The One with the Second Thoughts
Title: The One with the Second Thoughts
Author: slidellra
Pairing: Turnbull/Kowalski
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Sequel to The One with the Present. 1500 words. Many thanks to llassah for beta.
Sometimes this was the best time of Ray's life. He was at the top of his game at work, had the best partner he'd ever had. He was getting more sex, hotter sex, easier sex than he'd ever had before, even when things were good with Stella. He didn't miss the stress and the insecurity of love, of wanting more, more, more and never knowing if he measured up. And Turnbull was big and beautiful and hot for it in the same way Ray was. Ray liked licking and touching and sucking, of course he did, but he needed fucking, needed it like oxygen and driving fast and a solid, righteous bust. Nothing made him feel more bone-deep satisfied than just bending Turnbull over and pushing inside, getting right down to the good hard fuck-dance, or pulling Turnbull down on top of him, Ray wrapping his legs around him, saying, "Do it now. I need it now."
Ray'd call him up, late at night or on his day off, and tell him exactly what he wanted to do with him, snickering when Turnbull's brain short-circuited, when he'd babble and sometimes hang up in the middle of a sentence, then appear faster than he'd think possible, flushed and hungry at Ray's door. Or Ray would go over toTurnbull's place, glad to get away from his apartment for a while, and lay Turnbull out on the bed to lick and touch, trying to tease out the hot, rude words that Turnbull liked to hear but couldn't bring himself to say.
Once or twice he called Turnbull at work, liking the strain in Turnbull's polite, cheerful voice while they discussed where and when and how they'd be fucking next.
And sometimes Ray remembered why this was a very dumb idea. When Turnbull was being unpredictable and unhelpful and dithering like an idiot and he had to watch Fraser try to keep his temper, one of the politest guys in Chicago fighting the urge to insult the other one. All the little lies he told to Fraser, to Welsh, to his parents, to Stella. About what he was doing, who he was doing.
Turnbull'd come to the 2-7 that day, bringing over something Fraser needed for the case they were working on. Ray was pissed, Fraser was pissy, and then Turnbull was there like a huge red puppy, trying to be helpful. Ray'd tried, but for all his supposed undercover skill, he wasn't any good at hiding stuff, especially when he was tired and frustrated and mad and (God, he was a dick) embarrassed. He figured it was the last one, his cringing away from Turnbull's Turnbullness, that made Turnbull stop and bite his lip, hurt flashing across his face for a second. Then he started right back up again, offering his kooky interpretation of the evidence until Fraser sent him away.
The hurt look stuck with Ray for the rest of the day. Ray'd never thought of himself as a puppy-kicker. An ass-kicker, a shit-kicker, sure. Puppies and big-eyed Mounties? He was supposed to protect them, right? And maybe he wasn't. The day only got worse, the case going downhill, Fraser snapping his head off, and all the time in the back of his mind was this itchy suspicion that he was bad for Turnbull. It was stupid he hadn't thought about it before. Turnbull was a freak, but he was an adult and capable of making decisions, right? And if he chose to make intimate with Ray, then that was his choice, right?
Ray thought about cancelling that night, not sure what to do when what he needed to fuck out of his system was Turnbull himself.
He was wound up pretty tight by the time Turnbull showed up with a big paper bag in his arms. He bustled into the kitchen and began unloading food onto the counter. "I found some lovely fresh spinach and decided to try my hand at spanakopita. Have you eaten yet?"
"No." It must have come out sharp or something because Turnbull gave him a quick look and then kept on doing stuff with the food.
"I found a wonderful source for feta and an unusual hard cheese I've never tried before. It should be a thrilling experiment."
Ray didn't know what to do with his hands, crossed his arms, uncrossed them. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Well, first I need to wash and chop the spinach. I was hoping you might be willing to chop the onion."
"Why?"
"It's rather embarrassing, but I'm particularly sensitive to onions. They make me cry quite easily."
"Why dinner? This isn't a date, we're not dating. We fuck, that's it."
Turnbull looked at him and said, "We're fuckbuddies," all slow and clear, as if Ray was missing the point.
Ray frowned. "Yeah, so?"
"Having dinner together 'is buddies,' Ray."
That knocked the breath out of him for a minute, and then the pressure in his head ratcheted up and he was yelling, "We're not buddies, you idiot. We're fucking, I'm using you!" He couldn't stop himself, the words spilling out of him, his tongue for once not tangling up in itself, "You're a fucking embarrassment! You're no kind of cop, you just pant around after the real cops. And how can you be so fucking cheerful all the time? Is there something wrong with you? You're like some kind of wind-up toy that smiles and says dumb stuff and fucks like a whore!"
Turnbull just took it, took all the abuse Ray could hand out, until he said, "and your stupid curling and your stupid Queen," which was apparently the trigger needed to jump-start the guy, 'cause Turnbull started yelling right back. "Say what you will to me, you will NOT insult sacred things during your little temper tantrum!"
And then they were nose to nose, red-faced and shouting in Ray's tiny kitchen. It felt good, it felt great. Ray was in his element, and Turnbull was giving back almost as good as he got, insulting Ray's manners and cleanliness and calling him scared, which was stupid 'cause Ray was badass, he wasn't scared of anything, until Turnbull grabbed the hand Ray was jabbing at his face and stepped forward to trap him against the counter.
"I can fight with you, Ray. I can. Any way you want."
Ray panted for a couple moments, staring at Turnbull, then put his free hand on Turnbull's shoulder and pushed down. Turnbull went to his knees, smooth as silk, and pressed his face against Ray's jeans.
Quick fingers popped the buttons and pulled him out. Turnbull's mouth was hot as ever, slick as ever, perfect as ever. Ray looked wildly around the kitchen, seeing the food spread out, the mess around the coffee maker. He felt panic rise in him again and pushed harder into Turnbull's mouth.
Was he hurting him? He didn't look hurt; his eyes shut, his lashes long against his flushed cheeks.
Ray felt his jeans being tugged further down his legs, Turnbull's fingers pushing up behind him, teasing and pushing in.
"Yeah," he husked out, and Turnbull did it, fucked Ray with his fingers while sucking him down like Ray's cock was what he'd been missing all his life.
He was dizzy, close, when Turnbull pulled off and stood.
"What..."
Turnbull unzipped, saying, "Turn around, Ray."
Ray glowered at him, not sure if he wanted to obey, then turned, bracing his hands on the counter. Turnbull reached over and snagged something out of the bag he'd brought. Ray heard the glug glug of liquid pouring, then felt fingers slipping easily into him.
He spread his legs, lowered his head, pushing back automatically.
Turnbull's cock slid in, slow and steady.
"Shhh," Turnbull was whispering against his ear, and Ray tilted his head closer, wondering why. Turnbull just kissed his cheek and kept rocking into him, sweet and too slow, one hand snaking down Ray's body to his cock.
"Yeah, that's good. Do that."
When Ray came it was with a wave of relief, like the bad and the tension was swept out of him on this surge of pleasure.
Moaning softly against Ray's neck, Turnbull didn't speed up, didn't thrust harder, just held Ray against the counter and fucked him with slow, measured strokes.
Ray tried to push back, but Turnbull's grip tightened, not letting him move, so he used his muscles instead, squeezing and releasing Turnbull's cock until he sighed and groaned and came.
Turnbull didn't pull out and Ray didn't fidget. Eventually things came back into focus and he looked around his apartment, at the groceries, the couch. The mad bad nerve-jangling feeling was gone, and he was kind of hungry.
"Sorry," Ray said.
"Thank you. Apology accepted."
Ray rolled his shoulders, working out some residual tension. "We should spar sometime."
Turnbull smiled against his neck.
First draft:
They were making dinner together, or Turnbull was making spanakopita while Ray watched and got in the way.
Ray reached past Turnbull to grab an olive. Popping it in his mouth, he said, "Do you wanna do me sometime?"
Turnbull froze. "You mean, penetrate you? Anally? With my penis?"
Snickering, Ray said, "Yeah, Turnbull. Those of us who actually have sex like to call it fucking."
"Would you let me?" Turnbull was damn near quivering
Ray crossed his arms over his chest. "Not if you can't say it."
"Wouldyouletmefuckyou?"
"Yeah."
So Turnbull spun Ray around, pulled down their pants, lubed them up with some extra virgin olive oil, and fucked him against the counter. And it was really good and Ray moaned like a dirty whore.
The end.
***
Continued in The One like a Penthouse Letter
Author: slidellra
Pairing: Turnbull/Kowalski
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Sequel to The One with the Present. 1500 words. Many thanks to llassah for beta.
Sometimes this was the best time of Ray's life. He was at the top of his game at work, had the best partner he'd ever had. He was getting more sex, hotter sex, easier sex than he'd ever had before, even when things were good with Stella. He didn't miss the stress and the insecurity of love, of wanting more, more, more and never knowing if he measured up. And Turnbull was big and beautiful and hot for it in the same way Ray was. Ray liked licking and touching and sucking, of course he did, but he needed fucking, needed it like oxygen and driving fast and a solid, righteous bust. Nothing made him feel more bone-deep satisfied than just bending Turnbull over and pushing inside, getting right down to the good hard fuck-dance, or pulling Turnbull down on top of him, Ray wrapping his legs around him, saying, "Do it now. I need it now."
Ray'd call him up, late at night or on his day off, and tell him exactly what he wanted to do with him, snickering when Turnbull's brain short-circuited, when he'd babble and sometimes hang up in the middle of a sentence, then appear faster than he'd think possible, flushed and hungry at Ray's door. Or Ray would go over toTurnbull's place, glad to get away from his apartment for a while, and lay Turnbull out on the bed to lick and touch, trying to tease out the hot, rude words that Turnbull liked to hear but couldn't bring himself to say.
Once or twice he called Turnbull at work, liking the strain in Turnbull's polite, cheerful voice while they discussed where and when and how they'd be fucking next.
And sometimes Ray remembered why this was a very dumb idea. When Turnbull was being unpredictable and unhelpful and dithering like an idiot and he had to watch Fraser try to keep his temper, one of the politest guys in Chicago fighting the urge to insult the other one. All the little lies he told to Fraser, to Welsh, to his parents, to Stella. About what he was doing, who he was doing.
Turnbull'd come to the 2-7 that day, bringing over something Fraser needed for the case they were working on. Ray was pissed, Fraser was pissy, and then Turnbull was there like a huge red puppy, trying to be helpful. Ray'd tried, but for all his supposed undercover skill, he wasn't any good at hiding stuff, especially when he was tired and frustrated and mad and (God, he was a dick) embarrassed. He figured it was the last one, his cringing away from Turnbull's Turnbullness, that made Turnbull stop and bite his lip, hurt flashing across his face for a second. Then he started right back up again, offering his kooky interpretation of the evidence until Fraser sent him away.
The hurt look stuck with Ray for the rest of the day. Ray'd never thought of himself as a puppy-kicker. An ass-kicker, a shit-kicker, sure. Puppies and big-eyed Mounties? He was supposed to protect them, right? And maybe he wasn't. The day only got worse, the case going downhill, Fraser snapping his head off, and all the time in the back of his mind was this itchy suspicion that he was bad for Turnbull. It was stupid he hadn't thought about it before. Turnbull was a freak, but he was an adult and capable of making decisions, right? And if he chose to make intimate with Ray, then that was his choice, right?
Ray thought about cancelling that night, not sure what to do when what he needed to fuck out of his system was Turnbull himself.
He was wound up pretty tight by the time Turnbull showed up with a big paper bag in his arms. He bustled into the kitchen and began unloading food onto the counter. "I found some lovely fresh spinach and decided to try my hand at spanakopita. Have you eaten yet?"
"No." It must have come out sharp or something because Turnbull gave him a quick look and then kept on doing stuff with the food.
"I found a wonderful source for feta and an unusual hard cheese I've never tried before. It should be a thrilling experiment."
Ray didn't know what to do with his hands, crossed his arms, uncrossed them. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Well, first I need to wash and chop the spinach. I was hoping you might be willing to chop the onion."
"Why?"
"It's rather embarrassing, but I'm particularly sensitive to onions. They make me cry quite easily."
"Why dinner? This isn't a date, we're not dating. We fuck, that's it."
Turnbull looked at him and said, "We're fuckbuddies," all slow and clear, as if Ray was missing the point.
Ray frowned. "Yeah, so?"
"Having dinner together 'is buddies,' Ray."
That knocked the breath out of him for a minute, and then the pressure in his head ratcheted up and he was yelling, "We're not buddies, you idiot. We're fucking, I'm using you!" He couldn't stop himself, the words spilling out of him, his tongue for once not tangling up in itself, "You're a fucking embarrassment! You're no kind of cop, you just pant around after the real cops. And how can you be so fucking cheerful all the time? Is there something wrong with you? You're like some kind of wind-up toy that smiles and says dumb stuff and fucks like a whore!"
Turnbull just took it, took all the abuse Ray could hand out, until he said, "and your stupid curling and your stupid Queen," which was apparently the trigger needed to jump-start the guy, 'cause Turnbull started yelling right back. "Say what you will to me, you will NOT insult sacred things during your little temper tantrum!"
And then they were nose to nose, red-faced and shouting in Ray's tiny kitchen. It felt good, it felt great. Ray was in his element, and Turnbull was giving back almost as good as he got, insulting Ray's manners and cleanliness and calling him scared, which was stupid 'cause Ray was badass, he wasn't scared of anything, until Turnbull grabbed the hand Ray was jabbing at his face and stepped forward to trap him against the counter.
"I can fight with you, Ray. I can. Any way you want."
Ray panted for a couple moments, staring at Turnbull, then put his free hand on Turnbull's shoulder and pushed down. Turnbull went to his knees, smooth as silk, and pressed his face against Ray's jeans.
Quick fingers popped the buttons and pulled him out. Turnbull's mouth was hot as ever, slick as ever, perfect as ever. Ray looked wildly around the kitchen, seeing the food spread out, the mess around the coffee maker. He felt panic rise in him again and pushed harder into Turnbull's mouth.
Was he hurting him? He didn't look hurt; his eyes shut, his lashes long against his flushed cheeks.
Ray felt his jeans being tugged further down his legs, Turnbull's fingers pushing up behind him, teasing and pushing in.
"Yeah," he husked out, and Turnbull did it, fucked Ray with his fingers while sucking him down like Ray's cock was what he'd been missing all his life.
He was dizzy, close, when Turnbull pulled off and stood.
"What..."
Turnbull unzipped, saying, "Turn around, Ray."
Ray glowered at him, not sure if he wanted to obey, then turned, bracing his hands on the counter. Turnbull reached over and snagged something out of the bag he'd brought. Ray heard the glug glug of liquid pouring, then felt fingers slipping easily into him.
He spread his legs, lowered his head, pushing back automatically.
Turnbull's cock slid in, slow and steady.
"Shhh," Turnbull was whispering against his ear, and Ray tilted his head closer, wondering why. Turnbull just kissed his cheek and kept rocking into him, sweet and too slow, one hand snaking down Ray's body to his cock.
"Yeah, that's good. Do that."
When Ray came it was with a wave of relief, like the bad and the tension was swept out of him on this surge of pleasure.
Moaning softly against Ray's neck, Turnbull didn't speed up, didn't thrust harder, just held Ray against the counter and fucked him with slow, measured strokes.
Ray tried to push back, but Turnbull's grip tightened, not letting him move, so he used his muscles instead, squeezing and releasing Turnbull's cock until he sighed and groaned and came.
Turnbull didn't pull out and Ray didn't fidget. Eventually things came back into focus and he looked around his apartment, at the groceries, the couch. The mad bad nerve-jangling feeling was gone, and he was kind of hungry.
"Sorry," Ray said.
"Thank you. Apology accepted."
Ray rolled his shoulders, working out some residual tension. "We should spar sometime."
Turnbull smiled against his neck.
First draft:
They were making dinner together, or Turnbull was making spanakopita while Ray watched and got in the way.
Ray reached past Turnbull to grab an olive. Popping it in his mouth, he said, "Do you wanna do me sometime?"
Turnbull froze. "You mean, penetrate you? Anally? With my penis?"
Snickering, Ray said, "Yeah, Turnbull. Those of us who actually have sex like to call it fucking."
"Would you let me?" Turnbull was damn near quivering
Ray crossed his arms over his chest. "Not if you can't say it."
"Wouldyouletmefuckyou?"
"Yeah."
So Turnbull spun Ray around, pulled down their pants, lubed them up with some extra virgin olive oil, and fucked him against the counter. And it was really good and Ray moaned like a dirty whore.
The end.
***
Continued in The One like a Penthouse Letter