Thanks: Thanks to mergatrude and Sage for insta-beta
Notes: For Brooklinegirl
It starts one night with mushroom sauce, sugo ai funghi. I slave my ass off in the kitchen, starting as soon as I get home from work, because I want to make something nice, something special for Fraser's birthday. One of Ma's heirloom recipes from Aunt Brigitte. And then the two of them — Fraser and Kowalski — stroll in from taking Dief to the park on their way home, and the first thing Kowalski says is, "Hey, look, Fraser! Vecchio's gone crazy with the oregano again."
"It's not oregano, you philistine," I snap. "It's—"
But Fraser claps his hand across my mouth before I can finish. He manhandles me against the counter next to the stove, his hand still clamped there, keeping my words in. Then he reaches over and dips the pinky finger of his other hand into the simmering sauce, tastes it and frowns thoughtfully.
"What is it?" asks Kowalski, trying to muscle in on the action, but Fraser's body is pressed up against me, hot and hard, he's smiling at me, and I'm still pissed at Kowalski for dismissing my hours of cooking with a careless wave of his hand.
Fraser's fingers move a little against my lips. "Tarragon," he says softly, "and a hint of paprika."
I nod as well as I can.
"Huh," says Kowalski. "You should come back as a greyhound next time around, Fraser. You got the nose for it."
Fraser shoots him a smile, but at the same time, he shifts his weight forward, pushes his thigh between my legs, and takes his hand away so he can replace it with his mouth, hot kisses, fervent, tasting of mushrooms and herbs and cream.
And a few minutes later I have to forgive Kowalski, when he saves the sauce from burning.
* * *
After that, it gets to be a running gag. A couple of times a week, one of us puts our hand over Fraser's eyes and gives him something to taste — something weird or unexpected or complicated or foreign. Free range, organic eggs from Indiana, bittersweet chocolate from New Zealand, genuine Beluga caviar.
Fraser's mouth always softens, curves up a little at the corner, and sometimes he "hmmm"s while he's searching his mental catalogue for a match.
And then he tells us. Every single time. Once Kowalski thinks he's caught Fraser out with some cheese from Australia that Fraser thinks is from Boston, but when we go back to the shop and flash our shields around the place, we find out they've been mislabeling their food.
Even so, it takes a while longer before we move the game to the bedroom. This time it's my idea. We're lying around, tangled and sweaty with the covers pushed into a heap on the floor along with our clothing. Kowalski's got his arm tight around my waist, his face pressed against me, and his chest's still heaving from his orgasm. I card my fingers through his hair, rub his scalp so he pushes into the touch like a cat. Meanwhile, Fraser's behind me, running his thumb up and down the side of my neck making my skin tingle. We're all covered in three different flavors of come, and I think, Hey, I bet Fraser could tell those flavors apart in the dark.
So I test him on it. I find a slippery patch on my hip, swipe my thumb through it, and twist around so I can slip it between his lips. "Guess who."
Fraser's eyes flutter shut and his skin starts to flush, and I can't believe he's getting turned on again already, even though the evidence is hardening against my ass. "It's Ray," says Fraser huskily.
I have to take his word for it, though, since in the heat of the moment, I sort of lost track of who came where. There's no way to tell for sure if he's right on this.
Kowalski gets up on his elbow with the devil in his eyes. He rubs his finger over his stomach and slides it into Fraser's mouth, right next to my thumb. We say a silent hello to each other and to Fraser's tongue, and Fraser frowns in concentration. "Lubricant, latex residue and—" His flush deepens. "—me."
Kowalski's lips part with a silent Oh, and I know exactly what he's thinking: Fraser knows his own taste. That's fucking hot. And then Fraser starts sucking my thumb and Kowalski's finger, and it's tight, wet heat, and I can't think anything anymore.
* * *
The next time we all end up in the bedroom together, Kowalski's acting weird. He's distracted from the fucking, and that is not something I've learned to expect from Kowalski. In fact, it's the exact opposite of typical Kowalski behavior. Most times, he can't see beyond his next orgasm, especially if it's me fucking him or Fraser sucking him off, which is how it usually goes because we're guys and we like to play to our strengths. That's what makes us a team.
But sometimes we mix it up, too, and this time Kowalski doesn't want to get fucked. He's clambering over the both of us, kissing and groping. Licking up my side to my armpit, while Fraser and I stroke each other and grab bits of Kowalski to lick or suck as they go past. It's hungry and primal, and my brain shorts out, but Kowalski's on some kind of a mission and in the end I give in to him. Which turns out to be a good strategy, because he grabs Fraser's hand and wraps it around my dick, and guides it up and down until I come with a long hoarse shout.
When I manage to pry my eyes open afterwards, Kowalski's watching with a gleam, and once I've got myself back together, the two of us tag-team Fraser, hold him down and kiss and lick him until he's gasping and his dick is quivering slightly in time with his pulse.
Kowalski's the last to come, and it's a fucking beautiful sight to see. Fraser's blowing him and I'm alternating between kissing him as dirty as I can and pulling away so I can watch Fraser's wholesome-looking lips slide up and down Kowalski's long dick. I'm trying to burn the image into my brain so that next time I get stuck in a boring Agency meeting, I have something to think about.
Anyway, once we've all come and we're in the traditional sweaty heap, Kowalski reaches past me and puts his hand over Fraser's eyes.
"Jesus, Kowalski," I bitch. "Give the guy a little recovery time. Some of us aren't eighteen anymore."
He ignores me, of course, but just in case, I give his ass a friendly squeeze to remind him that the bitching is a way of life — it doesn't mean a thing. Anyway, he's running his finger over his own hip, then low on his belly, and then his chest. "Taste it, tell me," he says to Fraser, and presses his glistening finger to Fraser's lips.
Fraser's tongue comes out to taste, and then Fraser takes Kowalski's wrist and sucks his finger thoroughly, pulling it further in.
"Oh, my," he says, around Kowalski's index finger, and Kowalski grins. "That's certainly— Yeah."
"Jesus, Fraser, you're the biggest freak this side of the Canadian border," he says. "That must be what I love about you." He pushes Fraser's head back onto the pillow so he can kiss him again.
"What is it?" I ask, dopey from sex and the fact that it's past midnight again. Fraser's hand is moving on my ass, kneading it like I'm made of pizza dough, and that's pretty distracting too.
"All of us," says Fraser, in his deep bedroom voice. "You and Ray and me."
Kowalski laughs. "A come cocktail."
I sigh long-sufferingly and shake my head at the ceiling. "I don't get it, Kowalski. I don't get how you can make even this perfect moment seem like a tawdry game show. What prizes are you offering — a timeshare in Rio?" But I can't keep the grin off my face, and when Kowalski presses his middle finger against my lips, I suck him right in, licking all the way to his knuckles, and I can taste us all, too, blended together — the salt, the musk, the tang of sex. The three of us mixed up like we're supposed to be. And you know, it's better than any sugo ai funghi I ever tasted in my life.