(no subject)
Title: Perfect Strangers
Author: katrin
Fandom: CSI/due South
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Greg Sanders/Ray Kowalski
Summary: Ray goes to Vegas. Greg goes dancing.
Disclaimer: So entirely not mine.
Author's Note: The experimental hair!OTP finally got written. This is so entirely for shihadchick, for pimping dS and succumbing to the CSI!pimping, and also coming up with a title. Love you, sis. This takes place some nebulous, non-existant time that is quite soon after Call of the Wild and also during season 5 or 6 of CSI.
The full moon is high and bright, shining above the lights of the Strip, and Greg Sanders has the night off. The nice thing about working nights is that he can go out dancing till 5 or 6 in the morning and still get the full complement of sleep (Grissom - or, possibly more likely, Warrick -- would be sure to give him hell if he came to work obviously overtired.
He doesn’t pick the month’s hottest club (though he tells himself he could get in, for sure) because he doesn’t feel like shrugging off tweaked-out party girls (or, for that matter, party boys). He just wants to dance.
Onyx is full but not too tightly packed, and the beer isn’t badly marked up. Greg takes the bottle onto the dance floor with him and moves to the beat for as long as it takes to finish the beer, and a couple of songs more. The music changes to something less driving and he weaves his way back to the bar for another beer.
There’s a guy sitting at the bar, drinking the same brand of beer Greg favors, and Greg can’t help but give him a once over. He’s a bit older than Greg, but the extra years look good on him, and his hair is blond and spiky. Greg thinks I’ve had that hair, somewhat inanely. His current hair is light brown and shaggy and, he hopes, charmingly cute, but this guy makes him miss the blond spikes.
The guy eyes Greg back, and that’s just interesting. He decides not to head back to the dance floor, instead leaning against the bar and trying to think up an opening line he can pass off as casual if his instincts are wrong.
Before he comes up with anything remotely smooth, the guy asks “Come here often?” with a wry, I-know-how-lame-this-is grin.
Greg can’t help but grin back. “No, I don’t have time usually,” he says. “You?”
“Oh, I’m not from around here.” Greg is surprised, most tourists either stay in the hotels or wind up at sleazy strip joints (he should know, he’s processed enough scenes). “A… friend of mine used to live here; this was apparently the cool place to go.”
“Probably,” Greg agrees easily. “That never lasts, though. These days I think it’s Island, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“No, this suits me fine.” He switches his beer to his left hand and stretches out his right. “I’m Ray.”
“Greg,” he replies, and it feels weird to be shaking hands in a club, but Ray has a firm grim and Greg thinks he can feel interestingly rough calluses. This? Might be better than dancing.
He wonders if it would be going too far to ask where Ray’s staying, then asks anyway, thinking, Hey, I work with the cops. I can use a gun, although that argument might have more weight if he had a gun *with* him.
“The Bellagio,” Ray replies, grinning again (oooh), and if it was up to Greg, he’d look like that all the time.
“Nice,” Greg says approvingly.
“Ever seen the rooms?” asks Ray.
Greg has - he’s processed there, a couple times, but that wasn’t really what Ray was asking, so he says “No, never.”
“Come on, I’ll show you,” Ray says, right on cue. Yes.
The taxi ride is largely silent. Greg tells himself he’s being discreet, not nervous, but the fact is he hasn’t gone home with a random in a very long time, and he knows all too well how wrong it can go. But hey. If you can’t trust a good-looking complete stranger, who can you trust, right?
There are two formally-dressed older couples in the elevator, so Greg stands away from Ray, trying to be circumspect. This must be the slowest elevator in the world, because it seems to take a year to get to the twelfth floor. Ray’s room is the closest one to the stairs, and before Greg can stop himself, he says “Murder central.”
“What?” Ray asks, looking surprised.
“Sorry,” Greg says, embarrassed and trying not to look at Ray. “The room closest to the stairs.”
“I know,” Ray says. “Are you a cop? You don’t look like a cop.” He looks vaguely accusing.
Ohshit. Has Greg gone home with a career criminal, or something? He wishes for the weight of his gun, even though he doesn’t like it all that much (he’d rather let Nick or Sara protect him; they’re actually *good* at it). “Uh, no,” he says. “I’m a criminalist.”
“Well, good. I’m sick of cops.”
Before Greg has a chance to respond, Ray has a hand threading through his hair and Greg imagines he can feel those interesting calluses against his scalp. He wants to say something because they’re still in the *hall*, but then they’re kissing and there’s tongue and, yeah, that would be teeth. Mmm.
Ray pulls away to grab the keycard, and Greg resolves not to think about murder. Then Ray grabs his hand, pulls him into the room and shoves him up against the wall, and he can’t really think about anything.
Greg wants to give as good as he gets, so he puts one hand in Ray’s hair (a little inflexible with gel) and the other on Ray’s ass (hard and *flexing*). Ray’s hands are a little restless against his chest.
Greg sucks on Ray’s tongue, and the pressure on either side of him (cool and hard wall against his back, overheated body pressed up against his front) feels too good, so he starts pushing Ray away a bit, like maybe he’ll be less embarrassed about being so fucking hard if they’re naked or on the bed or *something*.
Maybe he pushed too hard, because Ray takes it the wrong way: lets go of Greg, backs away a couple steps, starts apologizing. “I’m sorry - I thought - “
“No,” Greg says. “No, it’s okay. I just wanted -the bed - “ He takes a step forward.
Ray doesn’t move. “I… know I can be too aggressive. Fraser - my partner - always tells me - told me -“
“Um.” Greg isn’t entirely sure what to say. “Your partner?”
“Ex-partner. Former partner. He left me for Canada.”
Greg frowns, because what was supposed to be casual sex is rapidly becoming something surreal. “Is he the cop?”
“He’s *a* cop.”
Greg doesn’t miss the inflection, but leaves it alone. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Ray looks embarrassed. “No.”
“Okay.” Greg steps closer. He shoves Ray again, hard, because he can be aggressive too, see?
Ray seems to like it, putting his hands back on Greg’s chest, rubbing through the thin t-shirt. Ray is all muscle, lean and hard and *flexible*, and sits down willingly when they get to the plush bed. Greg straddles his thighs, and then they’re kissing again, and this is (hot) more like what Greg had expected. He can’t help but ask, breathlessly, “Is this better?” and then moan when Ray’s answer is a bite to his shoulder.
Greg gets a hand down between then and starts rubbing Ray’s cock through his jeans, the back of his knuckles brushing his own erection. Ray is whispering, “Yeah, fuck yeah… oh, God, fuck,” right up until he thrusts up so hard that Greg practically falls off the bed, then turns over and pushes Greg onto the bed, on his back.
Then they’re both trying to get Greg’s pants down, getting in each other’s way, and it takes way longer than it should. But it’s okay, because Ray’s hand is on his dick, and then Ray’s *mouth* is on his dick and, yeah, it’s been too long, and this is too good, because it only takes about three hard sucks before Greg is coming.
It’s really fucking embarrassing, actually, but it’s not fair to be embarrassed while Ray’s still fully dressed and hard. So he hauls Ray back up till they’re mouth-to-mouth and works his hand back down, under Ray’s jeans and boxers this time. Ray’s cock is hard and wet, and Greg feels less embarrassed a moment later when Ray comes in his pants and all over Greg’s fingers.
They both lie back on the bed, not quite touching and breathing heavily. Greg isn’t sure what to say (for once), and is glad when Ray says “Er, sorry about that,” in a voice somewhere between ashamed and relieved.
“Yeah, me too,” Greg replies. And it’s all okay, because clearly it’s been a long time for Ray *too*, and Ray’s stroking his arm a bit, and this could be really good.
Author: katrin
Fandom: CSI/due South
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Greg Sanders/Ray Kowalski
Summary: Ray goes to Vegas. Greg goes dancing.
Disclaimer: So entirely not mine.
Author's Note: The experimental hair!OTP finally got written. This is so entirely for shihadchick, for pimping dS and succumbing to the CSI!pimping, and also coming up with a title. Love you, sis. This takes place some nebulous, non-existant time that is quite soon after Call of the Wild and also during season 5 or 6 of CSI.
The full moon is high and bright, shining above the lights of the Strip, and Greg Sanders has the night off. The nice thing about working nights is that he can go out dancing till 5 or 6 in the morning and still get the full complement of sleep (Grissom - or, possibly more likely, Warrick -- would be sure to give him hell if he came to work obviously overtired.
He doesn’t pick the month’s hottest club (though he tells himself he could get in, for sure) because he doesn’t feel like shrugging off tweaked-out party girls (or, for that matter, party boys). He just wants to dance.
Onyx is full but not too tightly packed, and the beer isn’t badly marked up. Greg takes the bottle onto the dance floor with him and moves to the beat for as long as it takes to finish the beer, and a couple of songs more. The music changes to something less driving and he weaves his way back to the bar for another beer.
There’s a guy sitting at the bar, drinking the same brand of beer Greg favors, and Greg can’t help but give him a once over. He’s a bit older than Greg, but the extra years look good on him, and his hair is blond and spiky. Greg thinks I’ve had that hair, somewhat inanely. His current hair is light brown and shaggy and, he hopes, charmingly cute, but this guy makes him miss the blond spikes.
The guy eyes Greg back, and that’s just interesting. He decides not to head back to the dance floor, instead leaning against the bar and trying to think up an opening line he can pass off as casual if his instincts are wrong.
Before he comes up with anything remotely smooth, the guy asks “Come here often?” with a wry, I-know-how-lame-this-is grin.
Greg can’t help but grin back. “No, I don’t have time usually,” he says. “You?”
“Oh, I’m not from around here.” Greg is surprised, most tourists either stay in the hotels or wind up at sleazy strip joints (he should know, he’s processed enough scenes). “A… friend of mine used to live here; this was apparently the cool place to go.”
“Probably,” Greg agrees easily. “That never lasts, though. These days I think it’s Island, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“No, this suits me fine.” He switches his beer to his left hand and stretches out his right. “I’m Ray.”
“Greg,” he replies, and it feels weird to be shaking hands in a club, but Ray has a firm grim and Greg thinks he can feel interestingly rough calluses. This? Might be better than dancing.
He wonders if it would be going too far to ask where Ray’s staying, then asks anyway, thinking, Hey, I work with the cops. I can use a gun, although that argument might have more weight if he had a gun *with* him.
“The Bellagio,” Ray replies, grinning again (oooh), and if it was up to Greg, he’d look like that all the time.
“Nice,” Greg says approvingly.
“Ever seen the rooms?” asks Ray.
Greg has - he’s processed there, a couple times, but that wasn’t really what Ray was asking, so he says “No, never.”
“Come on, I’ll show you,” Ray says, right on cue. Yes.
The taxi ride is largely silent. Greg tells himself he’s being discreet, not nervous, but the fact is he hasn’t gone home with a random in a very long time, and he knows all too well how wrong it can go. But hey. If you can’t trust a good-looking complete stranger, who can you trust, right?
There are two formally-dressed older couples in the elevator, so Greg stands away from Ray, trying to be circumspect. This must be the slowest elevator in the world, because it seems to take a year to get to the twelfth floor. Ray’s room is the closest one to the stairs, and before Greg can stop himself, he says “Murder central.”
“What?” Ray asks, looking surprised.
“Sorry,” Greg says, embarrassed and trying not to look at Ray. “The room closest to the stairs.”
“I know,” Ray says. “Are you a cop? You don’t look like a cop.” He looks vaguely accusing.
Ohshit. Has Greg gone home with a career criminal, or something? He wishes for the weight of his gun, even though he doesn’t like it all that much (he’d rather let Nick or Sara protect him; they’re actually *good* at it). “Uh, no,” he says. “I’m a criminalist.”
“Well, good. I’m sick of cops.”
Before Greg has a chance to respond, Ray has a hand threading through his hair and Greg imagines he can feel those interesting calluses against his scalp. He wants to say something because they’re still in the *hall*, but then they’re kissing and there’s tongue and, yeah, that would be teeth. Mmm.
Ray pulls away to grab the keycard, and Greg resolves not to think about murder. Then Ray grabs his hand, pulls him into the room and shoves him up against the wall, and he can’t really think about anything.
Greg wants to give as good as he gets, so he puts one hand in Ray’s hair (a little inflexible with gel) and the other on Ray’s ass (hard and *flexing*). Ray’s hands are a little restless against his chest.
Greg sucks on Ray’s tongue, and the pressure on either side of him (cool and hard wall against his back, overheated body pressed up against his front) feels too good, so he starts pushing Ray away a bit, like maybe he’ll be less embarrassed about being so fucking hard if they’re naked or on the bed or *something*.
Maybe he pushed too hard, because Ray takes it the wrong way: lets go of Greg, backs away a couple steps, starts apologizing. “I’m sorry - I thought - “
“No,” Greg says. “No, it’s okay. I just wanted -the bed - “ He takes a step forward.
Ray doesn’t move. “I… know I can be too aggressive. Fraser - my partner - always tells me - told me -“
“Um.” Greg isn’t entirely sure what to say. “Your partner?”
“Ex-partner. Former partner. He left me for Canada.”
Greg frowns, because what was supposed to be casual sex is rapidly becoming something surreal. “Is he the cop?”
“He’s *a* cop.”
Greg doesn’t miss the inflection, but leaves it alone. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Ray looks embarrassed. “No.”
“Okay.” Greg steps closer. He shoves Ray again, hard, because he can be aggressive too, see?
Ray seems to like it, putting his hands back on Greg’s chest, rubbing through the thin t-shirt. Ray is all muscle, lean and hard and *flexible*, and sits down willingly when they get to the plush bed. Greg straddles his thighs, and then they’re kissing again, and this is (hot) more like what Greg had expected. He can’t help but ask, breathlessly, “Is this better?” and then moan when Ray’s answer is a bite to his shoulder.
Greg gets a hand down between then and starts rubbing Ray’s cock through his jeans, the back of his knuckles brushing his own erection. Ray is whispering, “Yeah, fuck yeah… oh, God, fuck,” right up until he thrusts up so hard that Greg practically falls off the bed, then turns over and pushes Greg onto the bed, on his back.
Then they’re both trying to get Greg’s pants down, getting in each other’s way, and it takes way longer than it should. But it’s okay, because Ray’s hand is on his dick, and then Ray’s *mouth* is on his dick and, yeah, it’s been too long, and this is too good, because it only takes about three hard sucks before Greg is coming.
It’s really fucking embarrassing, actually, but it’s not fair to be embarrassed while Ray’s still fully dressed and hard. So he hauls Ray back up till they’re mouth-to-mouth and works his hand back down, under Ray’s jeans and boxers this time. Ray’s cock is hard and wet, and Greg feels less embarrassed a moment later when Ray comes in his pants and all over Greg’s fingers.
They both lie back on the bed, not quite touching and breathing heavily. Greg isn’t sure what to say (for once), and is glad when Ray says “Er, sorry about that,” in a voice somewhere between ashamed and relieved.
“Yeah, me too,” Greg replies. And it’s all okay, because clearly it’s been a long time for Ray *too*, and Ray’s stroking his arm a bit, and this could be really good.