ds_flashfiction | Seven Deadly Sins Story (Reply)

Hello! I wrote another thing for the "Sins" challenge--this time about Lust. It's 837 words and it's NC-17, I think. It hasn't got any spoilers. (oh, and it's F/K).

It's called

Evidence

They're walking out of Walgreen's, where they'd been interviewing the guy who maybe saw what happened at the Shakespeare Festival on Saturday night, and anyway they're talking about the guy's story, which has changed already three times and is a total load of crap, only Fraser doesn't get that, of course.

So they're arguing, kind of, that back and forth thing they get stuck in sometimes, and Fraser ducks his head and gets his pissy look and scrubs at his eyebrow with his thumb. And Ray? Ray reaches over, still yapping a mile a minute, and he smoothes the Mountie's eyebrow back in place. Just fucking does it, his fingers brushing Fraser's warm cheek, those dark hairs coarse under his thumb.

And he gets it, a second later, what a freakish thing it is he's doing, but of course by then it's too late. He makes this face, and Fraser kind of frowns, and Ray shoves his hands in his pockets. "We walking here or what?" he snaps. And that's exhibit number one.

Number two is so stupid he can hardly even think it. What it is, is: Fraser has this smell. It's not a weird smell or anything-probably just part sweat and part... phero-- pherodendrons, or whatever. Anyhow, it's not like he stinks; you practically have to be sitting on the guy to get a whiff of it. It's just his regular personal odour. The thing that's weird is, Ray totally knows this smell, the same way he knows Stella's smell, or his own: he recognizes it way down deep in the bottom of his brain, like something out of Animal Planet.

Which takes us over to number three, which is the worst one so far because it's all about math and facts, and that ain't something you can argue. Cause at the end of the week Ray adds it up in his head, and he figures out that him and Fraser have been together something like seventy-five hours in the past five days. And that's weird, for sure. That's nuts. But even nutser? He's already thinking up an excuse to call the guy over on Saturday.

And that leads straight into number four, which speaks for itself, so just listen:

"Fraser."
"Ah, hello, Ray!"
"Yeah, uh. Hi. So..."
"Is something the matter, Ray?"
"No. No. I just was, uh. Wondering..."
"Yes, Ray?"
"Uh, if maybe you wanted to, you know. Uh..."
"Ray. Are you being held against your will or threatened? Just say 'yes' to answer in the affirmative."
"Christ! No! Fraser! I'm just trying to invite you over to watch the game tomorrow."
"Ah. Well, Ray, I would be delighted. Shall we say two o'clock?"
"Jesus, Fraser. Yeah, okay. Fine."

Case in fucking point.

Exhibit five, though--that's the kicker. It happens on Saturday morning, which naturally he's spending in bed, thinking about waking up enough to jerk off. So of course the phone rings. "Yeah," he snaps, and on the other end Fraser gives this half-voiced, oh-so-patient sigh and then he says, "Good morning, Ray. I'm afraid I may be somewhat later than I'd anticipated today. Diefenbaker's made himself quite sick; apparently, Turnbull left a tray of apple danishes unguarded."

Or at least, that's what Ray thinks he says. Truth is, everything that came after that sigh could have been in Chinese or Inuit or something; Ray sort of lost track of things on account of his dick is so hard he can barely breathe. And oh, his head is going places with that sigh, it's shoving these pictures in front of his face, like BAM, there's Fraser gasping lamplit and naked, and Ray has him, has him open, and oh Christ what he's thinking of doing with his tongue. And then WHAM, Fraser's lips wet with Ray's spit and BAM, Fraser's teeth on Ray's neck and it's like Ray's brain is a TV preacher, only not pushing fire and brimstone, but instead this hot queer porn.

And Fraser has stopped talking. Ray pushes the pads of his fingers into his eyelids and tries to remember English. "Yeah, whatever," he gasps finally, "Sure." And then he hangs up the phone and shoves his hand under the sheets and JE-esus, it's over, that's all she wrote.

So. No more evidence. Ray's figuring in this particular case, he might as well just fuck detecting: even a goddamn sea monkey could line up a conviction here. All but wrapped up and ready to get filed. There's just one thing left to prove.

And so he's pacing, right, and the game is on but he's not even watching it--except when some jackass misses a sweet shot which no way should be missed by anybody but a six-year-old girl!--but mostly he can't even watch it, and Fraser'll be here any minute. And Ray knows that one way or the other, this thing is getting solved tonight. He already has his perp dead to rights. Now he just needs to know if there's an accomplice.