Title: How to Use Heavy, Explosive Machinery
By: happy-harper13
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: NC17
Summary: Greg flirts with Riley and humiliates Nick in public, insisting that Nick doesn't know how to use a gun. Nick exacts his revenge and proves Greg wrong when they return home.
Warnings: This was written for kink!bingo over at the kinkbingo community on dreamwidth. As a result, it includes quite a few kinks, particularly ones of the BDSM variety. The kinks for this particular fic are: Barebacking, Humiliation (in Public), Penance/Punishment, Double penetration (one hole) and Gunplay. If that's not your thing, please turn away now.

Your words cut through the air as we clear the scene:

"Nick doesn't know how to use his gun."

I jump a little at the shock of them, and I hope that Riley doesn't notice.  I know you do. 

You laugh.  Then Riley laughs.  I grit my teeth and keep my eyes focused on the hair in front of me -- a hair that continues to elude the most careful of tweezer pinches.  At the moment, I'd like to take those tweezers to your luscious tongue or perhaps the hair you love so much -- or at least you used to. 

But I restrain myself.  For now. 

"How does he not know how to use a gun?"  Riley asks.  "He's been on the force so long, I mean..."  Her voice trails off.  "Hey Nick," she yells at me.  "What happened with that suspect?"

I grit my teeth again.  I had him.  I know I had him.  I know I had him.  It's just that it's been a while since I've had to use the gun.  I thought you'd understand, but apparently you don't.  It's only recently that you even started carrying.  And yet you insult my marksmanship. 

Then again, apparently I insulted my own skill.  Made myself look like less of a man on my own. 

I continue staring at the hair -- still evasive as it is; more so than any other hair I can remember, even yours -- and try to force my mind away from thoughts of the suspect that I couldn't take out. 

I missed.  Stokes don't miss.  It's just not what we do. 

I can still hear Riley's laughter ringing in my ears.  I hate Riley.  Almost as much as I hate you and that suspect at this moment.  I hate the way she laughs, and I hate the way she acts like she's some gun expert.  Because she's the one who took out that suspect, even though he was standing right in front of me.  Even though he was half a house away from her, but close enough to me to be whispering those words in my ear. 

I grit my teeth at the sound of those words.  He made it sound like we were so damn obvious.  And that's why I missed.  It's your fault, really, and his for picking it up, but apparently it's my fault for making it so damn obvious. 

So damn obvious.  It's so damn obvious I'm crazy about you.  I can't even hide it.  And that's why I missed that suspect, and that's why you're laughing at me with Riley. 

She can flirt with you all she wants, but, when we get home, I'm the one that's gonna get revenge.  I don't care if Riley's whatever gun expert she thinks she is.  I'll show you who knows how to handle heavy explosive machinery better. 

And then you'll stop laughing at her jokes and flirting back.  Even if you say you're just being polite, which is exactly what you said last time you and she were standing like that, laughing in that disgustingly intimate way.  Blech.  It makes me sick. 

You just wait until we get home. 

But for now I stare back down at the elusive piece of hair.  This piece of wavy, feminine hair may baffle me, but you -- you, Greg Sanders -- are not that difficult to pin down, pick up and capture.  You are not quite so elusive. 

You won't be when we get home. 

I imagine how I'd humiliate you the same way -- how I'd tell Riley about the way you used to be so afraid of using guns yourself.  About the way the heavy, explosive machinery you're generally handling is all mine, and how you think I use that quite well.  Yeah, I wonder what she'd say about that. 

Said heavy, explosive machinery, however, is now practically nodding in agreement and I'm forced to turn my thoughts back to the piece of hair and away from my revenge. 

I bag the hair the same way I bagged you and make my way to the Denali.  The shift is almost over anyway. 

*****

"Greg," I greet you as you enter the front door of our townhouse.  You shift your head up to stare.  A smirk is still implanted over your face.  I smirk back, and I think you see the predatory air of mine.  I honestly don't know how you feel about my old cop uniform from back in Dallas, but I guess now is the time to find out.  And, from the look in your eyes, I don't think you mind it too much.

The gun emerges from behind my back and you gulp, your eyes widening slightly.  But you don't step back.  You're not that scared. 

When I point it at you, you gulp again and your eyes widen more -- the way they only normally do when you're almost screaming my name. 

I shift my head slightly, motioning you forward -- to just where I want you.  You move cautiously to the garage.  "Faster, sweetheart," I whisper smoothly, a dirty edge that is nothing like sugar on the second syllable.  You know I don't normally call you that.  You comply, walking steadily toward the garage. 

You turn back to me, as if asking for assurance.  I nod, enjoying the vulnerability lacing the confidence I've come to expect from you.

You seem surprised to see it in the room.  The table.  A genuine interrogation table, replaced years ago by some newer, lighter model that wouldn't give you splinters.  This one will.  I for one look forward to it and, knowing you as well as I do by now, I think you will too. 

You're surprised to see it, but I'm just surprised I could fit in our garage.  I had to move the shelf there a tad to the right, so that the window will be shining on one of us -- probably you -- on the next drive into work. 

Fitting the table is worth it though.  Very worth it. 

I nod at the table, and you go to stand by it. 

I shake my head and you scowl in confusion.  "I thought you were supposed to be the genius," I say with a chuckle. 

You just stare and I raise an eyebrow, gun and gaze still fixed on the table.  "Sit," I say.  You've never said it explicitly, but I know you appreciate the authority in my voice at times like these. 

You have to give yourself a little leverage with your hands to get up there.  I smile at the sight as you hop up onto the table. 

"Lay down," I say, gun still pointed at you. 

You gulp again.  I love it when you do that -- the way your adam's apple bobs.  The other time it does that is when those lips surround me.  Heavy, explosive machinery that you love to caress. 

And it bobs like that when you're swallowing.  I love it when you swallow.  

You lower your back over the interrogation table. 

You don't seem to have noticed the short pole pointing up from the table yet.  I don't think you know what it's for anyways. 

I move toward you, bending over you as I run the gun softly down your face, past high cheekbones, thin lips and sweating pores. 

I love it when I make you sweat. 

"Spread," I say -- order, rather.  You nod, eyes still fixed on the gun.  And you think I don't know how to use it.  I chuckle at the thought, and you look more nervous.  That's right -- it's my turn to laugh at your expense. 

You move toward the top of the table.  I run the gun down your arms and you push them toward the opposite end of the table in response, seeming to understand my request -- command -- easily.  You stare up almost pleadingly, moving your arms to the side to demonstrate that you can't actually reach the corners. 

I chuckle again.  That doesn't matter.  I pull the handcuffs from the back of my uniform. 

I pull one over a delicate wrist and pull it around the pole at the top of the table, looping it back around to capture the other wrist.  You just continue to stare at me curiously, almost as if fascinated. 

I smile back.  Okay, maybe it's more of a leer on my part.  On your part too, now that I think about it. 

"Why do you think you're here, Mr. Sanders?" I ask.  You begin to laugh at the question -- almost at the situation -- but the gun in your short sandy hair seems to change your mind well enough. 

"Uh -- I -- I don't know."

"You don't know?" I ask with a smooth chuckle.  I straighten my face immediately, and your eyes widen in response, clearly surprised.  "Do you remember a conversation with one Ms. Riley Adams?"  I emphasize the 'Ms.' in her name.  She's not the man I am.  And she doesn't know how to use either kind of heavy, explosive machinery the way I do.   Not yours, not mine and not any gun. 

You don't gulp this time.  Your eyes meet mine. 

"How much do you know about guns, Mr. Sanders?" I ask. 

"Enough," you respond. 

"Enough?" I ask with a smirk.  "How much is enough?"

"Enough to do my job?" you ask cautiously.  I relish the tremor in your voice as your mouth stutters over the 'd' in 'do'.  Yes, somebody will be doing someone.  And you won't be the first somebody, I can assure you. 

I bring the gun to rest against the side of your face again, and you shiver.   But I fear it's losing its effect as I repeat the motion.  Time for something more. 

"Doesn't sound like you know it very well," I reply, drawing out the last word.  "Very... intimately."

Your eyes widen at the implication and I take the time to ignore your arousing facial expressions and let my gaze linger down your body to the long legs dangling precariously over the end of the table. 

I take a step back.  "I spent a long time in the PD, Mr. Sanders."

You continue to stare and I avert my eyes from your growing arousal as if it doesn't matter.  My own is visible, almost poking out of the navy blue regulation uniform pants. 

"Where I come from, Mr. Sanders," I begin.  "You get to know a person." I stroke a gun carelessly over my arousal.  "Or a piece of equipment," I add, "before you judge it."

You nod quickly. 

"But that's not what you did, now is it?" I ask.  I stroke the gun against my hand.  "You judged this 'ere piece of equipment, and my ability to use it a bit too quickly.  Didn't you, sweetheart?"  I let my southern drawl sway over the last word as I grin teasingly. 

You nod again. 

"So..." I begin.  "You wanna get to know this gun?"

You look nervously at me -- almost pleadingly.  But then you nod.  It's slowly, and I'm sure the way the gun is pointing at your tight little ass has something to do with it. 

You nod. 

I begin to unbutton your shirt.  Have I ever told you how much I love you in a button-down?  Well, I do.  But I love you even more without one, which is why this one is coming off.  You're lucky I don't just rip it off all the way, but I know how much you love your wardrobe. 

Now that the shirt is off, I wrap my tongue around your right nipple.  But not the left.  I know it drives you crazy when I take care of one of your girls, but not the other.  Sure enough, you groan. 

I move lower and begin unbuttoning your jeans -- tighter than I like you wearing to work. 

"What were you doing, wearing those tight jeans, Mr. Sanders?" I ask.  I can't help myself.  "Showing off that cute butt to Riley?"

You shake your head fervently, eyes staring intently -- almost scared -- into my own.  "No," you say.  The first word out of your mouth, and you sound nervous.  Just the way I wanted you.  Still want you.  For right now at least. 

I smirk.  "Sure.  So it wasn't your intention to have her checking out your ass?"

Another fervent shake of the head from you. 

I scoff.  "I don't believe you, Mr. Sanders."

You gulp again and the movement of your throat taunts me once again. 

"I'd say that's just one crime on top of the big one you already committed."

"W-what was that?" you ask. 

I bend over the table and lean in closer to you, so that I could lick across your lips if I wanted to. 

"You said I didn't know how to use a gun," I whisper huskily in your ear. 

You shiver at the words.  I love how sensitive your ears are. 

"I-I wasn't the one who said that," you stutter.  "Riley was."

"Doesn't matter, now does it?"  I reply.  "You agreed."

"But she did worse," you insist, and I feel just a little bit angry. 

"You want me to punish her or something?" I huff.

"No," you reply with a shocked glare.  And I know from the shocked expression on your face that you want to be here -- with me (and my gun), and not with anyone else. 

Which brings me back to the gun.  I begin pushing down your jeans the remainder of the way.   I'm gonna need you to spread wide, so they need to be gone all the way. 

You gulp again.  I never get tired of that. 

I lower myself over you, meeting your eyes.  I trail the gun up your legs, from long delicate feet up muscular but still slim calves, over sensitive thighs and the moles there that I have memorized by now.  As it drags over your arousal, I don't know whether to expect your cock to bob upward or downward.  It pushes upwards.  Who knew fear could be such a powerful aphrodisiac?

The gun travels lower again, sliding over your taut bottom and, for the first time in my life, I'm almost jealous of a gun.  But I'm controlling it, and I'll take you again -- and again -- so it's all good. 

You blink nervously -- but also, maybe even more so, in fascination -- at this movement, but I continue up, moving it over your still-taut right nipple and the neglected left.  You close your eyes and sigh, almost contentedly.  But complacence isn't allowed.  I pinch the nipple and you jump under me, pulling at the handcuffs.  I look forward to the marks they'll leave for tomorrow.  And to Riley seeing those.  Bitch.  I pinch extra hard, eliciting a pained moan from you, when I think of that skank. 

I'll teach you who you belong to. 

The gun runs up and over the no-longer-bobbing adam's apple and I feel my own arousal growing, just from knowing how much power I have over you.  But that's not what matters.  Because, even though I could hurt you so easily -- every time I get you into this position or another like it -- I don't.  And every time you get yourself into one of those positions -- where someone; Riley; the suspect; a bunch of punk kids could hurt you -- I don't let them.  I protect you. 

I'm the cop, even if I don't wear this uniform every day.  I keep you in line, even with fear, but I protect you.   And I excite you.  I make you feel safe and happy and wanted and aroused and loved.  Because you trust me to let my gun caress your most sensitive expanses.  And you like it.

As your cock is indicating as it bobs under me.  I scoff.  Not today.  There is no way you're topping today, despite the proximity of my rear to your own eager equipment. 

The gun moves higher and I leer down at you.   Your eyes are almost frightened, but still exhilarated.  I nudge the gun toward its first destination and you barely flinch before complying.  You open your mouth and your tongue caresses a piece of equipment that isn't mine, but still belongs to me.  Because you know I won't fire. 

As your tongue collides with the barrel of my gun, my fingers make their way into that other orifice of yours I know so well.  You groan, moaning into the gun, as three fingers take you roughly.  The pleasure will come soon, as will you (though not that soon for the latter). 

I stretch you, adding a fourth finger as you moan again.  I can feel your tongue slowing down and I push the gun in further in retaliation.  You seem to get the message, letting it slink back to your throat.  I watch carefully, withdrawing it slowly.  No risks, even if there aren't any bullets and the gun is locked.  I protect you.  No risks. 

My fingers stretch you again, and you groan again. 

"So Sanders," I whisper in your ear.  "Ready for a second piece of machinery."

You nod and groan, though you can't speak with the gun in your mouth.  I wonder if you can taste the GSR from where I fired and missed earlier today.  But I don't think you'll be criticizing my shooting abilities again, no matter how horrifically I miss (and, I have to admit, today's miss was fairly horrific). 

My gun retreats from your mouth as my own lips find their rightful place -- against yours.  But I raise my head, despite your protests, to watch myself carefully as I bring the gun down to nestle in your other exquisite crevice.  I move up cautiously, allowing my own manhood to join it.  I can feel you shudder in fear, but I reassure you with lips that have never lied to you, and you give in, though the trembling remains, albeit lightly.

I push forward, along with my gun, and you shake at the intensity of it.  I know one of us -- me or my gun -- has to hit that spot that drives you wild eventually.  And I know the idea of it hitting there; of the wrong explosion occurring there; has you petrified in the most delicious, sensuous way.  You shiver, and I wrap an arm around you.  I'm almost tempted to release you from the handcuffs, but I restrain myself.  My other arm bends at an awkward angle to keep the gun in place -- nestled inside you.  I push it in a little further, and you shiver and moan.  A gun and me -- that's a lot to fit, and you were tight to begin with, but you don't protest, even as you moan in what might be pain. 

It'll turn to pleasure eventually, and I can still feel your own arousal, even if it ebbs every other time the gun pushes back. 

You look me in the eyes, and your face is damp with sweat, and your chest is beating slowly and strongly.  Your eyes lower almost lazily, and the moment is somehow intense and luxuriant at the same time as you stare at me with confidence -- more confidence than one would ever expect from a man handcuffed to a police interrogation table with a gun and a cock in his ass.  But I know why you have that confidence.  You're confident because you trust me.  That's when I know it's time to remove the gun and do it myself. 

With the gun out, I push forward with force -- with the same confidence showcased in your eyes.  You moan and arch against the table as I finally reach that spot. 

I thrust again and, in the same motion, lean over to finally bite down gently over the neglected left nipple, eliciting another louder and more jubilant moan from you. 

Casting the gun to the side of the table, I use my now free hand to stroke you; as you can't, with your hands still cuffed to the table.  I'm not releasing them yet. 

"Uhhh."  You moan again loudly.  I love it when you're loud, which, surprisingly, isn't often in bed.  I know our friends -- coworkers rather -- would all be surprised at that.  And Riley will never know that.  I thrust extra hard at the thought, eliciting a moan that might be more pain than pleasure (you're still a little over-stretched, I'm sure, from where the gun and I were together).  I appease your pain with a gentle stroke against your now-sweat-soaked forehead.  I take the opportunity to really look into your eyes. 

As cheesy as it sounds, the trust in your eyes -- even amidst all of the kink -- is enough to push me over the edge.  You chuckle lightly -- I don't know what at -- and arch your back, releasing over our stomachs and the interrogation table.  Your release is so strong that it even hits the gun now lying on the other side of the table. 

I hunch over you, exhausted and not quite ready to correct what is in fact a rather uncomfortable position -- bent over the table with my head against the side of yours. 

I'll never tell you why I missed or what that suspect said.  I was obvious, damn obvious.  Obvious that I was crazy about you.  He said he could hurt you -- he described how -- and a thousand horrific images surged through my mind.  I shot and missed wildly, but Riley didn't.  She got him in the hip as he fell.  She protected you, but I'm the one who really protects you.  I'm the one who protects you from myself.  I'm the one who you trust to hurt you just enough that you need protecting.  I hope that in the end that's what matters. 

You sigh contentedly, and I know that is what matters. 

"By the way," you whisper hoarsely.  "I knew you know how to use a gun."

I chuckle.  "Of course you did."

~~~~~

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