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ds_flashfictionTitle: Button Flies
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chickwriter, sihayab and Penelope Whistle
Pairing: Fraser/RayK
Rating: Rish
Word Count: ~3700 words.
Notes: This started as a writing exercise during a weekend outing. It ended with me (chickwriter) taking the fabulous ideas the other 2 came up with and creating the narrative. Betaed by the best (my co-conspirators). All remaining mistakes are mine. Enjoy!
Button Flies
Bychickwriter, sihayab and Penelope Whistle
[because we had to]
The deceptively sturdy wooden door gives way under Fraser's determined push. Caution foremost, he slips through the opening, prepared for anything he'll find.
Well, almost.
In the dead center of the shed, dim illumination from the overhead skylight the only source of light in the room. It highlights its subject like a modern-day David on his plinth. Except this David has spiky blond hair, is fully dressed, and reclines in some sort of barber chair, hands bound behind the chair back, ankles strapped to the metal rails that support the foot rest.
As Fraser steps forward, his boot slips a little. A faint scent of old motor oil identifies the place as having once been used as a facility to house a motor vehicle. It doesn't seem to be used as such at present, as there are no requisite tools, nor other equipment signifying such. Nor are there any other humans present, a fact which he'd immediately ascertained upon entering. No broken down machinery, no engine parts or other normal garage detritus clutters the nearly pristine room. Instead, lining three of the four walls were row upon row of what seem to be--
Diefenbaker nudges him from behind, a low pitched whine his only comment.
"No, Diefenbaker, those are not decapitated human heads. I believe, although I may be mistaken, that they are, indeed a type of model, a mannequin head used for those individuals desiring to learn barbering…or in this case, perhaps the term 'stylist'—"
Another whine and a nudge interrupts.
"Well, yes, you do scent human hair, but I believe that oftentimes real human hair is—"
The wolf gives a sharp bark, then turns, leaving the shed to its human inhabitants.
"Gmnhnfgh! Gmngnmgng!"
Fraser whips his head around. "My god, Ray, I'm so sorry. I expect that you wish to be set free. I'm sure that your position is somewhat less than comfortable. In any case, releasing you should just be a matter of untying your bonds, and we should have you out of here quick as a wink."
He steps forward, intending to reassure his partner with a pat on the shoulder, but before he can say a word, the cloud cover breaks and Fraser freezes.
In the space of an impatient breath, Ray and the chair are limned with a shaft of light. Light blond streaks shine amongst the darker wheat color as the sunlight glints off Ray's hair. A flash of pearlescence catches Fraser's eye, three dots to the left of Ray, set on the top of a small decoupaged table against the side wall. Three dots that match the dots studded vertically on Ray's blue dress shirt. Why on earth is Ray's shirt missing three buttons and why are they on the little table?
The shaft of sunlight travels southward, across the dull metal belt buckle, dancing across the brass buttons of…
"Oh, dear."
Ray shakes his head back and forth, eyes wide and pleading. "Gmng Gmgng!" His chin juts forward, eyes flash down and back again, meeting Fraser's stunned gaze, immediately growing wider as Fraser stares at his still-bound partner.
The room grows dim as the sun scuds back behind the clouds, as if it were embarrassed by what it sees. Is that...No, it can't be. There is no possible way. It must be a trick of the light. An errant fold of cloth. Fraser's own wayward imagination. There is absolutely no way that Ray Kowalski has an erection.
"Whatcha got, Fraser?" Huey's voice is faint across the distance of the cluttered back yard, the chatter of the other detectives in the background. In the main house, they are no doubt questioning the suspect at this very moment: Sherman, a.k.a. "Buzz", Hermann, sometime stalker and recent captor of one Stanley Raymond Kowalski Vecchio.
Fraser answers Huey, never losing eye contact with Ray. "I've found him, Detective. He's fine."
With that, he steps forward, pulls out his hunting knife and slices off the cloth wrapped around Ray's mouth. The fabric is familiar; it appears to be Ray's best going-to-court tie, the dark blue one that is always so fetching with the slightly lighter blue shirt. The same shirt that is now missing three pearly buttons…the two on the collar points and the one at Ray's throat, the cloth now open in a V shape, framing the skin below. Fraser drags his gaze away from that enticing bit of skin. Ray needs him to pay attention. After all, his partner had been kidnapped by a desperate man, tied up and gagged in a barber chair for some hours, not trussed up on display for Fraser's own pleasure. No matter how much Fraser wishes that were the case.
"Fine? Fine? Whaddya mean 'fine', Fraser? This is the last good shirt I have, damn it. That scumbag cut off the buttons. Ruined it." Ray's indignation seems at odds with his expression, which can best be described as distracted.
Ray's gaze cuts over to the table, which contains several rows of buttons, of all shapes and sizes, arranged with precision by size, color and type. Underneath the final row, a small nail scissors is placed directly parallel to the center of the display. Fraser has to admire Mr. Hermann for his neatness, despite what seems to be some odd fixation on both Fraser's partner and clothing fasteners.
"I wouldn't say 'ruined' exactly, Ray," Fraser says, stepping forward. "We can easily sew the buttons back on."
"With that?"
"With what, Ray?"
Ray jerks his chin in the direction of the knife in Fraser's right hand.
"That don't look like a sewing kit to me."
"Oh no. I was going to use the knife to release you from your bonds. You see, the light in here, although perfectly adequate for normal activities, is a bit less than would be desirable for close work, such as untying the knots in what looks to be…" Fraser gives in to an impulse, leans forward, braces his left hand on the back of the barber chair, and peers over Ray's shoulder. "It appears that Mr. Hermann has tied your hands with some sortunusual rope. I'm afraid I don't recognize it. There's a label or something dangling from it."
"Sears, Fraser." Ray sounds impatient now. "I saw it when he tied me up."
"Ah." Fraser steps back when he realizes how close he is to Ray, takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the fact that instead of removing the memory of his partner's, well, indisposition, his close proximity to said partner has only increased his awareness of Ray's vulnerable state...and dare he even think it? Despite changes of subject and attempts to put himself back on an even keel, the only thing he can think of right now is that Ray Kowalski is tied up in a chair, knees spread in a posture that can be described as both inconvenient and yet, enticing.
"Ah, what?" Ray's eyes narrow as he studies Fraser.
"Sears, Ray. I assume by that you mean that the label affixed to the rope binding your wrists is marked 'Sears', by which you mean to suggest that the cords are some sort of readymade notion sold by a popular retail chain, perhaps used for tying back draperies."
"Notion, Fraser, I got a notion—untie me already, you freak." Ray wiggles in the chair, his impatience back and evident by his energetic movement. "I was almost loose, almost was able to get outta here, but I couldn't quite get that last bit."
"Understood, Ray."
Light flares on the blade of Fraser's knife as the sun breaks through again, illuminating them both. Ray freezes in the midst of a particularly vigorous wiggle.
The buttons of Ray's somewhat anachronistic jeans strain against the fabric, the worn texture clearly outlining what can only be an erection. This time, there's absolutely no doubt and Fraser catches himself sniffing, straining to catch Ray's scent, wanting to immerse himself in the knowing, if only for a moment, what his partner is like when aroused.
Once again, Ray looks down his own body, then up at Fraser, his expression flashing from pleading for release, to pleading for a different kind of release, then just as quickly back to anger.
"I didn't get off on being tied up by that freak, Fraser." Ray's words tumble out in a rush, quick to fill the silence, as his gaze flickers to the right, to the neat rows of buttons lining the tabletop.
Fraser follows Ray's gaze, sees the buttons, glances at the knife, then at Ray. Could he possibly mean... Fraser's tongue slides out, wetting his bottom lip.
It's quiet out here, in the shed at the far end of the large yard. They're at least eighty feet from the other police officers, at least eighty feet from discovery. He does a quick calculation. They'd apprehended the suspect twenty minutes ago; it will be another twenty or so before anyone starts looking for them.
"Understood, Ray." A grin begins to spread on his face.
Fraser steps closer. This time, he moves not to the side of the chair, but to its centre, directly between Ray's spread knees. Ray's feet are tucked behind the bars of the footrest, ankles bound at each side, allowing for comfort, not strain, and at the same time, allowing Fraser to stand so close that he can once again scent Ray's arousal.
"According to Detective Dewey, Mr. Sherman Hermann was a bit of a collector, Ray." Fraser says as he inches even closer, his knees now touching the edge of the leatherette seat.
"Buzz." Ray's voice is a whisper.
Fraser leans toward Ray, left hand braced against the back of the chair, the right flat on top of the knife handle, trapping the handle on the left armrest. Fraser's mouth brushes Ray's left ear as he whispers back, a strange kind of courage overtaking his normal reticence.
"Did you call him that? Did you call him by his nickname?"
Fraser feels Ray's body give a quick twitch, hears his slight gasp and then a quiet breath which becomes words.
"I figured it was only polite, Fraser," he says softly. "Calling a person by the name they like and all. After all, it only takes an extra second, doesn't it?"
"That it does, Ray, That it does." Fraser takes a deep breath, savoring the heady scent of Ray's warm skin. "Do you like 'polite'?"
"Sometimes," Ray answers. "Polite," he then repeats, lucent grey-blue eyes never once leaving Fraser's own steady gaze.
"But it isn't polite to remove a person's buttons from his clothing, Ray. Wouldn't you agree?"
Ray nods, still watching Fraser.
"I believe that this leaves us with only two options then, Ray." Fraser inches a fraction closer, leaning his knee on the seat of the chair, just a hair's breadth from Ray's groin. He believes can feel the heat on his own skin, despite the layers of cloth. He doesn't care.
Ray's gaze travels down to Fraser's knee, up his body and lands squarely back on Fraser's eyes, locked and loaded with something that Fraser can only hope is challenge. Ray clears his throat and holds his gaze steady as he speaks.
"I don't see any needle and thread laying around."
"Nor do I, Ray." Fraser neglects to mention the handy sewing kit tucked inside his belt pouch. After all, he doesn't see it, does he?
With a swift motion, he raises his right hand, flicks his wrist and smiles as a pearl-sheened button flies off into the dark recesses of the shed. A quick breath and the sudden touch of Ray's groin to Fraser's knee means he's made the right choice. His smile slides into a grin as the last bit of doubt disappears.
Flick, flick, flick, flick and flick. Five more buttons roll into dark corners and Ray's shirt slides open baring a rapidly heaving chest.
"Jesus, Fraser!" Ray hisses as Fraser slides his thumb down the newly exposed skin to the belt buckle, careful to keep the blade of the knife turned away from Ray. "That sure as hell ain't polite."
Fraser pauses there, searching Ray's face…for what, he isn't sure. Permission, he's pretty sure he has, despite Ray's outburst. Participation, the same. Perhaps he's looking for a sort of benediction, a knowing that his partner wants this with the same intensity he himself does…with the longing of a dozen dozen nights of stakeouts, of platonic dinners, hockey games and whatever other pathetic reasons he'd had for remaining with his partner instead of returning to his cold cot at the Consulate.
"Why're you stopping?" Ray's whisper is urgent, demanding. "Damn it, Fraser, don't stop now. Polite ain't right, polite ain't buddies."
Fraser obeys, as he's wont to do with Ray. Obeys because he must, thumb once again picking up the movement he'd begun, now tracing the lines of the belt buckle, now following the engraved image, flames behind the familiar Harley Davidson logo. He remembers when Ray bought this, one sunny Chicago summer day when the two of them had been walking back to the precinct from a late lunch.
"It's an icon, Frase," Ray had said. "An American icon."
And with that, Ray had pounced on another buckle in the tray, this one with a bas-relief maple leaf. "Here, this one's for you." And before Fraser could protest, Ray had paid for both buckles and walked away. They'd spent the rest of the day working on a case, then had dinner at a local diner they both liked and followed it up with watching the baseball game at Ray's apartment. Sometime near the end of the fourth inning, Fraser had begun to wonder. Was he imagining the fact that Ray had seemed to be flirting with him all that day? Too many brushes of a hand as they walked nearly thigh-to-thigh, sitting just that much closer on the couch during the broadcast of the baseball game. Ray had even had a selection of Fraser's favorite teas ready to brew.
Ray chuckles in Fraser's ear, his voice low, nearly a growl. "You're remembering that day, aren'tcha, Frase? When I got this buckle?"
"Yes," Fraser hisses the word, thumb now tracing the letters, his knuckles ever so lightly brushing the fabric of Ray's jeans, just to the right of his erection, careful to keep the knife blade turned away from Ray. The steel flashes in the sun, as Fraser's hand moves ever so slightly.
"I was wondering if you'd ever get the hint," Ray continues, arching his back a little, hips straining, unable to move further with his hands still bound behind him.
"Hint, Ray?"
"I want you, you freak."
With that explicit statement, Fraser bends quickly to set the knife down on the floor, then returns to lick a long line from the belt buckle to Ray's neck, stopping only to nibble lightly before moving to the collarbone. Ray arches again, stopped only by his bonds, a hiss escaping his clenched teeth. "Yesssss," he says, "yes, Fraser, please."
Lost in the taste of Ray's skin, salt smooth heat combining with an undefinable sweetness assaults Fraser's senses. He doesn't know how long he stays there, cataloguing taste, memorizing the feel, losing himself in the thing he's wantedmost above all and for so long.
Ray's body strains against the cords, shuddering against Fraser, driving him to lick down to Ray's collarbone and yet further, nipping and licking his way back to the belt buckle. Back to where he'd paused, unsure of his welcome. This time, there'sno reason to stop.
A twist and a tug later, the belt comes undone, a gasp from Ray punctuating the action. Fraser pauses, considering his next move as Ray, teeth clenched, mutters, "If you think you're stopping there, Benton buddy, you'd better think again."
"Oh, I have no intention of stopping, Ray."
With that, he crouches, picks up the knife and with one swift motion, tries to slice through the top button on Ray's jeans. Stopped by the metal rivet, he swiftly reverses the knife and cuts through the buttonhole instead.
"Holy fuck!"
Fraser claps his left hand across Ray's lips. "Quiet, Ray. If you want to do this, you'll need to be extremely quiet." Behind Fraser's hand, Ray's eyes are wide and his pupils dilated, a wildness in his gaze. Fraser moves his hand.
"I can't...can't keep quiet." Ray pleads. For a moment, Fraser's shoulders slump. He's again denied what he wants most in this world. Then, as Ray looks at him, eyes expressing what his lips can't, Fraser begins to understand. Ray doesn't want him to stop. There's another way.
Fraser bends quickly and scoops up the tie he'd cut off his partner earlier. A quick perusal confirms that the remaining length will do for this purpose. Fraser refastens the tie around Ray's mouth, checking to make sure the gag is comfortable. Ray grins around the cloth, nodding. Fraser grins back, his own flagging erection now as enthusiastic as before. He reaches down to adjust himself before turning his attention back to Ray.
"Gah," Ray's exclamation is muffled, but Fraser understands Ray's meaning as he bends his head to Ray's groin, rubbing a cheek and inhaling the musky sweet scent. This is almost more than he can take, his skin taught with tension, his own breath pattern matching Ray's panting as Fraser mouths Ray's erection through the denim button fly. The knife clatters to the ground as Fraser looses his grip. There's no more need for this object, not when he can... He licks around the remaining buttons, metal tang edging his need, his desire for this man, his partner now in more ways than just unofficially. Impatient, Fraser grasps a button with his teeth, and using his tongue, manages to undo it.
Ray moans, a long low sound echoing in the concrete floored shed, sinking into Fraser's very bones. He makes quick work of the final two buttons, laying open the fly of Ray's jeans. With a careful motion, Fraser reaches in and cups Ray's erection, finally bringing it out into the light, all impediments removed, all that kept his need for Ray buttoned up and fastened behind propriety, behind fear, now gone.
Fraser loses himself in the soft-hard-musk taste of Ray, tongue and lips working, tasting, feeling Ray's need, feeding his own, creating a loop of want and giving, and finally taking in the hard length, deep, as deep as he dares. He reaches with his right hand to wrap around as he continues to move his mouth, to get as much of the taste burned into his brain. He feels Ray's tension building, muscles tightening under his, breath caught and held, released and once again caught, as Fraser takes Ray in just a bit deeper.
"Sss, yesss...ssrssr" Only the "s" sound escapes around the gag, but Fraser hears his own name as Ray arches hard into Fraser's mouth, muscles trembling, his penis pumping bitter salt which Fraser gladly swallows, taking in all he can of Ray. Fraser wants to remember this, to remember the first time. He hopes this is a first time, not an only time, his automatic fear of abandonment kicking in even as he understands how much Ray wants this, too, even as he loses himself in the pleasure of pleasuring Ray, white heat flashing behind his eyes as he comes.
As Ray subsides, Fraser licks him clean and places a reverent kiss on the softening flesh.
"Hey, time for you, buddy," Ray says softly as Fraser removes the now sodden tie from Ray's mouth.
"I'm afraid I already..."
"You mean you. . .? Wow." Ray's relaxed smile lights up his face. "That's just. . .wow."
Fraser ducks behind the barber chair, embarrassment creeping in now that the urgency has disappeared. He picks the knife up from the floor and slices through Ray's bonds, first his hands, then back around front and releases his feet.
Ray rubs his arms and wrists, and stands up, a rueful look on his face as he flaps the two sides of his shirt. "Damn, Fraser," he says, "That was my favorite shirt."
"Ray, I'm so sorry." The apology is automatic, but heartfelt. He'd crossed over a line and Ray was upset. "I never meant--"
"Yo, Fraser, c'mere." Ray steps forward, reaching for Fraser. Ray's lips land on Fraser's, insistent. Fraser opens his mouth and lets Ray in, sinking in to a hot, wet benediction, a reminder of what they just had. Ray pulls his head back and glares at Fraser. "I wanted that, Benton Fraser. I wanted you. Do not go thinking this was some sort of aba...aber--"
"Aberration, Ray?" Fraser smiles as he feels the weight of doubt disappearing.
"Yeah, that. This ain't a one time thing and, while you may be a freak, you're my kind of freak. So stop getting all Mountie-lost-his-perp, and let's blow this pop stand and go back to my place. I got a few things I need help with."
"A few things?"
Ray nods over at the table. "Got some buttons that need sewin' back on."
With that, Fraser breaks out into a grin. Buttons sewed back on can then be removed again...this time, in the privacy of Ray's apartment.
"Understood, Ray."
###
Author:
chickwriter, sihayab and Penelope Whistle Pairing: Fraser/RayK
Rating: Rish
Word Count: ~3700 words.
Notes: This started as a writing exercise during a weekend outing. It ended with me (chickwriter) taking the fabulous ideas the other 2 came up with and creating the narrative. Betaed by the best (my co-conspirators). All remaining mistakes are mine. Enjoy!
Button Flies
By
chickwriter, sihayab and Penelope Whistle[because we had to]
The deceptively sturdy wooden door gives way under Fraser's determined push. Caution foremost, he slips through the opening, prepared for anything he'll find.
Well, almost.
In the dead center of the shed, dim illumination from the overhead skylight the only source of light in the room. It highlights its subject like a modern-day David on his plinth. Except this David has spiky blond hair, is fully dressed, and reclines in some sort of barber chair, hands bound behind the chair back, ankles strapped to the metal rails that support the foot rest.
As Fraser steps forward, his boot slips a little. A faint scent of old motor oil identifies the place as having once been used as a facility to house a motor vehicle. It doesn't seem to be used as such at present, as there are no requisite tools, nor other equipment signifying such. Nor are there any other humans present, a fact which he'd immediately ascertained upon entering. No broken down machinery, no engine parts or other normal garage detritus clutters the nearly pristine room. Instead, lining three of the four walls were row upon row of what seem to be--
Diefenbaker nudges him from behind, a low pitched whine his only comment.
"No, Diefenbaker, those are not decapitated human heads. I believe, although I may be mistaken, that they are, indeed a type of model, a mannequin head used for those individuals desiring to learn barbering…or in this case, perhaps the term 'stylist'—"
Another whine and a nudge interrupts.
"Well, yes, you do scent human hair, but I believe that oftentimes real human hair is—"
The wolf gives a sharp bark, then turns, leaving the shed to its human inhabitants.
"Gmnhnfgh! Gmngnmgng!"
Fraser whips his head around. "My god, Ray, I'm so sorry. I expect that you wish to be set free. I'm sure that your position is somewhat less than comfortable. In any case, releasing you should just be a matter of untying your bonds, and we should have you out of here quick as a wink."
He steps forward, intending to reassure his partner with a pat on the shoulder, but before he can say a word, the cloud cover breaks and Fraser freezes.
In the space of an impatient breath, Ray and the chair are limned with a shaft of light. Light blond streaks shine amongst the darker wheat color as the sunlight glints off Ray's hair. A flash of pearlescence catches Fraser's eye, three dots to the left of Ray, set on the top of a small decoupaged table against the side wall. Three dots that match the dots studded vertically on Ray's blue dress shirt. Why on earth is Ray's shirt missing three buttons and why are they on the little table?
The shaft of sunlight travels southward, across the dull metal belt buckle, dancing across the brass buttons of…
"Oh, dear."
Ray shakes his head back and forth, eyes wide and pleading. "Gmng Gmgng!" His chin juts forward, eyes flash down and back again, meeting Fraser's stunned gaze, immediately growing wider as Fraser stares at his still-bound partner.
The room grows dim as the sun scuds back behind the clouds, as if it were embarrassed by what it sees. Is that...No, it can't be. There is no possible way. It must be a trick of the light. An errant fold of cloth. Fraser's own wayward imagination. There is absolutely no way that Ray Kowalski has an erection.
"Whatcha got, Fraser?" Huey's voice is faint across the distance of the cluttered back yard, the chatter of the other detectives in the background. In the main house, they are no doubt questioning the suspect at this very moment: Sherman, a.k.a. "Buzz", Hermann, sometime stalker and recent captor of one Stanley Raymond Kowalski Vecchio.
Fraser answers Huey, never losing eye contact with Ray. "I've found him, Detective. He's fine."
With that, he steps forward, pulls out his hunting knife and slices off the cloth wrapped around Ray's mouth. The fabric is familiar; it appears to be Ray's best going-to-court tie, the dark blue one that is always so fetching with the slightly lighter blue shirt. The same shirt that is now missing three pearly buttons…the two on the collar points and the one at Ray's throat, the cloth now open in a V shape, framing the skin below. Fraser drags his gaze away from that enticing bit of skin. Ray needs him to pay attention. After all, his partner had been kidnapped by a desperate man, tied up and gagged in a barber chair for some hours, not trussed up on display for Fraser's own pleasure. No matter how much Fraser wishes that were the case.
"Fine? Fine? Whaddya mean 'fine', Fraser? This is the last good shirt I have, damn it. That scumbag cut off the buttons. Ruined it." Ray's indignation seems at odds with his expression, which can best be described as distracted.
Ray's gaze cuts over to the table, which contains several rows of buttons, of all shapes and sizes, arranged with precision by size, color and type. Underneath the final row, a small nail scissors is placed directly parallel to the center of the display. Fraser has to admire Mr. Hermann for his neatness, despite what seems to be some odd fixation on both Fraser's partner and clothing fasteners.
"I wouldn't say 'ruined' exactly, Ray," Fraser says, stepping forward. "We can easily sew the buttons back on."
"With that?"
"With what, Ray?"
Ray jerks his chin in the direction of the knife in Fraser's right hand.
"That don't look like a sewing kit to me."
"Oh no. I was going to use the knife to release you from your bonds. You see, the light in here, although perfectly adequate for normal activities, is a bit less than would be desirable for close work, such as untying the knots in what looks to be…" Fraser gives in to an impulse, leans forward, braces his left hand on the back of the barber chair, and peers over Ray's shoulder. "It appears that Mr. Hermann has tied your hands with some sortunusual rope. I'm afraid I don't recognize it. There's a label or something dangling from it."
"Sears, Fraser." Ray sounds impatient now. "I saw it when he tied me up."
"Ah." Fraser steps back when he realizes how close he is to Ray, takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the fact that instead of removing the memory of his partner's, well, indisposition, his close proximity to said partner has only increased his awareness of Ray's vulnerable state...and dare he even think it? Despite changes of subject and attempts to put himself back on an even keel, the only thing he can think of right now is that Ray Kowalski is tied up in a chair, knees spread in a posture that can be described as both inconvenient and yet, enticing.
"Ah, what?" Ray's eyes narrow as he studies Fraser.
"Sears, Ray. I assume by that you mean that the label affixed to the rope binding your wrists is marked 'Sears', by which you mean to suggest that the cords are some sort of readymade notion sold by a popular retail chain, perhaps used for tying back draperies."
"Notion, Fraser, I got a notion—untie me already, you freak." Ray wiggles in the chair, his impatience back and evident by his energetic movement. "I was almost loose, almost was able to get outta here, but I couldn't quite get that last bit."
"Understood, Ray."
Light flares on the blade of Fraser's knife as the sun breaks through again, illuminating them both. Ray freezes in the midst of a particularly vigorous wiggle.
The buttons of Ray's somewhat anachronistic jeans strain against the fabric, the worn texture clearly outlining what can only be an erection. This time, there's absolutely no doubt and Fraser catches himself sniffing, straining to catch Ray's scent, wanting to immerse himself in the knowing, if only for a moment, what his partner is like when aroused.
Once again, Ray looks down his own body, then up at Fraser, his expression flashing from pleading for release, to pleading for a different kind of release, then just as quickly back to anger.
"I didn't get off on being tied up by that freak, Fraser." Ray's words tumble out in a rush, quick to fill the silence, as his gaze flickers to the right, to the neat rows of buttons lining the tabletop.
Fraser follows Ray's gaze, sees the buttons, glances at the knife, then at Ray. Could he possibly mean... Fraser's tongue slides out, wetting his bottom lip.
It's quiet out here, in the shed at the far end of the large yard. They're at least eighty feet from the other police officers, at least eighty feet from discovery. He does a quick calculation. They'd apprehended the suspect twenty minutes ago; it will be another twenty or so before anyone starts looking for them.
"Understood, Ray." A grin begins to spread on his face.
Fraser steps closer. This time, he moves not to the side of the chair, but to its centre, directly between Ray's spread knees. Ray's feet are tucked behind the bars of the footrest, ankles bound at each side, allowing for comfort, not strain, and at the same time, allowing Fraser to stand so close that he can once again scent Ray's arousal.
"According to Detective Dewey, Mr. Sherman Hermann was a bit of a collector, Ray." Fraser says as he inches even closer, his knees now touching the edge of the leatherette seat.
"Buzz." Ray's voice is a whisper.
Fraser leans toward Ray, left hand braced against the back of the chair, the right flat on top of the knife handle, trapping the handle on the left armrest. Fraser's mouth brushes Ray's left ear as he whispers back, a strange kind of courage overtaking his normal reticence.
"Did you call him that? Did you call him by his nickname?"
Fraser feels Ray's body give a quick twitch, hears his slight gasp and then a quiet breath which becomes words.
"I figured it was only polite, Fraser," he says softly. "Calling a person by the name they like and all. After all, it only takes an extra second, doesn't it?"
"That it does, Ray, That it does." Fraser takes a deep breath, savoring the heady scent of Ray's warm skin. "Do you like 'polite'?"
"Sometimes," Ray answers. "Polite," he then repeats, lucent grey-blue eyes never once leaving Fraser's own steady gaze.
"But it isn't polite to remove a person's buttons from his clothing, Ray. Wouldn't you agree?"
Ray nods, still watching Fraser.
"I believe that this leaves us with only two options then, Ray." Fraser inches a fraction closer, leaning his knee on the seat of the chair, just a hair's breadth from Ray's groin. He believes can feel the heat on his own skin, despite the layers of cloth. He doesn't care.
Ray's gaze travels down to Fraser's knee, up his body and lands squarely back on Fraser's eyes, locked and loaded with something that Fraser can only hope is challenge. Ray clears his throat and holds his gaze steady as he speaks.
"I don't see any needle and thread laying around."
"Nor do I, Ray." Fraser neglects to mention the handy sewing kit tucked inside his belt pouch. After all, he doesn't see it, does he?
With a swift motion, he raises his right hand, flicks his wrist and smiles as a pearl-sheened button flies off into the dark recesses of the shed. A quick breath and the sudden touch of Ray's groin to Fraser's knee means he's made the right choice. His smile slides into a grin as the last bit of doubt disappears.
Flick, flick, flick, flick and flick. Five more buttons roll into dark corners and Ray's shirt slides open baring a rapidly heaving chest.
"Jesus, Fraser!" Ray hisses as Fraser slides his thumb down the newly exposed skin to the belt buckle, careful to keep the blade of the knife turned away from Ray. "That sure as hell ain't polite."
Fraser pauses there, searching Ray's face…for what, he isn't sure. Permission, he's pretty sure he has, despite Ray's outburst. Participation, the same. Perhaps he's looking for a sort of benediction, a knowing that his partner wants this with the same intensity he himself does…with the longing of a dozen dozen nights of stakeouts, of platonic dinners, hockey games and whatever other pathetic reasons he'd had for remaining with his partner instead of returning to his cold cot at the Consulate.
"Why're you stopping?" Ray's whisper is urgent, demanding. "Damn it, Fraser, don't stop now. Polite ain't right, polite ain't buddies."
Fraser obeys, as he's wont to do with Ray. Obeys because he must, thumb once again picking up the movement he'd begun, now tracing the lines of the belt buckle, now following the engraved image, flames behind the familiar Harley Davidson logo. He remembers when Ray bought this, one sunny Chicago summer day when the two of them had been walking back to the precinct from a late lunch.
"It's an icon, Frase," Ray had said. "An American icon."
And with that, Ray had pounced on another buckle in the tray, this one with a bas-relief maple leaf. "Here, this one's for you." And before Fraser could protest, Ray had paid for both buckles and walked away. They'd spent the rest of the day working on a case, then had dinner at a local diner they both liked and followed it up with watching the baseball game at Ray's apartment. Sometime near the end of the fourth inning, Fraser had begun to wonder. Was he imagining the fact that Ray had seemed to be flirting with him all that day? Too many brushes of a hand as they walked nearly thigh-to-thigh, sitting just that much closer on the couch during the broadcast of the baseball game. Ray had even had a selection of Fraser's favorite teas ready to brew.
Ray chuckles in Fraser's ear, his voice low, nearly a growl. "You're remembering that day, aren'tcha, Frase? When I got this buckle?"
"Yes," Fraser hisses the word, thumb now tracing the letters, his knuckles ever so lightly brushing the fabric of Ray's jeans, just to the right of his erection, careful to keep the knife blade turned away from Ray. The steel flashes in the sun, as Fraser's hand moves ever so slightly.
"I was wondering if you'd ever get the hint," Ray continues, arching his back a little, hips straining, unable to move further with his hands still bound behind him.
"Hint, Ray?"
"I want you, you freak."
With that explicit statement, Fraser bends quickly to set the knife down on the floor, then returns to lick a long line from the belt buckle to Ray's neck, stopping only to nibble lightly before moving to the collarbone. Ray arches again, stopped only by his bonds, a hiss escaping his clenched teeth. "Yesssss," he says, "yes, Fraser, please."
Lost in the taste of Ray's skin, salt smooth heat combining with an undefinable sweetness assaults Fraser's senses. He doesn't know how long he stays there, cataloguing taste, memorizing the feel, losing himself in the thing he's wantedmost above all and for so long.
Ray's body strains against the cords, shuddering against Fraser, driving him to lick down to Ray's collarbone and yet further, nipping and licking his way back to the belt buckle. Back to where he'd paused, unsure of his welcome. This time, there'sno reason to stop.
A twist and a tug later, the belt comes undone, a gasp from Ray punctuating the action. Fraser pauses, considering his next move as Ray, teeth clenched, mutters, "If you think you're stopping there, Benton buddy, you'd better think again."
"Oh, I have no intention of stopping, Ray."
With that, he crouches, picks up the knife and with one swift motion, tries to slice through the top button on Ray's jeans. Stopped by the metal rivet, he swiftly reverses the knife and cuts through the buttonhole instead.
"Holy fuck!"
Fraser claps his left hand across Ray's lips. "Quiet, Ray. If you want to do this, you'll need to be extremely quiet." Behind Fraser's hand, Ray's eyes are wide and his pupils dilated, a wildness in his gaze. Fraser moves his hand.
"I can't...can't keep quiet." Ray pleads. For a moment, Fraser's shoulders slump. He's again denied what he wants most in this world. Then, as Ray looks at him, eyes expressing what his lips can't, Fraser begins to understand. Ray doesn't want him to stop. There's another way.
Fraser bends quickly and scoops up the tie he'd cut off his partner earlier. A quick perusal confirms that the remaining length will do for this purpose. Fraser refastens the tie around Ray's mouth, checking to make sure the gag is comfortable. Ray grins around the cloth, nodding. Fraser grins back, his own flagging erection now as enthusiastic as before. He reaches down to adjust himself before turning his attention back to Ray.
"Gah," Ray's exclamation is muffled, but Fraser understands Ray's meaning as he bends his head to Ray's groin, rubbing a cheek and inhaling the musky sweet scent. This is almost more than he can take, his skin taught with tension, his own breath pattern matching Ray's panting as Fraser mouths Ray's erection through the denim button fly. The knife clatters to the ground as Fraser looses his grip. There's no more need for this object, not when he can... He licks around the remaining buttons, metal tang edging his need, his desire for this man, his partner now in more ways than just unofficially. Impatient, Fraser grasps a button with his teeth, and using his tongue, manages to undo it.
Ray moans, a long low sound echoing in the concrete floored shed, sinking into Fraser's very bones. He makes quick work of the final two buttons, laying open the fly of Ray's jeans. With a careful motion, Fraser reaches in and cups Ray's erection, finally bringing it out into the light, all impediments removed, all that kept his need for Ray buttoned up and fastened behind propriety, behind fear, now gone.
Fraser loses himself in the soft-hard-musk taste of Ray, tongue and lips working, tasting, feeling Ray's need, feeding his own, creating a loop of want and giving, and finally taking in the hard length, deep, as deep as he dares. He reaches with his right hand to wrap around as he continues to move his mouth, to get as much of the taste burned into his brain. He feels Ray's tension building, muscles tightening under his, breath caught and held, released and once again caught, as Fraser takes Ray in just a bit deeper.
"Sss, yesss...ssrssr" Only the "s" sound escapes around the gag, but Fraser hears his own name as Ray arches hard into Fraser's mouth, muscles trembling, his penis pumping bitter salt which Fraser gladly swallows, taking in all he can of Ray. Fraser wants to remember this, to remember the first time. He hopes this is a first time, not an only time, his automatic fear of abandonment kicking in even as he understands how much Ray wants this, too, even as he loses himself in the pleasure of pleasuring Ray, white heat flashing behind his eyes as he comes.
As Ray subsides, Fraser licks him clean and places a reverent kiss on the softening flesh.
"Hey, time for you, buddy," Ray says softly as Fraser removes the now sodden tie from Ray's mouth.
"I'm afraid I already..."
"You mean you. . .? Wow." Ray's relaxed smile lights up his face. "That's just. . .wow."
Fraser ducks behind the barber chair, embarrassment creeping in now that the urgency has disappeared. He picks the knife up from the floor and slices through Ray's bonds, first his hands, then back around front and releases his feet.
Ray rubs his arms and wrists, and stands up, a rueful look on his face as he flaps the two sides of his shirt. "Damn, Fraser," he says, "That was my favorite shirt."
"Ray, I'm so sorry." The apology is automatic, but heartfelt. He'd crossed over a line and Ray was upset. "I never meant--"
"Yo, Fraser, c'mere." Ray steps forward, reaching for Fraser. Ray's lips land on Fraser's, insistent. Fraser opens his mouth and lets Ray in, sinking in to a hot, wet benediction, a reminder of what they just had. Ray pulls his head back and glares at Fraser. "I wanted that, Benton Fraser. I wanted you. Do not go thinking this was some sort of aba...aber--"
"Aberration, Ray?" Fraser smiles as he feels the weight of doubt disappearing.
"Yeah, that. This ain't a one time thing and, while you may be a freak, you're my kind of freak. So stop getting all Mountie-lost-his-perp, and let's blow this pop stand and go back to my place. I got a few things I need help with."
"A few things?"
Ray nods over at the table. "Got some buttons that need sewin' back on."
With that, Fraser breaks out into a grin. Buttons sewed back on can then be removed again...this time, in the privacy of Ray's apartment.
"Understood, Ray."
###
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Date: 2007-02-26 01:57 pm (UTC)No, Diefenbaker, those are not decapitated human heads.
Hee!
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Date: 2007-02-27 11:51 pm (UTC)MWAH!
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Date: 2007-02-26 07:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 11:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-26 09:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 11:52 pm (UTC)I think we all had a great time doing this. :)
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Date: 2007-02-26 10:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 11:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-26 11:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 11:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 10:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 11:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-04 08:52 pm (UTC)"Damn it, Fraser, don't stop now. Polite ain't right, polite ain't buddies."
Very Ray. :)
and this:
while you may be a freak, you're my kind of freak.
Hee! Good thing Fraser is very good at...sewing. :)
Loved it!
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Date: 2007-03-06 07:13 pm (UTC)So glad you enjoyed it.
Good thing Fraser is very good at...sewing.
Yes, isn't it, though? ::g::
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Date: 2007-03-06 12:37 pm (UTC)Vee
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Date: 2007-03-06 07:14 pm (UTC)I thoroughly enjoyed writing it with my cohorts. :)
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Date: 2007-03-06 07:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-06 07:16 pm (UTC)Imagine the 3 of us at an upscale Italian restaurant, hammering out the fine points of the Fraser/RayK interaction. Rather amusing.
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Date: 2007-03-06 07:17 pm (UTC)Oh, I bet the three of you had a wonderful time doing that! Fandom really might just be the best thing ever.
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Date: 2007-03-08 01:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-09 04:52 pm (UTC)