Home of Greg Sanders Slash Fiction
Summary: A short humor fic about Nick's thoughts on Greg's wardrobe choice of the day. GregNick Slash
Rating: PG-13, T, whatever it is now. . .
Author: Chiri
A/N: I do not own any of these characters, I am just using them to fulfill a plot-bunny that won't leave me alone. To help you picture this, think of the episode where Greg has to hunt for the Soda Bottle. P.O.V. of Nick, SLASHINESS~!!!!
I can't believe it! I can't believe he's wearing those pants. . . THE pants.
They were the pants that were painted on; that, when you look, it left nothing to the imagination. Nothing. . . and boy, didn't it paint a pretty fine picture.
I know I wasn't the only one who noticed. No. I can see all the girls watching you, as well as a fair amount of the guys. Heck, I think I even caught Grissom checking out your ass! You knew how people were reacting to you. Oh, you knew. That small smirk that gave away your 'innocent' fa�ade that you tried to put up. Ditching your lab coat on the premise that it was too hot, even with the central air-conditioning that runs through the Crime Lab. Now no one could avoid looking at you as you danced around your lab, shaking your hips around suggestively.
I remember when we found those pants. We had been loading your clothes into my. . . our closet. You took them out of the cardboard box and laughed. I remember thinking you were insane as you stood, holding the waist of the pants across you hips. You said, "I can't believe I still have these! I think there from high school." You stripped right there, boxers and all, and tried to wriggle into them. When you finally had them buttoned, you twirled, strutting around like a fashion model. "I think they fit me better now then before. How about you, Nicky?" I, for one, had been speechless. You looked delicious. I was
unable to help myself and as soon as you landed on the bed, the jeans were at your ankles and you were on all fours.
Oh God. . . I tilt my head to get a better view through the glass walls. You're leaning your elbows on the table as you tell Warrick the results of his evidence. The already low riding pants are slipping even further and . . . It takes all my will power not to run over and throw you down on that table as I see the faint swell of you ass over the edge of those jeans. I swear I see Warrick's eyes bounce from that skin to your face to the results a few times, and can't help but grin. Maybe I should be jealous, but I can't because of one reason.
I'm the only one that's gonna get a piece of that ass after shift.
END