Author's Notes: A huge thank-you to SnowFlake for the wonderfully comprehensive and helpful beta (I didn't curse you *too* much this time), done so damn quickly. Could never do this without you.
I'm smoking again. He hates it, but he doesn't say anything, just gets this frown when he sees me with a butt in my hand and I feel like when my mom caught me smoking in the back yard. Mostly what I do, when he does that little frown-thing, is lift my chin at him and deliberately take another drag. Because you know what? I'm a big boy and this ain't his decision to make.
Thing is, sometimes it's just necessary. When we finally get back to my place, it's pretty late, and I'm exhausted, but wired. He starts to head up the front stairs, but I lower myself slowly to sit on the stoop, giving him a backwards wave to head inside as I dig my cigarettes out of my coat pocket. I'm pissed off and jittery, and if I head upstairs now I'll take it out on him, which I do not want to do. If I have a smoke I might be able to let some of this go, so I think it's a worthwhile trade, and right now I really don't care if he agrees or not.
It's not like I even do it that much, only when I'm feeling real twitchy. I don't smoke in the car, that's for damn sure. And I don't even smoke in my apartment that much, because he gets all edgy when he comes over and can smell it. The damn uniform, I guess. Can't represent the Queen reeking of smoke. So it's mostly outside, and mostly at work, and mostly when he's not looking.
I'll tell you, though. Sometimes I catch him looking. Like, looking. Like he maybe likes it. Weird, right? I mean, I know he likes my hands, he's told me he likes my hands. Likes them a lot. He likes to lick them, likes to take my fingers in his mouth and suck on them. He likes that a whole lot. He can get distracted, doing that right when we're in the middle of things, and he doesn't even notice when I'm practically writhing, practically begging him to stop, before he makes me come just by sucking my fingers in that mouth of his.
But that's a whole different thing from the look he sometimes gives me, when he's watching me smoke.
I realize suddenly that I'm just sitting here, turning the cigarette over and over in my hands. God, I'm tired. It's been a fucking long day, a fucking long week, and now it's finally over, we finished the stupid fucking case. It's all over but the paperwork, and that's waiting till Monday, because by the time we get back to the station, I have a new rip in my jeans, and I'm limping just a little, and I've got a black eye (that the fucking Mountie gave me by accident with his elbow while we were restraining the suspect). Fraser, of course, looks fucking spiffy, looks fucking pristine, not a mark on him.
I stick the cigarette in my mouth and light it. Take a deep drag and let it out slow, blowing the smoke up to the night air. It feels good. Just this, the easy routine of lighting the cigarette, the first hit of nicotine in my lungs, it settles me a little. I stretch my neck from side to side a little, letting the tension (finally, finally) ease out of my shoulders. God, sometimes I just need this. I glance up. He's still there, watching me. "Sorry," I say lamely. "I just -" I trail off, gesturing with the cigarette.
He nods slowly, but doesn't say anything. He's moved down the steps to lean against the wall near me. He's got his arms crossed and he's, like, watching me. His eyes - man, they're intense. Still radiating that Fraser-calm, but I know him real well and to me - to me, he looks turned-on. I blink, and then bring the cigarette slowly back up to my mouth for another drag. His eyes follow the movement of my hand the whole way. Huh. Interesting.
I lean back against the steps. I have that slow pull of nicotine through my system now, and it loosens me up a little. I'm still tired, but it's tired in a good way. He's watching me, and that helps to lift this exhaustion. Feel a little more together, a little more alive, when he watches me like this.
"How's your face?" Fraser says quietly, nodding at my black eye.
Involuntarily, I raise the hand holding the cigarette and touch the side of my face gingerly. "It's okay. Bet it looks like hell, though."
"It's not that bad." He's studying me, a sort of half-smile on his face. Not a nice smile. It's got an edge to it. Like he's holding himself back. "It makes you look...tough."
I grin at him. "Tough, huh?" Feel a slow curl of lazy desire in my stomach. Because I want him to be getting off on this. I like the idea of him watching me. I get up slowly (wincing as I stretch out my knee), and take a final drag, then flick the cigarette away before blowing out the smoke. "Yeah, but I'm not a punk kid anymore. Hard to pull off pushing-forty tough."
His eyes go real dark, and he moves forward. Slow. I take a breath as his hands slide under my coat. He licks his lip a little. "Makes you look tough - and sexy." Then he presses his mouth against mine. I can't help but smile even as he kisses me. He likes watching me smoke. He likes the way that shiner he gave me looks. Makes that pristine-Mountie image a tiny bit dingy and I think I like that.
He must feel that smile against his lips because he sort of growls a little before pushing his tongue inside my mouth, and I just let him. I lean there, my shoulders against the wall as he tugs my hips forward. Just let him have at me. I'm bruised and aching and having him all over me is like a salve, like a fucking remedy for anything, everything that's gone wrong today.
He takes a final lick at the inside of my mouth, and pulls away. We're both breathing a little fast. I can't believe he's necking with me on the front stoop. I bring my hand up, let my fingers rest on the side of his throat, feeling his pulse pounding there. I feel hazy, like this is half a dream, and my lips curve into a smile again. His eyes are so damn dark as he looks at me. "You like this, don't you?" My voice sounds slow and thick.
There's a flash deep in his eyes, and he ignores the question. "Let's go inside."
I'm sluggish, having problems finding words for what I've just become very aware of, but I don't want to let this go. "You like that. Watching me. When I smoke." His eyes flick left and then back. My hand is still resting on his throat, on his beating pulse. "You like that."
His chin comes up a little and he shakes his head slowly. "No," he says, his breath hot against my face.
I narrow my eyes at him. "Yeah." I drop my hand from his throat and press it to the front of his pants. "You do." He's so fucking hard and when my hand lands on him, he presses forward against me, trapping my hand in between us. I lean forward and bring my lips close to his ear. "I think you do. I think you like it a lot." I can feel his body all tense against me. "I think it makes you want to do bad things to me." I pause for a second, tightening my fingers around the outline of his cock through his pants. "I think it makes you want to take me upstairs and fuck me up against the wall."
His breath comes in a gasp and he's yanking me away from the wall and pushing me ahead of him, heedless of my aching body and my bad knee. I stumble and nearly fall. He just hauls me up and gasps, "Sorry," but he doesn't sound even a little bit sorry, and I sure as hell don't fucking care. He pushes me up the stairs and we're lucky it's so late, because it's really damn obvious we're on our way to fuck each other's brains out.
I hit the wall outside my apartment and try to dig my keys out of my pocket, which would be a hell of a lot easier if Fraser weren't pressed right up against me. His hands are everywhere and in my way, and where the hell are the goddamn keys? "Fraser," I pant, trying to push him away a little.
"Hurry," he breathes against my neck, pressing closer behind me, and now he's got his hands unbuttoning my jeans. Usually I'd be right onboard with that, but we're still in the damn hallway. "Fraser," I manage. "Inside." I sort of slither away from him, finally managing to get the keys out of my coat pocket. He grabs the keys with one hand and me with the other, and then the door is open and we're inside.
And as much as I'm usually real okay when he gets into this right-here-right-now stage, my knee ain't gonna take it tonight. I tug him towards the bedroom. "Ditch the uniform, Frase. Take it off, okay?"
He obeys, but I don't think it has much to do with his listening to me, because he's obviously not focused on anything but sex right now. "Ray," he says. That's it, just Ray, but his voice sounds rough and jesus, we need to get to the bedroom like now.
Fraser's working on tugging his uniform off, but as soon as we're in the bedroom, he gets a hold on me and hauls me in close, kissing me wet and messy. He lets me go and I fall back on the bed and pull him down on top of me. His suspenders are only half-off, his pants open, but his boots are still on. He doesn't seem to much care, and I gotta say, I'm not real keen on stopping to deal with that myself.
I'm trying to keep kissing him, but it's not going so well, because he keeps pulling away from me, letting his lips wander over my cheekbone, my ear, my neck...
"Oh, fuck, right there, god." Because he's found this spot on my neck and it feels fucking amazing, like he's got a hot spot connected to my cock there, and he does this thing, where he takes his tongue and just tastes me. It fucking blows my mind when he does it, feels like I could come just from that.
I'm wriggling under him, and he seems to finally get the picture, because he raises his head, and looks at me. "Jesus, Fraser," I wheeze.
He licks his lips, looking slightly dazed. His cock is pressing against my hip. The well-spoken Benton Fraser seems to have disappeared, because all he says is, "Ray. Now," before he sprawls half-on, half-off me, his hands fumbling as they work my jeans open.
He's doing the hit-and-miss kissing thing again, managing to get my neck and my shoulder, and I think that maybe he's fumbling on purpose. His hands are groping me through my pants, but finally he's got my pants open, and then his kisses have a fucking goal. He's moving down my body, pushing my shirt up so he can get at skin, kissing the whole way down. I'm arching under him, trying to get the damn shirt off, just as his fucking hot mouth lands on my lower stomach, that tongue tracing across me, and I'm shuddering under him.
I finally manage to yank my shirt off and get my hands anchored in his hair just as he moves lower, on his knees in front of me on the floor now. He runs his tongue, slow and deliberate, up the length of my cock.
Fuck. I'm trying hard not to yank on his hair. But when he finally sucks me into his mouth, I can't help it, I yell, loud, and haul him closer, my hands laced through his hair. Feel like I should pull back, but I can't and oh, lord, he sort of hums around my dick and tightens his hands on my hips, shoving my jeans down a little more.
He likes this.
I'm not going to last much longer; I'm looking for purchase, my heels against the floor, trying to lift my hips, trying to fuck his mouth hard and fast. He doesn't ease up at all, even when I'm panting his name, trying to warn him that - oh - fuck - fucking hell - not-enough, too-much, too soon, too soon. But the orgasm is rolling through me, wave after wave after wave as I slam up into Fraser's mouth, and come in what feels like never-ending surges.
I'm dead, I'm fucking gone, limp and lost and sprawled on the bed, but Fraser gets up off his knees and his face is fierce and his mouth is wet and red, and he gets his pants open with quick precision. I flail a little, trying to get enough coordination to grant him the same favor he just did me, but he just braces himself half-over me on one arm. His cock is in his hand, and Christ, he's close, his cock is dripping on me. He's panting, his hand moving in slick, quick movements, and I'm still just lying there, wishing I could get hard again, as his panting turns to quick, desperate whimpering and he comes all over my stomach.
I can't do anything but struggle for breath and blink up at the ceiling. My mind - is blown. No brain cells left. None. Kaput. Finished.
He's sprawled on his stomach next to me. I manage to gather enough strength to flop over and land in a soggy puddle beside him. His eyes look sort of sleepily wild.
"Fuck, Fraser." My voice sounds ragged. I am gone. "That was - fuck."
"Yes, I -" he stops, blinks. "I - yes. You - I'm sorry, I just -"
The man is apologizing. I look at him incredulously. "Fraser."
"I - yes?" God, his face is fucking gorgeous. Exhausted and sweaty and a little bewildered.
"Shut up." I drag myself close enough to kiss him. He tastes like us, that distinctive flavor he gets after I come in his mouth, and I spend a few moments lazily tasting that before I pull back and let my head fall to his chest. Look down. He's still dressed. Hell, I'm still half-dressed. "That was fucking amazing," I mumble against his chest, trying not to drool.
We should get up, take off our fucking clothes at least. He brings his hand up to comb gently through my hair. "Yes," he agrees sleepily.
"You were really worked up," I observe.
"I had some incentive," he responds.
I twist my head to look up at him. "Me?"
He smiles. "Yes."
"You hate me smoking," I point out.
"Yes," he agrees.
"But you still think it's sexy."
"No." He brings his hand up, traces his fingers over my lips. "I think you're sexy."
A shiver runs down my spine. He shouldn't be able to get away with stuff like that, it's too damn romantic, but man, does it turn my crank.
He tugs on my hair a little. "Now go take a shower," he says. "You're messy."
"And getting sticky," I agree. Not moving yet though.
His nose wrinkles just the tiniest little bit. "And your hair smells like cigarettes."
I groan and shove at him, pushing myself up and wriggling the rest of the way out of my jeans. "You dig it."
"No." He shakes his head, the hint of a smile on his lips as he lies there watching me as I head naked towards the bathroom.
"You do. You love it." I leave the door open as I turn the shower on full blast. Stick my head out the door to see him still lying, sexy and sated, on the bed. "Love me?"
He pushes himself up on his elbows. "Very much so."
I grin. "C'mere and help me wash the smoke out of my hair." I duck back into the bathroom, knowing he'll follow me. Because you know what? He loves me and all my fucked-up, bad boy ways.
End Bad Behavior by brooklinegirl
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