Title : The Rules of the Game
By: Loretta
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Pairing : Greg/Nick
Rating: NC-17,slash, dark themes- sort of
Summary: The Game is fun until someone gets hurt.
Author's note: This may feel a little OOC for some of you, or maybe not. I posted this on my LJ and got some good response so I decided to share with you all. Please comment if the mood strikes, I am extremely interested in what you think of this. Also, unbeta-ed, but spell checked!

Reaching for a package of rubber gloves, Greg had extended his body as far as it would stretch, all his muscles tensed with the action. Just as he was about to collect his prize, the door of the supply closet swung shut behind him and he was enclosed in the dark space. And he wasn't alone. He went still and held his breath for a moment. Hands that seemed to have sight traveled over his hips to the front of his pants. Unable to hold the stretch any longer, he dropped back down onto his heels, his back coming into contact with a hard chest, gracelessly knocking the held breath out of him.

Then out of the darkness, a voice low and hot on his ear, "Lesson number one: You shouldn't turn your back on an open door."

Greg swallowed hard, but didn't reply as fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers.

"What's the matter, handsome? Cat got your tongue?" Demanding fingers continued their quest downward, eliciting a tiny gasp from Greg as they encircled tender flesh.

"No." It came out a croak. Hastily, he cleared his throat. "But something's got my cock."

Greg could feel the wicked grin against his neck. "Oh my, that's the spirit." There's a tug-twist just this side of painful and he grits his teeth to keep from crying out. "Tell me you want it."

He hesitates and is rewarded with a nip on the flesh just below his ear. "Tell me."

Eyes squeezed shut, Greg wills his voice steady. "No."

Another nip, harder this time, lower on his neck, shirt collar roughly pushed away. "Don't lie to me."

The desire to push the game just a little farther drains out of him when his tormentor presses forward with his hips, rock hard erection hot even through the fabric of both their clothes. But reluctance is part of the game too, so he whispers hoarsely, "I want it."

"*What* do you want?"

"You." Another reluctant whisper.

"Me, what Greg? *Say it.*"

Louder this time, but not *loud.* Greg was still all too aware of where he was. At work, in a supply closet, about to begin begging to be fucked by a fantasy. *For* a fantasy. "For you to suck me. Fuck me, please."

There's some rustling as the hand releases it's hold on his aching cock and begins to maneuver him. He whimpers in loss and anticipation, a small sound almost too quiet to be heard. His back presses against a shelf and he feels something dig into his shoulder, but the sensation is lost in the wet heat of his captor's lips and tongue. A hand makes it way to his mouth and when he bites down on the flesh, he realizes it's his own. A strangled cry still manages to escape, spurring the tempo of actions happening to and on his erection. When his release comes, he screams silently into the back of his hand.

Panting, he reaches out, fingers fumbling in the tangle of a shirt and for a moment he feels a reciprocating touch on his cheek. He leans into the gentle hand, relishing in the existence of the emotion that brought it there, before the game is remembered and it's snatched away. It returns to grip his hip firmly and spin him once again, face dinging lightly off the edge of a metal shelf before he can stop it. The sharp hiss sounds so very loud to his own ears and he stiffens, waiting. The pause begins to stretch and Greg steps back only to meet resistance and hot, naked flesh. "Move to the door," is growled in his ear. A small concession, then.

Using the tiny strip of light visible under the door to get his bearings, Greg stutter steps to his left and presses his hands flat against the pleasantly cool door. Before he's even gotten another breath, he can feel slick fingers pressing and stretching him open. The thrusts are quick and somewhat hurried but not painful. But he wonders just how long this patience will last. Not long as he soon finds out.

He hears the sound of tearing foil and begins to work on relaxing his muscles. Being tense for a blow job was ok, but not for what he knows is coming next. Quicker than he expected, there's a pressure and something far larger than a finger presses into him. All movement stops and he thinks he's taken it all, but a small roll of a hip and he knows it's not true. This earns him a low growl and a light slap on the thigh. "Tell me again."

There's a new edge to the voice, a wavering that suggests a hesitation, possibly fear. Greg isn't willing to concede just yet though. "Make me. Show me you can make it feel good."

He feels the slow slide out and a fierce thrust forward. The angle is just different enough that it catches him off guard and he almost shouts when his prostrate is treated to one hell of a good stroke. And if that wasn't enough, that rough hand is back on his cock, fisting around him and urging him to move. "Is that what you wanted, pretty boy? Does that make you want it more?"

Unable to deny it any longer, Greg moans. "Oh God, yes. More. Fuck me. Please. Fuck me."

And that's all it takes. This is where the game was supposed to take them, to this point, the spot where you can't turn back even if you wanted to. The next few moments are a blur of thrusting flesh, sweat trickling on heated skin, pants and groans and when the bites and skin scraping nails are almost too much to take Greg sees a blinding light go off behind his eyes. He's brought back to conscious thought by a broken cry of utter bliss that sounds so painful, Greg's first reaction is to capture the hand bruising his shoulder. When it remains in his grasp he tugs lightly until it comes, willing to his mouth. Flicking his tongue out, he tastes himself on those fingers and sucks lightly on each digit until he's gotten them all clean. Turning the still compliant hand over he places a tender kiss to the center of it's palm. There's an audible sigh and he bites his lip waiting for the latest rejection. But he's greeted only with more silence and a feather light stroke across his back that is so fleeting he's not sure it wasn't just his imagination. He's encouraged anyway and takes a chance. "We could do this .. somewhere else. Somewhere more private, sometime."

Another sigh. "I was afraid this would happen."

All contact is gone and Greg can't figure out how he does it. How he can move so easily in the dark when Greg can't even see his hand two feet from his face. And never mind wondering how he can fuck at work, but won't come home with him and fuck in private. Where they could be loud and crazy and as dirty as he wanted. Greg knew that wasn't the problem, however. He wasn't stupid. Just disappointed. Fucking and love didn't have to coexist, he'd done it before without feeling this way, but never with someone who he knew so well, who should know *him,* too. And it hurt, more than any slap or bite.

He tugged his belt through the clasp and shrugged in the dark. "Nothing's happening. It was just an offer. Take it or leave it, I don't care."

"I'll go out first then. Give me a couple of minutes, then you can follow."

Greg swallows the lump in his throat and agrees. "Ok. I still gotta get supplies for my kit anyway."

The light streaming through the door makes him cringe and turn away. And when he opens his eyes, he's alone.

Later, when he's finally gotten around to getting his kit filled and was concentrating on keeping track of all the tiny pieces of cut up credit card he'd collected at the latest scene, he feels a familiar warmth radiating on his skin.

Tossing a casual glance over his shoulder, he feigns indifference. "If you need me, I'm going to be a little while with this 'puzzle' so.."

"Greg, what's on your face?"

Greg's brow wrinkles and he reaches up to brush at his cheek. "I don't know, fingerprint powder or something."

Nick pinches his chin and pulls so that they are practically nose to nose. "No. What is this under your eye?" A light tap indicates the spot he's noticed and when Greg winces in surprise, Nick's eyes widen in concern. "How did you get this bruise, Greg?"

Rushing back over all the unwritten rules, Greg has a moment of panic. His heart races in his chest and he realizes that Nick didn't know, didn't hear or see when he hurt himself. But he suspects something and Greg's not sure if telling the truth will make it worse or better. So he hesitates again and almost misses Nick's whispered question. "Did I do that?"

Greg pulls away and shrugs noncommittally. "Maybe. I think I might have bounced my face off the shelving."

Nick's hand is back, searing the skin on his shoulder. "When I pushed .."

Sensing Nick doesn't want to finish that question, Greg jumps in. "Yeah. *Then.* Don't worry about it, I had forgotten about it until you pointed it out."

"Jesus. Greg, I'm sorry. I didn't ever mean to hurt you. Not.."

"Not like that?" The words are out of his mouth at the speed of regret. Instantly he wants to run, but he has evidence all over the table he can't walk away from. "Just forget it, Nick. I'll heal. No one will know about your dirty little secret just because I have a black eye."

Nick's hand slides a little and Greg's helpless under the weight of his stare. There's a moment when he thinks that Nick might be sick but then he feels a squeeze and he's free. "Ok. As long as you're ok, Greg."

Greg can feel a scream in his chest, fighting to be released. He turns back to the evidence table with it burning and writhing somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. It only hurts more when it sinks in that he's always got to be silent when he's with Nick.

Not chancing another look in Nick's direction, he just goes back to sifting pieces of credit card, stiff and robotic. Even when the heat continues to consume him, he doesn't look up. A hot breath plays over his neck like a caress and his fingers fumble with a few bits and they nearly end up on the floor. He tries, but can't catch the high pitched sound that breaks from his lips. The tightness in his chest intensifies when Nick is suddenly all over him, surrounding him. Nick murmurs, "Tell me how to fix this. Tell me what you want."

The tenuous control over the silent scream Greg had shatters and falls to the floor in droplets like rain. The last thought he has before he feels them sink to the floor in a tangle of limbs is one last daring hope that Nick will still be there when he picks up the pieces.