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      	  Swearing 
 by exeterlinden  

 Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

 

 

 There were only so many ways you could make Fraser talk dirty.

 The discovery that it was even humanly possible to make him swear was
what propelled all of this crazy shit into happening.

 Ray'd felt attracted to Fraser pretty much from the beginning, but it'd
been creeping in on him so slowly it didn't really register - and if that
was a clich, then at least it was true.

 It started out as a relatively harmless: Huh. Good looking guy, but five
months later it was moving into the shadier territory of grabbing every
chance to check out the Mountie's ass... A routine that soon grew too old
to feel embarrassing.

 In the beginning there was an insistent whiny voice in his head going But
I was married! but then he realized that that meant fuck all when your
dick got hard from seeing the Mountie in long johns.

 And really, if you had to feel attracted to another man, Fraser was the
obvious choice. You just had to look at him: The man was almost beautiful,
smooth skin and muscle and thick hair and great lips and, yeah.

 An old style movie star kinda look that Ray wouldn't have thought he'd
like, but then he hadn't thought he was into guys so way to go, sexual
identity.

 It wasn't like Ray was the only one either; in his relatively short time
partnering with Fraser he had experienced Elvis
Presley-meets-the-fans-like situations whenever they ventured into the gay
community (always strictly business, of course), and several straight,
sometimes married, guys with "Gay for the Mountie!" practically tattooed
on their foreheads.

 And the good thing about Fraser was that, most times, he was completely
oblivious to the fact that people were attracted to him, or even that
people were hitting on him - he'd just thank them kindly and be on his
merry way pursuing justice.

 There was another upside to the whole bisexual deal: For the first time
in years, he had someone who took up his thoughts more than Stella. And
Fraser even liked him and was nice to him, so double bonus, there.

 It was probably the whole opposites attract thing happening all over
again, like last time. This time, though, he thought his head had sobered
up even if is his dick was still dumb as fuck.

 Yeah he liked Fraser, liked him a lot, but Fraser was a bad idea. Because
they we're different enough that it'd be potatoes and poh-tah-toes all
over again, and still they were alike in the one way that meant split lips
and insults and secrets.

 Anyway, he was handling it, he was fine about it, he could deal. For the
first time maybe in his life, he was gonna just leave things the way they
were, because things were fine. He wasn't gonna rush into something
stupid, he was too old for groping other guys awkwardly in the locker
room, and this was Fraser, and Fraser was his straight cop partner.

 So he was figuring out ways to leave it at home, keep it away from work
and dinner and hockey with Fraser, and he was getting the hang of it - it
mainly involved lots of porn and Astroglide and a good deal of repression.

 Maybe he jerked off a little more than he used to, but apart from
occasional soreness, and the wear and tear on his porn videos, why was
that a bad thing?

 If he couldn't get Fraser out of his jerk off fantasies, he could slap
him on the shoulder and be buddies the next day.

 So he was feeling on top of things, he was actually pretty fucking proud
of being ok with wanting Fraser, made him feel all cultural and
avant-garde and all that stuff that Stella insisted he wasn't.

 Yeah, he was playing it cool, even if Fraser was making him hot.

 Until he made Fraser say a four-letter word and simultaneously set a new
personal record to getting hard fast.

 The first one he got easy, or at least he got the first one without
deliberately working towards it, because he had been bugging the hell out
of Fraser for nearly six months without knowing that it might have
rewards.

 Whining. Whining and bitching apparently got under Fraser's skin,
eventually.

 Which he should have guessed, because this was the tried and tested way.
This was the way he had made Stella drop her Ray, honestlys and replace
them with Fuck you, Rays, not that he had been trying... Well, maybe he
had been trying a little, in a way, because that way at least she wasn't
talking down to him.

 Whining maybe wasn't very manly, but it worked like a charm. It had
worked on his mom when he was three and since then he'd only met a select
few that were immune to his perfected Kowalski whine, so he figured why
stop at now at thirty-six?

 For quite a while and with some regret he counted Fraser among the thick
skinned few, but then he began noticing the way the Mountie scratched his
eyebrow or held his breath or looked away - and thought Heh, got you,
sucker.

 They'd parked the car a few blocks back and were walking towards Claude's
Cakes & Confectionaries because Fraser wouldn't give up on the thought
that something queer - strange - was going on at the bakery and that
someone other than Claude Blanc or his employees was responsible for the
Lactulose in his bakery products.

 Problem was, they had to get up at fucking four o'clock am to sneak into
the bakery and, from a hidden position that Fraser had spotted the first
time they investigated the bakery, watch Blanc and two helpers bake five
four-layered wedding cakes with marzipan roses.

 Which pissed him off.

 Fraser had insisted on parking eight blocks away not to be seen. They
were now walking down the sixth, and Ray hadn't shut up for more than
twenty seconds at a time, and only to chew and swallow a stale, overpriced
bagel.

 He was more or less on autopilot at this point, watching the cars that
went by and eating his bagel and drinking coffee and maintaining his view
that this was a stupid idea all at the same time.

 "Come on, Fraser! This is D-U-M, dum!"

 "It is not dumb," Fraser was fucking pronouncing the B, the fucker.

 " - It is pursuing justice, which as officers of the law is our duty." He
scratched his eyebrow.

 "Fraser, it's bakery products."

 "It is the potential terrorism of the most important day in the lives of
ten young people in love." The man was holding his breath.

 "Ten young people in love? That's, whatchemacallit, biganism, that's
illegal Fraser. Go arrest them and let me get back to bed."

 Fraser didn't answer that. He looked away and walked a little faster.

 And right there and then, Ray could feel it somehow, that something was
gonna happen this time, something - quoting Sinatra - was gonna give.

 He felt like that split second your car stands completely still on the
top of the highest hill on the rollercoaster.

 A decent person might have shut up at that point, but Ray took a couple
of running steps to catch up with Fraser, and kept right on going with a
giddy whoopee in the back of his mind.

 "C'mon Fraser, Blanc knows his wife is screwing around with the florist,
he's depressed and bitter and all of a sudden his icing is fifty percent
laxatives. I spy a motive."

 Fraser stopped and ran a thumb across his left brow, let out a deep
breath and looked up at the depressingly grey Chicago sky.

 Then he sent shot Ray a glare of a never-before-seen intensity.

 "For goodness sake, Ray! Could you not - just this once - comply with me
without fighting me every damn step of the way?!"

 Ooh, dirty mouthed Fraser. Hello, stranger. Hello, erection.

 Ray almost dropped his crappy bagel.

 This was great. This was greatness. So not only was he bisexual, he was
bisexual with a kink.

 ...And as it turned out, Claude Blanc really was guilty, the dumb fuck,
but Ray's snide remarks about it didn't get another Damn out of Fraser,
which maybe would have been more than his nervous system could handle,
anyway.

 But man, was he hooked.

 Of course he'd known, but he hadn't really realized till then that what
Fraser thought and what he said were probably two very different things,
and that Thank you kindly actually sometimes meant Screw you sideways.

 Kind of embarrassing that it took him so long to figure that one out,
considering he'd been married to What I say and what I do are two
different planets for nearly twelve years, but hey.

 Now, every time Fraser opened his mouth Ray could practically see the
mechanics of his brain working to phrase everything correctly, politely.

 Not exactly an ability he had ever possessed himself. First thing he was
thinking - or even before he'd thought it - it'd be out there ("Hey
Stan-lee, why are you so skinny?" - "Because I puke every time I see your
mom, Johnson." Cue getting his skinny twelve-year-old ass kicked. Or "Ray,
I want a divorce" - "No, please Stella. I'm fucked without you," cue
humiliation. And so on and so forth.)

 Oh, he was getting better. Because he had to; because he couldn't answer
"I am still hurt and angry and half way in love with you," to Stella's:
"How are you, Ray?" and he couldn't say "Because I want to hear you swear
again, because it turns me on," to Fraser's: "For God's sake, why do you
insist on contradicting me in everything I say?"

 But Fraser. Fraser always spoke in full, grammatically correct sentences.
Fraser never ran his mouth. Fraser was the fucking Canadian Prime Minister
of well-considered.

 Ray was fairly certain, at this point, that Fraser was doing it on
purpose. The way he talked you'd think that he'd just arrived from the
royal court of England, or a monastery, or space or something.

 He got that growing up in the middle of nowhere with an absent father and
two librarian grandparents explained some of it, but come on, Fraser was
too smart to be that naive. And Ray, of course, had been too dumb to
realize.

 It was kind of fascinating and kind of scary to figure out that there had
to be heaps of stuff behind Fraser's politeness that he never showed
anyone.

 Here in Chicago people only saw the Canadian, the stereotype, and at
first Ray had felt sorry for Fraser, because nobody ever really took the
time to get to know him. But now, he was more and more getting the feeling
that Fraser was perfectly aware of it, that he was playing it to his
benefit and using it to hide behind.

 That there was a three-dimensional, really fucking complex person inside
the Mountie suit. Not just laws and rules and odd Northwest Area
anecdotes, but imperfections, anger, insecurities... all that good stuff
that made people real.

 Why did most people spend so much time trying to hide it? Ray, he could
never hide any of it, didn't want to hide any of it...

 It'd been the same deal with Stella: She only wanted people to see the
clever, competent, no-nonsense state attorney, but Ray knew that she
always started crying when she was really pissed off, and got even angrier
if you were stupid enough to try and comfort her. And he remembered how
right until the end, she always wanted to fuck when they'd fought.

 And now he knew that there was at least one way you could make Fraser
drop the Canadianisms.

 Ray couldn't really figure out - didn't really spend much time trying to
figure out - whether it was normal to get off on that kind of stuff. But,
oh boy, in his head, that was just waving a carrot in front of a very
hungry bunny.

 He only found out by accident about the touching thing, groping thing -
whatever you wanted to call it.

 But, Eureka, because making Fraser annoyed enough to swear was a lot of
fucking work, and maybe wasn't all that healthy to their partnership
either, not that Ray could stop if it wasn't.

 They were locked inside an industrial container for reasons that didn't
need exploring at that juncture, and frankly were a little embarrassing.

 Ray was freaking out because outside the container they could hear the
crane working to lift them and they were moving and if they didn't do
something quick they'd be on a cruise to La Isla de Corruption with more
than a hundred seamen and half a ton of pure heroin for company.

 Plus it was pitch black in there and though he was half ways to blind
anyway, according to Fraser, he was really freaked out about not being
able to see.

 Fraser, of course, could see just fine. Fraser was down in the other end
of the container doing something clever and heroic, probably, and Ray was
trying to find him in the dark and not panic, with his hands stretched out
in front of him, trying to be quiet too, because if Cucho and his men
found out that they were in there Ray predicted a very long and very
painful boat trip.

 So he was walking with his arms stretched out, trying not to knock
anything over or walk into something and he walked into Fraser at the same
moment the crane lifted them off the ground and tilted the container so
that they fell down, softly on the plastic wrapped parcels of china white.

 The container righted itself and they were lying there listening to the
whirring sound of the crane lifting them up and up.

 His hands were on Fraser's chest and he was sort of straddling the guy.
They kept still for a second and his face was close enough to Fraser's
that he could hear that very soft exclamation "Fuck!" barely articulated
but definitely there.

 And then the container dipped once more, and this time the doors of the
container flapped open - so that was what Fraser'd been up to - and they
rolled out and fell several feet into cold water.

 It seemed they were always falling into water, but then in this situation
the alternatives were either concrete or metal, so really he should be
grateful.

 After that there was swimming, which he hated, and shooting, and ducking
under and jumping off of things, and he was seriously getting too old for
that shit.

 But they got out alright and they got Cucho, and none of those things
stayed with him as long as that single "fuck," which said something about
how obsessive he was becoming.

 But see, how could he know that it was the touching thing that did the
trick? How could he know that Fraser hadn't just really thought they'd die
this time, and decided to do something reckless before he went? For all he
knew, he could've accidentally kneed Fraser in the nuts - Supermountie or
not - fuck was the only adequate response to that particular brand of
excruciating pain.

 So he had to do it again. Had to grab Fraser back at the station and pull
him into the broom closet and accidentally stumble into the guy, which
earned him a clearly pronounced God damn it!

 Ray was going to hell in a hand cart; it had to be sinful to get this
turned on by blasphemy.

 And he was only doing it to hear Fraser swear, he wasn't just randomly
groping his partner, because that would be weird. Weirder.

 He tried not to think about what Fraser made of the whole situation. The
guy took it remarkably well, considering that his partner had first been
exhaustingly irritating for weeks and now all of a sudden had grown
extremely, ridiculously clumsy.

 Fraser'd just curse when Ray walked into him (...fell on him,
accidentally touched him reaching for stuff, spilled liquids on him and
then wiped it off again...) and then flush red and afterwards pretend none
of it ever happened, which might very well be the only sane solution, if
there was one.

 Except, all of a sudden the thought struck Ray - while he was reaching
for his car keys that he'd left on the dashboard on Fraser's side of the
car and then knocked down reaching for his plastic cup which he'd also
placed in front of Fraser - it struck him that if Fraser was anything like
the genius Ray trusted him to be, no way was he buying this.

 A random onlooker might be fooled, but Fraser was at the receiving end of
a whole lot of niggling and pushing and prodding and - Ray had to face it
- groping, that only a person with a brain the size of Turnbull's would
believe was accidental.

 Fuck, he'd crossed the line this time.

 They were in a car on a stake-out in the middle of the night, waiting for
Roy Nicholas to come out of hiding and visit his old ma (this one still
alive), and Ray was stretched across Fraser's lap reaching for car keys
that he could have just asked the guy to bend down and get for him.

 He froze mid motion, his one hand reaching for the keys, the other hand
halfway to its destination which had apparently been - shit, Ray get a
fucking grip - Fraser's crotch.

 And then another thought popped up in his head: If his own amazing powers
of deduction were right, and Fraser knew, then what the hell was he
thinking about all of this? What could he possibly be thinking other
than...

 ...With the all the yelling and screaming going on inside his head, and
the blood rushing in his ears, it was a wonder he heard it, because Fraser
barely said it, just whispered it, breathed it out.

 And there was some weird parallel universe thing going on, had to be,
because that was not the correct response to your partner not so
accidentally touching your inner calf and thigh.

 Ray would bet money that Fraser had never said that before in his life.

 He didn't know whether to feel guilty or triumphant about that, mostly
because he practically had his face in Fraser's lap and was plenty busy
feeling horny as hell.

 He suddenly caught the scent of Fraser's arousal, a heavy
familiar/unfamiliar smell. He heard himself inhaling deeply, and the sound
made him aware of Fraser's breath, quick and shallow, breathed out hard
into the small hairs at the nape of his neck.

 He couldn't look up because he didn't want to see Fraser's face, so he
looked down at his hand resting high on Fraser's thigh.

 God, the guy was practically boiling; he could feel the heat of him
through the serge which had to mean that inside the suit Fraser was
roasting.

 Ray leaned a little and a little more, and then his face, his mouth, was
on Fraser's cock, hard and hot and impressively big beneath those
ridiculous pants.

 And then Fraser said it again, louder this time: "Jesus fucking Christ,
Ray, Jesus..."

 Fuck, shit, he was not ready for this, he was not fucking prepared for
that, he was gonna come in his pants, and this whole situation set a new
standard to the freaky or embarrassing or erotic in Ray's life.

 It pretty much just set some new standards altogether.

 He closed his eyes and didn't sense anything but the scent of male
arousal, the heat against his face, and his own pulse loud in his ears, so
when Fraser touched his hair it was such a shock that it startled him into
sitting upright, looking Fraser straight in the eyes.

 Fraser looked just as shocked, but he also looked - and it took Ray a
moment to place it because he had never seen it before - Fraser looked
really, really turned on. Flushed and embarrassed, and really fucking
horny.

 It struck him how much this scenario reminded him of the first time he'd
touched Stella on the outside of her damp cotton panties while they'd been
making out in her car, and she'd looked up at him all surprised, and
glassy-eyed and aroused, and had taken him home.

 He suspected that Frannie and all her psychology books might have
something interesting to say about that, but he wasn't gonna ask.

 "Ray?"

 His dick answered that dark voice before his mouth did, straining against
the metal zipper of his jeans.

 "Yeah?"

 "Ray, can we go home now?"

 "You wanna go to the consulate?"

 "No, Ray, can we go home. To your place."

 Fuck the stake-out. Fuck Roy Nicholas. He was fucking going to fuck
Fraser. This was really happening - being so painfully hard, he didn't
even have to pinch himself to be convinced.

 Fraser bent down and retrieved the car keys with a strained sound. He
handed them to Ray, who dropped them, and after picking them up again took
three tries to actually get the car started, but Fraser gracefully didn't
comment on that.

 So, there it was. He took Fraser home and spread him out on his couch and
blew him. And if he wanted to grab Fraser's ass and push his hips upwards,
push his dick into his own mouth - even if it made him choke and cough a
little - he could.

 Because Fraser wanted it too.

 This was the best discovery since he'd discovered hockey. No, fuck that,
better. Much better, because he didn't remember much about high school,
but he did remember enough to know that sucking dick had never been this
exhilarating before, never this good.

 And if whining for hours or an awkward grope on a stake-out, or in the
broom-closet, maybe gave him a muttered Damn at best, blowing Fraser
opened up a whole bag of "God... fuck... Ray... damn"s.

 Which, incidentally, made him tease the crap out of the poor guy, because
he kept replacing his hand with his mouth, crawling back up Fraser's body
to ask "What? What did you say?" wanting to catch all of it.

 After that he had high hopes for the fucking. In many ways, but also in
the way of making Fraser swear.

 Turned out it held up in every possible way but exactly that.

 Because pushing inside Fraser, leaning over his sweat slicked back to put
his lips between his shoulder blades, to listen, he couldn't shut the fuck
up himself...

 He swallowed hard and tried to bite back on the kind of dorky sounding
groans, but he couldn't.

 It was way, way too good. Better than it had been in... Better than ever.

 The strong, smooth muscles of Fraser's back were moving underneath him,
flexing to push back against his hips. Ray slid his hands down to touch
the ass he'd been ogling for months, and felt the skin stretched tight
just above his dick inside Fraser, and right there and then lost any hope
of being able to hear anything, because he let out his own string of
curses and had to move and had to make noise because Jesus fucking Christ.

 And Fraser, although mostly quiet, was definitely into it, sweating and
breathing hard and fucking himself slowly, moving back against Ray's
thrusts.

 Ray noticed how Fraser was struggling to control his arms, the way they
kept almost collapsing under him, and he got it that Fraser was fighting
hard not to lose it completely, and between the tight, hot, hard, sheer
greatness of moving inside Fraser he got an equally mind-blowing kick from
knowing that Fraser was liking this, was loving this - was maybe loving,
definitely liking him.

 Later, after coming and sleeping and talking and fucking and then
sleeping again, Ray lay awake and watched Fraser dozing naked in his bed,
and thought about how he'd figured out now what it was about making Fraser
curse that turned him on like nothing else, and how it all came down to
one thing:

 Fraser lost it.

 ...Now Ray, he lost it on a pretty regular basis. Mostly over Fraser, but
he also occasionally lost it over Stella, work, hockey, Dief doing
disgusting things to his ear. And he'd just pick it up again, pull himself
together and brush himself off - nothing new there.

 Fraser losing it used to be a once-in-every-millennia kind of thing, -
Ray could've used a Big Bang metaphor, but in light of recent events that
might be a little corny, and anyway he didn't want to be accused of
actually knowing anything about either metaphors or astronomy.

 But that was it. That was the reason right there. This was why Fraser
swearing had the same effect on him as breasts (any breasts!) had had when
he was thirteen: Fraser could be Mr. Manners dealing with Turnbull,
interviewing murderers and even chasing down suspects, but Ray could make
him lose it.

 He was the guy that could make Fraser lose it.

 Which, he had to admit; back in the whining days was a little worrying,
but now, good God.

 So maybe he could stop whining and walking into Fraser, now that he had
other means to get his measure.

 And if Fraser was up for doing the partners thing (the other partners
thing), maybe he should consider getting that "Gay for the Mountie!"
tattoo, and yeah, maybe they would end up with a few split lips for it,
maybe end up in a hut somewhere on the fucking North Pole.

 But Ray figured it'd be more than worth it.  
  

End Swearing by exeterlinden 

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