He's taking up pretty much all of the floor space, but that's not a problem, because Fraser's right on top of him, hands and knees, leaning in closer, closer, closer—
And then they're kissing, wet and messy, and this is better than before, because it's face to face, his face to Fraser's face, and Fraser's kissing him like he's been waiting a year to do this—which, who knows? maybe he has. It's all good, though—it's great, better than great. There's not much space to maneuver in, but that's no problem, because there's just enough space for him to get his hands down along the side of Fraser's body and onto his ass, squeezing, drawing him closer, pulling him in.
Fraser's got both hands on his face and is kissing him until he can't breathe, and the only thing that Ray can think is that Fraser's a liar, such a fucking liar. The buddy breathing changed everything—
—except, really, no. It didn't change anything, apart from making Ray live when he was pretty sure he was going to die, and that's just normal, where Fraser's concerned. This is normal, for them, except for how they haven't done it before.
So Ray kisses him, and kisses him, and he's almost got his hands down the back of Fraser's pants when Fraser pulls back. He's looking up, away from Ray, straight at the back wall of the sub, which can't be more than a few inches away from his nose, so Ray's not sure what he's seeing. He makes some seriously funny faces—well, all faces look funny, this close up, but these are even worse. Ray lets him go, for a while, but his dick's trying to poke a hole through soaking wet denim, here, and he's in serious need of some relief, so he puts a hand up and hooks it around the back of Fraser's neck, turning his face down until he's looking at Ray again.
Fraser's face gets all quiet, then, and he leans in to kiss Ray some more, long and hot, and then Fraser's breaking away again, this time to kiss and lick and fucking nibble all the way along Ray's neck. And Ray'd do something, anything, to help out or say thank you or whatever, but there's no room, Fraser's got him pinned to the floor and is just going to town on his neck, pulling the baggy stolen sweatshirt to one side so that the collar almost slides off Ray's shoulder and then biting, god, right there, right at the big muscle in Ray's shoulder. Ray's jerking his hips for real, now, and Fraser's jerking back, just as fast and just as hard, breathing hot and heavy in Ray's ear, even moaning a little, and Ray's ears are ringing, he's so hard, and this is so good, and—
—and that's not his ears, that ringing, that's the buzz from the headset. He gasps, and sits up, and the Fraser notices too. The look he gives Ray is sex-dazed and hungry, which is fair, since that's pretty much how Ray feels right now, too. He grins at Fraser, and helps him get turned around, until they're back like before, him up against Fraser's back. His arms are around Fraser, this time, just under his ribcage.
"What is it, Frase?" he asks.
"I don't believe it..." Fraser says, and then, "Prepare to surface, Ray."
As Fraser flips switches and twists knobs, pointing the nose of the sub towards the surface, Ray just smiles. Doesn't matter if Fraser believes it or not. Ray sure as hell does—it's normal, for them.
END.
...I'm kind of contemplating being very, very ashamed of myself. Or possibly rather proud.