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Sep. 13th, 2003 04:17 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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ds_flashfictionShut up, it's been a hard week. And I haven't had the chance to archive yet. A day late and a thousand words over--
Closet
by Speranza
"In the bedroom," Ray said. His voice had a rich echo; his head was deep in the icebox. "In the closet." A moment later, Ray straightened up with a bottle of beer in his hand and looked vaguely around the kitchen--for the bottle opener, Fraser assumed.
Fraser also assumed that Ray was giving him permission to broach the privacy of his bedroom--not simply stating that one could find the right sort of hanger in the bedroom closet but that Fraser was allowed to proceed inside and attempt to obtain the thing. In other words, Ray was giving him unsupervised access to his innermost space, which Fraser could only take as yet another sign of increased intimacy in their burgeoning friendship. For this he was profoundly grateful, and he debated taking a moment to thank Ray for permitting him this familiarity before deciding that it was perhaps best to accept Ray's gesture of trust with quiet dignity.
Fraser opened the bedroom door.
The room was dark, but Fraser found the light switch easily enough. There was no overhead, but there were two lamps in the room: one on the nightstand beside Ray's unmade bed and one on top of the bureau. The play of the soft lamplight on Ray's rumpled white sheets and Navajo quilt made the room seem terrifyingly intimate, and Fraser suddenly felt like an intruder. Fraser averted his eyes from the bed and made a beeline for the closet door, catching a glimpse of himself in the door's full-length mirror before pulling it open.
The smell hit him first--a musky, distinctive Ray-smell of hair gel and leather, sweat and a number of subtle, complimentary colognes. Fraser closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply, and the smell seemed to conjure up his friend.
He opened his eyes. Ray's closet was very full indeed--jam packed, as it were. The clothes were pressed together so tightly that none of them could precisely be said to be hanging; rather, they were awkwardly sandwiched together, pointing every which way. The black arm of a familiar leather blazer stretched out of the compressed shirts and slacks and suits, seeming to reach for him. The shelf above the wooden rod had been piled with precariously balanced objects: two leather satchels of varying sizes, a pair of boxing gloves, a bicycle helmet, a black felt cowboy hat.
In the middle of this sartorial chaos, Fraser spied the empty hanger. It was a particularly good one--not only wooden, but wide and rounded so as to mimic the broad curve of a shoulder. Carefully he extricated the hanger from its position on the rod, hooking it on the closet's inner doorknob while he took off his lanyard and holster and unbuttoned his tunic.
Having slid his jacket neatly onto the hanger's rounded shoulders and draped his lanyard and holster around its hooked metal neck, Fraser stood with the hanger in his hand, suddenly unsure as to what to do next. Was the implication that he should actually hang his uniform jacket here, or just that he would find a suitable hanger for it? Should he take hanger and jacket with him into the living room? Would that seem strange? Would it look as if he were almost fetishistically committed to carrying the thing around with him? On the other hand, surely it was a liberty to presume that he was welcome to share Ray's own personal bedroom closet. Fraser tried to effect a compromise by hanging the hook of the hanger over the top of the closet door itself, but the door was thicker than the hanger's curved metal hook, and so he found himself reduced to his original options: hang the jacket in Ray's closet or bring it with him into the living room.
Not that there was any room in Ray's closet; heck, that ought to decide it for him. Not to mention that it would deny the entire purpose of the special wooden hanger, which was to help his tunic keep its shape and remain unwrinkled. And yet, Fraser felt strangely tempted to shove his jacket onto the rod between Ray's suits and shirts, a flash of scarlet red between the blacks, browns, whites, navys and grays of Ray's clothes. Entirely out of place, just as he was.
Still, it was tempting. Fraser bit his lip. Surely one could reasonably interpret Ray's words, "In the bedroom, in the closet," as a direction--"[Hang your jacket] in the bedroom, in the closet." Before he could change his mind, Fraser reached out, grabbed the shoulder of Ray's black leather blazer, and tugged it to the left to make room for his own hanger, which he thrust deep into the closet, inserting it into the resulting breach. It was just as he thought--the red wool looked entirely out of place in that sea of narrow pinstriped jackets and tight black drainpipe trousers.
A moment later, as if to rebuke him for his hubris, the red serge jacket slipped off the hanger and slithered down to the floor.
Sighing, Fraser squatted and felt around on closet floor. He found the tunic easily, but when he tugged it out, a shoe came with it--or rather, Fraser discovered as he pulled it out of his jacket's armpit, a single black ankle boot.
Fraser held the boot in his hand. Black leather, with a highly pointed toe and a broad, high, sharply angled heel--a Cuban heel, they called it. He held the boot in his hand and stared at it; it conjured up visions from long ago, of phantom men who were urban but not-- quite--urbane. Men who seemed to him to be from another planet--a planet where these were "boots." They weren't boots where Benton Fraser came from.
He remembered going to the movies in the late sixties and early seventies, sometimes as often as once a week, because there wasn't very much for a boy of nine, a boy of eleven, a boy of thirteen to do in Tutktoyaktuk and his grandmother believed that the movies were an innocent enough past-time. But his grandmother had been thinking of Gone With The Wind and The Adventures Of Robin Hood and Singing In The Rain and the cinemas had been playing Easy Rider and Mean Streets and Dirty Harry and Midnight Cowboy. His grandmother had somehow come to believe that The French Connection was a musical, and he hadn't had the heart to disillusion her. Instead, he sat in the dark and stared up at the flickering images of James Dean and Steve McQueen, of Harvey Keitel and Al Pacino, Clint Eastwood and Jon Voight--of dangerous men in tight pants and Cuban heels, the most impractical footwear in the world. Men like Ray.
Fraser ran his thumb against the worn leather, then brought the boot up to his face. He sniffed it, licked it, stifled a moan. He suspected the impracticality was part of the--
"Hey, you get lost or--" Ray was leaning into the room, one hand braced on the doorjamb.
Instantly Fraser was on his feet, his mind racing for an explanation. He realized a second later that he was clutching his tunic in one hand and Ray's boot in the other, a wet stripe still glistening wetly down one side.
He dropped them both. The boot thudded to the floor. The tunic flapped down beside it like a bird landing. Fraser felt his face grow hot.
Ray frowned at this, then came toward him. "Didn't you find the--" Ray stopped and stared down at the boot with a puzzled look. "--hanger," Ray finished, but he was staring quizzically at Fraser now.
"Yes," Fraser blurted; he felt shamed, he'd proved himself entirely unworthy of Ray's act of trust. "Yes, thank you. I was just-- I was--just-- "
Ray's eyes moved from Fraser's face to the boot and back again before widening suddenly.
"Oh," Ray said, and while he sounded very surprised indeed, there didn't seem to be any revulsion in his voice. "Oh," Ray said again, and now his voice was warm with understanding.
It was too much. Two steps brought him to Ray, and he tangled his hands in the black denim of Ray's jeans, which rode crumpled and low on Ray's smooth pale hips. Another step and he had Ray pressed back against the wall next to the closet. Helplessly he crushed Ray's mouth under his. Ray inhaled sharply and went very still, but the leather-musk-cologne smell of him was intoxicating, and while his body was hard, his mouth was so damned soft. Fraser tried to put everything he felt into the kiss, knowing that he was committed now, that this was his one and only chance. If he'd just destroyed everything between them--well, it was better to be hung for a sheep than for a lamb, and he let his fingertips glide against the smooth skin just above the waistband of Ray's low-riding jeans.
A moment later he felt Ray's long, flat fingers scrabbling at his suspenders, tugging them down over his shoulders. A dizzying sensation of relief rushed through him--Ray had accepted him!--and he slid his hands up under the soft cotton of Ray's t-shirt, feeling the ridged rib cage, the wiry muscles. Ray's mouth was suddenly warm and alive against his, and Fraser opened his own mouth to take in Ray's strong, warm tongue. One of Ray's hands was coolly cupping back of his neck; the other was roughly tugging at his Henley, trying to pull it out of his trousers.
When they broke apart, both were gasping for breath. Ray's face was flushed, and Fraser supposed his must be as well. To his delight, Ray had knotted his fists in Fraser's Henley and was tugging at it with barely-concealed excitement. "Come on," Ray was softly chanting, "come on, come on..." and Fraser realized that Ray was trying to steer him toward the rumpled bed behind them. He was instantly, painfully hard, but he was not capable of letting a moment like this pass without some expression of sentiment, and so he hugged Ray tightly, pulling him close. Ray's arms were instantly up and around him, and Fraser squeezed his eyes shut in order to be completely and totally alive to the moment.
So it was only when he opened his eyes that he saw that Ray's closet had changed.
The wooden rod was still there, and the press of jackets, shirts, and trousers, and the tumble of boots, shoes and sneakers on the three square feet of floor. But now, behind this, were the wooden walls of a cabin, lit with a series of oil lamps as well as by the reflected glow of a fire in the grate. The cabin was unfamiliar to him--it certainly wasn't his father's cabin, but then again how could it be? His father's cabin was located in his office closet. No, Ray's closet seemed to contain a different cabin entirely, one he'd never seen before--
--except he suddenly noticed the dreamcatcher hanging in the window. It was the one he'd made for Ray, and he recognized his own weaving quite easily, as well as the distinctive colors of the eagle feather. It bore all the hallmarks of his workmanship--as, Fraser noticed a second later, did the bookcase on the far wall. Fraser had never built such a bookcase, but he knew that if he were to build one, it would look just like that, with those joins, that styling, that particular choice of sealing and stain. A moment later he recognized Ray's Navajo quilt, currently on the bed behind him, thrown carelessly over a comfortable looking armchair. And his own favorite boots, Fraser realized, the ones actually on his feet at the moment, were sitting on the hearth rug before the chair.
His chair. His and Ray's chair, he supposed. His and Ray's cabin that wasn't yet, but that was apparently someday to be. Ray's arms were still draped around him, and Fraser squeezed him tightly, grateful for this glimpse of life on the other side of the closet.
And as Ray kissed him hungrily and pulled him, stumbling, toward the unmade bed, Fraser felt a surge of unfamiliar and complicated emotions: of tenderness and passion mixed with hope.
THE END
Closet
by Speranza
"In the bedroom," Ray said. His voice had a rich echo; his head was deep in the icebox. "In the closet." A moment later, Ray straightened up with a bottle of beer in his hand and looked vaguely around the kitchen--for the bottle opener, Fraser assumed.
Fraser also assumed that Ray was giving him permission to broach the privacy of his bedroom--not simply stating that one could find the right sort of hanger in the bedroom closet but that Fraser was allowed to proceed inside and attempt to obtain the thing. In other words, Ray was giving him unsupervised access to his innermost space, which Fraser could only take as yet another sign of increased intimacy in their burgeoning friendship. For this he was profoundly grateful, and he debated taking a moment to thank Ray for permitting him this familiarity before deciding that it was perhaps best to accept Ray's gesture of trust with quiet dignity.
Fraser opened the bedroom door.
The room was dark, but Fraser found the light switch easily enough. There was no overhead, but there were two lamps in the room: one on the nightstand beside Ray's unmade bed and one on top of the bureau. The play of the soft lamplight on Ray's rumpled white sheets and Navajo quilt made the room seem terrifyingly intimate, and Fraser suddenly felt like an intruder. Fraser averted his eyes from the bed and made a beeline for the closet door, catching a glimpse of himself in the door's full-length mirror before pulling it open.
The smell hit him first--a musky, distinctive Ray-smell of hair gel and leather, sweat and a number of subtle, complimentary colognes. Fraser closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply, and the smell seemed to conjure up his friend.
He opened his eyes. Ray's closet was very full indeed--jam packed, as it were. The clothes were pressed together so tightly that none of them could precisely be said to be hanging; rather, they were awkwardly sandwiched together, pointing every which way. The black arm of a familiar leather blazer stretched out of the compressed shirts and slacks and suits, seeming to reach for him. The shelf above the wooden rod had been piled with precariously balanced objects: two leather satchels of varying sizes, a pair of boxing gloves, a bicycle helmet, a black felt cowboy hat.
In the middle of this sartorial chaos, Fraser spied the empty hanger. It was a particularly good one--not only wooden, but wide and rounded so as to mimic the broad curve of a shoulder. Carefully he extricated the hanger from its position on the rod, hooking it on the closet's inner doorknob while he took off his lanyard and holster and unbuttoned his tunic.
Having slid his jacket neatly onto the hanger's rounded shoulders and draped his lanyard and holster around its hooked metal neck, Fraser stood with the hanger in his hand, suddenly unsure as to what to do next. Was the implication that he should actually hang his uniform jacket here, or just that he would find a suitable hanger for it? Should he take hanger and jacket with him into the living room? Would that seem strange? Would it look as if he were almost fetishistically committed to carrying the thing around with him? On the other hand, surely it was a liberty to presume that he was welcome to share Ray's own personal bedroom closet. Fraser tried to effect a compromise by hanging the hook of the hanger over the top of the closet door itself, but the door was thicker than the hanger's curved metal hook, and so he found himself reduced to his original options: hang the jacket in Ray's closet or bring it with him into the living room.
Not that there was any room in Ray's closet; heck, that ought to decide it for him. Not to mention that it would deny the entire purpose of the special wooden hanger, which was to help his tunic keep its shape and remain unwrinkled. And yet, Fraser felt strangely tempted to shove his jacket onto the rod between Ray's suits and shirts, a flash of scarlet red between the blacks, browns, whites, navys and grays of Ray's clothes. Entirely out of place, just as he was.
Still, it was tempting. Fraser bit his lip. Surely one could reasonably interpret Ray's words, "In the bedroom, in the closet," as a direction--"[Hang your jacket] in the bedroom, in the closet." Before he could change his mind, Fraser reached out, grabbed the shoulder of Ray's black leather blazer, and tugged it to the left to make room for his own hanger, which he thrust deep into the closet, inserting it into the resulting breach. It was just as he thought--the red wool looked entirely out of place in that sea of narrow pinstriped jackets and tight black drainpipe trousers.
A moment later, as if to rebuke him for his hubris, the red serge jacket slipped off the hanger and slithered down to the floor.
Sighing, Fraser squatted and felt around on closet floor. He found the tunic easily, but when he tugged it out, a shoe came with it--or rather, Fraser discovered as he pulled it out of his jacket's armpit, a single black ankle boot.
Fraser held the boot in his hand. Black leather, with a highly pointed toe and a broad, high, sharply angled heel--a Cuban heel, they called it. He held the boot in his hand and stared at it; it conjured up visions from long ago, of phantom men who were urban but not-- quite--urbane. Men who seemed to him to be from another planet--a planet where these were "boots." They weren't boots where Benton Fraser came from.
He remembered going to the movies in the late sixties and early seventies, sometimes as often as once a week, because there wasn't very much for a boy of nine, a boy of eleven, a boy of thirteen to do in Tutktoyaktuk and his grandmother believed that the movies were an innocent enough past-time. But his grandmother had been thinking of Gone With The Wind and The Adventures Of Robin Hood and Singing In The Rain and the cinemas had been playing Easy Rider and Mean Streets and Dirty Harry and Midnight Cowboy. His grandmother had somehow come to believe that The French Connection was a musical, and he hadn't had the heart to disillusion her. Instead, he sat in the dark and stared up at the flickering images of James Dean and Steve McQueen, of Harvey Keitel and Al Pacino, Clint Eastwood and Jon Voight--of dangerous men in tight pants and Cuban heels, the most impractical footwear in the world. Men like Ray.
Fraser ran his thumb against the worn leather, then brought the boot up to his face. He sniffed it, licked it, stifled a moan. He suspected the impracticality was part of the--
"Hey, you get lost or--" Ray was leaning into the room, one hand braced on the doorjamb.
Instantly Fraser was on his feet, his mind racing for an explanation. He realized a second later that he was clutching his tunic in one hand and Ray's boot in the other, a wet stripe still glistening wetly down one side.
He dropped them both. The boot thudded to the floor. The tunic flapped down beside it like a bird landing. Fraser felt his face grow hot.
Ray frowned at this, then came toward him. "Didn't you find the--" Ray stopped and stared down at the boot with a puzzled look. "--hanger," Ray finished, but he was staring quizzically at Fraser now.
"Yes," Fraser blurted; he felt shamed, he'd proved himself entirely unworthy of Ray's act of trust. "Yes, thank you. I was just-- I was--just-- "
Ray's eyes moved from Fraser's face to the boot and back again before widening suddenly.
"Oh," Ray said, and while he sounded very surprised indeed, there didn't seem to be any revulsion in his voice. "Oh," Ray said again, and now his voice was warm with understanding.
It was too much. Two steps brought him to Ray, and he tangled his hands in the black denim of Ray's jeans, which rode crumpled and low on Ray's smooth pale hips. Another step and he had Ray pressed back against the wall next to the closet. Helplessly he crushed Ray's mouth under his. Ray inhaled sharply and went very still, but the leather-musk-cologne smell of him was intoxicating, and while his body was hard, his mouth was so damned soft. Fraser tried to put everything he felt into the kiss, knowing that he was committed now, that this was his one and only chance. If he'd just destroyed everything between them--well, it was better to be hung for a sheep than for a lamb, and he let his fingertips glide against the smooth skin just above the waistband of Ray's low-riding jeans.
A moment later he felt Ray's long, flat fingers scrabbling at his suspenders, tugging them down over his shoulders. A dizzying sensation of relief rushed through him--Ray had accepted him!--and he slid his hands up under the soft cotton of Ray's t-shirt, feeling the ridged rib cage, the wiry muscles. Ray's mouth was suddenly warm and alive against his, and Fraser opened his own mouth to take in Ray's strong, warm tongue. One of Ray's hands was coolly cupping back of his neck; the other was roughly tugging at his Henley, trying to pull it out of his trousers.
When they broke apart, both were gasping for breath. Ray's face was flushed, and Fraser supposed his must be as well. To his delight, Ray had knotted his fists in Fraser's Henley and was tugging at it with barely-concealed excitement. "Come on," Ray was softly chanting, "come on, come on..." and Fraser realized that Ray was trying to steer him toward the rumpled bed behind them. He was instantly, painfully hard, but he was not capable of letting a moment like this pass without some expression of sentiment, and so he hugged Ray tightly, pulling him close. Ray's arms were instantly up and around him, and Fraser squeezed his eyes shut in order to be completely and totally alive to the moment.
So it was only when he opened his eyes that he saw that Ray's closet had changed.
The wooden rod was still there, and the press of jackets, shirts, and trousers, and the tumble of boots, shoes and sneakers on the three square feet of floor. But now, behind this, were the wooden walls of a cabin, lit with a series of oil lamps as well as by the reflected glow of a fire in the grate. The cabin was unfamiliar to him--it certainly wasn't his father's cabin, but then again how could it be? His father's cabin was located in his office closet. No, Ray's closet seemed to contain a different cabin entirely, one he'd never seen before--
--except he suddenly noticed the dreamcatcher hanging in the window. It was the one he'd made for Ray, and he recognized his own weaving quite easily, as well as the distinctive colors of the eagle feather. It bore all the hallmarks of his workmanship--as, Fraser noticed a second later, did the bookcase on the far wall. Fraser had never built such a bookcase, but he knew that if he were to build one, it would look just like that, with those joins, that styling, that particular choice of sealing and stain. A moment later he recognized Ray's Navajo quilt, currently on the bed behind him, thrown carelessly over a comfortable looking armchair. And his own favorite boots, Fraser realized, the ones actually on his feet at the moment, were sitting on the hearth rug before the chair.
His chair. His and Ray's chair, he supposed. His and Ray's cabin that wasn't yet, but that was apparently someday to be. Ray's arms were still draped around him, and Fraser squeezed him tightly, grateful for this glimpse of life on the other side of the closet.
And as Ray kissed him hungrily and pulled him, stumbling, toward the unmade bed, Fraser felt a surge of unfamiliar and complicated emotions: of tenderness and passion mixed with hope.
THE END
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no subject
Date: 2003-09-13 09:32 pm (UTC)This is a long roundabout way of saying I like this scene of yours very much.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-14 04:34 am (UTC)As for the story, the idea of Fraser having a thing for Steve McQueen is so very very very hot. And the closet imagery was perfection. Life beyond the closet indeed!
no subject
Date: 2003-09-14 02:50 pm (UTC)I always get those mixed up.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 12:46 am (UTC)It would almost have to be so, and it makes more sense than RayK having a thing. (Too narcissistic! *g*)
And thanks for commenting!
no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 12:45 am (UTC)I think smell is very important--more important than we realize. I still know the aftershave that my husband was wearing around the time we met, and closets do, IMO, tend to have the concentrated smell of the owner. And for Fraser in particular, smells have got to be key, no?
Thanks for the comment!
no subject
Date: 2003-09-13 09:56 pm (UTC)Thank GOD it wasn't his *father's* cabin, that would have been all kinds of weird ;) Great story.
A day late and a thousand words over--
And that is a bad thing how?
no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 12:47 am (UTC)True! Or at least, a very different story--"Er, hi, Dad! I was just, um. Licking this boot..."
no subject
Date: 2003-09-13 10:08 pm (UTC)Ummm...guh.
Love this whole thing, as usual, the worry about the placing of the jacket and the licking of the boot, so Fraser, the "sartorial chaos" of the closet, so Ray, and the touch of magic with the vision of home, so dS. Fabulous.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 12:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-13 10:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 12:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-13 10:49 pm (UTC)(Of course, let's not forget the funny: "A moment later, as if to rebuke him for his hubris, the red serge jacket slipped off the hanger and slithered down to the floor." Hee.)
no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 12:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-13 10:54 pm (UTC)From the humorous details of Fraser trying to figure out what to do with his jacket to the licking of the boot, which cracked me up, to the hot kissing.
Chuckles and contented sighs, that's what you've given us here. Thanks.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 12:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-13 11:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 12:54 am (UTC)Secondly, thank you so much! So glad you liked it! (I'm particularly glad you think it's vividly described, description not being my strong point, actually.)
no subject
Date: 2003-09-14 12:35 am (UTC)--Kellie
no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 12:56 am (UTC)And then Fraser can dance in them. Can I tell you that I've had that song on auto-repeat ever since? Well, I have!
GMTA. (Sometimes. *g*)
no subject
Date: 2003-09-14 01:44 am (UTC)And Ray's closet, and impractical cuban heels, And, oh, that glimpse of the cabin that doesn't exist yet! So very sweet.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 12:58 am (UTC)LOL, I hadn't thought of this but this is so true--he does, doesn't he? There's got to be a way to provoke a challenge on this--like, the Fraser's interior monologue challenge, where Fraser thinks in words and phrases and punctuation that nobody else would. Hmm.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-21 06:17 pm (UTC)The Inside Fraser's Head challenge, maybe?
no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 01:02 am (UTC)Well, it's a big deal, isn't it? Seeing the inside of somebody's closet. I know a lot of people and mainly I haven't seen the insides of their closets. And Fraser--I can't imagine. Personal beyond imagination!
I loved the little revelation about the boots, and his movie-watching habits as a boy. James Dean, Al Pacino, Steve McQueen...the sort of men he probably believed he'd never meet, thereby made all the more mysterious and alluring because of their mystery.
Exactly right. Urban man, ethnic men--very 70s. I can't get over that Fraser would have been a boy in the late 60s, early 70s. And okay, in the Yukon and NWT, but even so, some whiff of that time must have come to him--through radio and music, most likely! And I couldn't think of a better contrast than Fraser's snow "boots" and Ray's cuban heels.
Thanks so much for commenting!
Again
Date: 2003-09-14 04:17 am (UTC)Brenda
Re: Again
Date: 2003-09-19 01:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-14 04:50 am (UTC)Love him as a boy, falling for those dangerous men, finally getting one of his very own, and the way this story travels the past, present and future.
And, uh, why do I find his licking the shoe hot?? Well, okay, watching Fraser lick anything is hot.*g*
no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 01:09 am (UTC)Dude, I love your description. Heh. And yeah, I have to think that this is part of what Fraser sees in RayK--a dangerous man of his very own. Tssssst--sizzle!
no subject
Date: 2003-09-14 05:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 01:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 01:17 am (UTC)Hee. I can't say I'm surprised. But it does it for me, too--not the licking per se, but what the licking *means* for them. Ta!
no subject
Date: 2003-09-14 12:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 01:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-14 02:34 pm (UTC)Also, yes, as others have observed, the boot-licking thing is oddly hot. *g*
no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 01:21 am (UTC)I love this show. *g*
no subject
Date: 2003-09-14 05:09 pm (UTC)I love the erotic details, especially this sentence:
Before he could change his mind, Fraser reached out, grabbed the shoulder of Ray's black leather blazer, and tugged it to the left to make room for his own hanger, which he thrust deep into the closet, inserting it into the resulting breach.
So, Fraser summons his courage and grabs Ray by the shoulder, tugs him into position, and then, er, thrusts himself inside, eh? Can't say I blame him. (:
And the closet metaphor, which I'd figured was done to death in this fandom, is given a beautiful new twist here. I love that glimpse of the future, and how Fraser clearly recognizes himself in it, sees the inevitability of it.
Beautiful.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 01:25 am (UTC)So, Fraser summons his courage and grabs Ray by the shoulder, tugs him into position, and then, er, thrusts himself inside, eh?
Heh. I giggled the whole time, writing that--"Calling Dr. Freud!" Thank you so much for noticing that. I had a blast with the tone of this story. I'd like to do this kind of unreliable narrator more often.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-14 07:39 pm (UTC)*snerk* Other side of the... Hee!
Friended you BTW- don't be scared. ;o)
no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 01:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-15 02:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 01:32 am (UTC)