Birthdayfic
Title: Proximity, Spaces and Extra Limbs
Fandom: due South
Pairing: Ray/Ray
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1300 words
Notes: Written for
jamethiel_bane, for the prompt 'proximity.
See, Ray had developed habits- ways of working, roles to fall into in different places. Vegas...Vegas, he wasn't himself, and that was all there was to it, Florida, he was too much himself, Chicago he was himself with Benny and carchases and closets, only Benny wasn't there, it was his other Chicago self, the self with baggier jeans and messier hair. The chases were there, the closets were there but the resonances had shifted, rules had changed. Here, there was a man with a dazzling, shit-eating grin who never stood still, who forgot the words he needed and used his hands instead, was too close, too distracting.
Old habits, old faces. New tanline on his ring finger, new apartment, bare, absent.
Kowalski.
They never talked about Benny. On good days, his absence brought them closer, bad days he flung them apart.
They solved cases, yeah, played indifferent cop, borderline cop like it was what they’d done for years, bumped shoulders and hips walking, held hushed conversations in dark warm closets, brushed hands. There was an absence, and there was a presence, a revelation, something to be learnt in the way Kowalski moved, smelt, laughed. Ray jerked off with other faces behind his closed eyes.
Kowalski orbited around him, got closer, until one day they were sitting side by side, each nursing a pint and the thrumming under Ray’s skin had gotten a sound, a tune which danced his hand down to rest on Kowalski’s knee under the bar, which made him keep it there until he imagined his skin burning, blistering. Kowalski stood up, stood close, stood so Ray’s head was level with his shoulder, stood so they were pressed together. When he took a step away, Ray followed, until they were walking out of the bar, drinks unfinished.
“Fraser gets here in May. I…nothing happened. I, uh , I guess I packed my good boxers for nothing. We’re good, right? All three of us.”
Ray jiggled the key in the lock of the crappy carpool Ford until the lock creaked into action, then looked at Kowalski over the top of the car.
“Yeah, Kowalski. We’re good.”
He smiled, affection sudden, unaccountable. Kowalski nodded.
“That’s…uh, that’s good.”
“Let me know when the novel comes out, Kowalski. And if it has nice big letters and shiny pictures.”
A right turn, another right, a left after three blocks, a hundred yards up the street from where he had parked the car, three flights of stairs-”
Took forever, no time at all, too far, too close, then he was kissing Kowalski, backing him up against the bedroom door, and it was perfect, just right. Kowalski’s hands were feverish on his skin, hot, moving too rapidly for him to get used to their touch. He took his time, wondering briefly if Kowalski would beg, grinning at the idea into Kowalski’s skin, breathing out in silent laughter.
He licked Kowalski’s neck, tasting sweat, smelling soap, washing powder. Those summer days of curtained bowers and clumsy kisses, Irene had smelt of suncream and strawberries. Stella was Chanel No 5 on special days, lavender soap on weekends. Kowalski smelt of himself.
“You, uh, okay there, Vecchio?”
Husky voice, slightly dazed sounding.
“Just checking for fleas.”
Kowalski huffed out a laugh, kissed him again, pushed them away from the door, pushed him back to the bed, back so his legs were up against the bed, testing the limits of his balance.
“If I had fleas, you’d be itching too,” Kowalski whispered. Ray remembered Irene’s favorite poem, something about a flea, and blood, joining. She’d read it to him in a throaty whisper and he’d found it gross and hot, but like any sixteen year old, the hot won out so he had kissed her, crumpling the pages of the book she had in her hand, so they tumbled back-
back to the bed, Kowalski’s mouth on his again, hands impatient on his shirt, nearly ripping the buttons off, catching it in his crucifix but getting it off at last. Ray let him, just kept kissing him, licking the underside of his wrist when his hands untangled the crucifix, hooking his leg over Kowalski’s knees. Kowalski kept making these growling noises, deep in the back of his throat. Ray tugged his t shirt over his head quickly, glancing over at the pile of clothes they had made as he toed his shoes off and let them drop. More kissing, then, the removal of pants incidental almost, getting to skin on skin and toppling over into sex as easily as- as-
like falling off a log, Ray.
He laughed again. Fraser would come home soon, home to them and everything would shift, there would be three in the space where two were, and Kowalski’s cock was hot and slick against his own, Kowalski’s hand was reaching around, stroking down from his back to his ass and he must have moaned, pleaded because Kowalski laughed, asked where he kept the lube, and they were in his nightstand, of course they were in the drawer of his nightstand. A finger, slick, invading, pressed into him, as Kowalski kissed him. In past the first knuckle, moving, easing, loosening. Two fingers, more of a burn, then scissoring, turning to pleasure. Kowalski’s lips were pressed against his jaw; he could feel his eyelashes on his cheek.
He needed.
The fingers withdrew, he turned over, pulled a pillow to him, propped up his hips, absence becoming presence again, slick latex, blunt against his entrance. Kowalski kissed the back of his neck, hands gentling on his hips as he eased in, holding back but not that much. Pain became fullness became a weird sort of completeness became pleasure as Kowalski started moving, kissing up to the nape of his neck. He turned his head so they were kissing awkwardly, then braced himself on his arms, Kowalski draped against him, their legs fitting together, feet touching.
So close, Kowalski’s hand going to his cock, and they were moving, fluid now, against, into, around, between, completion sweet and aching, making his toes curl, making him gasp and cry out, jerk into Kowalski’s hand, come, arching and melting back, arms trembling with the strain of supporting him. Kowalski kept moving, rougher now, erratic, hands tight on his hips like he was afraid Ray would melt away if he didn’t trap him there. He came with a hoarse whispered ‘fffuck’, rolling them both back then withdrawing, putting the condom in the wastepaper basket and draping himself around Ray.
Ray sighed, muttered about untidy Pollacks, padded over to the bathroom and got a washcloth, cleaned himself up. He looked over at his reflection in the cracked shaving mirror, grinned wryly at it then walked back to the bed where Kowalski was sprawled, dumb fucked-out smile on his face, lazy. Completely still.
“So this is how I keep you quiet on stakeout, Kowalski,” he remarked, earning himself a middle finger, put up lazily. He shook his head, tugged the bedsheets out from under Kowalski, got into bed and pulled the covers up. He was only lying a few inches from Kowalski, but he still found himself being tugged closer, held in place with Kowalski’s legs draped over his like he was some sort of teddy bear.
“You do this to all your toys, Kowalski?”
“Some of them I colored in with sharpies. Some I made boats for, sailed them out into Lake ‘the lake they call Michigan’ Michigan. I made a couple of them into mutants with arms growing out of their backs…”
He sighed dreamily. Ray wondered if he had gone to sleep. He was relaxing, drifting off himself when Kowalski spoke again.
“Some of them I kept as they were. Still have a few.”
Ray found that oddly comforting. They held each other all night and into the morning.
Fandom: due South
Pairing: Ray/Ray
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1300 words
Notes: Written for
jamethiel_bane, for the prompt 'proximity.
See, Ray had developed habits- ways of working, roles to fall into in different places. Vegas...Vegas, he wasn't himself, and that was all there was to it, Florida, he was too much himself, Chicago he was himself with Benny and carchases and closets, only Benny wasn't there, it was his other Chicago self, the self with baggier jeans and messier hair. The chases were there, the closets were there but the resonances had shifted, rules had changed. Here, there was a man with a dazzling, shit-eating grin who never stood still, who forgot the words he needed and used his hands instead, was too close, too distracting.
Old habits, old faces. New tanline on his ring finger, new apartment, bare, absent.
Kowalski.
They never talked about Benny. On good days, his absence brought them closer, bad days he flung them apart.
They solved cases, yeah, played indifferent cop, borderline cop like it was what they’d done for years, bumped shoulders and hips walking, held hushed conversations in dark warm closets, brushed hands. There was an absence, and there was a presence, a revelation, something to be learnt in the way Kowalski moved, smelt, laughed. Ray jerked off with other faces behind his closed eyes.
Kowalski orbited around him, got closer, until one day they were sitting side by side, each nursing a pint and the thrumming under Ray’s skin had gotten a sound, a tune which danced his hand down to rest on Kowalski’s knee under the bar, which made him keep it there until he imagined his skin burning, blistering. Kowalski stood up, stood close, stood so Ray’s head was level with his shoulder, stood so they were pressed together. When he took a step away, Ray followed, until they were walking out of the bar, drinks unfinished.
“Fraser gets here in May. I…nothing happened. I, uh , I guess I packed my good boxers for nothing. We’re good, right? All three of us.”
Ray jiggled the key in the lock of the crappy carpool Ford until the lock creaked into action, then looked at Kowalski over the top of the car.
“Yeah, Kowalski. We’re good.”
He smiled, affection sudden, unaccountable. Kowalski nodded.
“That’s…uh, that’s good.”
“Let me know when the novel comes out, Kowalski. And if it has nice big letters and shiny pictures.”
A right turn, another right, a left after three blocks, a hundred yards up the street from where he had parked the car, three flights of stairs-”
Took forever, no time at all, too far, too close, then he was kissing Kowalski, backing him up against the bedroom door, and it was perfect, just right. Kowalski’s hands were feverish on his skin, hot, moving too rapidly for him to get used to their touch. He took his time, wondering briefly if Kowalski would beg, grinning at the idea into Kowalski’s skin, breathing out in silent laughter.
He licked Kowalski’s neck, tasting sweat, smelling soap, washing powder. Those summer days of curtained bowers and clumsy kisses, Irene had smelt of suncream and strawberries. Stella was Chanel No 5 on special days, lavender soap on weekends. Kowalski smelt of himself.
“You, uh, okay there, Vecchio?”
Husky voice, slightly dazed sounding.
“Just checking for fleas.”
Kowalski huffed out a laugh, kissed him again, pushed them away from the door, pushed him back to the bed, back so his legs were up against the bed, testing the limits of his balance.
“If I had fleas, you’d be itching too,” Kowalski whispered. Ray remembered Irene’s favorite poem, something about a flea, and blood, joining. She’d read it to him in a throaty whisper and he’d found it gross and hot, but like any sixteen year old, the hot won out so he had kissed her, crumpling the pages of the book she had in her hand, so they tumbled back-
back to the bed, Kowalski’s mouth on his again, hands impatient on his shirt, nearly ripping the buttons off, catching it in his crucifix but getting it off at last. Ray let him, just kept kissing him, licking the underside of his wrist when his hands untangled the crucifix, hooking his leg over Kowalski’s knees. Kowalski kept making these growling noises, deep in the back of his throat. Ray tugged his t shirt over his head quickly, glancing over at the pile of clothes they had made as he toed his shoes off and let them drop. More kissing, then, the removal of pants incidental almost, getting to skin on skin and toppling over into sex as easily as- as-
like falling off a log, Ray.
He laughed again. Fraser would come home soon, home to them and everything would shift, there would be three in the space where two were, and Kowalski’s cock was hot and slick against his own, Kowalski’s hand was reaching around, stroking down from his back to his ass and he must have moaned, pleaded because Kowalski laughed, asked where he kept the lube, and they were in his nightstand, of course they were in the drawer of his nightstand. A finger, slick, invading, pressed into him, as Kowalski kissed him. In past the first knuckle, moving, easing, loosening. Two fingers, more of a burn, then scissoring, turning to pleasure. Kowalski’s lips were pressed against his jaw; he could feel his eyelashes on his cheek.
He needed.
The fingers withdrew, he turned over, pulled a pillow to him, propped up his hips, absence becoming presence again, slick latex, blunt against his entrance. Kowalski kissed the back of his neck, hands gentling on his hips as he eased in, holding back but not that much. Pain became fullness became a weird sort of completeness became pleasure as Kowalski started moving, kissing up to the nape of his neck. He turned his head so they were kissing awkwardly, then braced himself on his arms, Kowalski draped against him, their legs fitting together, feet touching.
So close, Kowalski’s hand going to his cock, and they were moving, fluid now, against, into, around, between, completion sweet and aching, making his toes curl, making him gasp and cry out, jerk into Kowalski’s hand, come, arching and melting back, arms trembling with the strain of supporting him. Kowalski kept moving, rougher now, erratic, hands tight on his hips like he was afraid Ray would melt away if he didn’t trap him there. He came with a hoarse whispered ‘fffuck’, rolling them both back then withdrawing, putting the condom in the wastepaper basket and draping himself around Ray.
Ray sighed, muttered about untidy Pollacks, padded over to the bathroom and got a washcloth, cleaned himself up. He looked over at his reflection in the cracked shaving mirror, grinned wryly at it then walked back to the bed where Kowalski was sprawled, dumb fucked-out smile on his face, lazy. Completely still.
“So this is how I keep you quiet on stakeout, Kowalski,” he remarked, earning himself a middle finger, put up lazily. He shook his head, tugged the bedsheets out from under Kowalski, got into bed and pulled the covers up. He was only lying a few inches from Kowalski, but he still found himself being tugged closer, held in place with Kowalski’s legs draped over his like he was some sort of teddy bear.
“You do this to all your toys, Kowalski?”
“Some of them I colored in with sharpies. Some I made boats for, sailed them out into Lake ‘the lake they call Michigan’ Michigan. I made a couple of them into mutants with arms growing out of their backs…”
He sighed dreamily. Ray wondered if he had gone to sleep. He was relaxing, drifting off himself when Kowalski spoke again.
“Some of them I kept as they were. Still have a few.”
Ray found that oddly comforting. They held each other all night and into the morning.