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Title: 'The Other End of the Rainbow'
Pairing: Nick/Greg (CSI)
Rating: NC-17 for squicky things.
Summary: Two deaths and one very long night.
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Warning: The things that they do. I'm not even sure people do this kind of things. However, that being said. If it's disturbing then... yes, it disturbs me too. It's like an itch that needs to be scratched until we come out all bloody and mutilated. I'm expecting huge dissent for this one. *cringe*
Violent sexual activities abound. Not *too* explicit. But explicit enough.
The heart that sees and beholds, it cries. When it is hurt, it beats louder in the ears of men. Then, tides and seas they rage; and tears, they die falling off the edge.
In darkness, he lies on his side and pulls his knees up to his chin, tightly until his spine threatens to break, and his throat hurts from the bones digging into it. And he feels tears prickling, and his breathing labored as his heart beats wildly against his thighs and his fingers go numb, clenching over the plane of his feet. He lies there naked on top of the sheets, watching a sliver of light squirming underneath the door. And when the door is pushed open, he screws his eyes tightly and tastes salt on his lips. He thinks of the sea he loves so much and dreams of drowning.
Warm fingertips dance on his spine, across his ribs, and warm breath fans across his skin. The bed dips and he tumbles to the center of the bed, like a ball rolling down the hill. Soft lips against the side of his mouth and Greg can smell mint, salt, and vomit. He leans onto the solid chest, and lets those hands pry open his coccoon. Nick whispers against his throat and he gathers his wits to open his eyes.
Greg sees the room awash with blood and severed fingers and he clings on to Nick's arms around his stomach, and presses against Nick's waist. He turns around and nudges at Nick's throat with the top of his head and insinuates himself in the crook of Nick's neck. He feels Nick's labored heartbeat under his cheeks and he cries when he thinks of the blue gash across the arteries.
A girl of seven years old, Greg thinks. Like his niece in California. Dead. And he feels Nick move on top of him and he smiles because it's the next best thing. He turns around onto his stomach and hears a growl next to his ear.
Nick's fingers dig into the skin of his thigh and yanks his legs apart and he feels his muscles pull. And Greg thinks nothing as he waits. And it's like somebody runs a razor through his skin as Nick pushes through, unrelenting, unforgiving. And he pushes deeper into the bed, until he sees stars on his eyelids and he sees the universe in his eyes. And Nick grunts and moves above him, one palm on his shoulder blade and Greg thinks about bruises and empty sockets and crushed eyeballs.
Long, hard, and fast thrusts, and Greg feels the tearing of his skin, he can catalogue each scratch, and each new drop of blood, and Nick's teeth drawing blood. And Greg clenches his hands, and prints half-moons on his palms. Nick's knees on his thighs, grinding it down into the unyielding bed. Nick's thrusts spells desperation, long, hard, slick with blood.
There are fingers around the back of his neck, and he sobs as they tighten with every stroke. A boy of thirteen, Greg remembers. Like Nick's nephew in Texas. Dead. And Nick thrusts so hard it lifts Greg's body into the air and Greg feels cool air against his dick. And when he falls back down, there's a sharp pain against it he cries out and pushes against Nick, feels Nick's balls on his ass.
And again, and again, every movement grates. With every new stroke, new blood. With every new shred, like punishment for seeing things that he never dreamt of seeing. And thinks about Nick who does this for much longer than he. And his nipples scraped against coarse sheets of the bed, sheets he forgot to change. Sheet filthy from the night before; the sheet he left this morning when he was late for work.
And Nick comes with a roar, and clamps his fingers around Greg's throat, fingers digging into skin and Greg hovers by the brink. He keeps his eyes open, bulging with pressure building behind them. White shiny spots forming against his retina and air burns his lungs; and his heart beats louder, wilder grasping for purchase, hoping for air. And Greg wants to cry, but tears dissolve between the ducts and his skin and the air so oppressive. And he hears Nick growling above him, feels Nick looking down at him. With pity, and compassion, and unvoiced sorrow and anger.
And Greg feels his balls tightening and pain. And he knows that he won't be able to come, and he knows he won't be able to see Nick's emotions and Nick's own tears. And Nick who extricates himself from Greg's ass all blood, and semen, and shit; and Greg vomits on the bed.
A girl of seven. A boy of thirteen. Dead.
The bed shifts some more and Greg lapses into misery and hears water running in the bathroom and listens for the click of the door when Nick shows himself out.
In the morning Greg will wake up surrounded by blood, semen, shit, and vomit. He will spend the day cleaning his house, like purgatory. He will find bloodied razor blades buried in the bottom of his bin, and will find traces of Nick's skin and blood and tears on them, covered with the dry remains of Nick's dinner. And he will find Nick curled in his car on Greg's driveway and Greg will knock softly on the window and lead Nick into the house. He will listen to Nick hiss when he rubs antiseptic onto Nick's forearms and inner thighs, over scabs and old scars. He will clean Nick's knuckles and wrap gauze over them, and hunts down the crack on the wall where Nick pummels out his frustration and wipe skin and blood from the wall.
Then they'll shower alone, together. Then they'll dress in silence, next to each other, separated by a gulf of sadness. Then they'll drive to work, and fill in the paperwork. They'll write the report and cry silently in the adjacent toilet cubicles, clamping down on their forearms. They will wash their tears and look at each other in the mirror. Then they'll walk out to meet with the victims' parents and offer support.
Rainclouds and thunderstorms gather, but they'd forever look for the break in the clouds, the sliver of clear blue sky.
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Pairing: Nick/Greg (CSI)
Rating: NC-17 for squicky things.
Summary: Two deaths and one very long night.
---
Warning: The things that they do. I'm not even sure people do this kind of things. However, that being said. If it's disturbing then... yes, it disturbs me too. It's like an itch that needs to be scratched until we come out all bloody and mutilated. I'm expecting huge dissent for this one. *cringe*
Violent sexual activities abound. Not *too* explicit. But explicit enough.
The heart that sees and beholds, it cries. When it is hurt, it beats louder in the ears of men. Then, tides and seas they rage; and tears, they die falling off the edge.
In darkness, he lies on his side and pulls his knees up to his chin, tightly until his spine threatens to break, and his throat hurts from the bones digging into it. And he feels tears prickling, and his breathing labored as his heart beats wildly against his thighs and his fingers go numb, clenching over the plane of his feet. He lies there naked on top of the sheets, watching a sliver of light squirming underneath the door. And when the door is pushed open, he screws his eyes tightly and tastes salt on his lips. He thinks of the sea he loves so much and dreams of drowning.
Warm fingertips dance on his spine, across his ribs, and warm breath fans across his skin. The bed dips and he tumbles to the center of the bed, like a ball rolling down the hill. Soft lips against the side of his mouth and Greg can smell mint, salt, and vomit. He leans onto the solid chest, and lets those hands pry open his coccoon. Nick whispers against his throat and he gathers his wits to open his eyes.
Greg sees the room awash with blood and severed fingers and he clings on to Nick's arms around his stomach, and presses against Nick's waist. He turns around and nudges at Nick's throat with the top of his head and insinuates himself in the crook of Nick's neck. He feels Nick's labored heartbeat under his cheeks and he cries when he thinks of the blue gash across the arteries.
A girl of seven years old, Greg thinks. Like his niece in California. Dead. And he feels Nick move on top of him and he smiles because it's the next best thing. He turns around onto his stomach and hears a growl next to his ear.
Nick's fingers dig into the skin of his thigh and yanks his legs apart and he feels his muscles pull. And Greg thinks nothing as he waits. And it's like somebody runs a razor through his skin as Nick pushes through, unrelenting, unforgiving. And he pushes deeper into the bed, until he sees stars on his eyelids and he sees the universe in his eyes. And Nick grunts and moves above him, one palm on his shoulder blade and Greg thinks about bruises and empty sockets and crushed eyeballs.
Long, hard, and fast thrusts, and Greg feels the tearing of his skin, he can catalogue each scratch, and each new drop of blood, and Nick's teeth drawing blood. And Greg clenches his hands, and prints half-moons on his palms. Nick's knees on his thighs, grinding it down into the unyielding bed. Nick's thrusts spells desperation, long, hard, slick with blood.
There are fingers around the back of his neck, and he sobs as they tighten with every stroke. A boy of thirteen, Greg remembers. Like Nick's nephew in Texas. Dead. And Nick thrusts so hard it lifts Greg's body into the air and Greg feels cool air against his dick. And when he falls back down, there's a sharp pain against it he cries out and pushes against Nick, feels Nick's balls on his ass.
And again, and again, every movement grates. With every new stroke, new blood. With every new shred, like punishment for seeing things that he never dreamt of seeing. And thinks about Nick who does this for much longer than he. And his nipples scraped against coarse sheets of the bed, sheets he forgot to change. Sheet filthy from the night before; the sheet he left this morning when he was late for work.
And Nick comes with a roar, and clamps his fingers around Greg's throat, fingers digging into skin and Greg hovers by the brink. He keeps his eyes open, bulging with pressure building behind them. White shiny spots forming against his retina and air burns his lungs; and his heart beats louder, wilder grasping for purchase, hoping for air. And Greg wants to cry, but tears dissolve between the ducts and his skin and the air so oppressive. And he hears Nick growling above him, feels Nick looking down at him. With pity, and compassion, and unvoiced sorrow and anger.
And Greg feels his balls tightening and pain. And he knows that he won't be able to come, and he knows he won't be able to see Nick's emotions and Nick's own tears. And Nick who extricates himself from Greg's ass all blood, and semen, and shit; and Greg vomits on the bed.
A girl of seven. A boy of thirteen. Dead.
The bed shifts some more and Greg lapses into misery and hears water running in the bathroom and listens for the click of the door when Nick shows himself out.
In the morning Greg will wake up surrounded by blood, semen, shit, and vomit. He will spend the day cleaning his house, like purgatory. He will find bloodied razor blades buried in the bottom of his bin, and will find traces of Nick's skin and blood and tears on them, covered with the dry remains of Nick's dinner. And he will find Nick curled in his car on Greg's driveway and Greg will knock softly on the window and lead Nick into the house. He will listen to Nick hiss when he rubs antiseptic onto Nick's forearms and inner thighs, over scabs and old scars. He will clean Nick's knuckles and wrap gauze over them, and hunts down the crack on the wall where Nick pummels out his frustration and wipe skin and blood from the wall.
Then they'll shower alone, together. Then they'll dress in silence, next to each other, separated by a gulf of sadness. Then they'll drive to work, and fill in the paperwork. They'll write the report and cry silently in the adjacent toilet cubicles, clamping down on their forearms. They will wash their tears and look at each other in the mirror. Then they'll walk out to meet with the victims' parents and offer support.
Rainclouds and thunderstorms gather, but they'd forever look for the break in the clouds, the sliver of clear blue sky.
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