killclaudio: (Passing Walrus)
[personal profile] killclaudio
Here are the snippetses that I promised a couple of days ago - I was going to just post them in the comments, but some of them got a bit too long. Apologies for the delay -apparently I am a slower and more pedantic writer than even I had realised. They’re all pretty much a PG or PG-13 rating.

For [ profile] malnpudl, F/K and the prompt ‘secret touches’. I fear this wasn’t entirely what you were hoping for.

“Was that you, Ray?”
“Was what me?”
“That hand just now. On my - you know.”
“Back? Shoulder?”
“Ah, a little lower.”
“Hah, somebody grabbed your ass? Like that doesn’t happen twenty times a day.”
“It’s really no cause for amusement, Ray.”
“Sure it is. Hey, it was probably that guy you were holding the door open for. He was eyeing you up.”
“I hardly think so. He seemed like a very nice young man.”
“Oh, yeeeeah. Too nice, if you follow me.”
“No, Ray, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Don’t matter, Fraser.”

“Oh, now really. I suppose that wasn’t you either, Ray?”
“Nah. It was that chick walking past.”
“Are you sure? She was several feet away.”
“Yeah, but she had really long arms. Like gorilla-girl or something. Her knuckles were dragging on the floor. Good thing you didn’t see her. You would have been scarred for life.”
“She can’t have been that horrific, Ray. I remember I once met a man in Paulatuk who had been mauled by three bears, and his face --”
“Ok, ok, I get it, Fraser. Less with the graphic, here.”
“Sorry, Ray.”

“Er, was that gentleman -- sorry, lady -- I think -- did that person wink at me?”
“Sure looked like it.”
“Ah. And the -- the hand, on the front of my trousers? Were they suggesting --?”
“I don’t think ‘suggesting’ entered into it, buddy.”

“Oh, good lord … that was, that was actually quite …”
“That one was me, Benton.”
“Oh …. good.”

For [ profile] mickeymvt, F/K and the prompt ‘tape’. Major, major schmoop alert. I hope you haven’t had your daily dose of sugar yet.

The videotape arrived in the mail about a week after Fraser left. He’d been sent up to Ottawa for training in political correctness or some crap like that, as if Fraser needed lessons in how to be nice to people. Ray had been expecting a letter or something; truth be told, Ray had been obsessively checking his mail every day since Fraser left, and missing him like crazy.

The note inside the package said simply;

Ray -
Please play the tape, and everything will become clear. I miss you.
- Benton

With a shrug Ray detoured through the kitchen to grab his coffee and then shoved the tape into the player and settled himself on the couch. There was a couple of seconds of blank screen, and then a click and a close-up of Fraser’s hand as he turned the camera on. Ray watched Fraser settle himself on the end of a bed in a slightly dingy hotel room and smiled nervously at the camera. He was wearing too-tight jeans and the horrible, ratty white jumper that should probably have been thrown out years ago. Ray caught his breath and squirmed slightly.

“Hello, Ray. I, er, I hope you’re well. I know I said I would write but I also know how much you dislike the formality of my letters, and so I thought, ah, that this would be a better way to communicate with you. Face-to-face, so to speak. Not that we actually are face to face, but, well.” Fraser coughed and tugged slightly at his clothing. “Anyway, one of my compatriots offered me the use of her video camera, although there was a slight mix-up when it transpired that she wished to film us together, but -- well, that’s not important right now.”

Ray grinned to himself, even though there was a slight sting of jealousy to it. Trust Fraser to be totally oblivious.

“The course is going very well. The people are friendly and charming, and we’re being taught- well, I can’t precisely say that it’s interesting, but I’m sure it is of vital importance that I learn, and really, they’re all being very patient with me.”

If Fraser thought it was boring then it was probably coma-inducing stuff. Ray rolled his eyes.

“I shall still be very glad to get home. I -- I miss you, Ray. My evenings are oddly quiet without you around. And Dief, of course. I miss the way you hum all the time --” Fraser broke off with a half-laugh. “It’s odd, how much easier it is to say these things to you like this, than to voice them in person. And I. I need to apologise for that, Ray. For not saying these things enough. In person. And so I’m trying to say them now. I love you.”

Ray sat up and put his coffee down, leaning closer to the screen.

“Because you put up with what I suppose you could describe as -- well, a certain recklessness on my part. Because you always know what I’m trying to say, even when you don’t understand the words. Because you take an interest in different types of lichen, even though I know it actually bores you.”

Ray laughed quietly. “Naw, Frase,” he said in an undertone, “not when it’s you talking.”

“Because you offered to put up with cold and isolation in order to make me happy. Because you are willing to change for me. And because I have discovered that I don’t want you to."

Ray’s vision was swimming as the tape came to an end.

“I love you, Ray, simply for being utterly, incontrovertibly you.” Fraser smiled into the camera one last time and reached up behind it. A moment later the screen went black.

For [ profile] vsee; F/K and the prompt ‘something unexpected’. I’m not entirely sure if this fits the bill, but I really hope you like it!

When Fraser reached up to knock on Ray’s door, he found it unlocked. That was not unusual. The walls in Ray’s building were thin, and he often heard Fraser coming up the stairs and opened the door for him while he put the water on to boil. RCMP issue boots and a deaf half-wolf can make a lot of noise. Tonight, though, when Fraser eased through the doorway and shut the door softly behind him, Ray was nowhere to be seen. The living room was largely in darkness. Cautiously, Fraser took a few further steps into the room, alert for an intruder, any sign of trouble; and that was when the smell hit him. Sweat and semen, underscored with the faint but distinctive hint of latex and lubricant. If he strained his ears he could just catch the sound of two voices panting in harsh tandem through the closed bedroom door.

Clearly, he was not welcome tonight. Fraser swallowed hard, willed himself not to be disappointed. He would go back to the Consulate and have a nice, hot cup of tea while he read his book. His hand was on the doorknob to leave when Ray let out a long, low moan, clearly audible even across the apartment, and Fraser had to catch his breath. This was what Ray sounded like in bed. He had been torturing himself for months now wondering exactly what kind of noises Ray would make, and here they were. Without realising it, he was already back across the living room and pressed against the wall.

At first there was nothing but more harsh breathing, and Fraser strained to distinguish Ray’s pants from those of his companion. Then came another moan, and Ray’s low tone murmuring something that even Fraser’s acute hearing could not make out. The noises began to get louder and less distinct, and Fraser could hear the bed springs, could smell everything, sweat and deodorant and cologne and the fabric softener in the warm sheets and then he heard Ray cry out -


Fraser’s heart constricted painfully in his chest, and it took several deep and calming breaths before he could let go of his death-grip on the door-frame. There were thousands of men called Ben living in this city, and tonight Ray had picked one of them up. It wasn’t as though Ray ever called him Ben, anyway. But oh, the sound of his name called out in Ray’s voice, in tones of such ecstasy. Bitter as that was, it would warm his dreams for many months to come.

The bedroom had gone quiet. He had outstayed his welcome. As silently as possible, Fraser crossed the room and slipped through the door, closing it softly behind him.

For [ profile] keerawa; Crowley and Frannie and the prompt ‘temptation’. Needless to say, I’d never written this pairing before.

He had black hair and a white smile and a car that did 180 on the flat, and Frannie was totally smitten. Crowley, for his part, was pretty thrilled too. Seducing sixteen-year-old Catholic schoolgirls was right up there on the list of things that would get him back in the good books Down Below. Nothing the Father of Lies liked more than hearing about young women who had strayed from the path of righteousness.1 He just needed to spend a couple of weeks taking her out for dinner and listening to her ramble about how pink skirts were totally a fashion statement, and he was in. Admittedly, this was the kind of labor-intensive temptation that Crowley rarely indulged in any more, preferring the mass effect of power cuts and telemarketing2, but he needed to do something to keep his hand in.

He had reckoned without Frannie’s unswerving commitment to getting what she wanted. She started up in the Bentley on the way back from dinner at a fancy restaurant, during the course of which no money had changed hands.

“So I was thinking…”

Crowley tuned her out, as he had learnt to do these past few weeks, and instead worried about his house plants. He had left Aziraphale to take care of them for a couple of months while he was in America, but really, the angel was too soft on them. Crowley himself had put the fear of - well, the fear of Hell into them, and they grew at an almost unnatural rate. They might start wilting or going brown if Aziraphale started being nice to them.

“…and then I was shoe shopping when it hit me, just like that…”

Crowley turned the Bentley down a side street, noting the young man in tight jeans and a tighter vest hanging around on the street corner, eyeing up the passers-by. He would make sure to send the priest from the Methodist church on Michigan over to him later. Tempting men of God always earned him a few extra points.

“… I think we should have sex.”

“Certai- wait, what?” Crowley turned to stare at Frannie. “What did you say?”

“Were you even listening to me?” Frannie asked accusingly. “I said, I like you, you like me, so we should just, y’know,” she waved a hand vaguely, “get it off.”

“Get in on.” Crowley corrected absently.

“Are you sure? Because I really think that ‘get it off’ sounds more likely…”

Crowley sighed. Bless it all to Heaven. This wasn’t temptation. Even Crowley wasn’t tempted. Loathe as he was to admit it, he’d much rather go back to London and have a cup of tea with Aziraphale. He would just turn the girl over to the Side of the Light before he went. Aziraphale could spend the next decade or so bringing her back to the true path. It would the angel to get out more.

1. This was probably why Hell was so full of Girls Gone Wild videos - either that, or they were being used for torture purposes. Or perhaps both.

2. Telemarketing isn’t actually a creation of hell but of humans, which just goes to show, although what it goes to show, Crowley isn’t quite sure. Other than that maybe he’d be safer Down There after all.

For [ profile] luzula; teen!Fraser/Smithbauer and the prompt ‘blow’. I chose to interpret this as ‘blow to the head’. I’ve never written this pairing before either. Eeep.

The problem was that when Mark lined up the pucks and thumped them one by one into the snowbank, curving them gracefully through the air, it looked so spectacular that everyone wanted to try it. Not all the Inuvik schoolboys had Mark’s natural talent, and pretty soon the icy pond was a death trap as pucks went flying back and forth.

“I really don’t think -” Fraser began in his best authoritarian voice, a voice which was already having an effect on criminals and wrongdoers. But which apparently left fifteen year old boys cold. If anything they got louder, skating in circles and whooping every time one of them managed to hit the bank.

Fraser sighed and turned around, intending to go home and start on his homework, when a quiet thump and a cry of pain made him turn back to the pond. Mark was lying on his back on the ice, stick flung from his hand, a puck just sliding away behind him. Fraser skated over quickly and knelt next to him, eyeing the huge red mark where the puck had hit his forehead. He peered into his friend’s eyes, examining the pupils and testing his autonomic reactions. “Are you alright?”

“What the hell happened?” Mark looked up beyond Fraser’s shoulder to where the boy who had hit the puck was standing, looking both concerned and defensive.

“You couldn’t just duck, Smithbauer?”

“Carson, you miserable fuck…”

“Language.” Fraser said reprovingly, reaching out a hand to Mark. “Do you think you can stand?”

“Sure.” Mark was as steady on skates as he was on his own feet, perhaps steadier, so Fraser had no qualms about letting him skate gently to the edge of the pond. He made mark sit down while he tested his co-ordination.

“Do you have a headache? Dizziness? Nausea?”

“Of course I have a headache, Ben, someone hit me with a puck.” Mark growled. “And what the hell is that noise?”

“You have ringing in your ears?” Fraser moved to examine Mark’s ears, mainly so that he wouldn’t have to look at the bright blue eyes trained on him. He didn’t often get this close to Mark in public. He didn’t trust himself. Or Mark.

“Yeah, and I feel kinda dizzy. Stuff keeps moving about.”

“You have a Grade I concussion.” Fraser thumped a hand lightly on Mark’s shoulder and got to his feet. “It should pass in a couple of minutes. We just need to get you inside.”

“I’m fine,” Mark protested, eyeing the pond speculatively, but most of the other boys were already retrieving the pucks or pulling off their skates. One casualty in an afternoon was more than enough. “Oh, alright then.”

Mrs. Smithbauer welcomed them inside with a smile and settled them both on the couch with hot chocolate and the first aid kit. After dabbing somewhat viciously at the cut on Mark’s forehead with antiseptic, she declared that “you’ll have a nasty lump there in the morning” and left them to it. Mark smiled at Fraser, that particular smile that promised mischief and pleasure in equal proportions.

“Alone at last, eh?”

“Yes, well, you still need to rest.” Fraser fought the urge to squirm.

“I am resting. Sat down and everything.” Mark put his mug carefully down on the coffee table and leaned back as if to demonstrate, spreading his legs and canting his hips in a gesture of total relaxation. Fraser’s mouth went dry at the sight and he had to force his eyes back to Mark’s face. Mark himself had no such qualms, his gaze sweeping possessively over Fraser and lingering just a fraction too long between his legs. Fraser had to wet his lips before he could speak.

“Your mother -”

“Has gone upstairs.” Mark finished in a tone that brooked no argument. “Come here.”

Fraser went, surrendering to the force of Mark’s gravitational pull. The kiss was light and quick and breathless, as much a tease as Mark’s looks and smiles had been earlier. Fraser pulled him closer, trying to weigh the kiss down with everything he felt, and Mark responded by wrapping an arm around Fraser and anchoring him against his own body. When Fraser eventually pulled back there was a glint in Mark’s eyes.

“See?” he said. “This is relaxing.”

For [ profile] tanisafan; Aziraphale/Crowley and the prompt‘tea’. Aziraphale and Crowley go to this pub.

“Oh.” Aziraphale voice was the personification of bewildered disappointment. Crowley pulled his sunglasses down a fraction to look at him.


“Well, it’s just, I was hoping they would have tea. I mean, I don’t want to bother anyone, but I could really do with a cup of tea, especially after that car journey. There’s something about doing 120mph up the motorway that makes one thirsty.”

“They didn’t have tea the last time we came here, I don’t know why you thought they would have it now.”

“Last time we came here was the fifteenth century,” Aziraphale said, in much the same way that someone might inform a botanist that grass was green. “You’d think they might have updated a little.”

“This from the man who thinks modern music is known as ‘be-bop’.” Crowley sighed and flicked his eyes towards the table. A second later a steaming cup of Darjeeling was sitting in front of Aziraphale.

Really, my dear.” Angels are capable of creating anything they need out of the firmament, but it’s somehow considered unsporting, not quite cricket. Crowley had no such qualms.

“Oh, just be quiet and drink it.” He sipped his own glass of wine, which had started as a bland Merlot and turned into a delicious, but rather surprised, Châteauneuf-du-Pape. “It really is exactly the same place, isn’t it? Same fireplace, same staircase…”

“… I don’t think they’ve even changed the wallpaper.” Azirapahle glanced around him. “It’s quite comforting in a way. To think that some things never change. You remember how you scared that man on the staircase? He never recovered from that.”

“No,” said Crowley cheerfully, “he died.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale had forgotten that part. “One feels perhaps that was a mistake.”

“Depends where he ended up. If he was destined for Upstairs I would have tried to keep him hanging around a bit longer. It’s not like I meant to kill him.”

“No, you were just careless,” Aziraphale said wryly.

Crowley eyed Aziraphale speculatively. “They still do rooms upstairs, you know. The one we stayed in last time probably hasn’t changed a bit.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Do you suppose they still have the four-poster bed we slept in?”

“Only one way to find out.” Crowley got up with more bounce in his step than usual. “Bartender!”

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June 2008

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