Birthdayfic for sansets! *hearts timezones*
Timezones! ♥
Soo, today is
sansets' birthday, and
sansetsis just the most wonderful, enthusiastic person, and I love her to tiny little bits, because she is one of the most fantastic motivators, so supportive and sincere, who loves canon and fandom with such passion and intelligence it humbles me *hearts*. And she also has a genfuck kink! What is there not to love?? So I have a whole genderfuck universe in which to play here, and a lot of story to tell, and the perfect audience with the perfect excuse.
Here are the stories so far in the genderfuckverse, chronologically.
The first one- rayk/starbuck, here
The second- Rayk/Fraser, here
The third- RayV/RayK, here
Fandom: due South
Pairing: Fraser/RayK (imagined F/V/K, referred to)
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1,900 words
Notes: This takes place between the second and third stories.
It’s enough of a balancing act without Vecchio there, but Ray still can’t stop looking at his hands.
They argue to mark time, measure the seconds into minutes on stakeout, ease the queues at the checkout, the afternoon slumps at the precinct. Fraser ignores their arguing mostly; a few times, she sees him smiling slightly, but next time she looks he’s back to blandness. Vecchio’s maybe not as keen to start the argument as she is, is more content to do nothing, look at the ingredients on the pemmican, but it only takes a minute for his gaze to go inward, his mouth to go tenser, and Dief starts getting restless and she figures it’s only a matter of time before he starts bitching and whining for real, and then Frase would have to deal with it, and everything would go to shit. So she says something about his tie, he tells her it’s designer, she laughs at him, and the kid at the checkout looks like he’s getting ready to break up a domestic.
Feels like it’s all…like balancing forks. When she was a kid, she’d make fork towers whenever they ate out, towers that made her stomach clench because the tiniest slip and there’d be a clatter of silverware, and ma would use her public telling-off voice, which was scarier than yelling. Feels like it’s a sculpture now, but the first slip, then there’d be noisy clattering metal and scattered forks. Fraser’s spookable, for all he pretends he isn’t, and Vecchio hasn’t even moved the stuff out of the boxes in his crummy rented apartment- he hangs his suits on a length of wire that goes crossways from corner to corner, and the only other things he’s unpacked are a few chipped and battered bits of crockery, and his coffee machine. Feels like she’s being pulled two directions, worrying about them both.
She looks at Vecchio’s hands too often, then spends hours memorising Fraser’s, running through her still-short hair, thumbs fanning out over her cheekbones, palms warm on her ribs, fingers strong and sure, dancing inside her until she wants to break apart, doesn’t know which way she wants to move, but Fraser’s guiding her there, and laughing a little, warm and deep at her surprise still when she gets to the place she needs to be, to the cliff she needs to fall off so she can finally stop fucking needing.
Tonight, she has to bite down on the name she almost gasps out, and Fraser stills inside her, looks down, curious but not worried. She shakes her head, sits up a little and kisses him until he moves like he’s forgotten, and she’s almost forgotten she wants to fucking kill Vecchio for being such a fucking Italian spanner in the works. Afterwards, though, when she’s nestled real close, so all she can smell and feel is him, he starts talking, asking.
“Ray, if you think I- that is, I know it has been a momentous adjustment for you, and if you aren’t comfortable, I could--”
She puts a hand over his mouth to stop him, closes her eyes briefly, screws up courage. Chicks are meant to be good at this kind of thing, right?
“His hands. God, his fucking hands.”
Fraser’s waiting patiently for her to start making sense. She sits up, pulls her knees up so she’s hunched over them and scowls at him. “Vecchio. I think about him, and then I feel guilty and this is too much like fucking fork towers and I don’t want him, I want you, but he’s there, and he looks at us so hungry sometimes, and I just-”
“Fork towers?”
“Fraser, the fork towers are immaterial, they’re an analogy for this, his hands are what’s important, they are real fucking important- stop smiling!”
Fraser smoothes over his smile with one hand, rests the other on Ray’s shoulder. “I had been waiting for you to say something like this,” he says, earnest, kind looking. “What were you planning on doing?”
Ray sorta wants him to stop being rational, because in those damn operas Stella used to go to, the hero always got these huge songs, wailed his fucking lungs out, tore at his shirt, the whole lot. Fraser’s calm. She…feels deflated, somehow. “Weirdly, planning wasn’t on my mind. What would I be planning for, huh? A bigger bed? Which one I’d marry to cheat on with the other? Who would get the mugs with the zebra pattern, which are mine, by the way. This ain’t something you expect, really- ain’t in any of the guidebook.”
Fraser only raises an eyebrow, and Ray has a brief panic about having mentioned marriage. “Ray, I don’t think we’re at the guidebook stage here. To extend the analogy, in fact, I think that this chapter has never even been considered by the compilers of this guidebook. We’re in uncharted territory, here.”
“Like Franklin,” Ray murmurs, arms wrapped around her knees. The quest feels so far back now, pushed to the back of her memory, that morning in the hotel when everything went to shit making everything else hazy. Fraser scoots closer to her, puts an arm around her shoulders.
“Everything will be fine,” he says, sounding so damn sure of himself. She leans back onto him, the need to believe him making her chest ache.
*-*
So it turns out, when she’s looking for it, that Fraser and Vecchio get on pretty damn well together, and even the slightest…opening of possibilities make things shift, change without seeming to change at all. They do the same stuff together, but every time Vecchio teases Fraser for knowing nothing about wingtip collars, or whatever the fuck they are, and Fraser tries to slip pemmican and blubber into the pizza order, Ray looks at them and wonders if they acted this married before. They fit, they click in these weird new ways.
Her and Vecchio, well, there’s still the arguing, and maybe her eyes linger on his hands a little more, and maybe his smile’s a little more predatory, and maybe she wants to slam him up against the filing cabinet and kiss the smile right off his face, but the stab of guilt she used to feel is replaced by thoughts of Fraser watching them, enjoying them-
Enjoying Vecchio.
That evening, she can’t sit still, keeps biting her lip, shifting in her chair to get a hold of this heavy, liquid feeling that promises her so much if she just presses a little more, bites down a little harder. Vecchio keeps looking, quick guilty glances. Fraser’s face is carefully neutral.
Vecchio’s let himself out to drive back, and she catches Fraser looking at the door with this real…hungry look on his face, a look that makes Dief sit in front of his bowl of kibble real defensively and she’s standing in front of him, putting her hands on his shoulders, getting right into his space.
“You want him too,” she whispers, surprised at how fucking hot that thought is. “Want him real bad.”
She straddles him, right there in the apartment kitchen, hands still on his shoulders, even if he don’t look like he’s going anywhere, no sir. Dief makes his tactful squirrelhunting noise, bolts out of the window and down the fire exit, and Fraser just…sits there, in his Henley, suspenders still on, all domestic, tired from the case they’ve just spent fucking weeks chasing leads on, just sits there and looks.
“You want both of us, huh? Cause that’s kind of greedy, Frase. You think you can cope with both of us?”
He doesn’t answer, lifts up the hem of her tank top, takes it off and puts it on the table, kisses where her neck meets her shoulder and runs his hands down her back, presses his palm flat against her stomach and down, down into her jeans. He’s started moving his fingers so she’s forgotten the fucking question when he says “I’ll try my best,” like he’s promising to help the Queen or something, but she hopes he don’t talk that way to her, cause that’s treason, all deep with this breathiness that gets her every time. “Speaking of which,” he murmurs, other hand tracing a line under her breast like he wants to hear what sorts of noises she’ll make, “could you cope with two people doing this?” Hand going in, deeper, deeper; she undoes her flies to give him more room, kisses the side of his mouth as he whispers, tells her to imagine Vecchio doing this, telling her what they could do, two people driving her wild every way they could think of until she’s gasping ‘please’, and ‘fuck’, kissing him hard and unfastening his flies, nearly tearing the lining of his pocket looking for the condom.
He lifts her up so her ass is resting on the worktop, puts the condom on- he’s still wearing his Henley- and she’s kicking off her jeans, headkickers somehow staying on, wrapping her legs around him and kissing him, hard as he’s inside her, pushing in deep and slow, controlled still. Her and Vecchio could make him lose that, take that control away, and it’s like Vecchio’s already in the room, in his shirtsleeves, smiling that lazy sexy smile of his, maybe kissing the side of Fraser’s neck, taking off his Henley, running his hands up his stomach to his chest, biting down lightly on his neck as he brushes featherlight over Fraser’s nipples-
Ray closes her eyes, complete sensory overload, cause Fraser’s just intoxicating, has made her fall so deep, so hard, and now all the possibility of the two of them has been flung outwards, expanded until it’s fucking dazzling to think about, and he’s kissing her neck, his thumb’s steady and sure on her clit, and he’s moving faster now, and not enough becomes enough, and it’s perfect, plummeting down from arching up, and she’s leaning back on her elbows, dazed, mind still working overtime. “Yes,” she whispers to him, reaching up to cup his cheek, tracing his mouth until he turns his head slightly, licks around two of her fingers. Maybe it’s because he can’t talk, but she finds the words easier when his breath’s coming so fast, and the arm he’s steadying himself with is shuddering slightly. “We can fit together. Don’t need it- you’re enough, but--”
By the look on his face, she’s said enough. As he moves faster, she puts her hand, palm up on the worktop, near his and he grabs it, twines his fingers in hers almost painfully tight, and comes like that, joined in every way possible, wrapped around and into each other. He rests his forehead on hers, breath coming out in little pants, and she grins, lazy. “So what’s our strategy? Wine and dine him? Tickets to the crystal ballroom? Maybe an Inuit story and some pemmican?”
He kisses her on the forehead, steps back and puts the condom in the trash can, does his pants back up and looks at her, sitting on the worktop, naked except for her big black workboots, beams like he was back in the middle of that snowfield. “I think our best course of action is a hockey match and some pizza.”
She grins back, feeling happy enough to burst. “He won’t know what’s hit him.”
Soo, today is
sansets' birthday, and
sansetsis just the most wonderful, enthusiastic person, and I love her to tiny little bits, because she is one of the most fantastic motivators, so supportive and sincere, who loves canon and fandom with such passion and intelligence it humbles me *hearts*. And she also has a genfuck kink! What is there not to love?? So I have a whole genderfuck universe in which to play here, and a lot of story to tell, and the perfect audience with the perfect excuse.
Here are the stories so far in the genderfuckverse, chronologically.
The first one- rayk/starbuck, here
The second- Rayk/Fraser, here
The third- RayV/RayK, here
Fandom: due South
Pairing: Fraser/RayK (imagined F/V/K, referred to)
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1,900 words
Notes: This takes place between the second and third stories.
It’s enough of a balancing act without Vecchio there, but Ray still can’t stop looking at his hands.
They argue to mark time, measure the seconds into minutes on stakeout, ease the queues at the checkout, the afternoon slumps at the precinct. Fraser ignores their arguing mostly; a few times, she sees him smiling slightly, but next time she looks he’s back to blandness. Vecchio’s maybe not as keen to start the argument as she is, is more content to do nothing, look at the ingredients on the pemmican, but it only takes a minute for his gaze to go inward, his mouth to go tenser, and Dief starts getting restless and she figures it’s only a matter of time before he starts bitching and whining for real, and then Frase would have to deal with it, and everything would go to shit. So she says something about his tie, he tells her it’s designer, she laughs at him, and the kid at the checkout looks like he’s getting ready to break up a domestic.
Feels like it’s all…like balancing forks. When she was a kid, she’d make fork towers whenever they ate out, towers that made her stomach clench because the tiniest slip and there’d be a clatter of silverware, and ma would use her public telling-off voice, which was scarier than yelling. Feels like it’s a sculpture now, but the first slip, then there’d be noisy clattering metal and scattered forks. Fraser’s spookable, for all he pretends he isn’t, and Vecchio hasn’t even moved the stuff out of the boxes in his crummy rented apartment- he hangs his suits on a length of wire that goes crossways from corner to corner, and the only other things he’s unpacked are a few chipped and battered bits of crockery, and his coffee machine. Feels like she’s being pulled two directions, worrying about them both.
She looks at Vecchio’s hands too often, then spends hours memorising Fraser’s, running through her still-short hair, thumbs fanning out over her cheekbones, palms warm on her ribs, fingers strong and sure, dancing inside her until she wants to break apart, doesn’t know which way she wants to move, but Fraser’s guiding her there, and laughing a little, warm and deep at her surprise still when she gets to the place she needs to be, to the cliff she needs to fall off so she can finally stop fucking needing.
Tonight, she has to bite down on the name she almost gasps out, and Fraser stills inside her, looks down, curious but not worried. She shakes her head, sits up a little and kisses him until he moves like he’s forgotten, and she’s almost forgotten she wants to fucking kill Vecchio for being such a fucking Italian spanner in the works. Afterwards, though, when she’s nestled real close, so all she can smell and feel is him, he starts talking, asking.
“Ray, if you think I- that is, I know it has been a momentous adjustment for you, and if you aren’t comfortable, I could--”
She puts a hand over his mouth to stop him, closes her eyes briefly, screws up courage. Chicks are meant to be good at this kind of thing, right?
“His hands. God, his fucking hands.”
Fraser’s waiting patiently for her to start making sense. She sits up, pulls her knees up so she’s hunched over them and scowls at him. “Vecchio. I think about him, and then I feel guilty and this is too much like fucking fork towers and I don’t want him, I want you, but he’s there, and he looks at us so hungry sometimes, and I just-”
“Fork towers?”
“Fraser, the fork towers are immaterial, they’re an analogy for this, his hands are what’s important, they are real fucking important- stop smiling!”
Fraser smoothes over his smile with one hand, rests the other on Ray’s shoulder. “I had been waiting for you to say something like this,” he says, earnest, kind looking. “What were you planning on doing?”
Ray sorta wants him to stop being rational, because in those damn operas Stella used to go to, the hero always got these huge songs, wailed his fucking lungs out, tore at his shirt, the whole lot. Fraser’s calm. She…feels deflated, somehow. “Weirdly, planning wasn’t on my mind. What would I be planning for, huh? A bigger bed? Which one I’d marry to cheat on with the other? Who would get the mugs with the zebra pattern, which are mine, by the way. This ain’t something you expect, really- ain’t in any of the guidebook.”
Fraser only raises an eyebrow, and Ray has a brief panic about having mentioned marriage. “Ray, I don’t think we’re at the guidebook stage here. To extend the analogy, in fact, I think that this chapter has never even been considered by the compilers of this guidebook. We’re in uncharted territory, here.”
“Like Franklin,” Ray murmurs, arms wrapped around her knees. The quest feels so far back now, pushed to the back of her memory, that morning in the hotel when everything went to shit making everything else hazy. Fraser scoots closer to her, puts an arm around her shoulders.
“Everything will be fine,” he says, sounding so damn sure of himself. She leans back onto him, the need to believe him making her chest ache.
*-*
So it turns out, when she’s looking for it, that Fraser and Vecchio get on pretty damn well together, and even the slightest…opening of possibilities make things shift, change without seeming to change at all. They do the same stuff together, but every time Vecchio teases Fraser for knowing nothing about wingtip collars, or whatever the fuck they are, and Fraser tries to slip pemmican and blubber into the pizza order, Ray looks at them and wonders if they acted this married before. They fit, they click in these weird new ways.
Her and Vecchio, well, there’s still the arguing, and maybe her eyes linger on his hands a little more, and maybe his smile’s a little more predatory, and maybe she wants to slam him up against the filing cabinet and kiss the smile right off his face, but the stab of guilt she used to feel is replaced by thoughts of Fraser watching them, enjoying them-
Enjoying Vecchio.
That evening, she can’t sit still, keeps biting her lip, shifting in her chair to get a hold of this heavy, liquid feeling that promises her so much if she just presses a little more, bites down a little harder. Vecchio keeps looking, quick guilty glances. Fraser’s face is carefully neutral.
Vecchio’s let himself out to drive back, and she catches Fraser looking at the door with this real…hungry look on his face, a look that makes Dief sit in front of his bowl of kibble real defensively and she’s standing in front of him, putting her hands on his shoulders, getting right into his space.
“You want him too,” she whispers, surprised at how fucking hot that thought is. “Want him real bad.”
She straddles him, right there in the apartment kitchen, hands still on his shoulders, even if he don’t look like he’s going anywhere, no sir. Dief makes his tactful squirrelhunting noise, bolts out of the window and down the fire exit, and Fraser just…sits there, in his Henley, suspenders still on, all domestic, tired from the case they’ve just spent fucking weeks chasing leads on, just sits there and looks.
“You want both of us, huh? Cause that’s kind of greedy, Frase. You think you can cope with both of us?”
He doesn’t answer, lifts up the hem of her tank top, takes it off and puts it on the table, kisses where her neck meets her shoulder and runs his hands down her back, presses his palm flat against her stomach and down, down into her jeans. He’s started moving his fingers so she’s forgotten the fucking question when he says “I’ll try my best,” like he’s promising to help the Queen or something, but she hopes he don’t talk that way to her, cause that’s treason, all deep with this breathiness that gets her every time. “Speaking of which,” he murmurs, other hand tracing a line under her breast like he wants to hear what sorts of noises she’ll make, “could you cope with two people doing this?” Hand going in, deeper, deeper; she undoes her flies to give him more room, kisses the side of his mouth as he whispers, tells her to imagine Vecchio doing this, telling her what they could do, two people driving her wild every way they could think of until she’s gasping ‘please’, and ‘fuck’, kissing him hard and unfastening his flies, nearly tearing the lining of his pocket looking for the condom.
He lifts her up so her ass is resting on the worktop, puts the condom on- he’s still wearing his Henley- and she’s kicking off her jeans, headkickers somehow staying on, wrapping her legs around him and kissing him, hard as he’s inside her, pushing in deep and slow, controlled still. Her and Vecchio could make him lose that, take that control away, and it’s like Vecchio’s already in the room, in his shirtsleeves, smiling that lazy sexy smile of his, maybe kissing the side of Fraser’s neck, taking off his Henley, running his hands up his stomach to his chest, biting down lightly on his neck as he brushes featherlight over Fraser’s nipples-
Ray closes her eyes, complete sensory overload, cause Fraser’s just intoxicating, has made her fall so deep, so hard, and now all the possibility of the two of them has been flung outwards, expanded until it’s fucking dazzling to think about, and he’s kissing her neck, his thumb’s steady and sure on her clit, and he’s moving faster now, and not enough becomes enough, and it’s perfect, plummeting down from arching up, and she’s leaning back on her elbows, dazed, mind still working overtime. “Yes,” she whispers to him, reaching up to cup his cheek, tracing his mouth until he turns his head slightly, licks around two of her fingers. Maybe it’s because he can’t talk, but she finds the words easier when his breath’s coming so fast, and the arm he’s steadying himself with is shuddering slightly. “We can fit together. Don’t need it- you’re enough, but--”
By the look on his face, she’s said enough. As he moves faster, she puts her hand, palm up on the worktop, near his and he grabs it, twines his fingers in hers almost painfully tight, and comes like that, joined in every way possible, wrapped around and into each other. He rests his forehead on hers, breath coming out in little pants, and she grins, lazy. “So what’s our strategy? Wine and dine him? Tickets to the crystal ballroom? Maybe an Inuit story and some pemmican?”
He kisses her on the forehead, steps back and puts the condom in the trash can, does his pants back up and looks at her, sitting on the worktop, naked except for her big black workboots, beams like he was back in the middle of that snowfield. “I think our best course of action is a hockey match and some pizza.”
She grins back, feeling happy enough to burst. “He won’t know what’s hit him.”