Author's Website: http://www.dementia.org/~jacquez/writing/fanfic.html

Disclaimer:

Author's Notes: I'm afraid I must blame Resonant.

Story Notes:

31. The Game.

Denny Scarpa crossed her legs and tapped her fingernails on her knee. She missed Ante. She was alone here, with no Ante and no game.

The game. She closed her eyes and shuffled a deck in her head. She missed the game. Hell, she missed Joey. He wasn't the brightest partner she'd ever had, but he'd been reliable. And he'd been a good lover, someone to keep her company in the long nights when there was no game.

Joey'd always known how to take her mind off of things. He'd bury his fingers in her hair so that his long nail scraped the back of her neck, and he'd pull her head in close to him. She'd run her tongue down the length of his cock and let herself be distracted by taste and by the pressure of his fingers. She could focus on him and not on the itch in her fingers and the challenge of the game. She could. She could.

Goddamn, she missed the game.

32. Fruit Salad.

The pretty little club boy sitting on the next bench had noticed Fraser, who was smiling back at the boy without any apparent self-consciousness. The boy ran his tongue over his teeth, and Ray shook his head and looked up at the sky.

When he looked down, the boy had produced a banana from God-Knows-Where and was sucking gently at the peeled tip. And Fraser was...watching. Not looking at all upset or confused, but just...enjoying the sight.

Ray eyed Fraser's groin nervously. Shit. Fraser was enjoying the sight. Of a guy eating a banana in the most sexually explicit manner possible. Ray glared at the kid, who to be honest was probably in his mid-twenties, and the kid flicked his tongue over the banana and nibbled lightly.

"Frase. Let's go." Ray tugged at Fraser's sleeve.

"Why, Ray?"

"Because Porn Boy over there is driving me nuts."

Fraser raised his eyebrows and made an expression that on anyone else would have been a smirk. "Is that a good thing or not, Ray?"

Ray smacked him in the arm.

33. Fanboy.

Stanley looked at me and shook his head. "You and Fraser. I can't see it."

"Yeah," I said. "Me neither, but it worked." I looked at him. Weird clothes, spiky hair. "You a Billy Idol fan?"

He put the folders on the desk and looked at me for a second. Then he smiled, a long slow smile, and followed it up by curling his lips into a snarl.

Aw, no. No. No. He did not look like the kind of guy whose mouth I wanted on my dick. He did not.

He un-curled his lips and winked at me.

34. Automagical.

I figured out when I was fifteen that I could suck my own dick. I also figured out you're only a fag if you suck someone *else's* dick, and let me tell you, my life has not been the same since.

It ain't as easy as it used to be, but I keep flexible. Maybe I'm not as fit as the Mountie and his skinny partner, but I do pretty good. Unlike Vecchio, I stay away from the pizza--I still can't figure out when that guy has time to work out.

Anyway. So, I suck my own dick. So what? I bet every guy would if they could. I bet Vecchio would get his knees up around his ears if he--

What makes you think I'm obsessed with him? I'm not obsessed with anyone. Least of all him. What, you think I'm some kind of fag? You gotta be kidding me.

35. Light and Lightening.

The power's out. I stare up at the ceiling and feel the air on my skin. It's hot and humid, and I'm sticky with sweat. I press my tongue to my lower lip, the way Constable Fraser does sometimes. The way he did this morning when he had tea on his lip, and his tongue came out to blot it away.

I roll over and reach under my mattress and fumble in the darkness. I pull out my toybox and feel my way through it. I've got quite a collection, but tonight I only want one thing--my favorite.

It's shaped like a flashlight; easy to find in the black or by flickers of lightening. It's too hot tonight to bother with warming it up to skin temperature, so I just squeeze some lube into it and slide it down over my erection.

It's not lifelike. It's a dark grey flashlight case with lavender lips. Just now it doesn't matter. Just now, it feels real enough. I shiver in the heat and listen to the slick sound of my penis moving in and out. I let myself feel it, and I think about Constable Fraser's strong soft-looking tongue and his crooked mouth, and what they'd look like against my skin.

What it would be like to have him run that tongue over my body, to kiss me so that I could taste the tea in his mouth, to lower that mouth over my penis and suck gently, gently, gently--god, god--

Lightening, thunder, orgasm.

I go to the bathroom and clean up, and I look at my reflection in the stuttering flashes of electricity from outside.

36. Genuflect.

Fraser pressed Turnbull against the wall, leaning into him, holding him still. He unzipped Turnbull's trousers and reached inside, sliding his hand over the length of his erection. "God," said Turnbull, as Fraser began to move, thrusting his own penis against Turnbull's hip, sliding his hand in rhythm.

Fraser bit at Turnbull's neck, just above the crisp brown jacket, and Turnbull let his head fall back against the wall, exposing the line of his throat. "God," he said again, trembling.

Fraser lifted his hand and sucked pre-ejaculate from his fingers. His tongue flicked between his fingers, and he reached down again, deeper, sliding his hand back and his wet fingers gently into Turnbull's ass. He rubbed Turnbull's stomach with his free hand and went down himself, to his knees, pushing the uniform trousers aside and taking Turnbull's penis into his mouth, feeling the warm length of it with his tongue and pressing it against the back of his throat, tasting the salt musk of sex.

"God," Turnbull whispered, above him.

37. Knight of the Lesser Boulevards.

I bum a smoke off a kid outside the Berlin. I don't go in. I used to go in but not anymore. Not since I got married. Or before that, really. I don't want to mess up with Stella, and Stella's easy to mess up. We've been on and off for twenty years, Stella and me, and it's rough again now.

I smoke and think about what I miss. I miss the taste of cigarettes and the taste of dick. I miss roughing my throat up with cheap Scotch and I miss the way guys smell, rougher than women, harsher.

Last time I sucked dick was ten years ago, a couple months before I married Stella. I bummed a smoke then, too, from some guy with a crooked grin and an English accent. He tasted good, that guy; like hotel soap and I've-been-dancing sweat. Back alley, half-drunk, the taste of warm wet cock and come smoothing over the taste of Marlboro.

I finish the cigarette the kid gave me and think about going in, going in and dancing and maybe fucking or sucking in an alley afterwards. But that's kid stuff, and I'm a married man now.

38. On the Proper Technique

Frannie leaned in so that Turnbull's arm brushed her breasts. "When was the last time you were kissed?" she asked.

He blushed and smiled at her. "The last time I was kissed? Oh. Well, that was when I was endeavouring to teach Miss Sanders how to make a reduction sauce, but I confess that she didn't seem terribly interested in the lesson. Still, I had no idea that she wanted--well. I suppose that's none of anyone's business but hers, of course." He shrugged and continued separating yolks from whites.

"When was that?" she asked.

"A few weeks ago." He picked up a whisk. "At any rate, Miss Vecchio, the one thing you must remember when--"

"You have great forearms," she said. "You know. Muscular."

"Why, thank you, I suppose I do have well-developed forearms. Cooking is excellent exercise for them, actually, if you prepare everything from scratch." He tilted the bowl and held it against his lower ribs. "You want to hold--"

"Do you find me attractive?"

"Yes, I do find you very attractive, Miss Vecchio."

She leaned in closer. "If I kissed you, what would you do?"

"I'd kiss you back," he said.

She smiled. "And if I did more? Suppose...I wanted to sleep with you. Or suck you off. Here. Right now."

He blushed again and set down the bowl and the whisk. "It would only be polite to reciprocate," he said, carefully.

"You did say you would teach me proper techniques," she said, sliding her fingers into the waistband of his jeans.

"For whisking," he said.

"Whatever."

39. Candyman.

The thing that scares me about Fraser is that he always looks like he might melt. Like he's made of sugar. It's like candy, where you know if you put it in your mouth it's going to melt and dissolve and it's going to be sweet as hell but then it's gone. Like when I was a kid and got cotton candy and I could get it in my mouth but it was like air.

Fraser's like that. I keep thinking I can take this chance, here. And then I watch Fraser and I realize that he could do to me like he does to Frannie: he could just turn off, melt in my mouth, melt away into nothing.

So that's it. I'm never gonna find out what he tastes like and I'm never gonna spend a long night learning how to make him grab my head and come in my mouth.

Because he'd melt, like sugar in spit, and that scares the hell out of me.

40. Paradise by the Dashboard Lights.

I had this car, in high school. Big back seat, you know? The kinda car you can lose your virginity in. Which I did, but that's not what I remember most about that car. What I remember is the first time Stella put her mouth on my dick.

She had her hair in a ponytail and she wasn't wearing lipstick and we'd been out all day, me playing baseball and her watching, and then hanging out with friends and going to get burgers for dinner. One of those summer days when you're a kid and you got nothing to do except be a kid.

We were necking in the backseat when Stella sat back and bit her lip. "I want to try something," she said.

"Sure, Stella," I said. I never could say no to her, and anyway, when you're a kid and it's summer and you're wishing your girl would say "yes" you're gonna say "yes" to her on almost anything.

She looked real serious when she undid my pants and pulled my dick out. Serious and kinda scared. She'd touched it before but never seen it. And she bit her lip again and leaned forward and kissed the tip, real quick. "Ray," she said, and I touched her cheek.

"Stell," I said. "You don't gotta do anything."

"I want to," she said. And she did it again, quick kiss. And she looked up at me and opened her mouth and slid it over and down, just a little bit.

And then she pulled back and her bottom lip was shinywet and she put her hand on my dick instead. I reached out and held her close, just held her, and that's what I remember most of that car, that night, holding Stella close against me, thinking, next time, next time, next time.