Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski/Vecchio
Thanks: Thanks to aerye for beta
Notes: This is another sequel to Soft Arithmetic


by china_shop

"You want what?" said Vecchio, setting the empty laundry basket on the bed and staring at Fraser. "I was thinking we could go to Piccolini's or something."

"Hey, it's his birthday." Ray fished three dirty socks out from under the bed and tossed them into the basket. "Whatever you want," he told Fraser, who was standing in the doorway blushing. "It's kind of kinky though. How'd you come up with that?"

Vecchio threw a crumpled t-shirt at Ray's head. "The three of us are living together and you call that kinky?"

Ray flipped him the bird and dumped the shirt in the basket.

"I saw a documentary about tattoos last Saturday when you were out at Detective Schaefferly's stag night, and it got me thinking," Fraser explained. He moved the laundry basket and started stripping the sheets off the bed. "You know, Ray—and Ray—tattooing isn't just an integral part of many indigenous cultures or a rite of passage. It's also an ancient art form, a mode of profound self-expression, and a way to claim ownership of one's body."

"You don't have to tell me," Ray said, pulling up the sleeve of his t-shirt to show off his Champion tattoo, even though they'd both seen it hundreds of times. "I got this when I was a skinny teenager. It was like a promise to myself: you won't always be a scrawny kid! That's when I took up boxing."

Fraser nodded and raised his eyebrows at Vecchio, who was watching them like they were both monkeys at the zoo.

"All right?" Fraser said, softly.

Vecchio held up his hands. "Hey, it's fine by me, if that's what you want. I just thought Piccolini's would be nice and romantic. A little candlelight, a little wine—"

"We can go to Piccolini's any old time," Ray told him. "Anyway, this'll be romantic. Kind of."

"Thank you, Ray." Fraser shook his pillow out of its pillowcase, and threw the case into the basket. "And you have nearly a week to decide what you want to say."


* * *


The night before Fraser's birthday, Ray and Ray cleared up after dinner, stacking dishes on the kitchen counter any which way, while Fraser fed Dief and took him out. Then they shut Dief in the living room and went to the bedroom, and Fraser took his clothes off down to his white cotton boxers.

Ray came up behind Fraser, slid his arms around his waist, and snapped the waistband. "These, too."

"Yeah." Fraser pushed his ass back against Ray, briefly, and then stripped them off.

"Hey, Kowalski." Vecchio took a bag of art supplies out of the top drawer of the dresser and put them on the nightstand, then unbuttoned his cuffs. "Come on. You, too."

They hadn't talked about whether Ray and Vecchio would keep their clothes on or not, but with Fraser undressed it seemed only fair to follow his example. Ray nodded. "Okay."

Fraser pulled away from Ray and switched on the lamps on the twin nightstands while Ray and Vecchio stripped, and then they were all naked, the warm light glowing on their skin, and Ray bit his lip and reminded himself this wasn't about sex. He was hard, though, and so were Fraser and Vecchio. Fraser sat on the side of the bed, watching them, and this was kind of weird and awkward, but something fluttered in the pit of Ray's stomach and he knew he wanted to do this, and he knew what he wanted to say.

For a moment, none of them moved, so Ray took charge. "Lie down, Fraser. No, on your front."

Fraser turned back the bedcovers and lay down, his skin pale and pink against the navy sheets. He rested his cheek on his hands and watched with big eyes as Vecchio opened the bag and spilled pens onto the bed beside him.

"I thought about getting an inkpad for Dief," Ray told Fraser, "but I figured it wouldn't be so good for him if he licked it."

"This isn't about the dog, anyway," said Vecchio, gruffly. "It's about the three of us."

"Hey, chill out." Ray went over to him, deliberately keeping in Fraser's line of sight. "It's okay, it's gonna be fun." He cupped the back of Vecchio's neck and kissed him, sucking Vecchio's tongue into his mouth, tasting rich dry Merlot. When he opened his eyes, Vecchio was breathing hard, his eyelids drooping sexily, and Fraser was staring at them. Oh yeah.

"Did I mention I flunked art in sixth grade?" Vecchio muttered, looking like he was trying to smile.

"It doesn't have to be art, Ray. It doesn't have to be anything, so long as it's sincere." Fraser pushed up onto his elbows. "I just—I want you to mark me."

That seemed to do the trick. Vecchio took a breath and clapped his hands together. "Okay, let's do this thing."

Fraser nodded and lay down again. "Just write whatever you want, and tomorrow I'll wear it under my uniform."

"Tomorrow and the next day, and the day after," said Vecchio. "These aren't permanent, but they don't wash off too easy, the girl at the store said."

Fraser smiled and reached down to touch Vecchio's knee, his hand lingering there.

Ray tore his eyes away from the sight of Fraser's big hand against Vecchio's skin, picked up a black marker and a red one, and went to kneel on Fraser's other side. For a moment, he watched Vecchio sifting through the colors that were left, and then he turned his attention to Fraser. "Happy birthday," he said softly, and ran his hand over the warm smooth skin from Fraser's shoulder, down his spine to his waist.

Fraser turned his head to face Ray, and smiled. "Thanks." His lips were red and soft-looking, and his cheeks were flushed.

Ray drew a line with his fingertip along Fraser's cheekbone and traced the rim of his ear. "Anything in particular you want?"

Fraser smiled and shook his head, and then closed his eyes. "Pretend I'm a fifth grade schoolbook."

Ray took the black marker and stared intently at the expanse of Fraser's back, feeling a little self-conscious but determined to do this anyway. He took the cap off the pen and put it on the nightstand, and then slowly printed


in the middle of Fraser's shoulder blade. He changed pens and drew a fat red heart around the names, and colored it in. The pen smelled of solvent and the words smudged a little, but Ray was pretty careful and when he finished it, he looked at it and nodded. "Okay, I'm done."

"What?" asked Vecchio, glancing up. Ray leaned over. It looked liked Vecchio was writing a novel in green and blue and purple down the other side of Fraser's back. He was copying it from a crumpled piece of paper. Ray squinted at it, but it was in Italian or something.

"What's it say?"

"It's a poem." Vecchio was frowning slightly in concentration, his fingers spread against Fraser's skin as he wrote. "My nonno wrote it to my nonna during the war. I looked it up."

"Oh." Ray could make out amo and ti voglio and luce and tesoro, and he thought maybe he'd heard Vecchio say them sometimes, but he couldn't remember what they meant and the fumes from the ink were making him a little light-headed. He picked up the black pen again, and went to write on the skin above the heart, but he didn't know what else to say. He got off the bed and knelt by Fraser's head and kissed him softly. "I'm done."

Fraser opened his eyes. "Just write what's in your heart, Ray."

"Yeah, I, uh, I did that." Ray glanced at the heart again—the three of them held together by love. What else was there?

"Decorate me, then." The corner of Fraser's mouth tilted up. "Or you could write what you'd like to—" Fraser licked his lip. "—to do to me."

Christ, Fraser knew how that turned him on—the easy slide of his tongue over those lips. He was so fucking beautiful. He was theirs. Ray went very still, aware of the blood rushing through his veins and his cock hard between his thighs. He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Okay."

He reached over and snagged the blue pen, since Vecchio wasn't using it anymore, and started writing.

1. I want to fuck you while Vecchio blows you.
2. I want to watch while you fuck Vecchio.

Jesus, just writing the word fuck on Fraser's skin was killing him. The room felt hot, and Ray swallowed hard and kept writing, everything he wanted, everything he was feeling.
3. I want to kiss you
     ← here
     ← here
     ← here
     + ↓ all the way down your spine.
4. I want to take you and Vecchio to Canada and watch your face go pink when you chop wood in the snow and kiss you and Vecchio under the northern lights and the three of us sleep in front of the fire.
5. I want to get old and grouchy with you (both) and make you laugh.
6. I want you to fuck me and put your hands in my hair.
7. Secret or everyone knows or whatever you are mine and Vecchio's and we love you.
He ran out of room on number seven and wrote the last line down the side of Fraser's hip. Then he took the red pen and drew a spiral around and around on Fraser's ass cheek, slowly, pretending it was his tongue instead of the felt nib of the pen. The circle got smaller and smaller. Fraser grunted and his ass twitched, which made the line go wonky.

"You can't move while we're writing on you," Ray told him, brushing his fingers against the side of Fraser's neck.

"It tickles," said Fraser, and buried his face in his folded arms.

Ray drew a black x for a kiss in the middle of the spiral. "Now you can tell people to kiss your ass."

Vecchio looked up from his poem, which was as long as a fucking essay and weirdly sexy on Fraser's smooth back. The words were different colors, reminding Ray of stained glass. Vecchio read Ray's list and laughed. "Canada, huh?"

"Shhhh." Ray grinned. "If we don't tell him, he can't make us go."

"We have a mirror, Ray," Fraser said, his voice muffled. "I fully intend to read what you wrote."

"Yeah, but—" Ray started.

"I can read mirror-writing. Even your handwriting." Fraser craned his head around, trying to see over his shoulder.

Ray picked up the black pen, teasing. "You want I should cross it all out?"

"I'm done." Vecchio put the cap on his pen and gathered the others up, and put them all back in the bag. He looked at Ray where he was holding the black pen over Fraser's back like a threat, and swatted at it, laughing. "Stop fucking around, Kowalski."

"Damn." Ray winked. "I was hoping we were gonna fuck around next, after all that hard work." He gave the pen back to Vecchio who put it in the bag and dropped the bag on the floor.

Fraser rolled over and grabbed Ray and wrestled him to the bed, holding him down and kissing him hard. "I know what you wrote." His eyes were shining.

Ray pretended to struggle. "No, you don't." He shook his head. Then Vecchio joined forces with Fraser and they pinned Ray down between them.

"I do," said Fraser huskily. "I know what you want."

"Yeah, it takes real rocket science to figure that out," said Vecchio, and bit Fraser's shoulder, his teeth puckering the skin until Fraser shook him off.

"You want to fuck me," Fraser told Ray. "You want to slide your cock into me."

Ray gaped at him, his face burning. Fraser was saying it, was talking dirty. Jesus. Ray's breath caught in his throat.

"Don't you?" Fraser insisted. "And you want to watch Ray and me fuck."

It was like Ray's words had dissolved into Fraser through his skin, had freed him to say things he'd never said before. Ray's hips jerked up before he could stop them, but there was nothing to push against. "Yeah," he said. "I want to fuck you."

Fraser smiled, dark and somehow mysterious. "I want you to." He turned his head and kissed Vecchio, and Ray couldn't look away. Their lips were slick and shiny, and they made tiny wet kissing noises, and everything smelled of skin and heat and ink and sex. Fraser pulled away, and Vecchio tried to follow, tried to keep kissing, but Fraser angled his head away. His eyes were hot, and he look sure of himself and sexy as hell. "Both of you," he told Vecchio.

Vecchio's eyes widened and his mouth fell open. "Okay. Yeah," he managed finally. "Both of us."

The room was so hot and Christ, Ray wanted it, wanted all of it. He nodded fervently. "Let's do it. Yeah."


* * *


Sliding into Fraser's ass was the easiest, hottest thing in the world. Ray gritted his teeth to keep from coming too soon and tightened his hands on Fraser's hips. Sweat rolled down his spine. Fraser was on his elbows and knees, and Vecchio was lying beneath him, legs sticking out on either side of Ray, his hands in Fraser's hair as they kissed. Ray couldn't see much except Vecchio's fingers clutching Fraser's head, but if he held his breath he could hear them, and he could feel Fraser. He dropped a hand to Vecchio's thigh, but nearly overbalanced and had to straighten up again.

Fraser grunted. "Yeah," said Ray. "I'm here," and he pulled out slowly and thrust in again, distracted by the writing on Fraser's back, lopsided and uneven, all looking kind of stupid. Vecchio's poem was squashed down one side in his cramped loopy handwriting, and Ray's wish list was printed unevenly down the other, the words crooked over Fraser's ribs, and narrow at the side where he'd run out of room. Neither he nor Vecchio had written over the scar at the base of Fraser's spine.

But the heart was still there. That looked pretty good, like a real tat. And then Fraser writhed or something, flexed and shifted, and all the words came to life, almost shimmering in the low lamplight, and Ray had to close his eyes because his throat hurt.

"What's going on?" Vecchio ducked under Fraser's armpit and sat up to kiss Ray, his lips warm and hungry and tasting of Fraser. "You day-dreaming up here?"

Ray shook his head, tried to clear it, but the air felt as thick as if they'd been burning incense. His hips kept moving, pushing in, and his body went heavy and sleek, rolling back and forward like a tide, but the words were swirling through him, making no sense—all that Italian and even his own list reduced to strange markings. He blinked sweat out of his eyes, and Vecchio cupped his neck and kissed him again, deep and wet. "Jesus," Vecchio breathed, and then he wriggled out from under Fraser entirely—kneeing Ray's thigh clumsily—and turned upside down, his legs folded against the wall, sixty-nining Fraser while Ray fucked him.

Ray sped up helplessly. Christ. He felt stoned or high, trembling and giddy from the scent of Fraser's skin and Vecchio, and the ink. He slid his hands up and down over Fraser's sweaty back, over the words, and some of them smudged a little, but most just slid under his fingers, slid out the other side, and fuck, fuck, fuck. Ray put one hand on Fraser's hip—fingers covering Vecchio's, holding tight—and leaned forward and buried the other in Fraser's hair. Fraser's head moved up and down over Vecchio's cock, and Ray let words spill out of him, "Oh fuck, oh fuck, Fraser, Ray, fuck, it's—can't, can't last—oh Jesus, yeah—" He came, hard and dark, his vision blurring out, his whole body shaking, and Jesus, Jesus, he was torn to shreds

Fraser moaned, his ass pumping up and down as he fucked Vecchio's mouth. Ray pulled out as gently as he could and collapsed to the bed beside them, turning to watch Fraser thrusting his cock between Vecchio's lips. Vecchio's eyes were shut, his head angled back, and he had one hand wrapped around the base of Fraser's cock, the other white-knuckled, holding Fraser's hip.

Ray slipped his hand between the two of them, over Vecchio's chest, up to the side of his head, his thumb brushing Vecchio's temple. Vecchio's eyes flicked open briefly, hazy with lust, and then closed as Fraser groaned and stiffened.

Fraser gasped for air and his ass clenched, and he came in Vecchio's mouth. Vecchio swallowed and pulled his head sideways, and coughed a little, and Fraser sat up and looked at them both. "Ray?" he said to Vecchio.

Ray watched, hoping, and oh yeah, Vecchio stumbled to his knees, moving awkwardly like he was dizzy too, and he pushed into Fraser, his cock already slick with Fraser's spit, and thrust hard and fast. Ray reached down and held Fraser's arm, his hand, whatever, but he couldn't tear his eyes from Vecchio fucking Fraser, thrusting in and in and in, his eyes heavy and fixed on the words on Fraser's back. He bent forward and cried out, and pushed in one last time, holding it, holding, and Fraser gasped, and Ray groaned in sympathy and then they were all tumbling to the bed in a pile, a jumble of knees and elbows, and Ray grabbed an arm—someone's arm—and licked it, lovingly, because they belonged together like this, tangled up and fucked out, and loving each other.

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