[fic] because I miss Nicky and Greggie
So, how long has it been since I last pester Nick and Greg to do unthinkable things to each other? Therefore, I wrote a quickie. On the way home from work.
Title: Elementary Chemistry - Invisible
Pairing: Nick/Greg (CSI)
Rating: PG
Summary: Foreplay to the tune of Lab Rat.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never was, never will be.
Notes/Warning: Crack!Fic, meaning you need to be high/inebriated/drunk/far-from-sober to be able to survive this. Crossposted like mad to nickngreg and csi_slash, because I'm slightly unbalanced.
He stares at the bruised half of a lemon in his hands -- quite squeezed up -- as he plays with the rim of a shallow bowl. He absently dips his thumb into the bowl and feels the sting against his skin. And he can feel where it hurts (just a little), and he can tell where the little bursts of pain originate: unseen scrapes between the whorls of his thumbs, unseen peeling on the skin of his thumbs and he smiles.
He licks his thumb and feels the juice locating small cuts inside his mouth, near his lips, by his gums. He dips all ten of his fingers and hisses a little.
There's a clean sheet of paper and he writes with his juice running off his fingers (He feels like a child. Writing silly notes. Making more mess than is legal). Clear white juice tracing invisible letters on white paper. His fingers are so white, pale, and bloodless. His head swirls like juice in the shallow bowl.
Dear Nick,
His beloved Nicky. A Nicky to his Greg. A Nicky, one Nicky, only Nicky. And fingers move without consulting the brain. He cannot see what he writes, and he doesn't really know what he writes. His lips curve into a smile as he savours the stings on his scratches, the slightly bitter taste in his mouth.
He tells his fingers not to betray him, not to write things he doesn't really mean.
Then he stops.
Then he looks at the mess of bitter droplets seeping into the cracks of their wooden breakfast table (theirs, but Greg never likes the table, but Nick picks it up for a bargain. Plus... it's sturdy enough for a quick bout of callesthenics most mornings). He looks at the paper: rapidly drying. He looks into the shallow bowl: wet juice clinging to the bottom and the sides. Then he looks at the lemon, and he squeezes it onto his palm, and feels some stings there too. More invisible scrapes where it tingles, and he smiles as he sucks the lemon, and shudders through the aftertaste.
He hears a key slide home. He hears the door open and close. He hears footsteps. He hears Nick calling his name. He hears Nick coming towards him (because Nick always know where Greg is). He hears his own gleeful chuckle as he smooths the wrinkles out of his note. He hears Nick's low chuckle. He hears his name in Nick's warm voice. He hears Nick walking ever closer.
So Greg goes to hide.
***
Title: Elementary Chemistry - Invisible
Pairing: Nick/Greg (CSI)
Rating: PG
Summary: Foreplay to the tune of Lab Rat.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never was, never will be.
Notes/Warning: Crack!Fic, meaning you need to be high/inebriated/drunk/far-from-sober to be able to survive this. Crossposted like mad to nickngreg and csi_slash, because I'm slightly unbalanced.
He stares at the bruised half of a lemon in his hands -- quite squeezed up -- as he plays with the rim of a shallow bowl. He absently dips his thumb into the bowl and feels the sting against his skin. And he can feel where it hurts (just a little), and he can tell where the little bursts of pain originate: unseen scrapes between the whorls of his thumbs, unseen peeling on the skin of his thumbs and he smiles.
He licks his thumb and feels the juice locating small cuts inside his mouth, near his lips, by his gums. He dips all ten of his fingers and hisses a little.
There's a clean sheet of paper and he writes with his juice running off his fingers (He feels like a child. Writing silly notes. Making more mess than is legal). Clear white juice tracing invisible letters on white paper. His fingers are so white, pale, and bloodless. His head swirls like juice in the shallow bowl.
Dear Nick,
His beloved Nicky. A Nicky to his Greg. A Nicky, one Nicky, only Nicky. And fingers move without consulting the brain. He cannot see what he writes, and he doesn't really know what he writes. His lips curve into a smile as he savours the stings on his scratches, the slightly bitter taste in his mouth.
He tells his fingers not to betray him, not to write things he doesn't really mean.
Then he stops.
Then he looks at the mess of bitter droplets seeping into the cracks of their wooden breakfast table (theirs, but Greg never likes the table, but Nick picks it up for a bargain. Plus... it's sturdy enough for a quick bout of callesthenics most mornings). He looks at the paper: rapidly drying. He looks into the shallow bowl: wet juice clinging to the bottom and the sides. Then he looks at the lemon, and he squeezes it onto his palm, and feels some stings there too. More invisible scrapes where it tingles, and he smiles as he sucks the lemon, and shudders through the aftertaste.
He hears a key slide home. He hears the door open and close. He hears footsteps. He hears Nick calling his name. He hears Nick coming towards him (because Nick always know where Greg is). He hears his own gleeful chuckle as he smooths the wrinkles out of his note. He hears Nick's low chuckle. He hears his name in Nick's warm voice. He hears Nick walking ever closer.
So Greg goes to hide.
***