#20 A Saucerful of Secrets (Gil and Greg, CSI)
Pairing/Fandom: CSI, Gil/Greg, Gil/Other (with permission from 30_lemons admin ~_^)
Theme: 20. First Timers, or, "Yes! I'm Finally Getting Some!"
Title: A Saucerful of Secrets
Author: tzi & zechsy
Rating: NC-17
Summary: 'Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun' and Roger Waters' riffs mixed with the feel of skin on skin as the older boy climbed over him in a strange, almost drunken sort of way.
Author's Note: Part of the Conundrum universe. Which means that it's smut. Smut with tiny bits of not-plot. We totally blame whizzy and yoiko for the El Camino.
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters are the property of CBS, Alliance Atlantis, and Jerry Bruckheimer. We just spend a lot of time drooling.
Gil was almost sure that the concept of a continuous ongoing warfare was the basis of most long-lasting relationships. Take, for example, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Although that was a much larger-scale tit for tat game, Gil considered the rules were much the same -- each strike resulted in a reactionary strike.
Greg had told him about his loss of virginity (never mind that Gil had been there at the time) and now it was his turn. Gil just wished that Greg hadn’t requested it in a note left on his office desk.
"Tell me about the El Camino?" Catherine asked him, her mouth parted and shiny in a way that made most men want to fall to their knees and beg. Luckily for Gil, he had Greg's mouth at home.
Well. Technically, he had Greg's mouth on a murder case, but either way, he had it.
"You... own? Owned? An El Camino?"
He hated that he'd only had time to scan it and then realize that Catherine was standing in his office. Just a note saying, 'You're gunna have to tell me about your El Camino ride', in Greg's spiky, almost artful handwriting. At least, it seemed artful to Gil.
He also hated that he was stuck driving Catherine out to the desert. Kidnapped casino heiress, found dead. Mixed shift cases had never been so tense as they were when there were two supervisors.
"I never owned one."
"Uh-huh." He'd heard that sound before. It was pure suspicion, condensed into a throat noise. "So... what, exactly, have you been telling our newest CSI level one about El Caminos? Gil?" She was smirking at him, but it wasn't the unpleasant sort of peeved smirk he'd gotten a time or two. No, that was the 'I know something and I want you to know that I know just so you know' expression.
Far too complicated for his taste. "It's... nothing, really. I just mentioned it in passing and he's... Greg." Curious, probing, playful.
"Well. That certainly explains it all." Ah, but she was still smirking at him. Dammit. "Come on. Let's get out of here. Faster we get our work done, the faster you can come back and talk about cars like the little boys you both are not so secretly deep in your hearts."
"Catherine, I don't..." Talk about cars, but shit, he should've kept his mouth shut. She was already turning away, moving past one of the shelving units. "I'll drive."
"You do that," she winked, and headed out of his office.
It was going to be a long night.
"So!" Greg was practically wriggling, and they were hardly in the door. Nobody should have that much energy after rolling around in a poorly dug shallow grave to gather evidence. "What do you want for breakfast? You can tell me about it while I cook!"
"How about scrambled eggs, with a side of 'never leave notes like that on my desk again'." Gil held the door open for Greg, and closed it once he was in. Greg himself was a sharp contrast to how his townhouse had used to look. Now, chunks of Greg-things here and there were intruding on the clutter that had been just his before Greg had moved in.
"Catherine has never asked me the same question so many times in one night as she did tonight."
"I was very careful," Greg protested, heading towards the kitchen. "Super careful. Spectacularly careful. I didn't even mention some guy popping your ass cherry." That was a phrase Gil wished he'd never heard, but it made Greg laugh. Kind of like boy porn. "I mean, you know. It's not like Catherine could know know... I hardly do!"
"Catherine is a very astute woman, Greg. She was giving me that look all night. I think she thinks I want to have sex with you in the back of one." Gil put his kit down against the wall, beside his stereo.
The Pink Floyd poster was haunting him, taunting him.
"Well, you know. I am pretty hot. It could only improve an El Camino, of any age," Greg agreed as he came to a stop at the refrigerator to pull out eggs. He had that grin, the one that always let Gil know he was feeling naughty. Who knew what would happen if Gil actually told him about it?
"I'll have to test that theory some time. So. You really want to hear about it?" He was asking Greg, but looking at that poster. The real one he'd bought at the concert was long since gone, irreparably ripped while moving.
"Would I be planning to scramble cheese eggs for you if I wasn't?" Greg hated cooking, even if he was pretty good at breakfast and anything that could be microwaved. Bachelor food.
Gil was lucky that his mother had made him learn to cook. It wasn't hard, and eventually he'd teach Greg how to do more than toss things in a pan and scramble it, even if that skill made Greg extremely useful for any recipe that called for pre-cooked ground beef.
Dammit, he was distracting himself. "I don't know, would you?"
"Mmm." False contemplation was a fascinating look on the younger man, the way his eyebrows shifted. "Probably. But I wouldn't add French toast into the bargain." Teasing was another thing that made it all worthwhile. Greg paused between pulling out a bowl for cracking eggs and searching for a whisk. "You know, if it's that bad, you really don't have to say anything. I mean, it just seemed like..."
"I know. I just want to put in the caveat that I was sixteen, stupid, and very lucky that I didn't contract an STD." Gil moved away from the poster, and towards Greg. Then he snagged a barstool so he could sit across from Greg on the other side of the island, and watch him work.
"So, why don't you start while I scramble. And make said French toast. With... powdered sugar. And then I'll take you to bed and suck you unconscious. After all, a tale as old as I am deserves something in return, right?" Greg paused, leaned over the counter a little. "You know I'm still gonna be totally nuts about you even after you tell me all this. Right?"
Gil gave him the most reassuring smile he could muster, and smirked a little in with it. "Yes, Greg. I know you will be. I'm just trying to remember it all. It was in '72." He got comfortable on the stool, and leaned forwards, elbows on the counter and eyes on Greg's relaxed, working hands.
"Wow. Seventy-two. The land of polyester and leisure suits." Greg only snickered a little, shifting to dig cheese out of the refrigerator, too. "At least tell me you weren't wearing one of those."
"Screen-printed T-shirt and, uh, orange bell bottoms." He was never going to get away with teasing Greg about his shirts. Ever again.
It was a small sacrifice.
There was no way he was going to let go of his ticket. At first, he'd been struck by the impossible fear that the wind was going to rush up and take it from his hand like Charlie Brown chasing after a kite. So Gil clutched it against his chest, tight, as he shuffled through the line to get into the Hollywood Bowl.
God, he was really going to see a Pink Floyd concert. In person. From a good seat! His mom was the best mom ever. She was the epitome of motherhood. The only way any of it could be better was if it was a Pink Floyd concert and a necropsy.
Ah. Dreams.
"...mellow out, buddy. C'mon. Just a bad trip..."
Conversation ebbed and flowed, and Gil still clung to his ticket, observing the rest of the people in line with him. There were girls in hot pants and tiny skirts, guys in shirts that were much crazier than his own, bellbottoms and a few sets of weird-colored polyester slacks. Pretty standard for concert wear, he guessed. Gil hadn't ever been to a big concert before, just some smaller ones, and his mom had gone with him to those. They had mostly been classical, and mostly Beethoven, because she could feel the vibrations.
Sub-aural noises, Gil reminded himself, shifting his weight on his legs a little anxiously. Almost there. Almost there. He was dressed all right for the concert -- his t-shirt was pretty cool, a gift from one of his mom's gay friends. And he really loved his velvet orange bell bottoms, even if his mom had groaned when he'd bought them. She'd muttered something about her eyes bleeding and that she needed to keep them working.
It made Gil wonder a little why she'd suggested he wear them to the concert.
Of course, his mom's suggestions were a little off-kilter, on occasion. There were a few things that he got honest, and a quirky sense of humor was high on that list. She had washed them specially, handed them to him, and signed at him to get dressed now or she wouldn't let him have her Falcon for the night and would call her friend Geri to take him instead. Needless to say, that had set him to hopping, so much so that he had fallen over while putting them on. His left hip still kind of ached.
That was what he got for clipping the trunk at the end of his bed, though. It had been worth it not to be driven there by Geri, hadn't it?
Oh, it had. And now there was just one person in front of him, and he was tempted to kiss the first person he saw across the threshold. Pink Floyd! Live! And he was there!
"Hey. You look like you're about one toke over the line. That excited, man?"
It took Gil a minute to register that somebody was talking to him. It was more so to turn around and see a guy with shaggy dark blond hair and some serious sideburns grinning at him. Mouths weren't supposed to make that little v sort of shape, were they?
"Uh, yeah." Gil wasn't even going to bother feigning being cool. He wasn't. He was him, even if the guy behind him seemed seriously cool. "My first big rock concert, and--"
"Ticket?"
"Oh, yeah..." He held it out, fingers still tight around the stub part. He was going to frame that. He'd have it bronzed if it would retain all of the lettering.
"Hey. I remember how that feels," the other guy laughed. "My name's Gunnar, by the way." He handed his own ticket over and let them rip it, taking the stub and slipping it into a back pocket so tight that Gil was pretty sure it had to be illegal. "You here all by your lonesome?"
Gil stumbled a little as he stepped into the arena. Bowl? Venue? Arena. It had that wild entertainment thrumming feel that the Roman games must have possessed. There were so many people, all there to see Pink Floyd, but he had a great seat. "Yeah. I'm Gil. Have you been to many concerts?"
There came that grin again, wild and wicked and sharp. "One or two," he said in a way that implied he'd been to a lot more. "The last one was Zeppelin at the Forum. Inglewood, you know. Man. Wild guitar, you know?"
"Ohh." Gil's tone held a restrained 'wow' under it, and he looked just a little up at the other guy. Gunnar -- that was Scandinavian, but he didn't seem like the kind of guy to be pillaging a village. His far back ancestors had probably been farmers, Gil decided.
"Did Jimmy Page use the Theremin?"
"It was the coolest concert I've ever been to." It wasn't exactly an answer, but Gil decided not to extrapolate too much. Maybe Gunnar didn't know what a Theremin was. "And that's saying a lot. Hey, you want some company? So you don't get crushed in there or anything. You know." The grin was infectious.
It was easy to smile back at Gunnar. Hey, someone to talk to before the show started. He could learn things, or at least people watch the guy. "Sure. Hey, maybe this one will be cooler than that one. Who knows? I bet people'll be listening to this still in... in the next century!"
"Anything's possible.”
This, Gil thought, was going to be the best concert ever.
Three hours later, Gil was floating on air. He hadn't smoked anything -- that wasn't really his idea of a good time -- but escaping the smoke at the concert hall wasn't exactly possible. There was no way he was sober enough to drive home by himself, and Gil was smart enough to realize it.
Gunnar, now, Gil wasn't so sure about. His own personal plan was to crash in the back of his mom's red Falcon until fresh air cleared his head, or something like that. He was drifty and floating and so excited that he wanted to jump up and down all at once.
That was the sort of state that people were in when they drove headlong into trees.
"You really shouldn't drive..."
"It's groovy, man," Gunnar drawled. He looked a little wide-eyed, kind of spaced out, and that grin had settled from something sharp into something a lot more pleasant and, well, sort of happy. "I hear that. Gotta El Camino, you know. With some blankets and stuff in the back. Open air. Good for you. Wanna come with?"
Huh. Two were better than one, right? At night, in a car. Yeah, that sounded good, and he could look up at the sky and just drift. "Yeah. Sleeping outside is groovy. It's a good night for it." No rain in sight, and the coolness of the air was a relief for his drifting head.
Gunnar giggled. Giggled. Clearly, getting high was something Gil never really wanted to happen. He didn't want to be that silly. "Yeah. Groovy," he agreed, leading the way through the crowded parking lots and out towards the edges. It was the opposite direction from Gil's own car, but that was okay. It would take time for everybody to clear out, anyway, and he’d been that way already to leave the poster he’d bought before the show had started.
Maybe by that time, and a little dozing later, his head would be good enough to get home. He'd promised his mom that if he wasn't fit to drive, he'd stay where he was until he felt okay. After a concert that fab, he wasn't going to disappoint his mom.
"Do this a lot?"
"Go to concerts? Or meet guys in line?" That sounded a little weird, but okay. Whatever. "All the time, man. It's the greatest thing ever. I love California! Fuck, yeah!"
"Right on." Gil grinned as he trailed along beside Gunnar. The El Camino he saw in the distance was definitely a fantastic looking car. That burnt orange paint-job, all shined up, was amazing. He almost wanted one just looking at it. "I live in Marina del Rey. I can't imagine wanting to be anywhere else."
"Marina del Rey... I've been camping out more towards the missions. You know? Nice places, over there. Over here. It's nice weather, warm, the ocean. Really boss. Concerts all the time. Nothing like Minnesota." That was something Gunnar hadn't mentioned before. "My family's there, but I kind of wanted to stretch my legs, you know?"
"I could tell," Gil grinned, looking sideways at Gunnar. "That you're not from around here. You're pale, and there's... an 'eh' to your words. California is a good place to stretch your legs. Always a lot to do, solid places to go."
He had to pause and eye Gunnar's El Camino for a moment, appreciating the cleanliness of it. That was a funky ride.
"Yeah, well. My parents are Norwegian. I'm kinda lucky not to sound like something out of a Bugs Bunny cartoon." There was a faintly bitter undertone to those words that made Gil's brows knit. "C'mon, man. Climb in the back. The blankets are already down. Figured I'd need down time before driving back."
"You don't sound like a cartoon. I think you sound pretty nifty." More than Gil, but. But, he was still drifting in happy and he was going to remember the concert forever. Hopping into the back of the El Camino was an easy task compared to anything trying to take a chunk out of Gil's mood.
"Yeah, well. California. Things are different. You know?" Gunnar crawled up into the back with him, flopping down on one side to look at Gil with a heavy-lidded kind of smirk. "So, trying things out, it's a prerequisite. Right?"
Gil leaned against the side, and stretched his legs out as much as he could without kicking Gunnar. "Yeah -- this has been a really... choice night."
"Wanna make it a little more psychedelic?" Gunnar wasn't going to offer him drugs, was he?
No.
No. There weren't any drugs.
But...
"How?" He just had to ask it, looking over at the other guy. He was grinning slyly again, and that look was really fascinating. Gil wanted to study how someone could move their mouth that way.
"Close your eyes."
Gil was a geek. He knew it, all the way down to his toes, and things like 'close your eyes' never really ended well. Put out your tongue was going to be the next suggestion. And then he'd find out he was eating a bug.
Little did Gunnar know, Gil liked that. "Okay." He closed his eyes slowly, transitioning to hazy evening dark to the faint spark lined insides of his eyelids. He could almost pretend that they were remnants of the light show and fireworks from the concert, and then...
Then.
He was studying the movements of Gunnar's mouth a lot closer than he had really thought he'd get to study it. And he was liking it, which was even more bizarre. Gil had never thought he'd like kissing guys.
He liked kissing girls. Girls were soft and leaned into him sweetly and usually, usually just wanted help with their homework. Gil didn't think about that too long, didn't let it move past his subconscious.
Gunnar, Gil decided as he tipped his head back a little, lips parting, didn't have homework for him to do.
"You hear that?" Gunnar's voice was a little rough, tongue sliding inside. It was strange and startling and felt wonderfully pleasant, like the hand rubbing up his thigh. "It's solid if you do, man. Just two guys here. No worrying over whether the rabbit's gonna die."
"Yeah..." Not that Gil had gotten past more than kissing with girls, but he wasn't going to say it. There were blankets laid out in the bed, and it didn't matter much that the guy Gunnar had parked next to was getting into his car. Maybe everybody did this after concerts, and he just didn't know about it?
He'd never had a tongue do that against the roof of his mouth before. It tickled, and it drew his attention away from the fumbling at his fly a little. Not a lot, because Gil wasn't the kind of boy to miss that, but... a little.
A little was all it took, and he moved one hand to grasp Gunnar's arm, the other knotting in the blankets when he leaned on it to keep steady. Another guy was pawing at his crotch and he was... way more than just okay with it. In fact, he was kind of liking it.
Actually, Gil registered with no small amount of surprise, he was really kind of wanting more of it.
"Come on, baby. Why don't you get these things off, huh? I'll do things so good to you, you'll be screaming gravy."
There wasn't any reason to say 'no' was there? And Gunnar was right. No one was going to get pregnant if he took his pants off. Did guys care if other guys seemed easy? Wasn't there some sort of social order he was supposed to remember?
Gil lifted his hips, holding himself still with his back against the side of the bed, and moved his supporting hand to the waistband of his pants to help get them off. "O... okay, yeah."
"Ohh, yeah." That much acquiescence seemed to be all Gunnar needed, because somehow Gil's pants were off and gone, and his head was swimming and there was lots of really horny older guy all over him, pressing sloppy kisses against his jawline and his throat, pushing back at the faint curls at the nape of Gil's neck. "Man. Oh, yeah."
It felt weirdly good, and for the moment, Gil decided to go with it. Gunnar moved him, urged him to lay, and he did. His pants were somewhere in the truckbed of the El Camino, and his ticket stub, and the air on his legs woke him up a little. It aroused his senses, and made him glad he'd worn underwear. He could only imagine not having worn them. He'd be shining his peter to the entire world, and that could only be a bad thing.
"C'mere, buddy. Un." Yeah, denim rubbing against his skin was faintly pleasant, and Gil still felt weird. Too weird to be doing this, maybe, he couldn't say for sure.
"Hey... you're big." Out of proportion, because Gil was looking up at Gunnar and he was smiling down at Gil. There was a bulge pressing against his thigh, his hip, and though he hadn't meant big that way? It worked.
"Yeah, well. My dad says it's to make up for the accent. My mom, of course, shoots him that LOOK that says, not in front of the baby." Gunnar leered and gave one of those steady rocks against him again. "You gonna let me take these off, too? Nobody's gonna see."
"Uhn..." He was kind of fond of his underwear. On the other hand, Gunnar was on top of him so he wouldn't be out in the air, right? Right. Gil wasn't sure what Gunnar had planned, but he was going to be okay with it. He closed his eyes for a moment, nodding as he concentrated on getting one hand off of the side of Gunnar's shirt so he could shimmy them down a little.
He probably shouldn't have worn the pink ones, but they didn't stain his pants or vice versa.
Gunnar didn't say anything. Maybe he couldn't see the pink in the dark or something. Instead, his hands skimmed just everywhere, whole body lifting up off of Gil. "Hang on a minute," he pronounced, and shifted to the side so that Gil's underpants came off and landed in the pile with his pants.
Now Gil felt self-conscious. Or maybe it wasn't self-conscious so much as self-aware, aware of how his ass felt against the blanket, how his legs felt against denim.
"What're you going to do?"
"Fuck you stupid. If it's all the same to you." And then Gunnar was kissing him again, and his hand was on Gil's prick, and that was nearly enough to convince him that anything and everything was a-okay with him.
He was going to go all the way.
Wow. Gil couldn't do much more than lift his hips against those dry, warm fingers, hands clinging to Gunnar's shoulders from behind. "Jesus."
"Baby, that's what you're gonna think later," Gunnar reassured him, mouth sliding down to the hollow of Gil's throat. It made him shiver, tremble, his lips pursing. Nobody had ever touched him there before, just himself, and it felt. Oh, it felt so good.
It felt like he could lay there and enjoy it forever. It wasn't as if offers like that came by every day, and Gil loved to learn, feel, experience new things. A concert like that, and now...
"Yeah..."
Yeah, fingers plucking at his nipples through his t-shirt inclined him to agree with anything that was suggested, and that mouth just kept seeking out bare skin, all heat and wet and good things. One hand slid up underneath his shirt, and then there was even more of him visible to the light-filled sky above them.
"Damn, baby... unh."
"Unh?" Gil made it a question, looking up at the top of Gunnar's head when he sucked in a shaky breath. He was hardly even touching Gunnar.
"You're seriously hung. How old did you say you were again? 'cause I can't say I believe it." Ah, there was that sharp, devilish grin again, and then.
Wow. Oh. WOW.
Gil had heard about it. Had heard that people did that, put their mouths down there, but he hadn't thought it would ever happen to him. Not him. Other people, but... "Oh, God!" But there were lips pressing against the head of his dick, and then a tongue salving over the head. The faint textured feeling, the hot wet of it, made Gil shiver.
He wanted to yell. He wanted to cry, he wanted to thank God, but he was pretty sure that this was the kind of thing you had to go to confession for. Regularly. Once somebody had done this, a guy had to confess all the time, because it was going to be stuck in Gil's head for the rest of his natural life.
"Mmmm, baby. You taste good."
He wouldn't ever be able to stop thinking about that, about what that felt like. It was way better than masturbation, even if Gunnar stopped to talk. "Never done that. You feel... groovy." Gil felt kind of silly, nearly naked in the back of an El Camino with breath gusting over his groin.
"Hey, reach up. Yeah, over that way. There's a jar. Give it to me, kay?" That was all for talking, but there was more by way of licking, and Gil was good with that. Totally and completely.
A jar? He was supposed to reach for a jar when there was a tongue tracing woozy patterns on his penis? Gil had to close his eyes to the sky for a second before he turned his head to try to look for the mysterious 'jar'. His fingers fumbled past all of the blankets, seeking out cool glass and finally, finally finding it. He shoved it towards Gunnar, whimpering when he pulled away from that heady licking.
"Dynamite."
"What..." Breathe. Breathe. His dick couldn't breathe for him, even if it bobbed like it was trying to, wet and twitching. "Is it?"
"Vaseline. You know. Slick." Slippery, and he could hear the lid popping off. A few seconds later, there was cold, slick petroleum jelly smearing in behind his balls, and further back, and. Oh.
He understood how sex worked. He wasn't stupid, just... unlucky. Uncaring, maybe. Gunnar was planning to stick it in. In him, go all the way in him.
"Will it feel..." Uhn. No, that was a stupid question because there was a slick finger pressing against his hole. It tickled in a way, ached, and there came a breathtaking moment when he felt it spasm and the finger went in totally the wrong way.
That was in. Nothing had ever really gone in before. Just out.
"You'll like it. Honest. It's real hot, and you'll feel so good when I..." Probing. That felt kind of weird. "...do this."
The word was punctuation to a movement that made Gil gasp out, fingers twitching in the blanket. It felt like someone had set off fireworks in his balls. Nothing had ever felt that good.
Gil wondered how many Hail Mary’s it counted for if he liked it too much.
"Like that. Oh, man. I wanna come with, you know? That's nice, right? Seriously groovy. I know you're gonna want more..."
Even if it was in and not out of him? Maybe. "Does it all feel like, like that?" And did it matter much, when he was spread-legged with a finger up his ass, naked in the back of an El Camino?
"Like that except more," Gunnar promised in a throaty sound, kissing Gil's hip, and then there was more, another finger, and Gil couldn't help the grunt that escaped his throat. 'More' was good, maybe. Kind of. It was... everything felt stretched and kind of weird and maybe good?
Gil could go with it. Yeah. He could, because it felt good, better than anything he'd ever done to himself. "Good..." The next twitch brought a smile to his face, around the open gasp of his lips.
Why not? And just like that Gil, decided to go with it all and stop thinking. He was learning so much, about what felt good to him, about what didn't feel quite so good, and he couldn't keep himself from mewling when another finger slipped inside.
"You're so tight, man. 'm gonna fuck you so good," Gunnar groaned, and Gil could hear the faint, slippery slap of his hand greasing up his shaft. Fwap, fwap. Gil looked up at the sky, and then Gunnar's funny wild sideburns. He didn't say anything else, tense and still coasting on the music in his head. 'Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun' and Roger Waters' riffs mixed with the feel of skin on skin and Gunnar climbing over him in a strange, almost drunken sort of way.
Fingers shifted out, and then there was something else there, and a hand shifted to his thigh. "Put your legs around me," Gunnar whispered.
It was easier than he thought it'd be, stomach tightening when he lifted his hips so he could get his legs around Gunnar's. He was going to get fucked. Take it up the ass. And it was probably... probably going to feel so very good.
"Just like that," Gunnar encouraged, and there was one hand between them, and pressure that wasn't anything like those fingers had been, stretching, and the older boy grunted as he slid inside. "Uuunnnh. Fucking tight..."
"Fuck!" The word squeaked on his lips, strangling in his throat a little. Too big, too big. "That, that's not going to f-fit..."
"Gonna fit," Gunnar assured him, kissing his jaw. "It's gonna. Not much bigger than the fingers. Promise. Swear it. And you're slick. Push out. Like you were gonna, you know. Go."
Go on his dick, except he wasn't. Pushing out made it feel better for him, except more fit in and that didn't make things feel better, it. It made Gil squeeze his legs tight, trying to comprehend the feeling.
"Damn, man. You haven't done this before, huh?" The older boy was panting, and making incremental thrusts, tiny shifts of hip and thigh, and.
Oh.
Hey. There was that spot again, and that made things very weird. Somewhere between ow and oh.
If it went more towards oh, close enough to oh, he might loosen up. Might stop squeezing his legs like he was going to die. "Uh, uhn..." Another shift, and another, tiny motions on top of each other that made the faint can't-drive haze of Gil's mind seep to the fore.
"Let me in just a little more..." Just a little more, and ohhh, yeah. There was that oh place. There it was, and Gunnar was doing that steady little rocking thing, and Gil was pretty sure that he yodeled. He had never known he could do that. He could now, he could as long as Gunnar kept moving, pressing into him and finally leaning down a little to do it. Maybe he'd even get kissed again.
"You squeeze so good, baby." Ah, there was a kiss, and then he pulled back, Gil felt it, and pushed back in against that one spot, and Gil was going to explode. He was going to come, right then and there, he just knew it. Except he didn't. He wanted to, but he didn't. But the next time, and then the next time, and the--
Everything went tight and it was like when he hit that peak in jerking off. His balls tingled, and his ass clamped down, except there was a dick there and that was different than ever before. It made things ache, made him tremble, made his eyes shut firm even while his brain was shutting down, and he could hear-feel-taste-know that Gunnar was still moving, short fast strokes, and then stopping with a sound because it was over, and Gil was even more wet down there.
The world was in funny slow motion as Gunnar slumped down on top of him. Beneath the blankets, he could feel the hardness of the metal El Camino bed. He could feel how Gunnar was still in him. Gil was sticky, and the night air was a little too cold, maybe, but it felt good for the moment. For the moment. 'Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun' had moved into 'Echoes', and all of it, all of it just seemed like too much.
"Wow," Gunnar huffed, shifting out of him and making Gil whimper. "Not bad for a first timer."
"Thanks?" He almost smiled despite the sting of that feeling. His head wasn't anywhere near to clear yet.
Maybe he could stay a couple more hours.
"10-4," Gunnar told him. "I should be getting back to San Gabriel."
"... huh?" Or not. But they, they'd just... Gone all the way. And Gunnar was getting up on his knees, looking down at Gil. He was half-aware that his new t-shirt was pushed up to his armpits, pants and underwear somewhere off to the side.
Gunnar only had to zip himself back in.
"Maybe I'll see you again sometime. 'nother concert, you know? You've been great company. And this was nice, too. You're a cool kinda guy."
Gil just stared. And then he caught the joke, if it was a joke. It was probably someone's idea of a joke, at least. He started to sit up, pushing his t-shirt back down. His ass hurt, he was slick and wet and cold, and there was semen on his stomach.
"Oh."
"Hey. Um." Gunnar at least had the balls to look a little sheepish. "You said you were from Marina del Rey, right? I mean. I could call you. Or something."
It was really hard to have any dignity in putting his underwear on when he was dirty. He had to put it on without having to get out of the bed of the car just yet.
"'s... okay. I... I get it, Gunnar."
"Um." Um seemed to be the guy's favorite word. That sort of sucked. Okay. Not just sort of. "I figured you were here for the same reason I was. I mean--"
"Wasn't." Gil denied it quickly, because he hadn't been. Maybe it hadn't been the start of anything meaningful, but he would've liked just to lay there and rest for a while. Not... have a guy pull out of his ass and then throw him out on it.
He was going to have to sleep in the back of the Falcon. And he was going to have to do it dirty. But at least, at least he still had the ticket stub in the pocket of the pants he was trying to pull on while sitting.
"So. Um. I guess I won't be seeing you around."
“For this?" Gil frowned, and wiped over his stomach with a handful of blanket, then finished zipping up his fly. Shoes, his shoes were past Gunnar and he could just grab them and walk.
"No."
The look on Greg's face made Gil vaguely melancholy. He hadn't really thought about it in years, and it wasn't as if he'd told Greg everything. Just that it was a Pink Floyd concert, in the back of an El Camino. He hadn't even mentioned the older boy's name. Frankly, Gil was a little surprised that he remembered it.
"Jesus," Greg sighed, poking a fork at his French toast. "Do all virgins just have weird, sad first times? I mean, is it some kind of unwritten law somewhere?"
"It's possible." Gil had a piece speared, and despite the melancholy edge of memory, he wasn't going to waste time chewing over it. "You should make it a poll at work. It probably has something to do with high expectations."
"Guess it's just... you kind of want the stuff you hear when you're a kid. I mean, you know. Boys don't, mostly. Or the guys I knew never did, they were just all about getting laid, talking about it all the time." One hand reached up, rubbing at wild dyed locks. "My mom kept romance novels in the bathroom, though. Guess I read one too many."
"Maybe. Maybe things like that can only really be achieved when you're older and know what and who you really want." Gil leaned forwards, towards Greg. "My mother made a point that I knew to respect myself at all times. She forgot to take into account that I was as curious as a cat."
"I kind of like that about you," Greg said, leaning across the counter to kiss him. It was lush, and full, and sweet, nothing like those old memories. Gil was grateful for that, and grateful, too, that he had been Greg's first. Even if it had been bad. It all seemed just a little surreal: weird morning light, Pink Floyd on the radio across the way, and Greg.
Greg tasted like French toast, and squirmed like he wanted to go to bed already when Gil brought a hand up to cup the side of his face.
His first had been of Scandinavian descent, and so was his last. That was a joke with an enjoyable punch line.
"Finish your eggs," Greg murmured against his mouth. "We'll go crawl in bed and make out like we're fourteen. Sound good?"
"Sounds like my idea of a good time." Greg would be there when he woke up, that afternoon and the next and the next. It was enough to inspire Gil to sit back and dig into his eggs with a relish, even if they were a little burnt.
Theme: 20. First Timers, or, "Yes! I'm Finally Getting Some!"
Title: A Saucerful of Secrets
Author: tzi & zechsy
Rating: NC-17
Summary: 'Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun' and Roger Waters' riffs mixed with the feel of skin on skin as the older boy climbed over him in a strange, almost drunken sort of way.
Author's Note: Part of the Conundrum universe. Which means that it's smut. Smut with tiny bits of not-plot. We totally blame whizzy and yoiko for the El Camino.
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters are the property of CBS, Alliance Atlantis, and Jerry Bruckheimer. We just spend a lot of time drooling.
Gil was almost sure that the concept of a continuous ongoing warfare was the basis of most long-lasting relationships. Take, for example, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Although that was a much larger-scale tit for tat game, Gil considered the rules were much the same -- each strike resulted in a reactionary strike.
Greg had told him about his loss of virginity (never mind that Gil had been there at the time) and now it was his turn. Gil just wished that Greg hadn’t requested it in a note left on his office desk.
"Tell me about the El Camino?" Catherine asked him, her mouth parted and shiny in a way that made most men want to fall to their knees and beg. Luckily for Gil, he had Greg's mouth at home.
Well. Technically, he had Greg's mouth on a murder case, but either way, he had it.
"You... own? Owned? An El Camino?"
He hated that he'd only had time to scan it and then realize that Catherine was standing in his office. Just a note saying, 'You're gunna have to tell me about your El Camino ride', in Greg's spiky, almost artful handwriting. At least, it seemed artful to Gil.
He also hated that he was stuck driving Catherine out to the desert. Kidnapped casino heiress, found dead. Mixed shift cases had never been so tense as they were when there were two supervisors.
"I never owned one."
"Uh-huh." He'd heard that sound before. It was pure suspicion, condensed into a throat noise. "So... what, exactly, have you been telling our newest CSI level one about El Caminos? Gil?" She was smirking at him, but it wasn't the unpleasant sort of peeved smirk he'd gotten a time or two. No, that was the 'I know something and I want you to know that I know just so you know' expression.
Far too complicated for his taste. "It's... nothing, really. I just mentioned it in passing and he's... Greg." Curious, probing, playful.
"Well. That certainly explains it all." Ah, but she was still smirking at him. Dammit. "Come on. Let's get out of here. Faster we get our work done, the faster you can come back and talk about cars like the little boys you both are not so secretly deep in your hearts."
"Catherine, I don't..." Talk about cars, but shit, he should've kept his mouth shut. She was already turning away, moving past one of the shelving units. "I'll drive."
"You do that," she winked, and headed out of his office.
It was going to be a long night.
"So!" Greg was practically wriggling, and they were hardly in the door. Nobody should have that much energy after rolling around in a poorly dug shallow grave to gather evidence. "What do you want for breakfast? You can tell me about it while I cook!"
"How about scrambled eggs, with a side of 'never leave notes like that on my desk again'." Gil held the door open for Greg, and closed it once he was in. Greg himself was a sharp contrast to how his townhouse had used to look. Now, chunks of Greg-things here and there were intruding on the clutter that had been just his before Greg had moved in.
"Catherine has never asked me the same question so many times in one night as she did tonight."
"I was very careful," Greg protested, heading towards the kitchen. "Super careful. Spectacularly careful. I didn't even mention some guy popping your ass cherry." That was a phrase Gil wished he'd never heard, but it made Greg laugh. Kind of like boy porn. "I mean, you know. It's not like Catherine could know know... I hardly do!"
"Catherine is a very astute woman, Greg. She was giving me that look all night. I think she thinks I want to have sex with you in the back of one." Gil put his kit down against the wall, beside his stereo.
The Pink Floyd poster was haunting him, taunting him.
"Well, you know. I am pretty hot. It could only improve an El Camino, of any age," Greg agreed as he came to a stop at the refrigerator to pull out eggs. He had that grin, the one that always let Gil know he was feeling naughty. Who knew what would happen if Gil actually told him about it?
"I'll have to test that theory some time. So. You really want to hear about it?" He was asking Greg, but looking at that poster. The real one he'd bought at the concert was long since gone, irreparably ripped while moving.
"Would I be planning to scramble cheese eggs for you if I wasn't?" Greg hated cooking, even if he was pretty good at breakfast and anything that could be microwaved. Bachelor food.
Gil was lucky that his mother had made him learn to cook. It wasn't hard, and eventually he'd teach Greg how to do more than toss things in a pan and scramble it, even if that skill made Greg extremely useful for any recipe that called for pre-cooked ground beef.
Dammit, he was distracting himself. "I don't know, would you?"
"Mmm." False contemplation was a fascinating look on the younger man, the way his eyebrows shifted. "Probably. But I wouldn't add French toast into the bargain." Teasing was another thing that made it all worthwhile. Greg paused between pulling out a bowl for cracking eggs and searching for a whisk. "You know, if it's that bad, you really don't have to say anything. I mean, it just seemed like..."
"I know. I just want to put in the caveat that I was sixteen, stupid, and very lucky that I didn't contract an STD." Gil moved away from the poster, and towards Greg. Then he snagged a barstool so he could sit across from Greg on the other side of the island, and watch him work.
"So, why don't you start while I scramble. And make said French toast. With... powdered sugar. And then I'll take you to bed and suck you unconscious. After all, a tale as old as I am deserves something in return, right?" Greg paused, leaned over the counter a little. "You know I'm still gonna be totally nuts about you even after you tell me all this. Right?"
Gil gave him the most reassuring smile he could muster, and smirked a little in with it. "Yes, Greg. I know you will be. I'm just trying to remember it all. It was in '72." He got comfortable on the stool, and leaned forwards, elbows on the counter and eyes on Greg's relaxed, working hands.
"Wow. Seventy-two. The land of polyester and leisure suits." Greg only snickered a little, shifting to dig cheese out of the refrigerator, too. "At least tell me you weren't wearing one of those."
"Screen-printed T-shirt and, uh, orange bell bottoms." He was never going to get away with teasing Greg about his shirts. Ever again.
It was a small sacrifice.
There was no way he was going to let go of his ticket. At first, he'd been struck by the impossible fear that the wind was going to rush up and take it from his hand like Charlie Brown chasing after a kite. So Gil clutched it against his chest, tight, as he shuffled through the line to get into the Hollywood Bowl.
God, he was really going to see a Pink Floyd concert. In person. From a good seat! His mom was the best mom ever. She was the epitome of motherhood. The only way any of it could be better was if it was a Pink Floyd concert and a necropsy.
Ah. Dreams.
"...mellow out, buddy. C'mon. Just a bad trip..."
Conversation ebbed and flowed, and Gil still clung to his ticket, observing the rest of the people in line with him. There were girls in hot pants and tiny skirts, guys in shirts that were much crazier than his own, bellbottoms and a few sets of weird-colored polyester slacks. Pretty standard for concert wear, he guessed. Gil hadn't ever been to a big concert before, just some smaller ones, and his mom had gone with him to those. They had mostly been classical, and mostly Beethoven, because she could feel the vibrations.
Sub-aural noises, Gil reminded himself, shifting his weight on his legs a little anxiously. Almost there. Almost there. He was dressed all right for the concert -- his t-shirt was pretty cool, a gift from one of his mom's gay friends. And he really loved his velvet orange bell bottoms, even if his mom had groaned when he'd bought them. She'd muttered something about her eyes bleeding and that she needed to keep them working.
It made Gil wonder a little why she'd suggested he wear them to the concert.
Of course, his mom's suggestions were a little off-kilter, on occasion. There were a few things that he got honest, and a quirky sense of humor was high on that list. She had washed them specially, handed them to him, and signed at him to get dressed now or she wouldn't let him have her Falcon for the night and would call her friend Geri to take him instead. Needless to say, that had set him to hopping, so much so that he had fallen over while putting them on. His left hip still kind of ached.
That was what he got for clipping the trunk at the end of his bed, though. It had been worth it not to be driven there by Geri, hadn't it?
Oh, it had. And now there was just one person in front of him, and he was tempted to kiss the first person he saw across the threshold. Pink Floyd! Live! And he was there!
"Hey. You look like you're about one toke over the line. That excited, man?"
It took Gil a minute to register that somebody was talking to him. It was more so to turn around and see a guy with shaggy dark blond hair and some serious sideburns grinning at him. Mouths weren't supposed to make that little v sort of shape, were they?
"Uh, yeah." Gil wasn't even going to bother feigning being cool. He wasn't. He was him, even if the guy behind him seemed seriously cool. "My first big rock concert, and--"
"Ticket?"
"Oh, yeah..." He held it out, fingers still tight around the stub part. He was going to frame that. He'd have it bronzed if it would retain all of the lettering.
"Hey. I remember how that feels," the other guy laughed. "My name's Gunnar, by the way." He handed his own ticket over and let them rip it, taking the stub and slipping it into a back pocket so tight that Gil was pretty sure it had to be illegal. "You here all by your lonesome?"
Gil stumbled a little as he stepped into the arena. Bowl? Venue? Arena. It had that wild entertainment thrumming feel that the Roman games must have possessed. There were so many people, all there to see Pink Floyd, but he had a great seat. "Yeah. I'm Gil. Have you been to many concerts?"
There came that grin again, wild and wicked and sharp. "One or two," he said in a way that implied he'd been to a lot more. "The last one was Zeppelin at the Forum. Inglewood, you know. Man. Wild guitar, you know?"
"Ohh." Gil's tone held a restrained 'wow' under it, and he looked just a little up at the other guy. Gunnar -- that was Scandinavian, but he didn't seem like the kind of guy to be pillaging a village. His far back ancestors had probably been farmers, Gil decided.
"Did Jimmy Page use the Theremin?"
"It was the coolest concert I've ever been to." It wasn't exactly an answer, but Gil decided not to extrapolate too much. Maybe Gunnar didn't know what a Theremin was. "And that's saying a lot. Hey, you want some company? So you don't get crushed in there or anything. You know." The grin was infectious.
It was easy to smile back at Gunnar. Hey, someone to talk to before the show started. He could learn things, or at least people watch the guy. "Sure. Hey, maybe this one will be cooler than that one. Who knows? I bet people'll be listening to this still in... in the next century!"
"Anything's possible.”
This, Gil thought, was going to be the best concert ever.
Three hours later, Gil was floating on air. He hadn't smoked anything -- that wasn't really his idea of a good time -- but escaping the smoke at the concert hall wasn't exactly possible. There was no way he was sober enough to drive home by himself, and Gil was smart enough to realize it.
Gunnar, now, Gil wasn't so sure about. His own personal plan was to crash in the back of his mom's red Falcon until fresh air cleared his head, or something like that. He was drifty and floating and so excited that he wanted to jump up and down all at once.
That was the sort of state that people were in when they drove headlong into trees.
"You really shouldn't drive..."
"It's groovy, man," Gunnar drawled. He looked a little wide-eyed, kind of spaced out, and that grin had settled from something sharp into something a lot more pleasant and, well, sort of happy. "I hear that. Gotta El Camino, you know. With some blankets and stuff in the back. Open air. Good for you. Wanna come with?"
Huh. Two were better than one, right? At night, in a car. Yeah, that sounded good, and he could look up at the sky and just drift. "Yeah. Sleeping outside is groovy. It's a good night for it." No rain in sight, and the coolness of the air was a relief for his drifting head.
Gunnar giggled. Giggled. Clearly, getting high was something Gil never really wanted to happen. He didn't want to be that silly. "Yeah. Groovy," he agreed, leading the way through the crowded parking lots and out towards the edges. It was the opposite direction from Gil's own car, but that was okay. It would take time for everybody to clear out, anyway, and he’d been that way already to leave the poster he’d bought before the show had started.
Maybe by that time, and a little dozing later, his head would be good enough to get home. He'd promised his mom that if he wasn't fit to drive, he'd stay where he was until he felt okay. After a concert that fab, he wasn't going to disappoint his mom.
"Do this a lot?"
"Go to concerts? Or meet guys in line?" That sounded a little weird, but okay. Whatever. "All the time, man. It's the greatest thing ever. I love California! Fuck, yeah!"
"Right on." Gil grinned as he trailed along beside Gunnar. The El Camino he saw in the distance was definitely a fantastic looking car. That burnt orange paint-job, all shined up, was amazing. He almost wanted one just looking at it. "I live in Marina del Rey. I can't imagine wanting to be anywhere else."
"Marina del Rey... I've been camping out more towards the missions. You know? Nice places, over there. Over here. It's nice weather, warm, the ocean. Really boss. Concerts all the time. Nothing like Minnesota." That was something Gunnar hadn't mentioned before. "My family's there, but I kind of wanted to stretch my legs, you know?"
"I could tell," Gil grinned, looking sideways at Gunnar. "That you're not from around here. You're pale, and there's... an 'eh' to your words. California is a good place to stretch your legs. Always a lot to do, solid places to go."
He had to pause and eye Gunnar's El Camino for a moment, appreciating the cleanliness of it. That was a funky ride.
"Yeah, well. My parents are Norwegian. I'm kinda lucky not to sound like something out of a Bugs Bunny cartoon." There was a faintly bitter undertone to those words that made Gil's brows knit. "C'mon, man. Climb in the back. The blankets are already down. Figured I'd need down time before driving back."
"You don't sound like a cartoon. I think you sound pretty nifty." More than Gil, but. But, he was still drifting in happy and he was going to remember the concert forever. Hopping into the back of the El Camino was an easy task compared to anything trying to take a chunk out of Gil's mood.
"Yeah, well. California. Things are different. You know?" Gunnar crawled up into the back with him, flopping down on one side to look at Gil with a heavy-lidded kind of smirk. "So, trying things out, it's a prerequisite. Right?"
Gil leaned against the side, and stretched his legs out as much as he could without kicking Gunnar. "Yeah -- this has been a really... choice night."
"Wanna make it a little more psychedelic?" Gunnar wasn't going to offer him drugs, was he?
No.
No. There weren't any drugs.
But...
"How?" He just had to ask it, looking over at the other guy. He was grinning slyly again, and that look was really fascinating. Gil wanted to study how someone could move their mouth that way.
"Close your eyes."
Gil was a geek. He knew it, all the way down to his toes, and things like 'close your eyes' never really ended well. Put out your tongue was going to be the next suggestion. And then he'd find out he was eating a bug.
Little did Gunnar know, Gil liked that. "Okay." He closed his eyes slowly, transitioning to hazy evening dark to the faint spark lined insides of his eyelids. He could almost pretend that they were remnants of the light show and fireworks from the concert, and then...
Then.
He was studying the movements of Gunnar's mouth a lot closer than he had really thought he'd get to study it. And he was liking it, which was even more bizarre. Gil had never thought he'd like kissing guys.
He liked kissing girls. Girls were soft and leaned into him sweetly and usually, usually just wanted help with their homework. Gil didn't think about that too long, didn't let it move past his subconscious.
Gunnar, Gil decided as he tipped his head back a little, lips parting, didn't have homework for him to do.
"You hear that?" Gunnar's voice was a little rough, tongue sliding inside. It was strange and startling and felt wonderfully pleasant, like the hand rubbing up his thigh. "It's solid if you do, man. Just two guys here. No worrying over whether the rabbit's gonna die."
"Yeah..." Not that Gil had gotten past more than kissing with girls, but he wasn't going to say it. There were blankets laid out in the bed, and it didn't matter much that the guy Gunnar had parked next to was getting into his car. Maybe everybody did this after concerts, and he just didn't know about it?
He'd never had a tongue do that against the roof of his mouth before. It tickled, and it drew his attention away from the fumbling at his fly a little. Not a lot, because Gil wasn't the kind of boy to miss that, but... a little.
A little was all it took, and he moved one hand to grasp Gunnar's arm, the other knotting in the blankets when he leaned on it to keep steady. Another guy was pawing at his crotch and he was... way more than just okay with it. In fact, he was kind of liking it.
Actually, Gil registered with no small amount of surprise, he was really kind of wanting more of it.
"Come on, baby. Why don't you get these things off, huh? I'll do things so good to you, you'll be screaming gravy."
There wasn't any reason to say 'no' was there? And Gunnar was right. No one was going to get pregnant if he took his pants off. Did guys care if other guys seemed easy? Wasn't there some sort of social order he was supposed to remember?
Gil lifted his hips, holding himself still with his back against the side of the bed, and moved his supporting hand to the waistband of his pants to help get them off. "O... okay, yeah."
"Ohh, yeah." That much acquiescence seemed to be all Gunnar needed, because somehow Gil's pants were off and gone, and his head was swimming and there was lots of really horny older guy all over him, pressing sloppy kisses against his jawline and his throat, pushing back at the faint curls at the nape of Gil's neck. "Man. Oh, yeah."
It felt weirdly good, and for the moment, Gil decided to go with it. Gunnar moved him, urged him to lay, and he did. His pants were somewhere in the truckbed of the El Camino, and his ticket stub, and the air on his legs woke him up a little. It aroused his senses, and made him glad he'd worn underwear. He could only imagine not having worn them. He'd be shining his peter to the entire world, and that could only be a bad thing.
"C'mere, buddy. Un." Yeah, denim rubbing against his skin was faintly pleasant, and Gil still felt weird. Too weird to be doing this, maybe, he couldn't say for sure.
"Hey... you're big." Out of proportion, because Gil was looking up at Gunnar and he was smiling down at Gil. There was a bulge pressing against his thigh, his hip, and though he hadn't meant big that way? It worked.
"Yeah, well. My dad says it's to make up for the accent. My mom, of course, shoots him that LOOK that says, not in front of the baby." Gunnar leered and gave one of those steady rocks against him again. "You gonna let me take these off, too? Nobody's gonna see."
"Uhn..." He was kind of fond of his underwear. On the other hand, Gunnar was on top of him so he wouldn't be out in the air, right? Right. Gil wasn't sure what Gunnar had planned, but he was going to be okay with it. He closed his eyes for a moment, nodding as he concentrated on getting one hand off of the side of Gunnar's shirt so he could shimmy them down a little.
He probably shouldn't have worn the pink ones, but they didn't stain his pants or vice versa.
Gunnar didn't say anything. Maybe he couldn't see the pink in the dark or something. Instead, his hands skimmed just everywhere, whole body lifting up off of Gil. "Hang on a minute," he pronounced, and shifted to the side so that Gil's underpants came off and landed in the pile with his pants.
Now Gil felt self-conscious. Or maybe it wasn't self-conscious so much as self-aware, aware of how his ass felt against the blanket, how his legs felt against denim.
"What're you going to do?"
"Fuck you stupid. If it's all the same to you." And then Gunnar was kissing him again, and his hand was on Gil's prick, and that was nearly enough to convince him that anything and everything was a-okay with him.
He was going to go all the way.
Wow. Gil couldn't do much more than lift his hips against those dry, warm fingers, hands clinging to Gunnar's shoulders from behind. "Jesus."
"Baby, that's what you're gonna think later," Gunnar reassured him, mouth sliding down to the hollow of Gil's throat. It made him shiver, tremble, his lips pursing. Nobody had ever touched him there before, just himself, and it felt. Oh, it felt so good.
It felt like he could lay there and enjoy it forever. It wasn't as if offers like that came by every day, and Gil loved to learn, feel, experience new things. A concert like that, and now...
"Yeah..."
Yeah, fingers plucking at his nipples through his t-shirt inclined him to agree with anything that was suggested, and that mouth just kept seeking out bare skin, all heat and wet and good things. One hand slid up underneath his shirt, and then there was even more of him visible to the light-filled sky above them.
"Damn, baby... unh."
"Unh?" Gil made it a question, looking up at the top of Gunnar's head when he sucked in a shaky breath. He was hardly even touching Gunnar.
"You're seriously hung. How old did you say you were again? 'cause I can't say I believe it." Ah, there was that sharp, devilish grin again, and then.
Wow. Oh. WOW.
Gil had heard about it. Had heard that people did that, put their mouths down there, but he hadn't thought it would ever happen to him. Not him. Other people, but... "Oh, God!" But there were lips pressing against the head of his dick, and then a tongue salving over the head. The faint textured feeling, the hot wet of it, made Gil shiver.
He wanted to yell. He wanted to cry, he wanted to thank God, but he was pretty sure that this was the kind of thing you had to go to confession for. Regularly. Once somebody had done this, a guy had to confess all the time, because it was going to be stuck in Gil's head for the rest of his natural life.
"Mmmm, baby. You taste good."
He wouldn't ever be able to stop thinking about that, about what that felt like. It was way better than masturbation, even if Gunnar stopped to talk. "Never done that. You feel... groovy." Gil felt kind of silly, nearly naked in the back of an El Camino with breath gusting over his groin.
"Hey, reach up. Yeah, over that way. There's a jar. Give it to me, kay?" That was all for talking, but there was more by way of licking, and Gil was good with that. Totally and completely.
A jar? He was supposed to reach for a jar when there was a tongue tracing woozy patterns on his penis? Gil had to close his eyes to the sky for a second before he turned his head to try to look for the mysterious 'jar'. His fingers fumbled past all of the blankets, seeking out cool glass and finally, finally finding it. He shoved it towards Gunnar, whimpering when he pulled away from that heady licking.
"Dynamite."
"What..." Breathe. Breathe. His dick couldn't breathe for him, even if it bobbed like it was trying to, wet and twitching. "Is it?"
"Vaseline. You know. Slick." Slippery, and he could hear the lid popping off. A few seconds later, there was cold, slick petroleum jelly smearing in behind his balls, and further back, and. Oh.
He understood how sex worked. He wasn't stupid, just... unlucky. Uncaring, maybe. Gunnar was planning to stick it in. In him, go all the way in him.
"Will it feel..." Uhn. No, that was a stupid question because there was a slick finger pressing against his hole. It tickled in a way, ached, and there came a breathtaking moment when he felt it spasm and the finger went in totally the wrong way.
That was in. Nothing had ever really gone in before. Just out.
"You'll like it. Honest. It's real hot, and you'll feel so good when I..." Probing. That felt kind of weird. "...do this."
The word was punctuation to a movement that made Gil gasp out, fingers twitching in the blanket. It felt like someone had set off fireworks in his balls. Nothing had ever felt that good.
Gil wondered how many Hail Mary’s it counted for if he liked it too much.
"Like that. Oh, man. I wanna come with, you know? That's nice, right? Seriously groovy. I know you're gonna want more..."
Even if it was in and not out of him? Maybe. "Does it all feel like, like that?" And did it matter much, when he was spread-legged with a finger up his ass, naked in the back of an El Camino?
"Like that except more," Gunnar promised in a throaty sound, kissing Gil's hip, and then there was more, another finger, and Gil couldn't help the grunt that escaped his throat. 'More' was good, maybe. Kind of. It was... everything felt stretched and kind of weird and maybe good?
Gil could go with it. Yeah. He could, because it felt good, better than anything he'd ever done to himself. "Good..." The next twitch brought a smile to his face, around the open gasp of his lips.
Why not? And just like that Gil, decided to go with it all and stop thinking. He was learning so much, about what felt good to him, about what didn't feel quite so good, and he couldn't keep himself from mewling when another finger slipped inside.
"You're so tight, man. 'm gonna fuck you so good," Gunnar groaned, and Gil could hear the faint, slippery slap of his hand greasing up his shaft. Fwap, fwap. Gil looked up at the sky, and then Gunnar's funny wild sideburns. He didn't say anything else, tense and still coasting on the music in his head. 'Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun' and Roger Waters' riffs mixed with the feel of skin on skin and Gunnar climbing over him in a strange, almost drunken sort of way.
Fingers shifted out, and then there was something else there, and a hand shifted to his thigh. "Put your legs around me," Gunnar whispered.
It was easier than he thought it'd be, stomach tightening when he lifted his hips so he could get his legs around Gunnar's. He was going to get fucked. Take it up the ass. And it was probably... probably going to feel so very good.
"Just like that," Gunnar encouraged, and there was one hand between them, and pressure that wasn't anything like those fingers had been, stretching, and the older boy grunted as he slid inside. "Uuunnnh. Fucking tight..."
"Fuck!" The word squeaked on his lips, strangling in his throat a little. Too big, too big. "That, that's not going to f-fit..."
"Gonna fit," Gunnar assured him, kissing his jaw. "It's gonna. Not much bigger than the fingers. Promise. Swear it. And you're slick. Push out. Like you were gonna, you know. Go."
Go on his dick, except he wasn't. Pushing out made it feel better for him, except more fit in and that didn't make things feel better, it. It made Gil squeeze his legs tight, trying to comprehend the feeling.
"Damn, man. You haven't done this before, huh?" The older boy was panting, and making incremental thrusts, tiny shifts of hip and thigh, and.
Oh.
Hey. There was that spot again, and that made things very weird. Somewhere between ow and oh.
If it went more towards oh, close enough to oh, he might loosen up. Might stop squeezing his legs like he was going to die. "Uh, uhn..." Another shift, and another, tiny motions on top of each other that made the faint can't-drive haze of Gil's mind seep to the fore.
"Let me in just a little more..." Just a little more, and ohhh, yeah. There was that oh place. There it was, and Gunnar was doing that steady little rocking thing, and Gil was pretty sure that he yodeled. He had never known he could do that. He could now, he could as long as Gunnar kept moving, pressing into him and finally leaning down a little to do it. Maybe he'd even get kissed again.
"You squeeze so good, baby." Ah, there was a kiss, and then he pulled back, Gil felt it, and pushed back in against that one spot, and Gil was going to explode. He was going to come, right then and there, he just knew it. Except he didn't. He wanted to, but he didn't. But the next time, and then the next time, and the--
Everything went tight and it was like when he hit that peak in jerking off. His balls tingled, and his ass clamped down, except there was a dick there and that was different than ever before. It made things ache, made him tremble, made his eyes shut firm even while his brain was shutting down, and he could hear-feel-taste-know that Gunnar was still moving, short fast strokes, and then stopping with a sound because it was over, and Gil was even more wet down there.
The world was in funny slow motion as Gunnar slumped down on top of him. Beneath the blankets, he could feel the hardness of the metal El Camino bed. He could feel how Gunnar was still in him. Gil was sticky, and the night air was a little too cold, maybe, but it felt good for the moment. For the moment. 'Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun' had moved into 'Echoes', and all of it, all of it just seemed like too much.
"Wow," Gunnar huffed, shifting out of him and making Gil whimper. "Not bad for a first timer."
"Thanks?" He almost smiled despite the sting of that feeling. His head wasn't anywhere near to clear yet.
Maybe he could stay a couple more hours.
"10-4," Gunnar told him. "I should be getting back to San Gabriel."
"... huh?" Or not. But they, they'd just... Gone all the way. And Gunnar was getting up on his knees, looking down at Gil. He was half-aware that his new t-shirt was pushed up to his armpits, pants and underwear somewhere off to the side.
Gunnar only had to zip himself back in.
"Maybe I'll see you again sometime. 'nother concert, you know? You've been great company. And this was nice, too. You're a cool kinda guy."
Gil just stared. And then he caught the joke, if it was a joke. It was probably someone's idea of a joke, at least. He started to sit up, pushing his t-shirt back down. His ass hurt, he was slick and wet and cold, and there was semen on his stomach.
"Oh."
"Hey. Um." Gunnar at least had the balls to look a little sheepish. "You said you were from Marina del Rey, right? I mean. I could call you. Or something."
It was really hard to have any dignity in putting his underwear on when he was dirty. He had to put it on without having to get out of the bed of the car just yet.
"'s... okay. I... I get it, Gunnar."
"Um." Um seemed to be the guy's favorite word. That sort of sucked. Okay. Not just sort of. "I figured you were here for the same reason I was. I mean--"
"Wasn't." Gil denied it quickly, because he hadn't been. Maybe it hadn't been the start of anything meaningful, but he would've liked just to lay there and rest for a while. Not... have a guy pull out of his ass and then throw him out on it.
He was going to have to sleep in the back of the Falcon. And he was going to have to do it dirty. But at least, at least he still had the ticket stub in the pocket of the pants he was trying to pull on while sitting.
"So. Um. I guess I won't be seeing you around."
“For this?" Gil frowned, and wiped over his stomach with a handful of blanket, then finished zipping up his fly. Shoes, his shoes were past Gunnar and he could just grab them and walk.
"No."
The look on Greg's face made Gil vaguely melancholy. He hadn't really thought about it in years, and it wasn't as if he'd told Greg everything. Just that it was a Pink Floyd concert, in the back of an El Camino. He hadn't even mentioned the older boy's name. Frankly, Gil was a little surprised that he remembered it.
"Jesus," Greg sighed, poking a fork at his French toast. "Do all virgins just have weird, sad first times? I mean, is it some kind of unwritten law somewhere?"
"It's possible." Gil had a piece speared, and despite the melancholy edge of memory, he wasn't going to waste time chewing over it. "You should make it a poll at work. It probably has something to do with high expectations."
"Guess it's just... you kind of want the stuff you hear when you're a kid. I mean, you know. Boys don't, mostly. Or the guys I knew never did, they were just all about getting laid, talking about it all the time." One hand reached up, rubbing at wild dyed locks. "My mom kept romance novels in the bathroom, though. Guess I read one too many."
"Maybe. Maybe things like that can only really be achieved when you're older and know what and who you really want." Gil leaned forwards, towards Greg. "My mother made a point that I knew to respect myself at all times. She forgot to take into account that I was as curious as a cat."
"I kind of like that about you," Greg said, leaning across the counter to kiss him. It was lush, and full, and sweet, nothing like those old memories. Gil was grateful for that, and grateful, too, that he had been Greg's first. Even if it had been bad. It all seemed just a little surreal: weird morning light, Pink Floyd on the radio across the way, and Greg.
Greg tasted like French toast, and squirmed like he wanted to go to bed already when Gil brought a hand up to cup the side of his face.
His first had been of Scandinavian descent, and so was his last. That was a joke with an enjoyable punch line.
"Finish your eggs," Greg murmured against his mouth. "We'll go crawl in bed and make out like we're fourteen. Sound good?"
"Sounds like my idea of a good time." Greg would be there when he woke up, that afternoon and the next and the next. It was enough to inspire Gil to sit back and dig into his eggs with a relish, even if they were a little burnt.