September 2002
NC-17, F/K
Summary: It's all Turnbull's fault.
Notes: Smut on AIM. PWP ensues.
Renfield Turnbull was a dead man. A very dead man, and Ray could make sure the body was never found. Cops were good at that sort of thing. This was all his fault, with that too sweet mango-orange punch at the consulate reception. So sweet that even Fraser couldn't taste the vodka spiking it. Turnbull's fault that he was simultaneously struggling with his keys, trying to open his door, and holding Fraser's backpack, all with a very drunk, very soft and cuddly Fraser draped over him.
Thatcher's parting words burned in his brain still. She'd caught Fraser trying to bear hug the ambassador from Scotland in a fit of ancestral pride and suffered a mini meltdown. "Remove him immediately, detective. Or so help me, he's going to be on guard duty until the Apocalypse."
One final jiggle of his key, and--thank God--his door opened finally. He and Fraser almost toppled to the floor together in the hall, but he caught his balance and only staggered drunkenly. Fraser's body kept trying to flow right out of his grip, down to the floor, all liquid like a sleeping cat.
He propped Fraser up against the kitchen counter, dumping the backpack onto the floor. "You, stay there." He pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and pressed it into Fraser's hand. "Drink that, Fraser, buddy. Or you're going to have a head and a half tomorrow."
"All right, Ray." Fraser obediently twisted the cap off and guzzled down half the bottle. "Thirsty."
"It's the dehydration. Finish that up. Just a second." Ray dashed into the bathroom for a moment. He pressed two pills into Fraser's hand. "Advil."
Fraser nodded, popping them into his mouth and washing them down with the rest of the water. Blankets, he needed blankets to make up the couch for Fraser. He was turning towards the hall closet when something made him pause.
Fraser was staring at him. A strange, riveted sort of stare that had Ray's hand going up to check the state of his hair automatically. Nope, everything cool there.
"God, Ray, you're...lovely." Fraser reached out and pushed aside the flop of too-long hair that was on Ray's forehead.
Ray froze. "What?"
"You're lovely."
Lovely? What the hell did that mean? Any minute now, the candid camera crew was gonna walk out of the bedroom or something.
Ray moved his head, slowly, almost reluctantly out of Fraser's reach. "God, Fraser, you're really drunk."
"I'm not. Am I?" Fraser looked genuinely puzzled.
"Yeah, buddy. You're even seeing shit. Cause lovely, I ain't."
Fraser got that stubborn, mulish expression that, in Ray's experience, always meant trouble. "Yes, Ray, of course you are. Quite lovely." Somehow his customary assurance came glowing right through, only slightly slurred.
Fraser leaned over ponderously, blunt fingers tracing the contours of Ray's face. "Your eyes...exquisite."
"Man, you need to get to bed." Exquisite--something about how Fraser said the word made him feel very warm. Warm all over. Ray scrambled back before he could do anything bad.
Taking advantage of your drunk partner would be bad. But it wouldn't feel bad, not until tomorrow. Tonight it would feel good, so damned good. Tonight, right now, he wanted to wrap his arms around those shoulders and just hang on. If that was all he wanted, he could do it right now. He could...he could end up tomorrow with no friend and an empty heart. No, no, no. What the hell was he thinking?
Ray took another step back, but Fraser followed him, stubbornly pressing close to Ray once again. Fraser's eyes were fixed on his face...no, on his mouth.
"Your lips...soft." Fraser leaned in even closer; he would have Fraser's lips on his in just a moment, if he only held still. He couldn't have moved if his life depended on it.
Oh, Jesus, he wanted...he wanted...the press of Fraser's lips against his shut off his brain and turned on things that hadn't been turned on in decades. Soft lips, tasting him, a tongue, eager, exploring the corner of his mouth.
Ray moaned. It was pitiful, but he couldn't help it. This had to stop now before he got out of the universe of possible excuses. He had to stop--he couldn't let himself have this, the press of Fraser's warm, hard chest against his own. Jesus, he hadn't felt like this in...years.
And he for damn sure couldn't feel like this now. Using all of his pathetically limited self-control, he pulled back. He pushed on Fraser's shoulders, hard, and Fraser stepped back, looking flushed. Fraser smiled blindingly at him, not letting him slide back more than an inch, and licked his bottom lip. "Delicious. You taste wonderful." Fraser's low voice made him feel warm, very warm.
"You can't be tasting me!" he blurted out, last-ditch protest, but, oh, he was in deep now and sinking fast. A thoughtful expression on his face, Fraser ran his tongue slowly over his lips, as though chasing lingering traces of Ray's mouth. Ray suddenly felt very light-headed, all the blood rushing from his brain.
Then Ray wasn't pushing, he was pulling. Pulling on Fraser's shoulders. Pulling that mouth onto his again. Ray couldn't help it, he was pushing his tongue against Fraser's lips. Fraser opened right up, let him in with a sigh. The kiss was deep and Ray could taste the mango-orange juice that Turnbull had put in the punch.
No matter what happened, he was going to give Turnbull hell tomorrow. Sweet, so sweet, and if he'd known that Fraser high as a kite on spiked punch would be like this...well, who knows. High as a kite, and cuddly like Stella used to get when she got a little toasty. Nope, not gonna think about Stella, not now with the best, slow drowsy kisses he'd had in far too long.
As cuddly as Stella, but even better, because hugging Stella had never felt this good. This was Fraser, his best friend, his partner, all solid and warm and strong. He'd never felt anything as good as Fraser in his arms. He'd wanted this too bad for too long to turn it down, but he had to. Maybe if he could get Fraser to lay down, he'd just...go to sleep, yeah, that happened sometimes.
He tried to pull back, but then there were strong arms, winding around him, and...yep. That was a hand. On his butt. Fraser's hand on his butt, and that thought was so weird, he just froze. Holy shit.
The hand got even more adventurous, drifting around to his front, and Ray...squeaked. Bye, bye, dignity, to squeak like that, but it was the only word for it. Forget the freakin' go- to-sleep idea, that wouldn't fly.
He was a good person, damn it. But he just wasn't going to have the will to stop it, not these wonderful touches, that mouth on his. He wasn't going to molest the Mountie when he was drunk. But what if the Mountie molested him?
No stopping now, no way, no how, not with that hand on his hard cock, massaging carefully and thoroughly. That touch was so experienced, so knowing, and that made Ray relax a little. No way Fraser hadn't done this before.
Fingers fumbled at the button on his jeans, and Ray sucked in a breath. "Ticklish?" Fraser breathed, and then that hand was inside his waistband, pushing down into his boxers.
"Oh, fuck." That was Fraser down there, his big hand on his cock. Fraser pulling and tugging on him like he'd found a new toy. Oh, God, he was going to come now. He bit his lip, frantically thinking of Dewey's fishy smell and Janet Reno until the immediate urge eased.
He didn't want to come as bad as he wanted to make Fraser happy. He wanted to see Fraser get some. He wanted to hear Fraser sigh and moan. He wanted to drive his partner wild, make Fraser come.
The fastenings to Fraser's fancy Mountie pants proved resistant to his fingers. He gripped Fraser through layers of scratchy wool, and somehow that was almost kinky, feeling that itch on his palm.
Fraser shuddered, sighing into Ray's ear. And then Fraser must have decided he needed helping out on the jodhpur front. One big hand came up and, faster than he could blink, Fraser's pants were open, revealing stiff white cotton tented by Fraser's erection.
Oh, yeah. That was what he wanted. And he wanted more. He almost fell down onto his knees in his haste to taste. Oh, holy mother of God, it was right there in front of him.
A spreading wet spot was dampening the cotton of Fraser's boxers. Before Ray had even considered it, he mouthed the spot, tasting...Jesus...tasting Fraser. Fraser, and salt, and starch, and if someone had asked him before now if starch would ever be a turn on for him, he'd have laughed his ass off.
The cotton rubbed almost roughly against his lips. He hoped it was the same against the head of Fraser's cock. If the sounds Fraser was making were any gauge, he was liking this. A lot.
Fraser grabbed his head, and for a split second he was afraid Fraser wanted him to stop. He wasn't sure he could stop. Then those fingers wound into his hair like they'd never let go.
Frantically, Ray pulled at the boxers. Skin. He needed skin. He needed cock. Now.
"God, Ray. Please, hurry," Fraser whispered, and that almost made him come then and there. He obediently rounded his lips over the head of that beautiful cock and slid down it. When he moaned, Fraser did too, and it came from way, way down.
The nudge against his palate made him open up, and he realized he was humping the air mindlessly. He could use his hand--no, it was busy holding Fraser's ass. Fraser, wet and heavy in his mouth, yeah, oh God, it might be enough to get him off, hearing those moans.
Fraser's butt was a round firmness filling his hands. Fraser had the hottest ass he'd ever felt, and he pulled it in, stroking that cock down his throat. Ray dipped a finger down into that hot crevice, and Fraser let out a strangled, "Ray. I'm going..." Ray sucked harder, one last time.
He was rewarded with a spray of come that he couldn't even handle; he had to take his mouth away before he choked, and Fraser was coming all over his face. Christ, how hot was that? He smiled wickedly as Fraser groaned like a dying man. And then Ray was sputtering and laughing and coming all at the same time, and Fraser was on his knees with him, pulling him close.
This was better than any fantasy. Fraser, holding him tightly, lapping the come off his face, sucking on his lips, kissing his eyelids.
"Ah, God, you're beautiful, Ray." Ray pulled back a little.
"You still drunk?"
"Not at all, Ray."
"Oh, shit."
"Ray. Ray. Ray."
"Game over, Fraser. Holy shit. I'm so screwed." A sudden thought struck him, and Ray felt his eyes narrow. "You weren't really that drunk to begin with, were you?"
Fraser blushed. "I wasn't entirely sober, either, Ray. I found it...freeing. I'd been wanting to touch you like that for quite some time."
Fraser's hand touched his cheek, a warm caress. "It's all right, Ray. It's not a game."
Ray looked at Fraser's face, soft and warm. His expression was affectionate, perhaps even...loving. He felt something twist inside him then. This was all for him, skinny ass Ray. Holy crap.
"Not a game to me, either, Benton, buddy."
Fraser's lips were on his again, soft, and almost chaste. Maybe he wouldn't chew Turnbull a new one. He'd save all his oral fixation for Fraser. Looked like he was going to need it.
"You--you're staying tonight, right?"
"Yes, Ray. In fact, I was just thinking of finding myself more permanent lodgings than my Consulate office. You wouldn't happen to know of any choice rental opportunities in the area, would you?"
Fraser smiled at him, and Ray smiled back with what felt like the widest, loopiest smile he'd ever had. "I know just the place."
[End]
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