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For once, I'm not the one with the backlog of stuff to beta. Mwahaha. Also, omg this makes a bingo, I did it! :D
Pantomime
CSI:LV Season 7. Greg Sanders/Mike Keppler. R. 2400 words. Follows Candyass by Blue Soaring. For the striptease spot on my Kink Bingo card.
At this point, Mike could suggest just about anything and Greg's head would bounce like a bobble-doll.
This hadn't been part of Greg's plan. For one, Greg hadn't had a plan, and maybe that's the problem. His very lack of plan could be a key factor in why he's about to break a dozen rules governing proper workplace behaviour.
"Slowly," Mike says, leaning up against the lockers. His arms fold over his chest and the strain of his shirt over his shoulders is practically an invitation to maul him. Greg manfully restrains himself, though he can't take all the credit as he's helpfully rooted firmly in place. His feet, always the contrary ones. "And do the buttons one at a time."
At the low, vibrating purr of Mike's voice, the floor turns to sand. Greg wobbles as he plucks at the hem of his sweater. "You mean like a striptease?"
The corners of Mike's mouth twitch into something resembling a smirk. "Exactly like a striptease."
"Just because this is Vegas doesn't mean this isn't a little, you know...." Unconventional? Degrading? Greg's not at all sure what it is or how he feels, and his lips thin but he already knows his resolve has gone the way of the floor and spilled away in so many tiny particles. He tosses a look over his shoulder, but it's another quiet night and running into Mike had been fate shoving the opportunity into his face. Who was he to turn down that kind of shoving? "Okay, but I'm not doing a little shimmy. If you want to see my moves, you're going to have to come home with me."
"Fair enough." Mike's gaze skims Greg head to toe. Greg has only started removing the first article of clothing and he already feels naked. So much so that he's got his sweater peeled up to his neck before the implications of Mike's answer sinks in.
Mike in his apartment. There's a thought.
It clings to his brain like his sweater clings to his shirt, thoughts tugged in one direction along with the drag of his oxford. The cool air coming out of the vents licks at his belly, tightens his skin and his nipples. Taking off a freaking sweater at the pace of a snail is like trying to get free of a straitjacket. Greg might complain if not for the satisfied sound Mike makes, a little whuff of breath that says he isn't showing too much too soon.
"Start from the bottom," Mike says, when Greg's done peeling his arms free of clingy knitted death.
Greg takes the time to pull his sweater right-side out and fold it. The task was supposed to give him room to think, figure out if this really is a good idea and if he really is going to follow through. Sure, he wants to play dirty sex games with Mike, but waggling his hands at Mike through the windows while cocking an eyebrow is one thing and stripping down to his birthday suit in the middle of the locker room is comparing apples and oranges. Do you know what's tame in comparison? A handjob in a locked office, that's what.
When the sweater sits in a fuzzy lump on the bottom of Greg's locker, he's no better off in the thinking department. He considers leaving the door open, but it's a flimsy amount of privacy and doesn't obscure any of the important bits if someone were to walk in. Not that there's anything he's ashamed of when it comes to his important bits, but a boner in the locker room is bad etiquette even if it's not your fault. And right now, it's emphatically not his fault, 'cause the fault is standing four feet away near the towels in a pressed-shirt and slacks and holy shit is Greg thankful he's not the only one with bad etiquette right now. His pulse shoots back to rocket-speed again and his brain gives up on the bothersome task of generating thoughts to start up a looping mantra of, Please, no one walk in...please, no one walk in....
Funny how it feels wrong to undo his shirt from the bottom up. All the years of muscle memory doing the reverse has him stumbling at the simple task. Knowing Mike is watching him isn't helping put any points in his dexterity stat. Greg glances up when he reaches the midway point, and the look in Mike's eyes completely melts him. Yes, it's true, Mike Keppler has laser eyes.
"I, uh." Greg is positive that there's something he wants to say. His tongue makes a game attempt at it, but it falls out of his mouth in a garbled moan. He fumbles at the next button, nerves shredded because he still has his shirt on, his pants and his jockeys and his socks and shoes, and at this rate, someone is bound to come in. Greg's pretty sure that the door staying shut this long is some kind of laboratory record.
Mike tilts his head as he says, "Slower," and somehow that punctuates the order. Seriously punctuates it, like gives it a triple-strength underline.
Butterflies explode in Greg's chest cavity. "Can't be much of a show if you're the one giving the stage directions."
"Spontaneity has its place, but in this case, I have a plan." The butterflies aren't calmed by Greg's relief that at least someone does, and they swarm down to occupy his belly when Mike lifts a finger in the universal gesture of 'get a move on'.
"What is it? See how long it takes Greg to crack and drag you around the corner into the showers for some fun with soapsuds?"
"Could be. Do you think I'm toying with you, Greg?" Mike's arms go to his sides, hands slipping just past the welts of his pockets.
Greg's fingers freeze on the topmost button, the leaves of his shirt brushing lightly against his belly. His heart pounds so hard he's sure Mike can see the thump of it shiver through his chest. "Well now I'm suspicious." And really fucking turned on. At this point, Mike could suggest just about anything and Greg's head would bounce like a bobble-doll.
"Keep stripping."
Greg draws his shirtfront open, oddly self-conscious when it parts enough to reveal his nipples. What he'd like to do is yank the cuffs over his wrists and just pull the whole thing off instead of suffer the whispering slide of cotton over his shoulders. It's soft as a kiss and entirely a tease. Mike's hands—those big, thick-fingered, ridiculously well-manicured hands—should be pushing his shirt aside, not that lousy bitch gravity.
His shirt hangs at his elbows, swoop of cotton rustling at his lower back as he loosens the button cuffs. He's got one button down and three to go when Mike's gaze skips past him and Nick's cheery, "Hey guys," sends him spazzing right into the locker door. Metal bangs on metal and Greg starts mentally filling out his own coroner's report.
"Jumpy," Nick says, his locker open in a flash.
Jumpy is a pretty good adjective for Greg's heart, because it's gone and leapt straight into his throat. Anatomically impossible or not, he's choking on it right now.
"I already know what's got Greg's tail in a knot, how's your night going?"
How Mike can carry on a normal conversational tone right now is so far beyond Greg's ability to comprehend it might as well be astrophysics. Alien astrophysics written backwards in shorthand. He tugs off his shirt while Mike is distracted, and that was a stupid idea because now he really should take off his pants or risk coming off as unnatural. How the hell do people manage to act naturally when they know they're doing something they're not supposed to be doing? This is exactly why he'd make a terrible criminal. Mike, on the other hand, would probably be a crime boss if he hadn't taken up the badge.
Shoes, Greg reminds himself, shoes before pants.
"Eh, been better. Glad I've got tomorrow off." Nick's locker slams shut and Greg jumps all over again. He can practically feel the upwards crawl of Nick's eyebrow. "Hey, keep an eye on Twitchy there, would you, Kep? He's looking a little peaky."
Greg's indignation trumps his mortification. "I'm in the room."
"Don't worry, I've got it covered," Mike says, and about two seconds after Nick is gone, he looks pointedly at Greg's pants.
"He called you Kep." Greg hooks his thumbs into the waist of his pants, slides his hands aimlessly in a gesture that's got to be more nervous than sexy. Unless Mike enjoys the nervous look, which he very well might, and that'd make Greg the sexiest bitch on the planet right now.
"And you're stalling."
"What if he comes back?"
"What if."
"Answering a question with another question is a bit of a dick thing to do, don't you think?"
Mike grins, one eyebrow arching pointedly. "Is it?"
Greg's fly is peeled open with his jeans inching down toward the tops of his thighs and now, thanks to Mike's absurd sense of humour, he has what seems suspiciously like the giggles. They crescendo towards a hiccup that Greg chokes on when Mike catches his arm just above the elbow and drags him stumbling forward. Next thing he knows, Mike has him by the shoulders and shoves him up against the side of the very last locker in the row, the sharp bang of metal as loud and violent as the kick of his heart.
"Mike?" Panic seizing him, Greg cranes his head around the corner. His eyes fly towards the entrance to the locker room, start rolling up into his skull when Mike grabs him by the jaw, forces his head forward, and Mike's mouth presses to his, soft, wet, dangerous. They could get written up for this, and Mike's the new guy, he's only got so many mistakes he can make before his first review. Greg puts a hand to Mike's chest, intends to push him back, but the slick wriggle of Mike's tongue against his own has him curling his fingers into the front of that neatly-pressed shirt. If he's lucky, he'll leave a few wrinkles, mess Mike up a little the way Mike is doing to him.
"Do you want me to stop?" Mike asks. He licks his lips as he pulls away, one hand dropping to Greg's chest. His knuckles skim down Greg's body, end at his waist and then it's Mike's wide palm burning a brand just left of centre. Fuck if anyone comes in now, he is so screwed.
"I don't know." The truth seems the safest avenue, or at least the only thing that pops to the surface. "This isn't exactly...clandestine."
"No, it is not." Mike's tone of voice is neutral edging towards aroused and every nerve in Greg's body lights up one after the other like a row of sparklers. Latex might be Greg's thing, but exhibitionism has never floated his boat until now. The calculating gleam in Mike's eyes just does things to him that his last string of hookups couldn't even come close to. He presses his hips forward eagerly as Mike's hand wraps around his dick, pushes it up to his belly and squeezes the length of it.
"I'd like to suck you again," Mike says, and that's the end of it. All of Greg's fear gets blasted out the back of his skull, the slam of lust hitting him so hard there's nothing but an impact crater left where his good judgement should be.
"Okay," Greg says, reddening slightly when his voice cracks on the word and the following groan is loud enough that he's sure it must've echoed out into the hallway. But Mike's not moving, not dropping down with the same confidence-laden ease that Greg had seen first hand. Oh boy had he seen it first hand. "I said okay."
"No, you were right." Mike pulls his hand away, steps a full foot back and Greg's too stunned to react to Mike licking a wet smear of precome right off his thumb. "I apologise, Greg. It was presumptive of me and a little overbearing."
Presume! Overbear! tries to claw out of Greg's voiceless throat, but only a thin, wavering sound escapes. He'd really very much like to have his cock sucked as promised. The whole lab could come in right now dancing in a conga line and he wouldn't care.
"Maybe we can continue this later." Mike reaches down to adjust his cock.
"But-"
"Somewhere more appropriate."
Greg scrambles to pull up his jeans when Mike continues to be bound and determined to blue-ball him. "What about now? We could--"
"Go rent a room?" Mike's arch look turn Greg's cheeks red all over again.
"Well, no, but I'm off shift in an hour and, you know, if you want to really see my moves." Greg wiggles his hips, which probably would've looked a lot sexier if his dick wasn't still hanging out. He stuffs himself back in his pants, saddened as his best puppy-dog look doesn't seem to be working at all on Mike.
"Unfortunately, I've got a mountain of paperwork."
Greg opens his mouth to offer to help, but Mike's already shaking his head. "Next time," he says, and looks Greg over, gives him a faint smile and leaves. Just like that.
"Next time. Right," Greg mutters, feeling like a victim of Hurricane Keppler as he turns back to his locker and retrieves his shirt. He holds it by the shoulders and shakes it out. "Well that'll give me time to work on my routine."
"What routine?" Catherine says, and Greg earns himself another bruise by slamming into his locker all over again. Christ on a pogostick, was everyone in the lab working on their ninja stealth skills?
"Just trying to work out more. Build up my guns." Greg does a curl and grins. "Now that I'm in the field more, the next time a pack of crazy teenagers comes at me I'll be ready for 'em."
Catherine gives him the sort of crooked smile that says she's torn between trying not to pity him and trying not to laugh. "You do that," she says, slinging her coat over her arm and flipping him a little wave. "See you and your guns tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Greg echoes, slipping his shirt on. A faint whiff of that light spicy scent that follows Mike around still swirls in the air and it hits Greg how much of a close call that was. His knees go weak as the dump of adrenaline filters out of his system.
Next time, he is so going to need a plan.
Pantomime
CSI:LV Season 7. Greg Sanders/Mike Keppler. R. 2400 words. Follows Candyass by Blue Soaring. For the striptease spot on my Kink Bingo card.
At this point, Mike could suggest just about anything and Greg's head would bounce like a bobble-doll.
Pantomime
This hadn't been part of Greg's plan. For one, Greg hadn't had a plan, and maybe that's the problem. His very lack of plan could be a key factor in why he's about to break a dozen rules governing proper workplace behaviour.
"Slowly," Mike says, leaning up against the lockers. His arms fold over his chest and the strain of his shirt over his shoulders is practically an invitation to maul him. Greg manfully restrains himself, though he can't take all the credit as he's helpfully rooted firmly in place. His feet, always the contrary ones. "And do the buttons one at a time."
At the low, vibrating purr of Mike's voice, the floor turns to sand. Greg wobbles as he plucks at the hem of his sweater. "You mean like a striptease?"
The corners of Mike's mouth twitch into something resembling a smirk. "Exactly like a striptease."
"Just because this is Vegas doesn't mean this isn't a little, you know...." Unconventional? Degrading? Greg's not at all sure what it is or how he feels, and his lips thin but he already knows his resolve has gone the way of the floor and spilled away in so many tiny particles. He tosses a look over his shoulder, but it's another quiet night and running into Mike had been fate shoving the opportunity into his face. Who was he to turn down that kind of shoving? "Okay, but I'm not doing a little shimmy. If you want to see my moves, you're going to have to come home with me."
"Fair enough." Mike's gaze skims Greg head to toe. Greg has only started removing the first article of clothing and he already feels naked. So much so that he's got his sweater peeled up to his neck before the implications of Mike's answer sinks in.
Mike in his apartment. There's a thought.
It clings to his brain like his sweater clings to his shirt, thoughts tugged in one direction along with the drag of his oxford. The cool air coming out of the vents licks at his belly, tightens his skin and his nipples. Taking off a freaking sweater at the pace of a snail is like trying to get free of a straitjacket. Greg might complain if not for the satisfied sound Mike makes, a little whuff of breath that says he isn't showing too much too soon.
"Start from the bottom," Mike says, when Greg's done peeling his arms free of clingy knitted death.
Greg takes the time to pull his sweater right-side out and fold it. The task was supposed to give him room to think, figure out if this really is a good idea and if he really is going to follow through. Sure, he wants to play dirty sex games with Mike, but waggling his hands at Mike through the windows while cocking an eyebrow is one thing and stripping down to his birthday suit in the middle of the locker room is comparing apples and oranges. Do you know what's tame in comparison? A handjob in a locked office, that's what.
When the sweater sits in a fuzzy lump on the bottom of Greg's locker, he's no better off in the thinking department. He considers leaving the door open, but it's a flimsy amount of privacy and doesn't obscure any of the important bits if someone were to walk in. Not that there's anything he's ashamed of when it comes to his important bits, but a boner in the locker room is bad etiquette even if it's not your fault. And right now, it's emphatically not his fault, 'cause the fault is standing four feet away near the towels in a pressed-shirt and slacks and holy shit is Greg thankful he's not the only one with bad etiquette right now. His pulse shoots back to rocket-speed again and his brain gives up on the bothersome task of generating thoughts to start up a looping mantra of, Please, no one walk in...please, no one walk in....
Funny how it feels wrong to undo his shirt from the bottom up. All the years of muscle memory doing the reverse has him stumbling at the simple task. Knowing Mike is watching him isn't helping put any points in his dexterity stat. Greg glances up when he reaches the midway point, and the look in Mike's eyes completely melts him. Yes, it's true, Mike Keppler has laser eyes.
"I, uh." Greg is positive that there's something he wants to say. His tongue makes a game attempt at it, but it falls out of his mouth in a garbled moan. He fumbles at the next button, nerves shredded because he still has his shirt on, his pants and his jockeys and his socks and shoes, and at this rate, someone is bound to come in. Greg's pretty sure that the door staying shut this long is some kind of laboratory record.
Mike tilts his head as he says, "Slower," and somehow that punctuates the order. Seriously punctuates it, like gives it a triple-strength underline.
Butterflies explode in Greg's chest cavity. "Can't be much of a show if you're the one giving the stage directions."
"Spontaneity has its place, but in this case, I have a plan." The butterflies aren't calmed by Greg's relief that at least someone does, and they swarm down to occupy his belly when Mike lifts a finger in the universal gesture of 'get a move on'.
"What is it? See how long it takes Greg to crack and drag you around the corner into the showers for some fun with soapsuds?"
"Could be. Do you think I'm toying with you, Greg?" Mike's arms go to his sides, hands slipping just past the welts of his pockets.
Greg's fingers freeze on the topmost button, the leaves of his shirt brushing lightly against his belly. His heart pounds so hard he's sure Mike can see the thump of it shiver through his chest. "Well now I'm suspicious." And really fucking turned on. At this point, Mike could suggest just about anything and Greg's head would bounce like a bobble-doll.
"Keep stripping."
Greg draws his shirtfront open, oddly self-conscious when it parts enough to reveal his nipples. What he'd like to do is yank the cuffs over his wrists and just pull the whole thing off instead of suffer the whispering slide of cotton over his shoulders. It's soft as a kiss and entirely a tease. Mike's hands—those big, thick-fingered, ridiculously well-manicured hands—should be pushing his shirt aside, not that lousy bitch gravity.
His shirt hangs at his elbows, swoop of cotton rustling at his lower back as he loosens the button cuffs. He's got one button down and three to go when Mike's gaze skips past him and Nick's cheery, "Hey guys," sends him spazzing right into the locker door. Metal bangs on metal and Greg starts mentally filling out his own coroner's report.
"Jumpy," Nick says, his locker open in a flash.
Jumpy is a pretty good adjective for Greg's heart, because it's gone and leapt straight into his throat. Anatomically impossible or not, he's choking on it right now.
"I already know what's got Greg's tail in a knot, how's your night going?"
How Mike can carry on a normal conversational tone right now is so far beyond Greg's ability to comprehend it might as well be astrophysics. Alien astrophysics written backwards in shorthand. He tugs off his shirt while Mike is distracted, and that was a stupid idea because now he really should take off his pants or risk coming off as unnatural. How the hell do people manage to act naturally when they know they're doing something they're not supposed to be doing? This is exactly why he'd make a terrible criminal. Mike, on the other hand, would probably be a crime boss if he hadn't taken up the badge.
Shoes, Greg reminds himself, shoes before pants.
"Eh, been better. Glad I've got tomorrow off." Nick's locker slams shut and Greg jumps all over again. He can practically feel the upwards crawl of Nick's eyebrow. "Hey, keep an eye on Twitchy there, would you, Kep? He's looking a little peaky."
Greg's indignation trumps his mortification. "I'm in the room."
"Don't worry, I've got it covered," Mike says, and about two seconds after Nick is gone, he looks pointedly at Greg's pants.
"He called you Kep." Greg hooks his thumbs into the waist of his pants, slides his hands aimlessly in a gesture that's got to be more nervous than sexy. Unless Mike enjoys the nervous look, which he very well might, and that'd make Greg the sexiest bitch on the planet right now.
"And you're stalling."
"What if he comes back?"
"What if."
"Answering a question with another question is a bit of a dick thing to do, don't you think?"
Mike grins, one eyebrow arching pointedly. "Is it?"
Greg's fly is peeled open with his jeans inching down toward the tops of his thighs and now, thanks to Mike's absurd sense of humour, he has what seems suspiciously like the giggles. They crescendo towards a hiccup that Greg chokes on when Mike catches his arm just above the elbow and drags him stumbling forward. Next thing he knows, Mike has him by the shoulders and shoves him up against the side of the very last locker in the row, the sharp bang of metal as loud and violent as the kick of his heart.
"Mike?" Panic seizing him, Greg cranes his head around the corner. His eyes fly towards the entrance to the locker room, start rolling up into his skull when Mike grabs him by the jaw, forces his head forward, and Mike's mouth presses to his, soft, wet, dangerous. They could get written up for this, and Mike's the new guy, he's only got so many mistakes he can make before his first review. Greg puts a hand to Mike's chest, intends to push him back, but the slick wriggle of Mike's tongue against his own has him curling his fingers into the front of that neatly-pressed shirt. If he's lucky, he'll leave a few wrinkles, mess Mike up a little the way Mike is doing to him.
"Do you want me to stop?" Mike asks. He licks his lips as he pulls away, one hand dropping to Greg's chest. His knuckles skim down Greg's body, end at his waist and then it's Mike's wide palm burning a brand just left of centre. Fuck if anyone comes in now, he is so screwed.
"I don't know." The truth seems the safest avenue, or at least the only thing that pops to the surface. "This isn't exactly...clandestine."
"No, it is not." Mike's tone of voice is neutral edging towards aroused and every nerve in Greg's body lights up one after the other like a row of sparklers. Latex might be Greg's thing, but exhibitionism has never floated his boat until now. The calculating gleam in Mike's eyes just does things to him that his last string of hookups couldn't even come close to. He presses his hips forward eagerly as Mike's hand wraps around his dick, pushes it up to his belly and squeezes the length of it.
"I'd like to suck you again," Mike says, and that's the end of it. All of Greg's fear gets blasted out the back of his skull, the slam of lust hitting him so hard there's nothing but an impact crater left where his good judgement should be.
"Okay," Greg says, reddening slightly when his voice cracks on the word and the following groan is loud enough that he's sure it must've echoed out into the hallway. But Mike's not moving, not dropping down with the same confidence-laden ease that Greg had seen first hand. Oh boy had he seen it first hand. "I said okay."
"No, you were right." Mike pulls his hand away, steps a full foot back and Greg's too stunned to react to Mike licking a wet smear of precome right off his thumb. "I apologise, Greg. It was presumptive of me and a little overbearing."
Presume! Overbear! tries to claw out of Greg's voiceless throat, but only a thin, wavering sound escapes. He'd really very much like to have his cock sucked as promised. The whole lab could come in right now dancing in a conga line and he wouldn't care.
"Maybe we can continue this later." Mike reaches down to adjust his cock.
"But-"
"Somewhere more appropriate."
Greg scrambles to pull up his jeans when Mike continues to be bound and determined to blue-ball him. "What about now? We could--"
"Go rent a room?" Mike's arch look turn Greg's cheeks red all over again.
"Well, no, but I'm off shift in an hour and, you know, if you want to really see my moves." Greg wiggles his hips, which probably would've looked a lot sexier if his dick wasn't still hanging out. He stuffs himself back in his pants, saddened as his best puppy-dog look doesn't seem to be working at all on Mike.
"Unfortunately, I've got a mountain of paperwork."
Greg opens his mouth to offer to help, but Mike's already shaking his head. "Next time," he says, and looks Greg over, gives him a faint smile and leaves. Just like that.
"Next time. Right," Greg mutters, feeling like a victim of Hurricane Keppler as he turns back to his locker and retrieves his shirt. He holds it by the shoulders and shakes it out. "Well that'll give me time to work on my routine."
"What routine?" Catherine says, and Greg earns himself another bruise by slamming into his locker all over again. Christ on a pogostick, was everyone in the lab working on their ninja stealth skills?
"Just trying to work out more. Build up my guns." Greg does a curl and grins. "Now that I'm in the field more, the next time a pack of crazy teenagers comes at me I'll be ready for 'em."
Catherine gives him the sort of crooked smile that says she's torn between trying not to pity him and trying not to laugh. "You do that," she says, slinging her coat over her arm and flipping him a little wave. "See you and your guns tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Greg echoes, slipping his shirt on. A faint whiff of that light spicy scent that follows Mike around still swirls in the air and it hits Greg how much of a close call that was. His knees go weak as the dump of adrenaline filters out of his system.
Next time, he is so going to need a plan.
*
End
