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So Quite New
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Rating: NC-17/Adults Only
Pairing: Greg Sanders/Everybody, Gil Grissom/Greg Sanders pre-slash
Warnings: Crackfic. Non-con of a sort. It turns out okay, but if non-con of any kind even remotely squicks you, you may not want to read. Slash and het. Also, complete use of present tense.
Author's Note: I did some initial research into locations, etc., but please don't take anything in this story as 100% accurate. Use your willing suspension of disbelief, I implore you. Title from the E. E. Cummings poem "I Like My Body When It Is With Your". Also, semi-oblique Stargate references, yay.
Greg is tied, and he writhes. He gasps with each haphazard touch, each slow, teasing press of fingers to skin. He doesn't know if there are two hands, or twenty, and he doesn't care. Perhaps he should care about his state of undress, his inability to see past the dark band over his eyes, but he doesn't.
He can't tell which lab he's in, only that he's been mounted to one of the cold metal lab tables like any other piece of equipment, austere and beautiful in his functionality. He wonders if he's in the DNA lab and Henry is watching him pant and moan as each fluttering kiss alights on some new place: his temple, his cheek, his throat. The lips only stay for a few seconds, never fully giving him what he wants, what he needs; he wants to be kissed, wants that first tender slide of lips and tongue against his own.
Maybe he's in the fingerprint lab and Mandy is the one sliding cool fingers over his nipple, circling and teasing until it's pressing insistently into her gloved palm. Or maybe it's Jacqui's deft fingers that tug gently on both nipples until he tries, desperately, to push up into her touch. But he can't, he's tied fast, and he lets out a groan of disappointment that's shushed softly by the warm lips at his ear.
He could be in the trace lab, the GCMS buzzing along with the slow thrumming of his blood, while David Hodges nips the sensitive skin of his wrists, the insides of his elbows. He's waiting, anticipating the beep signaling a completed analysis, when his attention is drawn instead to a sharp, stinging bite on his shoulder. Greg interprets this as chastisement for letting his thoughts wander, and knows he's correct when teeth gently graze his neck in reward for letting pleasure retake him.
At first, everything is slow, so torturously slow, and Greg is frantic with need. He tries to beg for more, tries to work himself free until he can pull his tormentors close and let words spill forth to make them understand this taste of desperation in his mouth, make them feel how his chest aches with the need to move and touch and kiss.
Then he's lost in a haze, sensation building to fever pitch as frenzied kisses and touches burn into his skin, invisible lines etched into him that will last long after this encounter is over. It's as though they were only waiting for Greg to fully, finally surrender, and they can't hold back once he has.
He's only dimly aware of slick fingers pushing into him, moaning as best he can against the mouth devouring him, arousal only heightened by the sure knowledge that fingers and mouth don't belong to the same person. Blunt pressure replaces the fingers inside him, and Greg marvels again at how good it feels to be opened up this way, the first sweet friction of a cock sliding into him. He loves to be fucked, and he doesn't care who's fucking him now. It makes him feel hot and a little dirty to imagine it's Grissom, and he shivers and pushes down as much as he can to get more of that thick cock inside him. Or maybe it's Warrick, and Greg loves the idea that Warrick's leaving behind finger-shaped bruises as he holds Greg steady so he can fuck him harder.
He's consumed by pleasure, boneless with it, and he can only muster a little surprise that they aren't content to just let him be fucked, they won't leave him to these long strokes that tear him apart and remake him with each thrust. No, they want more, and they're not shy about taking it. He can't object to the tight, wet heat of the woman who slides down onto his dick – Sara? Catherine? Wendy? – wouldn't object anyway, and can't because there's someone gently turning his face and questioningly pressing his cock against Greg's parted lips.
Greg doesn't hesitate, he flicks his tongue out to meet the head of the man's cock, then he sucks it into his mouth and tries to encourage the man to fuck his mouth using the few small gestures he has available to him. He tilts his face up and moves his head forward just enough until he's fairly sure the man understands what to do. He wants it to be Nick fucking his mouth – slow and gentle, then hard and fast – wants to feel it days from now, know that he made Nick Fucking Stokes come using only his mouth.
Other mouths kiss his neck, nip his earlobe, lave his fingers. Other hands tease his nipples, pulling gently, then roughly, sometimes interrupted by tongues or lips or mouths sucking at him until he's oblivious with pleasure, so thoroughly fucked from every angle.
Greg feels the cool steel of the table at his back, feels the flushed heat of his own body, the other bodies on, around, in him – and at first there's overwhelming pleasure as Greg comes harder than he has in years, then his vision turns whit, even under the blindfold. Then there's nothing.
When Greg comes to, he's face down on the couch in Grissom's office, apparently redressed and none the worse for wear. Well, he's sore and he has the distinct feeling he's going to have trouble walking for a few days, but since he earned his battle-wounds the fun way he's not going to complain too loudly.
Grissom is reading something at his desk, and he looks up when Greg rolls over and sits up.
“Christ,” Greg croaks out. “Shit. I feel like I've been beaten hard and put away dead.”
Grissom laughs a little at that, but mostly looks a little sad, then pulls a chair over from the desk.
“So, I guess you'd like some explanation for what happened last night?”
“Well, I wouldn't normally say no to a random coma-inducing orgasm, but, uh, yeah, what the hell was that?”
“You remember the scene you worked yesterday? The one with the overturned truck and the yellow goo that leaked all over the road?”
Greg's eyes widen in alarm. “But the officer on scene told us that stuff wasn't hazardous, or else we would have used HAZMAT suits!”
Grissom holds up his hands and does his best to reassure Greg. “Well technically it wasn't hazardous, it just had some, well, interesting side-effects.”
Greg rolls his eyes. “You mean like causing an unknown number of my coworkers to find me so irresistible that they were unreasonably compelled to tie me up and fuck the everloving bejesus out of me? Yes, I would definitely call that an “interesting side-effect”. Where the hell was that truck going, anyway?”
Grissom flipped through the folder he'd been reading when Greg woke up, and began reading. “Air Force vehicle number AFCMAFB 93Z 2933 departed Cheyenne Mountain Base, Colorado Springs, Colorado at approximately 11:00 a.m. Thursday morning. Vehicle traveled north on I-25, west on I-70 and finally southwest on I-15 towards destination Nellis Air Force Base, Las Vegas, Nevada. While en route, driver lost control of the vehicle. Driver currently unconscious in Desert Palm Hospital Intensive Care Unit. Loss of control determined to be caused by heat-related failure of two rear-most tires located on right side of vehicle. Cargo containment was breached when vehicle crashed, allowing cargo to spill onto roadway. Substance is non-toxic to humans and animals, but has been demonstrated to be a powerful physiological stimulant, and which also causes significant lowering of natural inhibitions.”
Grissom puts the folder down and sighs. “Unfortunately we didn't know any of this before you went to the scene, and we only contacted the Air Force after we ran the driver's fingerprints and the truck's VIN. The truck was unmarked and the cargo manifest listed the substance as non-toxic.”
Grissom pauses for breath and rubs his eyes. “As you can see, this whole mess is involved in a bunch of Air Force red-tape and we'll probably never get the full story. The Air Force, and I quote, “is prepared to compensate any individuals who were temporarily or permanently harmed by the accidental spillage of the substance” and have asked us to destroy any and all samples we may have taken in order to prevent any mass orgies from reoccurring.”
“So, that's it? I get the pleasure of a nice, friendly gang-bang, some cash from the Air Force, and we all pretend it never happened?” Greg leans back on the couch and rubs a tired hand over his face.
“Greg, the department wants you to know that they understand something possibly traumatic happened to you, and they're prepared to offer you a settlement, or as much time off as you need. Anything.”
“Whoa, Grissom, what? Why would I need time off? And, uh, really. I'm kind of embarrassed to admit this, but...it wasn't all that traumatic. Yes, I was confused as hell, and scared at first, but it was actually...kind of hot.” He looks at Grissom, and grins innocently. “Does that make me a slut?”
“Greg, I'm serious. You work with, or used to work with if that's what you decide, people who forced you to have sex with them. Granted, they were unwillingly under the influence of a mind-altering substance, but can you really say that you don't mind what happened to you? We can't fire them because they didn't willingly do anything to you, and wouldn't have hurt you on purpose, but we can give you the means to make sure this doesn't cause you more trauma than it already might have. You can stay if you want, or you can leave, or you can have enough money to live the rest of your life without working. It's up to you.”
Greg groans, frustrated by Grissom's insistence on ignoring the obvious. “Look, Grissom, I wasn't all that traumatized. I might never have come to work and tried to incite any free-for-all orgies, but I won't hold my friends accountable for something they couldn't control any more than I could have. Besides, I'm kind of looking forward to finding out who the guilty parties are. Think of the blackmail potential.”
Greg laughs, and says, “And anyway, I really want to find out who was fucking me. Now that's something I want to do again. And again, and again. Any ideas who it was?”
Grissom has the grace to look chagrined and his entire face flushes. Greg isn't used to seeing his boss so discomfited.
“Well I guess I just found my first guilty party.” Greg looks up at Grissom through his lashes. “Wanna do it again?”
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
--E.E. Cummings, "I Like My Body When It Is With Your"
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