the journal of r. cooper

The silk of the necktie felt–as humans said–absolutely sinful as it slipped through Cal’s fingers. He pushed a loop through and then yanked on one end with a satisfied grin, not bothering to look as he pulled the knot tight, then tighter, then tighter still.

He didn’t have to look–Detective Inspector Brannigan’s gaze was locked onto his hands. Anyway, there were more interesting things than knots in neckties to consider, such as the fact that the tie in question had only moments before been beneath the Inspectors’s starched white collar and knotted neatly and properly at the base of his throat.

His throat was exposed now, a rare enough sight for Cal, without the added pleasure of holding silk warmed by the Inspector’s incredible body heat in his hands.

If Cal had been a werewolf, he would have been able to smell the traces of the Inspector’s skin as well.

But Cal was not a werewolf, so when he finally dragged his gaze from bared skin, it was to be faced with the sparkling, crackling colors of desire, and the fierce, bold blue of the Inspector’s admiration–no, not admiration. Love.

The Inspector–Ray, his Raymond–offered up his precious, pricey necktie to Cal without hesitation when Cal asked, and let Cal perch on the corner of his desk in order to be closer to him when no one else was permitted such an impertinence, and listened as Cal explained how that poor, mistreated human girl could not have tied the proper knots required to lower herself to safety, even though no one else ever listened to fairies. Cal’s Raymond loved him and was in love with him and desired him and admired him, and for several seconds, Cal could not move, could not breathe as he looked at him.

And then Ray’s slightly rough voice broke him from his reverie. “Where did you learn so much about knots, Mr. Parker?”

“Oh.” Cal slipped the knot loose and held the strip of silk out for Ray to take. Ray’s fingers carefully did not touch his. Cal glanced away. “There was this Portuguese sailor I once knew–”

“That’s enough, Mr. Parker.” Ray’s growl shivered down Cal’s spine, and then Ray was gentle, soft as he looped his tie round his neck once again and stared down. The silk was creased. But the red in his shine was about jealousy and longing, not a rumpled tie.

Cal moved forward helplessly, taking the ends of the tie in his hands and drawing the Inspector near.

Ray let him, allowed Cal to give him an elegant knot as the base of his throat, his head tipped back and his eyes nearly closed.

He was werewolf, and that mattered. Eyes closed, head back, throat bare–it mattered. But his hands stayed at his desk, and Cal very carefully did not let his fingertips graze his skin no matter how much he wanted to. He curled the tie around his wrist instead, and Raymond did not object.

“There you are, Ray,” he said, instead of anything he could have said, like, love me, or take me, or you have me, Ray, just please tell me why I can only go this far and no farther.

But perhaps it was in his voice all the same, or his scent, because Ray did not move, except to tremble as Cal tugged ever so faintly on his silken leash.