A bit of PWP written for the kink challenge at stop_drop_porn
Title: Other People's Closets
Theme: uniform kink
Rating: NC-17 for sexage and the odd naughty word
Spoilers: Post An Invitation To Romance
Length: @2600 words
Beta'd by my most effulgent MRVB fishsanwitt
. If you find an error, it isn't due to her; it is due to my sloppiness.
Ray Vecchio pulled into his usual parking spot on Racine, killed the engine, and checked his hair for the thousandth time that evening in the rear view mirror. Carefully smoothing one errant hair back in place, he winked at his reflection as he listened to the ticking of the Riv’s engine, cooling in the chill of the late autumn night. It was his first Friday off in front of a weekend that promised nothing but sleeping in, late breakfasts with the paper and whatever game he could find on the tube. And, safely tucked in the breast pocket of his new cashmere overcoat, were a pair of tickets – courtside, if you could believe it – for that night’s Bulls game.
Life couldn’t be sweeter.
Bracing himself against the November wind, he quit the car and dashed inside the relative shelter of Fraser’s building. He took the stairs two at a time up to the third floor, whistling as he approached the door at the end of the hall. A cursory knock made the tin ‘3’ and ‘J’ rattle on the worn, greyed wood. Then, with a turn of the never-locked doorknob, he went in.
“Fraser! Shake a leg, will ya? Tip off’s in less than an hour, and I wanna get there early to watch the cheerleaders warm up.”
From behind the bed came a low, put-upon growl. Diefenbaker’s ears popped briefly into sight, twitching in the dim light of the room.
Ray slipped off the cashmere and carefully placed it over the back of a chair. “What’s your problem? Bad donut?”
Another irritated rumble from behind the bed.
“Don’t sulk. I’d take you if I could, but they don’t let wolves sit courtside. It’s outta my hands.”
Something he was sure was cursing in wolf speak was Dief’s response.
“Hey, watch what you say to those who bring you contraband.” From his blazer pocket, Ray pulled out a pack of Twinkies. Hearing the rustle of cellophane, Dief bounded out and snatched the treat from Ray’s hand before making a quick exit out the kitchen window.
“What, no thank you?! No wonder he calls you an ingrate.”
Sighing, he scanned the room. He’d told Fraser he’d pick him up at 7:30; sure, it was only ten past the hour, but Ray didn’t want to be late. After all, how often did he score courtside seats?
Letting the quiet of the apartment settle over him, Ray then heard the soft sounds of running water flowing in from the hall. Figures, he thought. There must be some hygiene requirement to be a Mountie.
Spread out over the bed were a pair of well-worn blue jeans, the usual Henley and blue jersey button-down. A clothes horse he wasn’t, but Fraser definitely had his own style - when he was allowed out of the red suit, that is.
The red suit was something. Not long ago, Ray had found a reason to slip on the serge himself; and while that experience was strange enough, stranger still was that Ray had rather enjoyed wearing it. Or, more specifically, he liked the way people looked at him while wearing it; at least the way they looked at him before he opened his mouth and shoved them through the Consulate door. It was a thrill, kind of like being someone you weren’t, for a few hours. He’d made a good-looking Mountie.
Of course, he’d never let Fraser in on that bit of info; he’d never be able to make red suit jokes again if Fraser knew about Ray’s appreciation of all things brass and wool.
Looking down he saw, by the half-opened closet door, boots, socks and navy blue breeches, lying where they had been shed. And, hanging on the back of the door, was a tailored swath of red wool and polished buttons. Reaching out, he drew a finger down the length of one sleeve. Even hanging there, the material was still warm from being worn, Fraser’s body heat almost like an invisible thread that was woven into the fibres. Yellow light from the streetlamps glinted dully off the shiny, carved buttons, and Ray had to suppress a shiver as the patina glittered in the half-light that surrounded him. It definitely put the Chicago dress blues to shame. And the ladies seemed to like it…
He felt the urge to put it on.
Glancing towards the open apartment door, he licked his suddenly-dry lips and listened for signs of life from the communal bathroom. Water still running? Check. Singing? Nope. Good. That meant Fraser hadn’t shampooed yet.
Lifting the tunic down off its hook, Ray paused. When had he become aware of Fraser’s bathing habits? Was he really at this apartment that much?
Shaking his head and trying to think of cheerleaders, he laid the tunic on the bed and tossed his own linen blazer onto the chair that held his overcoat. Smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in his black silk shirt, he retrieved the tunic and slipped it on.
The weight of the garment settled gently across his shoulders, the heavy wool magically becoming lighter as the panels and folds moulded to Ray’s form. Fastening the collar closed, he carefully slid each brass button through its mated eyelet. He could feel the prickly wool fibres grab at his silk shirt; like small scratchy fingers working their way through to his skin. It was like being touched everywhere at once by some warm, invisible hand, and he rolled his shoulders, flushing a deep pink at the sensation that rippled through his body. Slowly, his hand moved along the lanyard, tightening it snug against the collar, the pressure of it making him gasp. More warm fingers danced over his chest in response. Drawing a deep breath, his nose was filled with the clean smell of saddle soap from the Sam Browne, the open air, and a subtle, spicy musk that most definitely belonged to Fraser.
Breathing in again, he closed his eyes and let his fingers glide over the nap of the panels, the profile of the pockets, the sharp folds and tuck at the waist. Liquid warmth infused him as the tunic seemed to soften and melt in with his own body heat. Only the brass buttons stood out sharply, bright and hard against the warm plain of blushed wool, looking for attention. Rubbing a palm over his belly, his hand started edging northward, his thumb soon grazing a pocket button over his chest. His knees shook as he played with the bit of brass, feeling its hardness through the layers of wool and silk, over his nipple.
“Sorry to keep you waiting Ray, but an unfortunate incident between a broken-down school bus and an off-season ice cream vendor outside of the Consulate kept me… oh dear.”
Ray’s eyes snapped open and flew towards the apartment door. Fraser stood there, towel around his waist and toothbrush in hand, looking at Ray with an expression of… confusion? Horror?
Panicked hands began fumbling with buttons as Ray tried to make his voice work. “Benny, it’s not… I mean, I was just trying on… it was hanging there in the closet and I thought…”
Fraser simply stood there, staring at Ray, mouth slightly agape. Horror it is
, Ray decided, still wrestling with the tunic’s brass fastenings. The damn thing went on so easily, why wouldn’t it come off…
Toeing the apartment door closed, Fraser waited to hear the soft click of the latch catching the hasp before making a cautious approach in Ray’s direction.
Ray swallowed. He’s gonna kill me for molesting Mountie property
Placing his toothbrush on the nearest bookshelf, Fraser clasped his hands behind his back and gave Ray a good look from head to toe.
His voice was calm. Cool.
“You’re wearing my tunic.”
Ray swallowed again. “Yes Fraser.”
“May I ask why?”
Ray tried to reply, then stopped. What could he say? The truth?
“Uh, just… no reason.”Great. Why go for the truth when a crappy lie rolls off the tongue so easily.
Sidling closer, Fraser made a show of examining every fastening and ribbon of the garment. “Without the Stetson and the holster, you’re nowhere near close to meeting regulation. But I congratulate you on the neat lie of the lanyard over the buttons. That’s very hard to achieve without the help of a mirror.” He hooked a finger under the golden cord and gave it a gentle tug. “Exemplary slip knot. No uncoupling at the collar.”
Ray was at a loss. “Uh… thank you?” he offered, mesmerized by Fraser’s… well, everything. In the space of a few breaths, Fraser had moved in so close that Ray couldn’t see him properly, only able to focus on one part of him at a time. Fraser’s eyes, so blue and steady as they roamed over Ray; his mouth, lips parted and wet, the tip of his tongue darting out to lick absently at one corner while he studied his friend. And then, as he looked down, he saw Fraser’s finger, sliding back up the lanyard and under the knot, pulling the tie loose.
“You know Ray, you look very striking in red. You should wear it more often.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled in return, still staring as Fraser’s finger curled under one of the brass fastenings and popped it free of its eyelet. “I think maybe I will.”
“Very good. Though,” Fraser continued, frowning slightly, “it’s not just the colour that suits you; I dare say the uniform itself is quite complimentary to your… physique.”
Another button was opened, and Ray could feel the cool air of the apartment seep in and under the tunic. He shivered, then shivered again when Fraser moved his hand inside the breach in the wool.
“Benny, wha… what are you… oh fuck, yeah!” Fraser’s hand ran roughly over the silk of Ray’s shirt, searching for – and finding – the hard, eager peak of Ray’s nipple, giving it a sharp pinch. A hot streak of pleasure shot through his body, settling in his dick. Jesus, where the fuck did that come from?
“Yes, very nice indeed.” He withdrew his hand, setting nimble fingers to work undoing the rest of the fastenings. Pushing the tunic back and off Ray’s shoulders, Fraser then drew the slack material forward, cinching it around Ray’s waist, pinning his arms to his sides. Soon Ray could feel the dampness of the towel circling Fraser’s waist against his groin. Half-hard himself, he found that Fraser was in similar straits. Before common sense barged in and ruined this strange-but-enjoyable moment, Fraser leaned in and brushed his lips lightly across Ray’s. Soft and fleeting as it was, Ray felt his knees weaken. Fraser tightened his grasp on the tunic, helping steady Ray on his feet, before kissing him again.
This time there was no mistaking it; Fraser’s lips moved softly, wetly over Ray’s mouth, his tongue gently begging entrance inside. Arms still fixed at his side, Ray grasped whatever was in reach of his pinned hands, and soon he was holding on tightly to Fraser’s forearms, as he let him slip inside. He moaned as Fraser explored the warm wetness of his mouth, Fraser’s tongue dancing lightly over his palate before twining around Ray’s own. Fraser slowly back-walked him towards the bed, not letting him fall when his calves hit the bedstead. Working his arms out of Ray’s desperate grip, he shucked the tunic off and dropped it on the floor with his breeches. His own arms free, Ray pulled Fraser into a hard embrace, one hand on his back, the other cupping the back of his head, fingers threading through his still-damp hair.
His head swimming, Ray pulled back, drawing in ragged gulps of air, and settled on the edge of Fraser’s thin mattress. With only the glow of streetlamps to light the room, Fraser was a pale, perfect study of beauty. Softly panting, his eyes wide and dark and completely focused on Ray, he was perfection. And some how, for some reason, that perfection wanted him.
And Ray wanted it too.
With little left of pretense, Ray reached up and grasped the corner of Fraser’s towel. When he gave it a tug, instead of pulling Fraser closer, the towel fell away, landing soundlessly at their feet. Fraser stood there, naked before his friend, his cock full and hard and waiting for some attention.
Ray was ready to give it.
In a move that completely caught Fraser off guard, Ray hooked a leg behind Fraser’s knees, yanking him off-balance and sending him down – hard – on top of Ray. The bed frame creaked in protest, but held firm under the weight of two moving bodies.
Fraser braced his knees on either side of Ray’s hips, thrusting gracelessly against the rock hard bulge in Ray’s now-wrinkled pants. Two sets of hands tangled with Ray’s zipper – and with each other – until they were cock to cock; hot, smooth skin, slick and hard, fighting for contact. Fraser’s hands then moved to the hem of Ray’s silk shirt, the fragile material rending easily with one, strong rip. Buttons bounced to the four corners of the room as Fraser splayed the wrecked fabric open, running his tongue along the ridged pathways of Ray’s ribs, moving slowly upwards until he could suck a nipple into his mouth. Ray arched off the bed as Fraser nibbled and licked the sensitive bit of flesh, working it until it was a hard peak, before moving on to the other. Ray grasped onto Fraser’s shoulders, trying to steady himself, to find a rhythm in the unruly movements of their hips.
Tucking his head into the crook of Ray’s neck, Fraser sent one of his hands southward, messily working both his and Ray’s hard-ons into a loose grip. Together, he stroked them off, his hand moving in time to the wicked thrusts of Ray’s hips, and to his own panting breath. Head nestled as it was in Ray’s neck, Fraser could feel the frantic flutter of Ray’s heartbeat through the skin pressed against his lips. He worked his tongue along the pulse point, licking and swirling around the fragile thrum, his hand working harder and harder as he felt Ray’s heart thud and stutter as he came, hot and sticky, over their bellies. Ray didn’t shout or swear when he came; he simply held on to Fraser and shuddered his release, followed by Fraser, who let himself go, held tightly in Ray’s arms.
They lay there for a moment, panting, the cool air of the apartment setting a chill over their sweat-slicked bodies. Blindly groping for the comforter, Fraser managed to manoeuvre it over them before curling tightly around Ray, spooning him from behind. A soft growl from the kitchen window signalled Diefenbaker’s return; the click of his nails on the fire escape told of his hasty retreat.
Fraser hesitated before answering.
“So, is this how you usually react to people trying on your clothes”?
Ray could feel Fraser’s smile on the nape of his neck.
“No Ray, not usually. Actually, no one has ever dared touch my uniform before.”
Ray grinned. “You seemed to like it though. Me wearin’ it and all.”
“Yes, I did. And may I point out that you seemed to enjoy wearing it, as well?”
“You may,” Ray mock-groused, “but don’t let it get around.”
“Believe me, Ray, I won’t.”
“Well good.” With a sigh, Ray settled deeper into Fraser’s arms. “So much for the game though. Courtside and everything.”
Fraser shifted. “There is always half-time Ray.”
Ray squirmed at the thought. “Nah, for some reason I’m not in the mood for cheerleaders anymore. Besides,” he added, his voice going low, “what else you got around here that I could try on?”