Badfic challenge by kinetikatrue
Apr. 18th, 2006 03:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kinetikatrue posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionTitle: Dressed to Kill or Something
Prompt: Ray Vecchio was the best -- and most exclusive -- designer in Chicago until Metcalf, Inc. opened up their offices on Magnificant Mile. Now Ray's best clients are disappearing! And the police think he's responsible! And what does the Mountie have to do with it? And who is that fabulous blond detective at his side...? Vecchio/Victoria Metcalf, Vecchio/Bennie Fraser, Vecchio/Frank Zuko, Vecchio/Stan Kowalski, NC-17.
(I've never seen any of the episodes but I love all your stories!! I read "Chicago's Most Wanted" and just knew I had to write in this fandom! Apologies in advance for the run-on sentences and the changing POV! If I get enough feedback, I might do the sequel (Vecchio/Gardino!!1!!!).)
Prompt Written By:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aerye
Rating: R, for language and stuff
Disclaimer: Don’t own. Don’t sue, yo.
A/N: Not as long or as cracktastic as I was hoping for. Might write more of it late, though, 'cos it totally has a plot and I'm just braindead and having connection problems and therefore running late.
The only thing I can say for sure is that I never expected to wake up in bed one day with both my partner and one of the hottest fashion designers in Chicago, but maybe I shoulda, y’know? I mean, life’s like that around Frase. Nothing ever, and boy I do mean ever, goes quite the way you’da expected it to, if you’d ever thought to expect things like performance arsonists and deaf half-wolves and a partner with a fucking pathological need to do the right thing. Or maybe not, ‘cos, really? Frase just attracts weird. He’s like a weird-magnet. You just let him loose on the unsuspecting streets of Chicago and the weird comes zooming right to him, like he sent it an engraved invitation or something. And it’s not as though you could possibly predict every kind of weird out there. I mean, I’ve tried, and I can’t even predict whether the weird is going to zig next or zag once we’ve gotten acquainted.
So, anyway, like I said, there I was, waking up in bed next to my partner. Which, y’know, woulda been a fucking dream come true under other circumstances, but not so much with a phone ringing off the hook practically in my ear and, and this I only notice after a moment, a second guy laying there on Fraser’s other side, one Raimondo Vecchio, who, let me tell ya, used to be the hottest thing in Chicago in the way of fashion to not get spawned by a Gold Coast kid. And, y’know, sure, him I wouldn’ta kicked outta bed for eating crackers either, but that’s not ‘cos he’s really my type, it’d just be hypothetical, is all. I mean, sure, if there are crumbs in my bed most days, they’re gonna be pizza, but, hell, I like a Sunday afternoon in bed with a box of Triscuits and a stack of comic books as much as the next guy, so who am I to tell him he’s not allowed? Specially if he’s ok with sharing.
So, ok, ok. There we were, the three of us, one Mountie, one CPD detective, and one disgustingly famous fashion designer accused of murder – maybe – or conspiracy or kidnapping or whatever other kind of bullshit the higher-ups could come up with to throw at him and maybe make stick. We were lying there in a fucking humongous hotel bed complete with, like, a mountain of pillows and just, y’know, acres and acres of paisley polyester bedspread, no idea how the fuck we got there, and the phone was ringing itself right to a heart attack and Fraser was leaning across me to try and answer it, ‘cos that’s what good little Mounties do, I guess – answer phones all freaking day when their bosses get ticked at them for being too polite or something, so it’s like, like a bell ringing for them, they just gotta do it, answer that phone before whoever’s calling gets pissed at them and decides to hang up and call back and ask for their superior, who’ll be even more ticked at them ‘cos now they were rude when they shoulda been polite – and they just can’t win. Or maybe it was just that the phone was annoying and shrill and Fraser was just too polite to do what most people woulda done and torn the phone outta the wall and thrown it across the room. Or maybe that’s just what I woulda done.
Anyway, Fraser was leaning across me answering the phone and I was lying there feeling fuzzy in the head and kinda enjoying the feeling of having Fraser-skin rubbing against my side a bit and the view I was getting of his nice, very, very nice biceps and broad, broad shoulders and not really thinking about anything at all except how I wouldn’t mind getting to do this on a regular basis, maybe, skipping the fucking annoying ringing phone, of course, when I got completely smacked upside the head by a whole shitload of thoughts I coulda stood to live without: I was naked; Fraser was naked; we were sharing a bed; I, for one, had no idea how I’d gotten there; or why we were sharing it with Vecchio; who also seemed to be naked, based on my one quick sneak peek; and he seemed kinda slow waking up; someone else did know we were here, if I was reading Fraser’s end of the phone-call right; and they weren’t exactly what you’d call friendly, ditto; probably they’d arranged this whole crazy three-naked-men-in-a-bed set-up to throw us off our game, take us out of commission; but for whatever reason they’d left me my glasses.
And I probably woulda started freaking out a bit, myself, if Frase hadn’t hung up the phone just then and rubbed up against me some more as he started to lean back and frozen as the whole fucking series – from the naked to the crazy – clobbered him, too. But with Frase spooked I didn’t need to freak, needed to not freak, even, ‘cos ya gotta be there for your partner, y’know? And Frase was definitely already my partner in all the ways that counted, even if those weren’t all I wanted. So I started talking to him, telling him it was alright, that we’d figure things out and get whoever’d done this and all those other things you say when you wish you could make it all better right now but you know you can’t. And when he’d gotten enough of the extra, extra steel out of his backbone that I thought it would be ok, I put a hand on his shoulder and got him turned around enough that he could see Vecchio, who looked like he woulda really, really liked to start making a fuss about the whole thing, but didn’t even get a chance to start something, ‘cos Frase cut in with a whole bunch of Fraser-babble just then, which left Vecchio looking kinda glazed by the end of it. Anyway, the long and the short of it was that yeah, the guy on the phone was responsible for the mess we were currently in, and, yeah, it was supposed to be a one-two, practical-psychological punch, and, no, we weren’t going to find our clothes or weapons or anything else useful nearby, but, yeah, Frase had some idea about where we needed to haul our asses to stop this situation from getting even more out of hand than it was already.
We didn’t even need to discuss it. I just rolled outta bed one way, taking the godawful paisley bedspread with me, and Vecchio rolled the other with the orange velour blanket, leaving Frase sitting up in bed covered in just a sheet. Of course, Vecchio, being a fashion designer and all, got down to business right away and turned the ugly-ass blanket into a fucking designer toga, complete with a band of fake satin trim at the bottom. And Frase folded the sheet he was huddled under a million different ways from Sunday and got himself done up in a kilt so fucking perfectly pleated you’da sworn it was actually plaid if you just looked at it right. Which left me, wrapped up in ‘70s-reject avocado-and-orange paisley, trying to figure out how to turn a king-size bedspread into something I could wear that wasn’t a caftan. Which was when Vecchio pulled out his magical mystery sewing kit and set to work – making a cut here and sewing these other two pieces together there and just generally snipping and stitching merrily away, bitching under his breath about the conditions he had to work under, yadda, yadda, until presto chango! I was standing there in this belted-robe-thing with fucking ridiculously wide sleeves and Frase, who seemed to have vanished while Vecchio was doing his thing, was offering me a pair of boxers made from a pillowcase. Which I accepted, thank-you-kindly, ‘cos going commando’s one thing when you got a nice pair of jeans to keep everything contained, but it’s a whole ‘nother ballgame in a dress, let me tell you! Which seemed to be something Frase and Vecchio could get behind, too, ‘cos all the pillows had lost their cases and they sure hadn’t all gone into the vest-thing Frase had paired with his kilt.
So Frase made the tokenest of token protests about the illegality of making off with hotel property – which just goes to show you that modesty’ll trump morals any way, any time – and we headed out, trying to manage either inconspicuous or intentional, but mostly looking like we’d gotten into a fight with a white sale and lost. Well, except for Frase, who could probably wear just about anything and make it look like he was standing at attention in his uniform and definitely made wearing a kilt qualify as indecently hot. Anyway, we snuck down hallways and around corners and barely avoided a couple of run-ins with maids and bell-boys and the like. Frase lead the way and Vecchio skulked along behind him, pouting and looking like he’d jump at the flimsiest of excuses to blow off some steam, and I brought up the rear, of course, ‘cos even if Frase and Vecchio had had to take care of the clothing end of things for me, I could sure as hell make sure we had our asses covered on the way to the meet-up.
***
Dief knew he’d smelt that smell before. He was sure of it. He couldn't quite remember where, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to be a small children smell. That didn’t stop the girl who wanted to pet him from smelling of it, though, so he cocked his head to one side and gave her a good, long look and an equally thorough sniff.
He was as confused afterwards as he had been when he began, however, so he submitted to petting and decided to follow her and try to track the smell that way. And, even if that failed, get a share in the pretzel the vendor has just handed to her. That, he was sure he could do.
Prompt: Ray Vecchio was the best -- and most exclusive -- designer in Chicago until Metcalf, Inc. opened up their offices on Magnificant Mile. Now Ray's best clients are disappearing! And the police think he's responsible! And what does the Mountie have to do with it? And who is that fabulous blond detective at his side...? Vecchio/Victoria Metcalf, Vecchio/Bennie Fraser, Vecchio/Frank Zuko, Vecchio/Stan Kowalski, NC-17.
(I've never seen any of the episodes but I love all your stories!! I read "Chicago's Most Wanted" and just knew I had to write in this fandom! Apologies in advance for the run-on sentences and the changing POV! If I get enough feedback, I might do the sequel (Vecchio/Gardino!!1!!!).)
Prompt Written By:
aeryeRating: R, for language and stuff
Disclaimer: Don’t own. Don’t sue, yo.
A/N: Not as long or as cracktastic as I was hoping for. Might write more of it late, though, 'cos it totally has a plot and I'm just braindead and having connection problems and therefore running late.
The only thing I can say for sure is that I never expected to wake up in bed one day with both my partner and one of the hottest fashion designers in Chicago, but maybe I shoulda, y’know? I mean, life’s like that around Frase. Nothing ever, and boy I do mean ever, goes quite the way you’da expected it to, if you’d ever thought to expect things like performance arsonists and deaf half-wolves and a partner with a fucking pathological need to do the right thing. Or maybe not, ‘cos, really? Frase just attracts weird. He’s like a weird-magnet. You just let him loose on the unsuspecting streets of Chicago and the weird comes zooming right to him, like he sent it an engraved invitation or something. And it’s not as though you could possibly predict every kind of weird out there. I mean, I’ve tried, and I can’t even predict whether the weird is going to zig next or zag once we’ve gotten acquainted.
So, anyway, like I said, there I was, waking up in bed next to my partner. Which, y’know, woulda been a fucking dream come true under other circumstances, but not so much with a phone ringing off the hook practically in my ear and, and this I only notice after a moment, a second guy laying there on Fraser’s other side, one Raimondo Vecchio, who, let me tell ya, used to be the hottest thing in Chicago in the way of fashion to not get spawned by a Gold Coast kid. And, y’know, sure, him I wouldn’ta kicked outta bed for eating crackers either, but that’s not ‘cos he’s really my type, it’d just be hypothetical, is all. I mean, sure, if there are crumbs in my bed most days, they’re gonna be pizza, but, hell, I like a Sunday afternoon in bed with a box of Triscuits and a stack of comic books as much as the next guy, so who am I to tell him he’s not allowed? Specially if he’s ok with sharing.
So, ok, ok. There we were, the three of us, one Mountie, one CPD detective, and one disgustingly famous fashion designer accused of murder – maybe – or conspiracy or kidnapping or whatever other kind of bullshit the higher-ups could come up with to throw at him and maybe make stick. We were lying there in a fucking humongous hotel bed complete with, like, a mountain of pillows and just, y’know, acres and acres of paisley polyester bedspread, no idea how the fuck we got there, and the phone was ringing itself right to a heart attack and Fraser was leaning across me to try and answer it, ‘cos that’s what good little Mounties do, I guess – answer phones all freaking day when their bosses get ticked at them for being too polite or something, so it’s like, like a bell ringing for them, they just gotta do it, answer that phone before whoever’s calling gets pissed at them and decides to hang up and call back and ask for their superior, who’ll be even more ticked at them ‘cos now they were rude when they shoulda been polite – and they just can’t win. Or maybe it was just that the phone was annoying and shrill and Fraser was just too polite to do what most people woulda done and torn the phone outta the wall and thrown it across the room. Or maybe that’s just what I woulda done.
Anyway, Fraser was leaning across me answering the phone and I was lying there feeling fuzzy in the head and kinda enjoying the feeling of having Fraser-skin rubbing against my side a bit and the view I was getting of his nice, very, very nice biceps and broad, broad shoulders and not really thinking about anything at all except how I wouldn’t mind getting to do this on a regular basis, maybe, skipping the fucking annoying ringing phone, of course, when I got completely smacked upside the head by a whole shitload of thoughts I coulda stood to live without: I was naked; Fraser was naked; we were sharing a bed; I, for one, had no idea how I’d gotten there; or why we were sharing it with Vecchio; who also seemed to be naked, based on my one quick sneak peek; and he seemed kinda slow waking up; someone else did know we were here, if I was reading Fraser’s end of the phone-call right; and they weren’t exactly what you’d call friendly, ditto; probably they’d arranged this whole crazy three-naked-men-in-a-bed set-up to throw us off our game, take us out of commission; but for whatever reason they’d left me my glasses.
And I probably woulda started freaking out a bit, myself, if Frase hadn’t hung up the phone just then and rubbed up against me some more as he started to lean back and frozen as the whole fucking series – from the naked to the crazy – clobbered him, too. But with Frase spooked I didn’t need to freak, needed to not freak, even, ‘cos ya gotta be there for your partner, y’know? And Frase was definitely already my partner in all the ways that counted, even if those weren’t all I wanted. So I started talking to him, telling him it was alright, that we’d figure things out and get whoever’d done this and all those other things you say when you wish you could make it all better right now but you know you can’t. And when he’d gotten enough of the extra, extra steel out of his backbone that I thought it would be ok, I put a hand on his shoulder and got him turned around enough that he could see Vecchio, who looked like he woulda really, really liked to start making a fuss about the whole thing, but didn’t even get a chance to start something, ‘cos Frase cut in with a whole bunch of Fraser-babble just then, which left Vecchio looking kinda glazed by the end of it. Anyway, the long and the short of it was that yeah, the guy on the phone was responsible for the mess we were currently in, and, yeah, it was supposed to be a one-two, practical-psychological punch, and, no, we weren’t going to find our clothes or weapons or anything else useful nearby, but, yeah, Frase had some idea about where we needed to haul our asses to stop this situation from getting even more out of hand than it was already.
We didn’t even need to discuss it. I just rolled outta bed one way, taking the godawful paisley bedspread with me, and Vecchio rolled the other with the orange velour blanket, leaving Frase sitting up in bed covered in just a sheet. Of course, Vecchio, being a fashion designer and all, got down to business right away and turned the ugly-ass blanket into a fucking designer toga, complete with a band of fake satin trim at the bottom. And Frase folded the sheet he was huddled under a million different ways from Sunday and got himself done up in a kilt so fucking perfectly pleated you’da sworn it was actually plaid if you just looked at it right. Which left me, wrapped up in ‘70s-reject avocado-and-orange paisley, trying to figure out how to turn a king-size bedspread into something I could wear that wasn’t a caftan. Which was when Vecchio pulled out his magical mystery sewing kit and set to work – making a cut here and sewing these other two pieces together there and just generally snipping and stitching merrily away, bitching under his breath about the conditions he had to work under, yadda, yadda, until presto chango! I was standing there in this belted-robe-thing with fucking ridiculously wide sleeves and Frase, who seemed to have vanished while Vecchio was doing his thing, was offering me a pair of boxers made from a pillowcase. Which I accepted, thank-you-kindly, ‘cos going commando’s one thing when you got a nice pair of jeans to keep everything contained, but it’s a whole ‘nother ballgame in a dress, let me tell you! Which seemed to be something Frase and Vecchio could get behind, too, ‘cos all the pillows had lost their cases and they sure hadn’t all gone into the vest-thing Frase had paired with his kilt.
So Frase made the tokenest of token protests about the illegality of making off with hotel property – which just goes to show you that modesty’ll trump morals any way, any time – and we headed out, trying to manage either inconspicuous or intentional, but mostly looking like we’d gotten into a fight with a white sale and lost. Well, except for Frase, who could probably wear just about anything and make it look like he was standing at attention in his uniform and definitely made wearing a kilt qualify as indecently hot. Anyway, we snuck down hallways and around corners and barely avoided a couple of run-ins with maids and bell-boys and the like. Frase lead the way and Vecchio skulked along behind him, pouting and looking like he’d jump at the flimsiest of excuses to blow off some steam, and I brought up the rear, of course, ‘cos even if Frase and Vecchio had had to take care of the clothing end of things for me, I could sure as hell make sure we had our asses covered on the way to the meet-up.
Dief knew he’d smelt that smell before. He was sure of it. He couldn't quite remember where, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to be a small children smell. That didn’t stop the girl who wanted to pet him from smelling of it, though, so he cocked his head to one side and gave her a good, long look and an equally thorough sniff.
He was as confused afterwards as he had been when he began, however, so he submitted to petting and decided to follow her and try to track the smell that way. And, even if that failed, get a share in the pretzel the vendor has just handed to her. That, he was sure he could do.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-04-18 10:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-19 12:43 am (UTC)(Also, y'know, thanks and all. I'd call this parodic RayK voice, personally, but it was definitely fun to write.)
no subject
Date: 2006-04-18 11:11 am (UTC)*DIES!*
This rocks! I love that it takes FOUR PARAGRAPHS for Fraser to answer the goddamned phone, and an equal length of time for him to notice that they're OMG naked! *hearts like crazy*
no subject
Date: 2006-04-19 12:36 am (UTC)But, y'know, it's totally all on Ray, 'cos he just kept going off on these hyper little ranty tangents and refusing to just shut up and move things along. Not that I'm complaining, mind, but I didn't quite set out to write it that way . . .
Also, thanks for the feedback. 8)
no subject
Date: 2006-04-18 11:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-18 02:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-18 01:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-18 02:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-18 11:54 pm (UTC)Well done!
no subject
Date: 2006-04-19 12:39 am (UTC)*takes a bow*
I feel dumb asking this, but - what, pray tell, is Movement badfic? I am much confuzzled.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-19 11:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-20 12:45 am (UTC)Anyway, glad that my badfic could bring you joy in any form, particularly since I was your promptee. 8)
no subject
Date: 2006-04-20 06:26 am (UTC)I mean, sure, if there are crumbs in my bed most days, they’re gonna be pizza, but, hell, I like a Sunday afternoon in bed with a box of Triscuits and a stack of comic books as much as the next guy, so who am I to tell him he’s not allowed? Specially if he’s ok with sharing.
Hee!
But the best moment? Vecchio-the-fashion-designer with his emergency alterations kit, turning the ugly bedclothes into fashion. ROFL! Wish you would write more! Love Ray's voice!
no subject
Date: 2006-04-21 04:38 am (UTC)Also, there may well be more of this to come, if the fact that I'm creating illustrations for scenes I haven't written yet(like this) means anything. We'll see.
no subject
Date: 2021-03-23 01:19 am (UTC)ETA: Alas, when I click on the link that goes to your scene-illustration I get an "access denied" message.