Soundtrack: Stand (Stand in the place where you were . . .) and Pop Song 89 (Hello, I saw you, I know you, I knew you, I think I can remember your name), from Green, REM. You are so surprised. I know. I Melt With You, Modern English. (I'm an 80's refugee. Bite me.)

I kind of took a question on Asylum as a challenge so this is entirely an unrepentant Denise's fault. Do NOT give her any more bags of Cheetos. LaT gave me the set up - because she has an Evil!Greedy!Smurf and we do so love when she comes to visit.

Gratitude to certain people who sent my mind spinning in many different directions these past few weeks - unfortunately I haven't managed to encompass all of them. Yet.

LaT betaed - sterling job, as always -*and* had thelast word on sartorial choices. Mmmfff.

This is an erotic character study (ha!) of absolutely no redeeming social or literary value. M/M (duh), F/K (double duh), NC-17 (OHyeah).

For Kelingtyn. Because she asked. Well, told, really, but . . .

Plain White Wrapper
 © September 2000 AuKestrel

"Sucks." I scrub my hair with the towel one last time, scowl at myself in the mirror, and toss the towel behind the door. Hamper, clothes basket, whatever. I'm pissed and I'll pick it up later when I'm not. Or maybe I won't. "Sucks, sucks, sucks."

Two nights going on three of double shifts, three goddamn detectives out with strep throat and flu, and we all gotta pull our weight, Detective. Fraser's got no weight to pull: the one thing the Ice Queen never managed to work into Fraser's schedule was night duty, so I'm going, he's coming, he's coming, I'm going, and no time to liaise.

"Sucks," I say one more time to the angry guy in the mirror. He doesn't look any more sympathetic than I feel.

I hit the bedroom stomping, not too impressive in bare feet, yeah, whatever. "Sucks." God. "Suuuucks." Okay, there we don't go, let's not go there. Seventy two hours and counting. Bet Fraser knows the minutes. It's not like we can't get it on in the daytime, hell no, but we can't get it on if we're not in the same fucking place at the same fucking time, and for one insane minute I wonder how he'd feel about phone sex.

"N-no. No." I shake my head and cross to the tall dresser. Underwear in the top drawer, less than half the top drawer now: Fraser's got more than half the closet too, those damned uniforms take up a lot more space than my lonely suit and three jackets.

His underwear's stacked - stacked! - neatly on one side. Mine's bunched on the other. Thank God he doesn't starch or stack mine. Be pretty funny to see him trying to stack the candy striped ones. I grin to myself and reach into the drawer.

The scent of starch wafts up to my nose and the back of my hand brushes the stiff cotton. Jesus, this is pretty sad. I'm getting a hard on from laundry. It's that dog and bell thing - I smell starch, my brain thinks, "Gonna get some!"

I rub my fingers over it. Stiff, yeah, it really is. How can that be comfortable? How can that feel good? Feels good to touch, yeah, taut stiff smooth . . .

"Jesus!" I say out loud, starting to get hot and bothered along with pissed. "Stupid Mountie, stupid laundry." While I'm saying this, my hands are pulling those boxers right out of the drawer.

I shake them a little - an experiment. Yeah. Stiff. I try bending the fabric to see if it'll crack but it gives. It must, after all - Fraser's pretty active so he can't feel too uncomfortable or constrained. Nope. No, constrained's not the word for Fraser.

"What the hell," I mutter, and give up the fight with my bad self, slip them on.

The cool cotton's a shock and my dick wilts a little, which is a good thing. I twist my hips, bend over. They do kind of crackle. They definitely have more of a presence than the average brief. Can't forget I have these on, nope.

I rub my hands down my hips. Feels funny. That feels just like touching Fraser but it's on me. My hands know the smooth glide of the cotton under them and my nose knows the smell and, shit, my dick's taking a renewed interest in the whole damned thing again. I rub it through the cotton, half hard, getting harder; nudge it, adjust it, rub again. Feels like Fraser and that'd be a turn on only if Fraser was here. Not a turn on, no, Ray, not when it's just you in Fraser's underwear.

My dick pretty much jumps at that thought and I rub it again, squeezing it a little at the top. Fraser in his underwear, Fraser hard and hot and long under pristine white cotton, smooth and silky under my hand. I look sideways at the mirror - oh, big mistake. Me in Fraser's boxers, rubbing myself - it looks good and it's a goddamned solo party.

Not gonna do this.

Tell it to the Marines, Kowalski.

I snort at my reflection and rub harder. Tell it to the commandos. Wonder if Fraser ever does that? Turnabout's fair play, okay? Next time, my turn; and thinking of Fraser without underwear is almost as much a turn on as Fraser's underwear. Of course, I've got a good rhythm going and a serious woody so almost anything right now's going to be a turn on. The mating habits of fruit flies, whatever.

The cotton's starting to heat up, friction feels good, and it's just so seriously dirty to be getting off in Fraser's underwear - feels dirty, looks clean, looks clean and white in the reflection, and I close my eyes, slip my other hand down to my balls, outside the boxers and then - shock - warm hands on warm balls, flesh on flesh, inside the boxers.

Got a serious wet spot started now and I want-want-want to touch myself, more flesh on flesh, but the cotton between my hand and my dick is like having Fraser in on it somehow so I don't. I just grit my teeth, rub harder, let out a moan.

I hear a jangle and a click. I hear a familiar voice, pitched low.

I freeze.

Busted.

The door closes again and Dief's claws click on the kitchen floor: he always heads straight for the water dish first thing.

The best defence . . .

I move fast to the wall by the door and wait. One, two, three, four, five, and there's a shoe, regulation dress shoe. I spin, pounce, push him against the other side of the door, my hands already busy with his pants, my mouth hungry on his.

He freezes for about two seconds in pure surprise, the hand pulling off his tie stopped in its tracks and I barely have time to register that he's got the brown uniform on - I'm late, I was supposed to be gone already, and he's a little late himself - and then, wham, his tongue starts in on my mouth like there's no tomorrow, enthusiastic and warm and wet and, yeah, enthusiastic. The tie goes flying and his hands go down my bare back, hit the boxers and he stops dead, chuckles into my mouth, tries to pull back. I push him against the wall, don't let go of his mouth for a second. I got his pants undone, working on the buttons on his shirt under his coat, and I can feel him already hard under the fabric, feels just like me, just like him . . . I grunt into his mouth, push my ass into his hands and he wakes up, finally, grabs my ass and squeezes hard, pulling me against him.

"Let me - " he says, trying to push me and pull me at the same time.

"Oh, no, let me," I say back, shirt's almost unbuttoned, would be by now if he wasn't crushing me. There we go, last button and he's shrugging out of the coat, out of the shirt, out of his suspenders and I got my hands all over his chest, running them down his stomach as I sink to my knees.

"Oh, God," he says in a low, throaty growl and he grabs my head, fingers moving in my hair as I bite him through his boxers, nuzzle him, smell him. This is what was missing, starch and detergent and the musky smell of Fraser under it all, this is what was missing. This is all of it, yeah, the taste, the smell, the heat, the solid throb, pure sex in a plain white wrapper.

Three quick moves and I'm eye to eye with his cock sticking out of the flap and, Jesus, the contrast makes me quiver. Dark, flushed cock, slick top, obscenely white bright light cotton backdrop. I lick once and then suck him in all the way, burying my nose in the fabric, the smell and taste so fucking perfect that I worry for a second that I'm gonna start haunting laundromats and jerking off in the detergent aisle at the supermarket and I snort around his cock.

He growls again and pushes into me, his hands holding my head hard against him. He's already damned close - have to remember surprise is a Mountie aphrodisiac, next time - and we start to work off each other for real now, thrust, suck, shove, grunt. I love to suck him anyway, love the taste of him in my mouth, love the feel of his smooth hot skin on my tongue, and after three days and a solitary pair of his boxers this is better than ten wet dreams.

Make that twenty wet dreams: he's already twitching, tensing, and I get ready to ride it out, ride him out, swallow hard once in preparation and then he's there, letting loose, one final low-voiced "Raaaaaaay" as he spurts over and over into my mouth. I suck him hard almost too long because it makes his knees go all shaky and that turns me on too. Well, face it, isn't much about Benton Fraser in my life that doesn't turn me on, and starch would be Exhibit A today.

He braces against the wall and hauls me up by the armpits, pretty impressive for Constable Shaky Knees. He kisses me, long, deep, dirty. Licking me: he gets off on the taste of him in my mouth and who can blame him? I do too. We're on the same page there. Then he reaches between us.

"Nope, no can do, already late, Mountie."

"Oh, I don't think so, Ray," he says between licks. "A few more minutes are hardly going to matter."

Yeah, I knew he'd say that. Sex and punctuality, guess which one wins in the Fraserverse? I wasn't surprised. Even Mounties choose blow jobs over statue duty. Especially smart Mounties and that would be Fraser. Blow jobs on statue duty, we haven't managed to work that one out yet but it's fun to practise.

Blow jobs, hand jobs and there's his hand where I wanted it all along, pushing, pulling, stroking me through his boxers.

"Ray, you have no idea how good you look," he says in my ear. "I don't suppose you're interested in borrowing any of my sweaters?" Then he bites my earlobe. I turn my head, lick, bite back, harder than I meant to because now his hand is inside his - my boxers, big and warm and knowing. Too long, too fucking long since we - God, I think we've fucked more in three months than Stella and I did in three years. The first three years.

He's fumbling with his pants again, one-handed, confuses me for a second. Then he wraps my fingers around a bottle and turns around, back to me, with a grunt that makes me jerk and shiver: the grunt means, "Do me. Now." Ooookay. I like a man with a plan.

I fumble the bottle, he fumbles my - his boxers down, and faster than fast my slicked-up cock's slap up against his naked, perfect ass. He moves his legs as far apart as he can, not too far, all tangled up in his uniform pants but that's okay, we've done this, we're good at this, better than we should be - you'd think one of us would be patient but so far that hasn't been something either of us is very good at so, for instance, the boots (when he's wearing them) mostly get left for the afterglow, when the knots are funny-frustrating instead of where-the-hell-is-your-fucking-knife-frustrating.

He grunts again and I almost lose it. Jesus, he smells sexy, tastes better, sounds like nothing on earth when he's turned on. I grab his hip with one hand, fumble my dick again with the other one and then I'm sliding in, tight core heat, soft, bumpy, silky, all the way to the bottom. Bottom. I snort against his shoulder and he shoves his ass at me a little, meaning, "Now!" Yeah, Fraser, but you already said a few more minutes wouldn't make a difference and this is too damned good to rush right now.

Other hand on his other hip and I pull out slow. He moans. Push back in, hard, feeling him loosen a little, yeah - we're almost there. Once more and it's done, we're there, he pushes back against me hard and moans again, a low hungry sound, and I lose it, in the good way, the best way, inside Fraser, in and out and hard and soft and it doesn't take long after all, doesn't take long enough, never does.

I wrap my arms around his chest, fill my mouth with the skin of his shoulder, fill my nose with the smell of Fraser and cotton and starch and wolf and let it go, let it all go in Fraser's ass, making noises that'll be embarrassing to remember in a few minutes.

I gasp his name, panting hard, my turn for shaky knees. I slide out, made a huge fucking mess, need another shower now and so does he. He turns around, pulls me in close for a few seconds, hugging me hard.

He finally lets me go and slides down the wall, his head back, his eyes closed, big grin on his face matching the one on mine as I slide with him, still tangled in his - my boxers. He opens his eyes. I say, trying to keep a straight face, "Hi, Fraser. Good to see you."

"Hi, Ray." He's having trouble with the straight face too so I'm ready for it. "Thanks for coming."

***