Disclaimer: Benton Fraser and Ray Kowalski belong to Alliance. I make no profit from this, and mean no disrespect.

Author's Notes: A huge thank-you to my patient betas, Sihaya and Kalena. And, as promised: this one's for Bluster.

Story Notes:

"Tell me this isn't what you want, Fraser."

"Ray--"

"Tell me no, Fraser -- just tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want it. Tell me you don't want this."

"I don't want it, Ray," says Fraser, and his voice is rough -- his eyes are rough, there's a whole minefield of emotions in there and Ray can see them, see the turmoil and the indecision and the lust -- all of Fraser right there in front of him, laid out for him to see. And Fraser's body is laid out in front of him, too: a sprawl of Mountie pressed back over the ledge of the windowsill, shoulders back against the glass, Ray's legs between his thighs: Fraser, hot and hard like a real boy, wanting it. He's looking squarely at Ray, flushed and breathing hard. Determined. Determined not to break.

"Tell me again, Fraser," Ray grits out, and his hands are sliding up and down Fraser's arms compulsively, gripping his shoulders through the brown shirt and then down to the bare skin of Fraser's forearms. Up again over the rolled sleeves, and he knows he's hurting Fraser -- bets there's going to be finger-bruises on that white skin under the shirt. The shirt's not as crisp as it looks -- Ray can feel the heat of Fraser's body radiating under his palms. A moist heat that makes his own palms break out in a sympathetic sweat. He's creasing the Uniform: things can't go back to normal from here. "Tell me, Fraser. Tell me and mean it. Tell me that you don't want me. Do it, Fraser. Say it. Say it and I'll stop."

And Fraser's head falls back against the window, exposing the clean line of his jaw. It's inches from Ray's lips; Ray thinks of his own harsh stubble, the sandpaper scrape that it'd make against Fraser's skin. He thinks of Fraser's lips, hard and desperate against his own: a man's mouth, a man's kiss, a man's beard-shadow roughing against his upper lip. And Ray leans forwards, presses his lips against the corner of Fraser's jaw and says indistinctly, "Say it, Fraser, say it," and Fraser makes a sound deep in his throat in response, almost a moan.

That sound breaks Ray, breaks his resolve to hold back -- he breaks first, he's always the first to break. Fraser's moan takes him and wrings him until he's outside in, until his raw emotions are quivering in the surface of his skin like exposed nerve endings, like live wires. Wherever he touches Fraser, his skin sparks violently -- a white-hot sensation that's cable-connected to his cock. He's hard inside his jeans. His pulse is throbbing tightly in his groin. He leans his weight forward, hands flat to the glass either side of Fraser's head, and kisses him -- kisses him so hard that the glass creaks in the frame and Fraser's hands white-knuckle on the ledge. Ray's cock is flush with the V of Fraser's thighs; Fraser's mouth is hot and wet under Ray's.

"No," says Fraser almost desperately, but his hands say yes -- hands reaching up to tangle in Ray's hair, strong fingers and blunt fingernails scraping at the curve where Ray's head joins his neck. Fingers pressing into the hollow, between the tightly-drawn tendons -- quickest and quietest place on the body to kill a man, thinks Ray, slip a knife into that soft hollow and it's bye-bye, quiet time, lights out for you-- He arches back into the sensation and Fraser's thumbs centre there unerringly, rubbing through the baby hairs at the back of his neck, pressing into the very base of his skull. Ray's groaning, suddenly, and their roles are reversed -- Fraser still murmuring no with wet lips, but his eyes are saying yes and he's mouthing Ray's neck with the half-aware aggression of a sleepwalker, biting over the pulse point while Ray gasps and braces his arched body on his hands. The glass under his palms is cold. Behind it, the street is the early dark of winter. Sodium lights float under Ray and Fraser's sharp-edged reflections, and the yellow points flare like ghostly candles, wavering and swimming against the brightness of the room. Ray drags his hands away and his wet handprints hang there, fading slowly.

"I don't want it," says Fraser in his rough sex voice, and sound of it infuriates Ray. He can feel Fraser's cock against his thigh; Fraser's as hard in his yellow-striped pants as Ray is in his jeans -- there's no hiding that, no hiding the fact that Fraser does want it. Wants it as much as Ray, but he's stubborn, he's determined. Ray's emotions are beaten against the rock that is Fraser, beaten down to a gritty pulp; but if Fraser can be stubborn, Ray can be stubborner. They aren't doneski here, not by a long shot.

So Ray kisses Fraser again, silences him by slicking their tongues together. Over and under and over in an erotic rhythm that gets them breathing hard, dipping up for air -- Ray pressing semi-harsh kisses against the ridge of Fraser's eyesocket and Fraser scraping his teeth against Ray's chin, biting the point of Ray's jaw hard enough to leave stinging traces when his lips are back on Ray's. Their chests are wet with a moist heat: Fraser's shirt has a dark V passing through the line of buttons. Creases have cat-whiskered under the collar and under his arms. Ray's own t-shirt is clinging to the wetness at the small of his back. It's ridden up -- he hikes it up under his chin almost angrily, rips it over his head with crossed arms and flings it behind them.

"Still no, Fraser?" he asks, harshly, and Fraser's hands are running up the piano-keys of his ribs, not gentle but hard and possessive -- yes, say Fraser's hands, *yes, I want you,* while his mouth is hitching out broken fragments of no and stop and don't.

Fraser leans forward and takes Ray's left nipple in his mouth; the movement thrusts their cocks together between the layers of fabric. Cock against cock, Fraser's flat tongue, swiping and circling: it sets up a lifeline of electric current between the two points of Ray's body -- he's suspended hotly between two aching electrodes, moaning between the bright flashes of pleasure.

"Fuck, Fraser--"

And below him, he can see the dark curls of Fraser's head as it's bent over his nipple, and that nearly does him in right there. But he can still hear no echoing between their bodies, even though Fraser's mouth is occupied. Fraser's tongue slips free for an instant and Ray braces himself; slams Fraser back by the shoulders and pins him against the glass, makes the movement hard enough that Fraser's head cracks sharply against the window.

"Ray," says Fraser huskily. "Ray."

He looks like the picture postcard of a Mountie centrefold: head back, lips wet, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. Ray can still feel Fraser's cock between them; it'd be visible in a photo, he thinks: a hard ridge along Fraser's thigh, curving tightly against the fabric. Or maybe in a real centrefold, Fraser's pants would be open: cock arching upwards from his upside-down triangle of dark pubic hair, one square-fingered hand loosely encircling the head. The image sends a searing flash through Ray. He has to bite his tongue hard, jerk his mind back to the pain and not the fact that he's standing between Fraser's parted thighs, that he's feeling Fraser's cock hard against his leg.

They're both breathing heavily -- harsh, gasping breaths. Fraser's chest is rising and falling irregularly in its Mountie wrapper. Ray's hands itch; he goes for the buttons, fumbling and tearing.

"Tie," he orders. "Take your tie off--" and Fraser's breathing quickens but he does it without hesitation, hooking the loop over his head and letting it drop besides them while Ray bares him from neck to navel in a cascading rip of snapped threads.

Underneath the uniform, Fraser is very pale. His nipples stand out as dark points, widely spaced. Ray takes one between his fingers and twists gently; Fraser arches up from the windowsill with a groan, and Ray can feel his cock twitching desperately where it's trapped between their bodies.

"No, Fraser?" says Ray from between bared teeth, and slides slowly down Fraser's body: cock and hips and chest and tongue painting a wet stripe last of all, until he's on his knees between Fraser's legs. "Not this?" he asks, and palms Fraser's cock through the material, rolling his wrist and rubbing the heel of his hand over the length.

Fraser has his head back against the window, and merely chokes out a low sound as Ray impatiently rips open his pants, pulls the elastic of his boxers up, over and down, and licks a slow circle over the head. Fraser's uniform has a sweaty smell -- not unpleasant, just lived-in. His cock smells similar -- kind of musky, kind of salty: familiar, even though the shape of him in Ray's mouth is strange. He flicks his tongue curiously; Fraser's hands, just inside Ray's field of vision, whiten again on the windowsill. Ray does it again: one of Fraser's hands detaches itself from its death-grip and grounds itself in Ray's hair. Ray feels the curve of fingers cupping his neck. Four pads of pressure in the hairline and a thumb resting just under his jaw, pulling him closer. He sucks; Fraser starts panting out a rhythm of stuttered gasps and half-phrases in a dark, throaty bedroom-voice. Yes, and Ray, and God.

Glancing up from between Fraser's thighs, Ray gets glimpses of the underside of Fraser's chin, half-slices of a pornographic image. Fraser's eyes are half-lidded, mouth wet and open, tongue slicking over shiny lips. His brow is wrinkled as though in pain.

Ray switches to his hand and stands to one side of Fraser's open legs. He has one hand on the window behind Fraser's head for balance, one hand slick with spit on Fraser's cock, and his lips and tongue are sliding in a slow, hot demand against Fraser's mouth.

When Fraser comes, it's in a tight spasm that rocks him like a punch. It wrings a series of moans into Ray's mouth: desperate, gasping sounds as though he's surfacing from icy water. His eyes are still closed as Ray holds him through the shuddering aftershocks. When Ray finally lets go and wipes his hand on his jeans, the wet smear of spit and semen just above his knee seems like proof of the world tilted on its axis.

"Ray," says Fraser softly. His eyes are a dark, dark blue, and this time Ray can see that Fraser isn't determined or stubborn. Isn't a pricktease or trying to mess with his head.

Fraser is afraid.

Afraid of letting go. Afraid of wanting.

The world's turning faster than Ray imagined -- he's losing his balance, falling on the ice as it slides by with the smoothness of a rolling billiard ball.

Victory feels a lot like vertigo, turns out.

"Fraser--" starts Ray.

"No," Fraser murmurs, and he's reaching out and pulling Ray down into an awkward, loose-limbed hug -- Ray half-crouching, Fraser damp and wrinkled on the windowsill with his de-buttoned shirt hanging wide and his pants gaping open. Fraser turns his head and catches Ray on the mouth: a sweet, gentle kiss. Ray feels a shameful rush to blood southwards as he returns the kiss. It's a slow, leisurely slide of lips and tongues: seductive, almost. Sexy like a first kiss. Fraser takes Ray's lower lip in a gentle caress, kisses the corner of Ray's mouth, kisses Ray's left eyelid.

"Ray," says Fraser, running his teeth lightly over the outer shell of Ray's ear.

"Yeah?" Ray lets his hands tangle gently in Fraser's hair. It's getting long at the back. Damp curls catch on his fingers; he tugs them softly, and Fraser makes a quiet sound deep in his throat. Ray cards his fingers slowly through Fraser's hair, fingernails just touching, and is rewarded with another tiny sound.

Fraser starts, stops, starts again. "Ray, I--ah, I--"

He turns his head away, then with a visible tightening of his jaw turns back to face Ray squarely. Determined. Determined not to back down, and there's remembered pain and hope and wanting in there, too, as Fraser says firmly, desperately: "Fuck me, Ray."

Ray stops, although his blood and cock leap hotly. The erotic rush leaves him dizzy. "Fraser."

Fraser is looking at him with an intensity that Ray's never seen before. "Please, Ray. Please."

"Fraser," says Ray again, slowly, although his heart is running in his chest. "You sure?"

"Yes," says Fraser simply. When he stands up, it's deliberately slow, deliberately seductive. Turns his back to Ray, as though he's looking out of the window, and starts unfastening one side of his suspenders.

Ray finds his voice. "Lemme help you with that," he says. They're much the same height, so it's easy for him to pull Fraser back against his chest as they stand there against the window. Ray mouths the back of Fraser's neck gently, runs his hands up and down over Fraser's arms, as before. This time, though, he can slip them into the open front of Fraser's shirt to brush past a nipple. Once, twice, almost accidentally, then catching one between his fingers. Fraser's sensitive: he arches against Ray with a sigh, grinds his ass back against Ray's cock.

They get into a groove: Ray rocking forward with his cock against the curve of Fraser's ass, lips on the join between Fraser's neck and shoulder, hands sliding over the long planes of Fraser's chest. Now and then he dips down into the unfastened V, where Fraser's half-hard again already. Sweat and still-wet come ease his hand as he traces over the length of Fraser's cock, squeezing the head with a circular wrist motion. Fraser's starting to breathe heavily again, rolling into the motion. Forward into Ray's hand with a sigh, back against Ray's cock with that sound deep in his throat that sends erotic shivers down Ray's spine.

Ray nudges the remaining suspender strap off Fraser's shoulder and his pants come down easily, tangled in white cotton boxers. Fraser toes them off along with his neat square-toed uniform shoes; lets his shirt slip from his shoulders so that he's naked, still facing away from Ray. His back is a curve of Grecian marble -- pale but incredibly smooth, and sweat-slick under Ray's palms.

"Bedroom?" Ray manages, and his voice comes out as a husky creak. He jerks his head back over his shoulder. "Bed. Uh, lube--"

But Fraser's gesturing to his discarded pants and -- surprise! Fraser may not have any real money in his wallet, but there's, inexplicably, a condom and one of those tiny square packets of lube, worn and round-edged with age.

Ray stares down at it in disbelief, jolted partially out of his erotic haze by amusement and--yeah, that's jealousy, that feeling of sweat pricking out on the soles of his feet. Guilt, too: how much doesn't he know about Fraser? How much is he always going to have to guess at what's happening under that surface -- only reaching out blindly with instinct?

"You been holding out on me, Fraser?"

But when he glances up, Fraser's silently slipping to his knees in front of the window, head resting on arms crossed over the sill. His legs are apart. The sleek stretch of inner thigh merges seamlessly into the pornovista that is Fraser's spread ass.

"God!" Ray chokes out, grabbing wildly at his cock. The pain takes the edge off, but he's so hard that he can hardly stand it. There's no sound, no thought, no world outside of him and Fraser: just a dizzy, swelling rush of blood in his ears that throbs in time with his cock. He tears at the top button on his jeans: the rest rip undone gratifyingly. Underwear and jeans down just far enough and he's kneeling behind Fraser, hands on Fraser's ass, smoothing his hands in familiar patterns of comfort. Petting the small of Fraser's back and the rounded edges of hipbones, stroking and reassuring.

He slides the tips of his fingers into the dip of Fraser's ass and brushes lightly.

"Oh!" says Fraser in an unfamiliar voice, trembling and jerking towards Ray's fingers. "Oh, Ray."

Ray keeps one hand circling steadily on the small of Fraser's back and lets his other hand linger in place, brushing just slightly. "That'd, uh, better be a good oh, Fraser," he says, a little uncertainly.

"Good oh," Fraser echoes breathlessly, pressing back. "Do it, Ray, please."

"Oh, so you say this now?" Ray grumbles, but he awkwardly tears the corner off the packet of lube with his teeth and slicks his fingers thoroughly with the resulting gel, careful not to lose any of the slippery coating as he reaches down again.

He goes slow -- real slow -- pressing in gently with a single wet finger, rotating his wrist slightly as he goes for the better angle. Fraser's making a short series of breathless sounds as he does it: good oh! sounds, and a shaky intake of breath when Ray's in all the way. Fraser's body grasps Ray: hot and tight, and squeezing with reluctance when Ray draws his hand back a little.

"Okay?" asks Ray softly.

Fraser's head is firmly down on his arms, so Ray can't see his expression. His voice, though --his voice is pure sex: it's a voice of wet dreams. Of Ray's wet dreams. "Yeah, god, yeah."

The lube's faintly cold on Ray's overheated skin, and when he presses two cool fingers inside, Fraser gives a shaky wriggle like he's surprised. Before Ray can pull back, though, he's taking Ray's fingers with a drawn-out ahhh. Sinking back with a groan onto Ray's hand and rotating his hips to get a deeper angle. There's something intensely voyeuristic about it, about watching his slicked-up fingers sliding into Fraser, disappearing inside him: it's a faintly dirty erotic thrill. And not only is Fraser letting him do this, but the thought that he can make Fraser feel like that with just a simple movement-- Ray curls his wrist and strokes with the tips of his fingers as far as he can reach, and Fraser's thighs are shaking, he's writhing around Ray's fingers and impaling himself further onto Ray's hand with a stream of gasped half-words.

The sheer pornography of it blows Ray's mind. He keeps doing it for as long as he can sanely continue: stroking inside Fraser over and over, pressing his fingers in the way that makes Fraser groan, arch up around him and spread his legs wider so that Ray can slip in even further. After a while, though, the demands from Ray's cock are loud enough to override his voyeuristic pleasures, and when Fraser moans out "Fuck me" one more time, that's it.

Cocks are bigger than fingers, though, so Ray goes as slow as he feels is physically possible for a guy in this particular position: a guy with his cock nudging against Fraser's perfect ass, a guy trying his best not to hear Fraser murmuring encouragement in a sex-rough voice--

"Fraser," Ray grits out, "I'm trying. To go. Slow--" but Fraser's already pushing back, taking the head of him with a gasp, and then it's Ray's turn to cry out helplessly as the space behind his eyes explodes in pleasure. When his vision greys back in, Fraser's half-impaled. Ray can see him breathing, relaxing -- each breath, and Ray slides in another inch. Inch by inch, until he's as deep as he can go and Fraser's pulse is beating around him. Fraser is around him, shaking and hot and unbelievably smooth.

Ray pulls back an inch, rocks forward with a slow curl of his hips. It pulls a whimper out of them both, and then Ray's falling forward across Fraser's solid back, scrabbling desperately above their heads for one of Fraser's hands. Joined palm to palm, chest to back, Ray thrusting up over and over again at just the right angle to hit that sensitive spot that's got Fraser convulsing around him, moaning in that new being-fucked voice that Ray's never heard before, nothing at all like this...

And Fraser's saying, Ray, god, Ray I need you when he comes, shuddering and gasping around Ray with his head buried on his arms, his shoulder between Ray's teeth, and Ray's coming a split second later with a yell. They're coming together, spilling out onto the floor and this is them together, entwined in a sweaty tangle of arms and legs and cocks and when it's all over, Fraser turns his head and whispers Ray, I need you and Ray says back, yeah, I know. I know, Fraser, I know.

END

End What He Wants by Ineke Meyer: s.robinson5@ugrad.unimelb.edu.au

Author and story notes above.