ds_flashfiction | Songfic challenge: Fractured, by pocketmouse

Title: Fractured
Song: Save Yourself, by Stabbing Westward
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
Rating: NC-17, for improper use of stationery.
Summary: Ray needs a little alone-time after a bust.

Wow, this challenge was harder than I thought. It helped when I realized that most background-music songs due South uses more fit the mood than the words, so I used that as a starting point.

There are two problems with trying to make a bust in the middle of a rave, Ray thinks as he fights his way through the crowd. The first is the sheer number of people, obviously. The second is the fact that there is no way in hell to get ready for it. Ray blends in well enough -- just add a little more blond to his hair, and some mascara and glitter, if he can get his hands on it. But Fraser is another problem. Fraser may be bent in some freaky ways, but even if you sat him down for a six-week course on underground culture, he still wouldn’t be able to get into the groove. So Ray had given up and gotten Fraser a slot as a bouncer -- tight black clothes, a studded collar, some face paint, and an admonition to for fuck’s sake not say anything, just stand there and glower -- and it had worked well enough once they’d gotten Fraser inside and away from all the teens with fake IDs.

Another dancer slides into his way as the music picks up, and the flashing of the strobe lights is another distraction he doesn’t need -- the air is filled with metallic confetti from the glitter cannons and smoke from the fog machines and the various substances being smoked by the people in the club. It makes the air thick, but the pot smell covers up most of the sweat and perfume smells coming from the crowd around him. This place seemed so much smaller when he was looking at the blueprints this afternoon, but now that he’s here -- along with a hundred other people -- it feels like it’s taking him hours to cross the room. He can’t even tell if Fraser is in the crowd with him, or somewhere on the catwalks above, or if the Mountie didn’t notice anything in all the confusion.

His eardrums are blasted by the speaker he has to leap over and suddenly he’s free, out of the crush of dancers. But that jackoff Whiting is getting away from him, heading toward the sliding door in the middle of the row of plate glass windows at the end of the room. Ray scrambles to catch up, vaulting over the low fence that divides the dance floor from the tables and booths, but he knows he isn’t going to catch up.

Suddenly, just as Whiting is reaching the last row of tables between him and freedom, Fraser appears out of fucking nowhere -- the catwalks overhead, probably, some tired part of his brain supplies -- and tackles the drug dealer, sending the two of them rolling right towards the fucking wall of glass. Ray is scrambling to reach them while all his stupid fucked-up brain can think of is those silhouettes they put on the windows of high-rises so the birds won’t fly into them.

They stop without hitting the wall, though, Fraser fetching up on top of Whiting, one knee in the middle of his back, both arms wrenched up, elbows bent into a lock. Ray skids to a stop next to them, and Fraser looks up at him, chest heaving, wearing that wicked grin that usually follows doing something shit-stupid and wildly dangerous, and licks his lips.

Ray’s hands shake as he cuffs Whiting, and he pulls the crook up fast to prevent Fraser from seeing that he is hard.

-----

The trip back to the station for processing is enough to pull Ray back from the edge -- just a little -- but as it is he drops Fraser off at the Consulate without a word, not even a reminder to give him back his stuff. Hell, some tiny, familiar part of his mind whispers, Fraser can keep the collar, if he’ll wear it again. Ray squelches that thought -- and the images that come with it -- quickly, before he’s unable to drive.

He’s shedding clothes the second he’s in the door, barely taking the time to turn the lock behind him. He kicks his boots off and looks at the small, sad pile of clothing: it’s too dull. He kicks the pile with one foot, hating the color red and stalking into the bedroom.

He throws himself down onto the bed, one hand already in his boxers. He toys with the idea of doing it the long way, building the whole fantasy, but he’s too hard for that, too on-edge, and he yanks them off. He strokes himself roughly, bringing himself off to thoughts of Fraser, Fraser in that collar and nothing else. Sweaty and rumpled and kneeling in front of him, and that tongue ready for him, on him, god -- And that’s it. That’s all it takes before he’s coming, his cock spurting into his hand and his hips jerking up into his fist.

Ray just lies there for a minute, letting his breathing even out and his heart stop racing. But he’s still hard, his head is still full of images of Fraser. Only now it’s not just Fraser from tonight, wearing that collar he bought almost a year ago on a whim. It’s Fraser of this afternoon, stopping to lick a stray drop of sauce off the back of his hand at lunch; it’s Fraser of last week, sprawled on his couch watching hockey, one foot on the floor and the other spread up on the coffee table, his hand dangling inches from the fly of his jeans.

Ray is lost in the images now, little things, so innocuous, and he feels dirty for taking these images and using them like this, but that just makes it feel so much better. He takes it a little slower, now, using his cum to slide two fingers into himself, rocking back and forth and plunging his fingers deeper and deeper -- shit. His brain’s going into the really heady stuff now, images of Fraser leaning over him, shoving his cock into him -- fuck, biting him -- and he lets out a moan, adding a third finger.

He wants this time to last, but he’s still keyed up, there’s no way he’s gonna make it now, so he goes all out, jerking his dick with his other hand, and the image that flashes in his head as he comes a second time is Fraser licking envelopes that one time Ray was early and Fraser hadn’t finished with his work at the Consulate yet.

His mind is a fuzzy blank at last, and Ray’s not going to ruin that by getting up and taking a shower, so he just wipes himself off with his boxers, which somehow hadn’t managed to find their way to the floor, so he tosses them there himself and rolls over, punching the pillow.

If he does it right, sometimes when he gets up in the morning, it looks like there was somebody there with him.

Current Mood: restless
Current Music: Save Yourself -- Stabbing Westward

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

shrewreader.livejournal.com

Okay, I gotta say I'm really just -dead- from how hot this is. And I hope -- REALLY hope -- that the lack of commentage (due, I expect, to the deadline recently passed in Another Place), disappears.

This is HOT and ROCKS, and OMFG, I want MORE.

And a few out-takes. "I'm very sorry, miss, but there is no way that this is your age. For one thing, you lack the proper number of teeth or surgical scars to indicate the removal of molars to be the listed age, and for another, you would be on social security. This is the way out..."

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Songfic challenge: Fractured, by pocketmouse

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