Fic Post: Overthink
Title: Overthink
Series: Sleeps with Butterflies
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Grissom/Sara, with a little bit of Greg-UST thrown in for fun.
Rating: Mature
Timeframe: Probably late 10th season, post Long Ball perhaps. But no spoilers for anything.
A/N: kittyknighton is evil
Disclaimer: If CSI would hire me, we’d get to have scenes like this. ;) But until they do, it’s just me and my computer and I’m not making a damned penny off of it.
Summary: Grissom was home and he and Sara weren’t exactly upstairs arguing.
Sara’s car was in the shop, so Greg had promised to pick her up before shift. It wasn’t that big a deal. Yeah, she was out of town a bit now, and it ended up adding forty-five minutes on a round trip, but hey, he liked her place. Domesticated Sara was a surprisingly fun Sara and somehow, the house always smelled like freshly baked bread. He chalked it up to the tortillas in the warmer and the rice in the cooker. It was something homey in the life she’d crafted for herself, with or without Grissom. He felt a little bit like a bastard, but when he was there, without Grissom around, he could pretend that maybe her life was their life, that this house was theirs. It didn’t happen often, that he let his mind wander down that road, but it did wander. He was still in love with her and that wouldn’t ever change.
The easiest way to approach was actually the driveway and he drove the length, coming to a stop just outside the garage. Backing out the drive was always a pain, but still easier than taking the winding road around to the front door. How they’d even found this place was beyond him. He climbed out of the car walked through the open garage door, pulling her key out as he went.
He took the stairs to the main level two at a time, knocking on the wall as he did so. Sara was expecting him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to scare her. Yeah, he was early, but maybe she’d have food. Or coffee. Or both. He’d come to believe that marriage magically created a full fridge and a perking coffee pot. She wasn’t in his line of sight but before he could call out her name, his subconscious mind took in the duffel bag by the washing machine in the mud room. His brain tried to process the silk robe on the floor and the men’s shoes by the stairs, but it was the very clear shout of his old boss’ name that made him freeze.
Grissom was home and he and Sara weren’t exactly upstairs arguing.
Oh God … Gil … Oh God …
The air fled Greg’s lungs and he searched around, wondering what to do. To run downstairs might attract their attention and to stay was inappropriate. And, if he knew anything about women and breath tones (and he liked to think he knew something), Sara was nearing the end point and he knew better than to potentially distract that. She’d be bitchy the rest of the night. But he wasn’t exactly sure his brain could handle sitting perfectly still and listening to Grissom get Sara off. He might have accepted that she was married to the guy, but he didn’t need the physical reminder.
She was gasping and Greg was embarrassed to realize he was more than a little turned on. Upstairs, Sara was naked and sweaty and wrapped around Grissom. Okay, that last part helped cool his libido. But it sounded like the old guy had some game. What the fuck was he thinking?
Something had to change. He could go sit on the stairs leading back down to the garage and when things seemed safe, come in. After all, Sara hadn’t been expecting him for at least half an hour. He could make himself scarce until after the fireworks were done at least. Sara’s headphones and iPod were on the couch end table. He’d grab those, listen, and hopefully slip them back before anyone noticed. Of course, if he did that, it meant that he might miss when the fireworks happened and then he might get caught hanging out on the stairs of Sara’s place like the unwitting voyeur he was.
But he had to make a decision because upstairs Sara was muttering what had to be the sexiest curse words he’d ever heard and he could swear Grissom was calling her his good little slut. Jesus. He didn’t need to know that about her sex life. He accepted that Grissom and Sara had sex. Most married couples did. But in his mind, Sara and Grissom’s sex was always vanilla, and silent, and didn’t involve cursing or referring to Sara as a slut.
That was his fantasy. No, no it wasn’t. He didn’t fantasize about her anymore. Especially not after today.
Fuck. He had to do something. He could swear he heard the bed creaking and Sara was keening now and if he didn’t distract himself, he’d end up with a stain on his jeans. He’d always dreamed she’d be a screamer. Now he knew and God, she lived into the dream.
Above him, he heard Grissom’s low voice muttering again and given the pattern of words figured it was typical male encouragement about how he wanted her to come for him, and God, Greg needed to get out of there or at least listen to something else. But Sara’s headphones were just out of his reach and he didn’t want to move lest he do something like bump into the plant shelf and knock everything over. So he held his breath while Sara came with a shout and then, he assumed, collapsed back onto the bed. Even the deaf could hear the bed springs on this one. Silence. Then a chuckle. Then, Sara’s low, sex-filled tones, “This was a nice surprise.”
Now he really was stuck. What a perfect way to say hello to Grissom for the first time in years. “Hi, Grissom. Yeah, so apparently you make your wife scream like a banshee when you’re drilling her. Do you realize how much the whole lab hates your guts because she’s faithful to you while you’re out of the country? How was Peru? It’s nice weather today.”
He heard a groan and realized, suddenly, that the doors of the loft above him were open. No wonder he could hear everything going on in their bedroom. It was a miracle they hadn’t detected his presence. Holding his breath, he slunk back against the wall of the mud room, praying that they’d disappear into the bathroom or something. They were the type to have after sex showers, right?
“Oh god.” Sara’s voice again. “Greg’s going to be here any minute.” A chuckle. “So untie me.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
Oh God. She was tied up? He’d never be able to close his eyes again without the mental image of a naked, panting Sara tied up and at Grissom’s mercy.
“You don’t think so?”
“No.” Dear God, was Grissom laughing? “I think you should call him, tell him that you’re calling in sick. And then, call in sick.”
“Oh really? The diagnosis?”
“That you physically can’t get out of bed.”
“Well, this is true.” She laughed, long and low. “But to do that, I need my arms, Gil.”
Another groan and Greg heard the bed move again and the gentle murmuring of what had to be Grissom rubbing circulation back into Sara’s arms. Fuck. Now what? How to get out without letting them know he was there? How to back out without falling down the stairs and breaking his neck? There was a thump. A laugh. And then a ring.
A ring.
His ring.
Oh fuck.
Continued in Eskhara
Series: Sleeps with Butterflies
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Grissom/Sara, with a little bit of Greg-UST thrown in for fun.
Rating: Mature
Timeframe: Probably late 10th season, post Long Ball perhaps. But no spoilers for anything.
A/N: kittyknighton is evil
Disclaimer: If CSI would hire me, we’d get to have scenes like this. ;) But until they do, it’s just me and my computer and I’m not making a damned penny off of it.
Summary: Grissom was home and he and Sara weren’t exactly upstairs arguing.
Sara’s car was in the shop, so Greg had promised to pick her up before shift. It wasn’t that big a deal. Yeah, she was out of town a bit now, and it ended up adding forty-five minutes on a round trip, but hey, he liked her place. Domesticated Sara was a surprisingly fun Sara and somehow, the house always smelled like freshly baked bread. He chalked it up to the tortillas in the warmer and the rice in the cooker. It was something homey in the life she’d crafted for herself, with or without Grissom. He felt a little bit like a bastard, but when he was there, without Grissom around, he could pretend that maybe her life was their life, that this house was theirs. It didn’t happen often, that he let his mind wander down that road, but it did wander. He was still in love with her and that wouldn’t ever change.
The easiest way to approach was actually the driveway and he drove the length, coming to a stop just outside the garage. Backing out the drive was always a pain, but still easier than taking the winding road around to the front door. How they’d even found this place was beyond him. He climbed out of the car walked through the open garage door, pulling her key out as he went.
He took the stairs to the main level two at a time, knocking on the wall as he did so. Sara was expecting him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to scare her. Yeah, he was early, but maybe she’d have food. Or coffee. Or both. He’d come to believe that marriage magically created a full fridge and a perking coffee pot. She wasn’t in his line of sight but before he could call out her name, his subconscious mind took in the duffel bag by the washing machine in the mud room. His brain tried to process the silk robe on the floor and the men’s shoes by the stairs, but it was the very clear shout of his old boss’ name that made him freeze.
Grissom was home and he and Sara weren’t exactly upstairs arguing.
Oh God … Gil … Oh God …
The air fled Greg’s lungs and he searched around, wondering what to do. To run downstairs might attract their attention and to stay was inappropriate. And, if he knew anything about women and breath tones (and he liked to think he knew something), Sara was nearing the end point and he knew better than to potentially distract that. She’d be bitchy the rest of the night. But he wasn’t exactly sure his brain could handle sitting perfectly still and listening to Grissom get Sara off. He might have accepted that she was married to the guy, but he didn’t need the physical reminder.
She was gasping and Greg was embarrassed to realize he was more than a little turned on. Upstairs, Sara was naked and sweaty and wrapped around Grissom. Okay, that last part helped cool his libido. But it sounded like the old guy had some game. What the fuck was he thinking?
Something had to change. He could go sit on the stairs leading back down to the garage and when things seemed safe, come in. After all, Sara hadn’t been expecting him for at least half an hour. He could make himself scarce until after the fireworks were done at least. Sara’s headphones and iPod were on the couch end table. He’d grab those, listen, and hopefully slip them back before anyone noticed. Of course, if he did that, it meant that he might miss when the fireworks happened and then he might get caught hanging out on the stairs of Sara’s place like the unwitting voyeur he was.
But he had to make a decision because upstairs Sara was muttering what had to be the sexiest curse words he’d ever heard and he could swear Grissom was calling her his good little slut. Jesus. He didn’t need to know that about her sex life. He accepted that Grissom and Sara had sex. Most married couples did. But in his mind, Sara and Grissom’s sex was always vanilla, and silent, and didn’t involve cursing or referring to Sara as a slut.
That was his fantasy. No, no it wasn’t. He didn’t fantasize about her anymore. Especially not after today.
Fuck. He had to do something. He could swear he heard the bed creaking and Sara was keening now and if he didn’t distract himself, he’d end up with a stain on his jeans. He’d always dreamed she’d be a screamer. Now he knew and God, she lived into the dream.
Above him, he heard Grissom’s low voice muttering again and given the pattern of words figured it was typical male encouragement about how he wanted her to come for him, and God, Greg needed to get out of there or at least listen to something else. But Sara’s headphones were just out of his reach and he didn’t want to move lest he do something like bump into the plant shelf and knock everything over. So he held his breath while Sara came with a shout and then, he assumed, collapsed back onto the bed. Even the deaf could hear the bed springs on this one. Silence. Then a chuckle. Then, Sara’s low, sex-filled tones, “This was a nice surprise.”
Now he really was stuck. What a perfect way to say hello to Grissom for the first time in years. “Hi, Grissom. Yeah, so apparently you make your wife scream like a banshee when you’re drilling her. Do you realize how much the whole lab hates your guts because she’s faithful to you while you’re out of the country? How was Peru? It’s nice weather today.”
He heard a groan and realized, suddenly, that the doors of the loft above him were open. No wonder he could hear everything going on in their bedroom. It was a miracle they hadn’t detected his presence. Holding his breath, he slunk back against the wall of the mud room, praying that they’d disappear into the bathroom or something. They were the type to have after sex showers, right?
“Oh god.” Sara’s voice again. “Greg’s going to be here any minute.” A chuckle. “So untie me.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
Oh God. She was tied up? He’d never be able to close his eyes again without the mental image of a naked, panting Sara tied up and at Grissom’s mercy.
“You don’t think so?”
“No.” Dear God, was Grissom laughing? “I think you should call him, tell him that you’re calling in sick. And then, call in sick.”
“Oh really? The diagnosis?”
“That you physically can’t get out of bed.”
“Well, this is true.” She laughed, long and low. “But to do that, I need my arms, Gil.”
Another groan and Greg heard the bed move again and the gentle murmuring of what had to be Grissom rubbing circulation back into Sara’s arms. Fuck. Now what? How to get out without letting them know he was there? How to back out without falling down the stairs and breaking his neck? There was a thump. A laugh. And then a ring.
A ring.
His ring.
Oh fuck.
Continued in Eskhara