For the "Underwear" challenge
He can picture Fraser in a dress, oh yeah, sometimes he has weird dreams like that, about how Fraser would look in silk or satin, with long hair, lipstick. Just thinking about that gives Ray a little shiver. He'd be willing to bet Fraser would make a pretty good looking woman -- a little big throughout the shoulders, maybe, but that face would still be beautiful, those eyes would still undo him, maybe even kill him if they were smudged in black liner. So, yeah, he can imagine Fraser standing in front of him in lacy underwear.
What he's never imagined, what his brain never could have concocted in a thousand years, is Ray Vecchio in women's lingerie, Ray Vecchio in lacy, satiny nude-colored briefs that ride low on his bony male hips. That idea, that image, is not anything that would have made it through Ray Kowalski's shyeah, sure filter, but that's what he sees, that's what's right in front of him as he opens the door to the hotel room.
"Jesus." The word is forced out of him, along with the rest of his breath.
Vecchio freezes in the middle of what he's doing, which is putting on his watch. His thinning hair is wet and slicked back and there's a used towel lying on his bed. He smells like Irish Spring and aftershave, familiar male smells, familiar Vecchio smells, yet here he stands, hairy-chested, in satin underwear. Women's underwear.
"You're back early." Vecchio goes back to putting on his watch. "Shut the friggin' door, will ya?"
Kowalski complies; it gives his hands something to do while his brain rights itself. He can't help it -- his eyes are drawn to the pale beige satin.
"Take a picture, it lasts longer," Vecchio grouses in his normal grumpy voice.
"I, um." Kowalski shakes himself and blinks a few times. "I didn't think we were supposed to be transvestites. I thought we were supposed to be drug dealers. I didn't know--"
Ray shuts up. He keeps trying to think, but mostly, well, almost totally, he's consumed with how dark Vecchio's olive skin seems against the pale lace. Ray's eyes trace the long line of Vecchio's legs up to where they disappear into the satin. A shadow that might be Vecchio's balls is visible below the lacy edging; the shape of his dick, bigger than Kowalski would have expected, certainly bigger than he'd like to acknowledge, is clearly outlined in front.
Now Ray's trying to find words, but he has to jump start himself with a gesture, a how do you explain this? gesture towards Vecchio's crotch. He clears his throat. "You learn this in Vegas, this, this. . ."
"Yeah, I did, wanna make something out of it?" Vecchio doesn't wait for an answer, but takes an aggressive step towards the door where Ray's still rooted to the carpet. One dark hand rests, knuckles folded, against the lace on his hip. The other pokes the air in front of him. Kowalski watches the first hand, stares at the black hairs on the back of that hand, at the knuckles pressing into Vecchio's satin-covered hip. "Learned lots of things in Vegas, Kowalski, like that The Bookman sometimes wore women's underwear. Bras, nylons, garter belts, thongs -- which hurt like a motherfucker, let me tell you. Expensive stuff. Quality. Like this."
"Yeah, but you're not, you're back, you're you, you're. . ." Kowalski knows his mouth's running, but he doesn't care. He's imagining how smooth that shiny fabric might be under his hands. How satiny, how rough, how complicated Vecchio's skin might feel. How the textures might feel together.
"Turns out I liked it, okay?" Vecchio's leaning in, and Ray forces himself to look up at Vecchio's face. The eyes challenge him to make a smartass remark, but Ray hasn't got a remark. He can't help but notice how long Vecchio's lashes are. Under the prominent nose the sensual lips are scowling. "Look, I know what you're thinking, Kowalski, it's not like I'm queer or anything. Shit. Lots of guys cross-dress. Jesus. I'm not sick or anything. I just like the way it feels. I'm no pervert, Kowalski."
"No," Ray says in a husky whisper, thinking, but I am. "I know that."
"I mean, I like women, I love women." Vecchio strikes a pugnacious pose, arms crossed over his naked chest. "Don't go thinking anything."
"I'm not," Ray says, and he's not. He's not thinking anything at all, except how nice his hands feel on Vecchio's hips as he reaches out and drags his partner closer. His fingers slide on the satin, press into the sharp bones, slip around to the back, dig into the muscles of Vecchio's ass.
"It's just sometimes you have to try something different," Vecchio says, after a moment, his voice in Ray's ear. His breath hot and moist in Ray's ear.
"I know," Ray says, and finds the edge of the lace and slips underneath it, stroking flesh as smooth as the satin of the lingerie. His fingers slide and grip, stroke and clutch at Vecchio's ass. The lace catches at the fine gold hairs on the back of his hands.
Arms uncross and Vecchio's hands slip around Ray's back to bunch in the cotton of his thin shirt. Vecchio's hands are hot, and his voice is strained. "Sometimes you just have to see if you like it, you know?" The arms flex and Ray is pulled close to Vecchio's chest. He can feel Vecchio breathe, now, feel his heart pulse. He can hear Vecchio's breath catching a little, speeding up.
"Yeah, sure, I know," Ray says. He runs his right hand around Vecchio's body, underneath the satin, shivering as coarse pubic hair tickles his palm. His left hand slides and grips, strokes and clutches.
"Because if you don't try things, you know, new things, different things, you, ah, can stagnate." Vecchio is shivering too, now, and moving his hips from side to side, rubbing his groin against Ray's hand.
"Wouldn't want that," Ray agrees, as his fist closes on the satiny flesh of Vecchio's cock. The flesh is smooth and hot against his palm; the fabric is smooth and cool against the back. Vecchio's erection is heavy in Ray's hand, heavy and hot and a little bit slick, now that Ray's rubbed his thumb over the head. His own cock is hard, heading towards painful, inside his pants. He shifts his feet to try to relieve the pressure, but he doesn't want to stop what he's doing long enough to adjust himself.
"Didn't think you would," Vecchio rasps in Ray's ear. "Want to stagnate, I mean." One long-fingered hand separates itself from Kowalski's back, slides around to the front, strokes down Ray's chest to his fly. Ray groans with relief as Vecchio unzips him, reaches inside, takes hold of Ray's twitching cock.
*No argument here*, Ray thinks, but he's not talking any more. He's thrusting into Vecchio's hand, he's jerking Vecchio off faster and faster, he's lost in the smooth, slick skin, the soft satin lingerie, the hot coarseness pumping him. The hand he has on Vecchio's ass moves, his fingers sinking into the cleft between the smooth cheeks.
Vecchio moans, arches back, and lets go of Ray's cock. Before Ray can protest, he's shoved against the door, his own hand is pulled away and he's humping desperately against the satin, feeling Vecchio's weight, Vecchio's erection against his. Only the thin fabric, wet and slippery now with their combined fluids, separates them. The sensation is too great, Ray feels his eyes turn inside out, and he's over the edge, coming in staccato spurts against the vagina slickness of the satin.
He leans back, breathing huge gulps of air, but Vecchio isn't done, not yet, and keeps moving against him, thrusting almost with violence. Vecchio looms over him, nearly on his toes, gives a final grunt and spills wet heat between them.
"So," Vecchio says, after a while. His weight holds them both upright against the door.
"So," Ray says, his mouth dry, his knees rubbery. "So, Vecchio."
"What?" Vecchio sounds like himself, except out of breath.
"Think we ruined your underwear."
"That's okay. I've got plenty more." There's a whisper in Ray's ear that goes straight to his dick. "Got some silk ones that might be your color."