Title: Rainy Night In Vegas
Author: black_dahlia63
Rating: um...not sure...let's say R just to be safe, shall we.
Disclaimer: I'm sure I'll run out of ways to say I don't own them one day, but it hasn't happened yet.
Summary: Taken from the 30_lemons theme: #21 – Alone Time, or, "When I Think About You, I Touch Myself".

The rain's dashing against the apartment windows in a solid sheet, and the power went out with the last clap of thunder, but Nick hasn't moved from where he's lying in the centre of an unmade bed. He lies on his back, naked, his skin already speckled with perspiration because the AC died along with the lights and the television that he wasn't really watching but left on anyway because it took his mind off the fact that he was alone; but the MASH rerun isn't there to distract him any longer, and he's got to face up to the fact that Greg's not there.

Damn it, why did they call me to give evidence in court the day I was supposed to go to California with you?

He ought to sleep, because he's just worked a double shift and he's exhausted, but he can't make himself close his eyes. If he does that, he's going to think about how things are when both of them are in this bed – the way Greg's skin feels, the way his eyes darken and his breath comes in little gasps when he surrenders himself, the way he pleads for release when he's been brought to the edge and pulled back from it too many times to bear it any longer...

Stop that, damn it.

But he can't, it's too late, and all at once he realises he's hard. He's alone, he's tired, he's thinking about Greg even though he's trying not to, and his body's responded the way it always does when there's an image of his lover in his head; he can feel his cock pressed flat against his belly in the dark, it's hard and taut and it aches in a way it hasn't done since he was sixteen and he had no outlet except...

He reaches down and brushes the fingertips of one hand along the length of his shaft, and although he's barely touching himself the contact makes him arch up off the bed and bite down on his lower lip to avoid making a sound. Pressing his head back against the pillow, he lets his hand stray over his belly and up to his chest, but this is just as much of a torment; he can feel his heart pounding, his skin seems to burn in the wake of his touch, and what he was trying not to think of is the only thing occupying his mind now.

His hand brushes over his right nipple, a tiny piece of flesh that's as tight and swollen as his cock, and he can't stop himself from rolling it gently between his thumb and forefinger. But this isn't enough, he needs more, and so he pinches it, increasing the pressure until it crosses the line between pleasure and pain and his eyes squeeze shut in the darkened room as his fingernails dig into his skin around his nipple; and while he does this he thinks of how it sometimes is with Greg – the pinching, the biting followed by gentle kisses, the marks they sometimes leave on each other that make the other guys on the team wonder what they've been doing and remind them both of what awaits them the next night they spend together.

His other hand roams down his chest, its fingertips coming to rest against his belly and brushing the neat thatch of dark hair at his crotch; it would be so easy to finish this now, to close his fingers around the solid cylinder of flesh and relieve the ache at his core, but he won't let himself do that.

Not yet.

His thumb and forefinger move to his left nipple, tugging on it gently and then pinching hard; he arches off the bed again, his tongue emerging to lick lips that are dry and almost feverishly hot like the rest of his skin is now, and he presses the fingers of his other hand firmly against his belly in order to keep them still. He lies still then, the darkness in the room heightening his senses, and he can feel his face burning; the only sound in the room is an endless cycle of shaky, ragged breathing, his entire body aches for more attention, and he's already long past the point of being able to stop.

"Tell me what you want, Nicky."

He can almost hear Greg's voice in the room now as he runs his open palm across each nipple in turn, the gentle stroking of previously tormented flesh making him suck in a sharp breath; he can picture Greg's face, the slightly parted lips and the eyes that always darken a shade when the two of them are alone, as his palm skims down his side and his fingertips touch the soft skin of his inner thigh. This is exactly what Greg would be doing to him if he was here now – tormenting him with feather-light caresses, knowing exactly where to touch him to take him to the brink, and then stopping just before he tipped over it...

"You want me to touch you, Nicky?"

He lifts his hand away from the coarse, dark curls at the fork of his crotch and allows a fingertip to brush across the head of his cock, even this negligible touch making him arch up off the bed again as a soft inrush of breath echoes in the room. A tiny pool of liquid has begun to build there, he felt this before he even touched himself, and as he dips his finger into it a jolt of electricity shoots straight up his spine; he drags the fingertip slowly back and forth, and as he does this he's thinking of Greg kneeling between his parted thighs, lapping with the very tip of his tongue just like a cat before lowering his head and taking him into his mouth...

No. Stop that.

But he can't stop, he's brought himself too close to the brink now to be able to stop, and so he lets his hand go where it wants to and his cock bucks into his closed fist; it's soft warmth, gentle and almost comforting, but that isn't what he thinks of as he rises and falls to the rhythm of his own touch. He thinks of Greg lying beneath him, groaning, his body glistening with sweat and his eyes distant; he thinks of the heated tightness when he's inside Greg, the way Greg's fingers lace with his and cling tightly enough to hurt, the desperate whimper beneath him as he draws back and then plunges forward again so deeply that he isn't sure where one of them begins and the other ends.

"Nicky, please..."

And this is what finishes him, drives him over the edge - the voice of his lover echoing through the roaring in his head, making him thrust into his curled fingers a final time before warm wetness jets over his hand and splashes his belly. He collapses back against the bed, his other hand relaxing from the fistful of sheet he was unconsciously holding; his eyes open in the darkness, and he lets out a shuddering breath. "Christ," he whispers softly, and as he grabs a handful of tissues to clean himself up he thinks of Greg's face after they've finished making love; he sees the flushed cheeks, the eyes slowly coming back into focus, the smile curving lips that are slightly puffed from being sucked and bitten, and he's smiling himself as he lets the tissues fall from his hand. He reaches to draw the covers over himself, and he closes his eyes; the tension that wouldn't let him sleep is gone now, and when sleep claims him moments later he falls into it so deeply that he doesn't stir when the lights come back on an hour later.