Minimal spoiler alert. Set midway through season 5, after Greg passes his proficiency. Story and chapter titles are taken from Marilyn Manson songs, in homage to Greg's taste in music. Enjoy!
After another hard day at the lab, Greg Sanders was about to sit down with a cold beer and an episode of Dexter. It was his time-honoured ritual to relax and unwind after work, which was not only helpful after the things he often saw on the job, but quite necessary. He was all set to go—just in the process of slipping the DVD into the machine—when there was a knock on his apartment door. Frowning, he glanced over the clock on his kitchen wall. He couldn't think of anyone who would be calling on him at this hour, aside from perhaps a neighbour. With an exaggerated sigh, Greg set his beer down on the coffee table and crossed the small space. When he unlocked the deadbolt and swung open the door, he was surprised by the face he saw there. It belonged not to a neighbour, but rather to Nick Stokes, one of his co-workers at the crime lab.
"Nick... hi," he said rather awkwardly, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. It wouldn't take someone as observant as Nick to see that Greg hadn't been expecting company. The young CSI's ratty, grey sweatpants and paint-stained Nine Inch Nails t-shirt said as much.
Nick, on the other hand, was still in his crime scene vest. The bleary look in his eyes was indicative of working a long graveyard shift—Greg was familiar with the feeling. He saw that look in his own eyes far too often.
"Sorry to drop in on you like this," Nick began, "but I was in the area on a case. Thought I'd swing by and see if you'd passed out yet."
Greg pulled a suspicious expression. "How very thoughtful. And creepy."
"I should have known you'd turn that into some kind of innuendo," said Nick, shaking his head. "I've won many a bet thanks to your depraved mind, Sanders."
"Then you should be thanking me," Greg stated, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. He leaned casually against the doorframe, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants while the older man chuckled.
"In your dreams, lab rat."
Greg frowned. "Hey, I'm a full-fledged CSI now. And that's no way to get invited in."
"You underestimate how well I know you, Greggo." Nick shot the younger man a knowing look, which turned out to be rather persuasive, Greg realized. Damn him.
"That's probably true," he conceded, opening the door wide enough for Nick to enter. Heading for the kitchen, he glanced over his shoulder and asked, "Want anything to drink?"
Nick shut the door behind him and made a beeline for the living room, flopping down on the couch. Having hung out quite a bit since Greg's promotion to field work, the two of them felt very much at ease in each other's homes. Both of them knew how difficult it was to maintain a social life working the graveyard shift, and thus appreciated each other's company.
"Just a beer, if you haven't polished them all off already," said Nick, undoing his bulky crime scene vest and tossing it onto a nearby armchair.
"Coming right up." Greg fished another light beer out of the fridge and cracked off the lid. "I hope you're not still clocked in, otherwise I'll be responsible for getting you drunk on the job," he stated, handing the beer to Nick and collapsing beside him on the couch. "Catharine would have my head. Grissom too, for that matter."
Nick laughed, taking a gulp of beer. "Relax Sanders, I'm not on the clock."
"So my innocent reputation will live to see another day?"
"Looks like it," Nick replied, then suddenly he paused and cast the younger man a skeptical glance. "Funnily enough, I can't recall a time when you had an innocent reputation. I think your assorted fetishes might have something to do with it."
Greg downed the remainder of his beer and set the empty bottle on the coffee table. "What, so one penchant for latex makes me a fetish man?" Nick shrugged nonchalantly. "Oh, you need to get out more Nicky," Greg told him, smirking. He reached for the remote and switched the TV's input feed over to DVD, remembering Dexter waiting patiently in the machine.
Nick ran a hand through close-cropped hair. "You know me, Greggo," he said, offering the other CSI an earnest look. "I'm old fashioned. Nothing wrong with that."
The spiky-haired man raised an eyebrow. "You say that now, but one thing I've learned about people is that everyone has a fetish. Some are just more socially acceptable than others."
"Oh really?" Nick inquired, as the Dexter theme song played through the speakers. Intrigue twinkled in the Texan's eyes. "Well what's my fetish then?"
Greg grinned. "You're an ass man, of course. I've seen you checking out Catharine's on a few occasions, not to mention mine."
Nick sighed, but there was a smile on his face. "You're really a piece of work, you know that Sanders?"
"Meaning you liked what you saw?" Greg asked, sending a sly wink at his co-worker. Nick's only response was to pick up one of the couch cushions and whip it at Greg's head. "Alright, point taken," the younger man mumbled, rearranging his hair.
Once the episode started the two of them actually shut up, and more beers were brought over from the fridge. Greg didn't usually drink very much on his own—maybe one or two beers max—but halfway through the episode he and Nick had already downed his entire twelve pack, and were now moving on to the only other alcohol in his apartment; an untouched bottle of tequila that Warrick had given him for his birthday last year.
Nick sought out two shot glasses from the cupboard and brought everything over to the coffee table, which was now littered with empty beer bottles and caps. He poured them each a shot and handed one to Greg.
"We must be insane," said the younger CSI. He glanced toward the television where Dexter was stalking his next potential victim. "Tequila at seven-thirty in the morning... my mother would be so proud."
The two of them clinked glasses and took their shots, each coming away with the same pained expression.
"Jesus, Rick really knows how to choose 'em," Nick stated, setting his shot glass down and inspecting the bottle. "Where the hell did he get this stuff—Mexico? It's fifty-five percent alcohol!" He handed the bottle to Greg, whose eyes went as wide as saucers when he read the label for himself.
"Oh god, this morning is going to end with me slumped over a toilet, isn't it?" Greg asked, sagging back into the couch. He could already feel the six beers in his system working their magic, and it was only a matter of time now before the tequila began to catch up with him.
"Maybe for you, Mr. Lightweight," Nick teased. "Some of us can actually handle our alcohol."
Greg whacked him over the head lightly with the remote. "Alright then hotshot—prove it. If you can handle, let's say... four more shots, you win. And if you're drunk after the four, then I win."
The thrill of competition blazed in Nick's eyes. "What are the stakes?" he asked, right down to business.
"Loser has to do something for the winner," the younger CSI suggested.
"How about a foot massage?"
Greg quirked a curious eyebrow. "A foot massage? Really?"
"Get your mind out of the gutter, pervert," Nick said, laughing. "I've been on my feet all day at a crime scene, man. They're killing me."
"Fair enough," Greg replied, nodding. "So the loser gives the winner a foot massage, and that's it?" He paused for a moment, considering the scenario. "You know, that doesn't really seem so bad. How about if either party pops a boner during the foot massage, they have to clean the winner's apartment in a French maid costume?"
Having been in the process of filling the shot glasses, Nick nearly spilled tequila all over the table. "Greg!" he exclaimed, setting the bottle down angrily. "I said mind out of the gutter. Jesus!"
"Sorry," the younger man replied, laughing. "And I hope you realize I was just joking about that last bit."
"I should hope so," said Nick, still looking rather startled. "Enough delay. One mental image of you in a French maid costume is enough. It's time to show you up, Sanders."
Greg cocked his head to the side. "Bring it on, if you can. And I'd look damn hot in a French maid costume, by the way."
Nick shook his head, either at Greg's statement or in attempt to clear that image from his mind. Then he picked up his shot glass and downed his second tequila of the morning. His third followed shortly after, until he'd made it all the way to his fifth and completed the terms of the bet.
"I told you," he said, licking some of the excess liquid off his lips. "I'm fine."
"For the moment maybe, but you haven't even given it time to kick in yet," Greg shot back.
Nick threw his hands up in the air. "Fine then. You do one while we wait."
Greg smirked. He was definitely buzzed, but evidently not drunk enough in Nick's mind. That was an interesting thought. "Not as much of a lightweight as you thought I was, huh?" he asked. Nick simply crossed his arms over his chest. Obligingly, Greg poured himself another drink and shot it back. He was amused to note that the once half-full bottle was now bordering on empty. "Satisfied, Mr. Stokes?" Greg teased, holding up his empty shot glass for the other CSI to observe.
"Not until I win this bet. How much longer to prove I'm not wasted?"
Greg glanced at the television. "Until the end of the episode. If at that point you can walk a straight line then you win fair and square. Agreed?"
Nick nodded. There was only about fifteen minutes left anyway. Greg was hoping that would be long enough for the tequila to take effect. The more he thought about losing and having to give Nick a foot massage, the more he wanted one himself. Nick wasn't the only one with sore feet.
Just as Dexter's end credits began to roll, Greg felt his most recent shot of tequila going straight to his head. It wasn't an uncomfortable level of intoxication, but he had certainly passed being buzzed a few miles back.
"Alright Greggo, you gonna test me or shall we just skip it and declare me the winner?" There was a triumphant smile on Nick's face, as though he'd already won.
"No way. Get your ass off this couch and walk a straight line, dirtbag," Greg demanded, feeling a little like Brass and liking it.
Nick chuckled. "I'm going to make a mental note that you get mouthy when you're drunk." He rose from the couch as steadily as if sober and walked a straight line, heel to toe, from one side of the living room to the other. Greg's hopes for a foot massage were unfortunately dashed. "See? Not wasted. I told you I could handle it."
Greg pouted, giving him the distinct appearance of a kicked puppy dog. "You cheated," he whined, heaving himself off the couch somewhat unsteadily. "That's fifty-five percent alcohol..." Once he was on his feet, he began to sway slightly in place. In a split-second, Nick was there beside him to keep him from falling over. He had a tight grip on Greg's upper arms to keep him balanced. Greg couldn't help but notice how warm the man's hands felt.
"Whoa, careful there buddy," Nick said, easing Greg back down onto the couch. He sat down on the other end and began pulling his socks off. "I don't want to hear any excuses to get out of this just 'cause you're drunk."
"Wasn't going to. Drunk or not, it can't be that difficult. It's just a foot massage."
"A well-deserved foot massage, if I do say so myself." Nick extended his bare feet toward Greg and sat them down on his lap. Greg stared at them as if he'd never seen another man's feet up close before. "Greggo? They're clean, I promise."
"Ha. Not what I was thinking, but I suppose that's good to know," he said, still staring at the feet on his lap. After a deep breath, he decided just to dive right in and put his hand on Nick's right foot.
Nick watched the young CSI inquisitively. "Then what were you thinking?" he asked, feeling the former lab tech's nimble fingers begin to massage his aching muscles.
"Nothing, really," Greg lied, a tiny smirk on his lips. "Well, just that you have big feet, and you know what they say about big feet..."
The Texan groaned loudly. He picked up another pillow and tossed it at Greg's face, but it bounced off and fell to the floor behind the couch. "You thinking about my dick is an image I'd like out of my mind, Sanders. Not easy to do when you're touching me, you realize?"
Greg laughed to himself, kneading the tense muscles around Nick's arch. "I can't help it if I speak my mind. I thought that's what made me so quirky and loveable?"
Nick shook his head in disbelief, but reached across the couch and ruffled Greg's already messy hair. "You know what Greggo—you're a lot better at this than I anticipated," Nick stated, feeling the tension draining out of his feet. "I might need to contract your services more often."
"Great. Now I'm a foot massage prostitute, only I don't get paid," Greg joked, swapping Nick's right foot for his left. "If my mother was proud before, I must be son of the year by now."
The Texan laughed. "CSI by night, foot prostitute by day. Has a nice ring to it."
Greg chuckled and kept kneading the man's left foot. By this point his hands were starting to get a bit sore, but he figured he owed it to Nick to do the best job he could. He'd never given a foot massage to anyone before, let alone a man. The one thing that kept crossing his mind above all others was how soft the skin of Nick's foot was. For someone who spent so much time on their feet at crime scenes, he'd expected calluses and toughness. Instead it was like the skin of the inner arm; smooth and perfect.
The harder Greg worked, the more his technique improved. After a few minutes Nick's body language changed. Where he'd been stiff and slightly uneasy, he was now relaxed and comfortable. It looked as if he'd slowly melted into the couch, the way he was slumped down. Over the course of the past few minutes his eyes had slowly closed and his mouth now hung open the tiniest bit—a visible indication of his enjoyment.
The whole experience was doing something unexpected to Greg. At first it made him feel good about himself to know that his foot massages didn't suck, but it quickly progressed much further. The look of rapture on Nick's face, the feel of his skin under Greg's hands, the little responses (like a deep, breathy sigh) the man gave every so often—it was making Greg hard. And not just 'response to stimuli' hard, but 'I want to fuck you right now' hard. Greg wasn't the only one shocked by the surprise boner. When, after a long moment, Nick finally opened his eyes, he saw it clear as day.
"Greggo?" he said tentatively.
Greg jumped a bit, unaware that Nick's eyes were open. He tried to shift the position of the man's feet on his lap to hide the obvious bulge in his sweatpants, but without Nick's cooperation, all that did was brush one of the Texan's feet against the tented area. For a moment, Greg froze like a deer in headlights, as did Nick. Then, Greg quickly tossed the man's feet off his lap and curled up with his knees to his chest to hide the evidence.
"You're kidding me, Sanders," said Nick, scooting towards the younger man on the couch. There was an odd look in his eyes that Greg couldn't quite put his finger on. "Was that what I think it was?"
"No idea what you're talking about..." Greg mumbled, staring at the television. He was trying his hardest to keep his eyes from meeting Nick's, but even still, a hot flush had begun to spread across his pale cheeks.
Nick couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Come on, open your legs Greg." The former lab tech's eyes went wide as saucers and he shook his head vigorously. Nick repeated, "Greg. Come on."
"Why?" Greg blurted out. "You want to touch it Nicky?"
Neither of the men in the room expected Greg's voice to come out so deep and seductive. It gave them both pause for a split-second before Greg seemed to come to his senses and moved to get up from the couch. Just then, Nick saw his opportunity and took it. He reached between Greg's legs in transition, his hand pressing down over warm flesh straining against several layers of fabric.
An unexpected keening noise ripped itself from Greg's throat and seemed to hang in midair. In shock, the young man plopped back down on the couch in what he came to realize was an extremely vulnerable position. His legs were wide open, facing Nick, whose hand remained in place.
"Shit Greggo, what's this?" Nick inquired, staring curiously at the bulge his hand covered.
Thinking fast, Greg replied, "Purely a physical reaction, it has nothing to do with, you know... the foot massage or anything."
Nick moved his hand a little, causing a delicious amount of friction over the fabric. Greg swallowed loudly. "I guess this means you lost another bet, my friend," said Nick, looking excited. "I hope you have a French maid costume handy."
"W-what?" Greg stammered, panic rising in his chest. "I was just joking about—"
"Your words, not mine," Nick interjected. "And you did get a stiffie, after all." For emphasis, he gave Greg a rough stroke through his sweatpants. The young man threw his head back involuntarily, sucking in a sharp breath of air. If alcohol was supposed to make men impotent, it certainly wasn't working. Greg had never been this hard in his entire life.
"Tease," Greg hissed, his tone goading. He couldn't believe the words coming out of his own mouth—it sounded like he was daring Nick to do something about it.
The corner's of Nick's lips curled up into a devious grin. "Maybe I just like seeing you squirm, Greggo." He punctuated this statement with another stroke, this one rougher than the last.
Squirm Greg did. It took all of his willpower not to buck up into Nick's waiting hand. "I thought you said you were old fashioned. Doesn't this—ahhh—" Nick stroked him once more "—kind of contradict that?" Greg asked.
"I don't know," Nick said thoughtfully, "does it?" He and Greg locked eyes. A sea of emotion seemed to pass through their connection—surprise, lust, discovery, longing. It awakened something in the two men that neither realized had been there before.
"You make fun of me for being kinky, yet here you are torturing me like a sadist," Greg pointed out, casting Nick a knowing look. "I hope you realize I'm seconds away from whacking off right here, right now."
Suddenly the warmth and friction of Nick's hand was gone. To say Greg was disappointed would have been an understatement. He stared questioningly at the older CSI.
"Alright then Greggo, let's see what you're made of," Nick challenged, a passionate glint in his eye.
Greg felt his heart skip a beat—several, more like. "Wow, you really are a tease," he stated, glaring at the dark-haired Texan in front of him. Under normal circumstances, exhibitionism was not among Greg's assorted list of fetishes, but just then, he was too drunk and too horny to care. Mustering up the confidence, he stared Nick straight in the eye and replied, "If you insist."
First off, he pulled his sweatpants down just enough to get access to the crotch of his black boxer briefs. Through the thin fabric, he could already feel the heat of the engorged flesh beneath. Deciding not to waste any more time, he finally freed himself from the confines of his clothing. As the cool, room-temperature air made contact with his skin he moaned lowly in his throat. Surprisingly enough, the experience wasn't making him shy; it was quite the opposite, in fact. He felt empowered by the thought of Nick watching him expose himself like this. Somewhere in the back of Greg's mind—where some semblance of normal brain function was still taking place—he realized this was yet another kink to add to his list.
Nick, who was frozen in place just a few feet from Greg's open legs, stayed rooted in place. His eyes swept over the younger man's straining endowment, from the very base up to the enlarged purple tip. The sight of the Texan examining his cock sent a thrill of excitement up Greg's spine.
That was it for Greg; he couldn't wait any longer. Very slowly, he began to stroke himself. The effect was immediate—his face contorted in pleasure and his eyes fell shut. It felt so good to finally have skin against skin. On every upstroke, when his fist closed around the swollen tip of his penis, a sharp whimper and occasionally a curse word would escape his lips. At that point, Greg wasn't the only one hard as a rock.
"Shit," Greg breathed, feeling himself getting close. He glanced up at Nick just as a few dribbles of pre-come leaked onto his hand. When Nick tore his eyes away from the sight down below and the two locked eyes, Greg felt a powerful surge of pleasure through his cock and knew what was coming. "Fuck... fuck, ahhh Nick."
Greg was coming like he'd never come in his life. The orgasm hit him like a freight train; he threw his head back into the cushions, mouth open in a silent scream. If the sheer amount of semen wasn't startling enough, the projection definitely was. Not only was his hand covered, but his sweatpants had also seen better days. There was even some on the couch, just shy of where Nick was sitting.
Breathing heavily, Greg released his spent cock and stared at his hand, watching the come trickle down his palm. A large part of him still couldn't believe what had just happened.
"Does this mean we both have to wear the French maid outfit?" he asked innocently, gesturing to the bulge in Nick's khakis that the man wasn't even attempting to hide. It was difficult not to stare at it; Greg was trying his hardest to avert his eyes, but the bulge seemed to command his attention.
Nick cracked a smile—probably having noticed Greg's area of interest, the younger man realized, feeling embarrassed—but proceeded to shake his head in response to Greg's question. "Nope, it's still just you. That part of the bet only applied to getting hard during the foot massage."
Frowning, Greg asked, "So you're still going to hold me to that bet, even though I was joking?"
"Of course," Nick told him, as though it should have been obvious. "There's no way you're squirming out of this one, Greggo. It was your idea."
"But you like it when I squirm," said Greg, grinning playfully. "I think you're secretly hoping I will, just so you can watch." When Nick made no attempt to deny this, Greg added, "Perv. Forget ass man, you're a voyeur. And a sadist too, apparently."
"Oh really?" Nick challenged, raising an eyebrow. "What about you, Mr. Exhibitionist?" He motioned toward Greg's crotch, where the young man's cock remained out of his boxers, still semi-erect. "Planning on beating off again? Or did you not come enough the first time?" he asked sarcastically, glancing around at the mess Greg had made.
That reminded him... now that the moment was over, Greg took the opportunity to tuck himself back into his boxers and pull his sweatpants up—not that there was a whole lot of dignity to be found in his actions, since Nick was watching the whole time and his sweatpants were still covered in his own semen. "You're the one who told me to go for it," Greg protested. "I wouldn't have even considered—"
"Moaning my name when you came?"
Greg blushed profusely. That was a subject he'd been hoping not to discuss. Abruptly, he rose from the couch and grabbed a fistful of empty beer bottles off the coffee table, heading for the kitchen. At least cleaning up would give him something else to think about, and an excuse not to reply to that comment.
Unfortunately, it looked like Nick wasn't about to let it go. "C'mon Greggo, I didn't mean to make fun. You were right; I did egg you on. And you getting turned on in the first place was probably my fault for having sexy feet." Nick flashed him a toothy smile, and Greg set the bottles down on the counter, laughing. "I just wanted to know what it was all about when you said my name," the Texan continued. "Can you blame me for being curious?"
Greg sighed. "I guess not. But I don't know what you want me to say," he told the other CSI, leaning his elbows on the countertop. "You were sitting right in front of me, watching me... I don't know, Nicky. Your name just sort of... came out."
It was unclear whether Nick believed him or not. Either way, he seemed to consider the statement for a moment before making like Greg; rising from the couch and bringing a few empties over to the kitchen.
"It's alright, you don't have to do that," the young man told his guest, but Nick brought the rest of the bottles over anyway. "I know it's kind of awkward," said Greg, running a hand through messy hair, "so if you want to leave, I understand."
"Greggo?" The young CSI looked up. "I'll say this—it would be awkward if we were just co-workers. But we've been friends for a while now. There's nothing to be embarrassed about. I just want you to know that."
Slowly, a smile spread across Greg's face. "It sure feels like I should be embarrassed, but to tell you the truth, I'm not. Well, not about jerking off at least." He paused to look down at his pants. "It's more the fact that I'm covered in come."
Nick shook his head, chuckling. "I told you—exhibitionist."