NOTE: this story contains adult content.

Early in his career, before he learned to be more circumspect about who he chose to take to bed, Fraser spent some time with a woman for whom speaking seemed to be an integral part of sex. "Oh, oh, oh," she would gasp as he thrust inside her, "oh yes, all right, that's it, oh yes, you big, dirty stallion!" Consequently, Fraser had spent many years believing that he preferred inarticulateness in his sexual partners. Certainly expression was part of a healthy sexual experience, but it seemed that enough could be conveyed by a few breathy moans and the judicious use of fingernails; mentions of animal husbandry were entirely unnecessary.

This rule had joined a list of others in his head--unspoken preferences and lines in the sand, a careful construction wrought from years of experience. Like all self-knowledge, it was a hard-won collection, and Fraser was oddly proud of it: whatever else you might say about him, he was a man who knew what he liked.

And then Ray Kowalski happened to him, like a force of nature, and it turned out that all of that was entirely irrelevant.

"Ah, Fraser, that's fucking...god. Jesus."

Ray is stretched across the bed, his face pressed into the mattress. His t-shirt is pushed up around his shoulders; his jeans are a crumpled ball somewhere in the region of Fraser's left foot, where they keep catching beneath the sole of Fraser's boot and slipping against the hardwood floor, making it difficult to find purchase. He kicks at them but they are tangled in his laces somehow and there is no way he can, can force himself to attend to the situation long enough to resolve it.

"Please, Frase," Ray says. "Just, uh...oh, Christ...just don't stop." His voice is hoarse, rough, his words slurred. He sounds intoxicated, but isn't. Fraser tightens his grip, pulling Ray's hips up a little higher so he can work his tongue a little deeper inside. Ray makes a small, desperate sound and moves beneath his hands, pushing back into Fraser's mouth and pulling away all at once; the muscles of his hip flex and bunch against Fraser's palm.

Fraser eases back, presses his lips to Ray's buttock, then to the knot at the base of his spine. "Are you okay?" he murmurs.

Ray breathes out, like a laugh. He shifts and Fraser sees the sharp line of his shoulder blade appear as he tries to push himself up. "Yeah," he says, and sags flat again, giving up. "I just...I mean, Jesus, you know?"

Fraser kisses him again. "Ah," he says, and nips thoughtfully at Ray's buttock, smiling a little when the thigh under his other hand jerks. "I see. Of course." He lets his tongue follow the cleft of Ray's behind back down and inside.

Ray inhales sharply, one hand grasping at the sheets, then releasing them so he can thump the mattress with his fist. "Fraser," he says. "Oh...oh yeah, oh, fuck."

Honestly, there is nothing better than this: the audible evidence that Ray has lost control, that he is so overwhelmed he isn't thinking about dignity, or anything at all except want. Fraser could do this forever, if he thought he could get away with it. But he knows Ray--and he knows himself, too. They're both reaching their limits, now. His own erection is aching, trapped as it is inside his jeans, and Ray's is already beading moisture at its tip. He fumbles for the lubricant, applies a generous amount to his fingers and works two of them into Ray.

"Uunh," Ray says. "I...yeah, Frase, just--" He pushes himself back onto Fraser's fingers, demanding more.

"Well, all right--I'm trying." Fraser moves his fingers deeper, rests his forehead against Ray's sweaty back. It's proving more difficult than he'd anticipated to open his fly left-handed, but he manages, finally. The relief of it is enough to make him gasp.

"Fraser, please, just...come on." Ray moves his knees a little further apart on the bed. Fraser closes his eyes for a moment, swallows hard. Then he pushes his own jeans down his hips and knees himself the rest of the way onto the bed, between Ray's parted legs. Ray moans when he pulls his fingers away, then moans again, louder, when he replaces them with the head of his slicked penis.

"Oh, yeah, yeah," Ray says. His sides heave against Fraser's hands, his arms. "Oh fuck, Fraser, yes--fuck me. Please, do it, c'mon."

Fraser closes his teeth on the nape of Ray's neck, tastes sweat, feels the tapering line of the fine, short hair. He sinks into Ray, slowly, steadily. Says, "Ray," and kisses Ray's ear. He pulls out a little and shoves back in, hard; does it again, and then again. Ray groans and braces himself against the headboard, arms straining and taut. It doesn't last long. Ray comes silently, which Fraser might think is ironic, were Fraser able to think anything at all. Instead, he just gasps and wraps his fingers around Ray's hip, keeping him upright long enough that he can thrust into him two more times, which is all, all it takes, all he needs; he comes hard and then collapses, still buried in Ray.


Later, after they've managed to pull themselves away from each other and finish undressing, after the bed is as reconstructed as they can manage in a most-of-the-way-asleep post-coital haze, Ray lies next to Fraser and props himself on an elbow, looking down.

Fraser lifts an eyebrow.

"You," Ray says. "You have, uh, a thing. A fetish."

Fraser does his best to look skeptical.

"It's true," Ray says. "I see these things, Fraser, and I know. You are into dirty talk." He pokes Fraser's chest, gently. "I get that. I can do that. I got all kinds of, uh. Of dirty talk."

"Hm," Fraser says. He pushes his hand up Ray's arm and closes it around the back of Ray's neck, tugging a little.

Ray settles in obligingly, his head on Fraser's chest. "Like, okay--I could call you Big Guy, if you wanted. Big, uh. Big Daddy, maybe. No? So what about Constable? That do it for ya? Sir?"

Ray's hair is still slightly damp, with sweat. Fraser pushes his fingers through it, spiking it up, then smoothing it down again.

"Or hey," Ray says. "I got it. Stallion. Big, dirty stallion-boy. What do you think?"

Fraser knuckles an eye with his free hand. "I think sharing anecdotes from my sexual history with you may have been a miscalculation," he says.

Ray sighs. "Yeah, well. It's better than caribou. Big dirty caribou--that doesn't really have much of a ring."

Fraser smiles, rather helplessly. "Ray?" he says.

Ray tilts his head up, grinning, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Go to sleep."

Ray kisses him on the chin. "You betcha," he says.