Disclaimer- not mine, never will be.

First CSI fic, please be nice to the newbie. Contains slash.


Greg likes nectarines. It's possible he likes everything about them.

First of all, there's the look of them. He likes the deep, rich, passionate reds and yellows that blush innocently across the seductively curved surface. Once, when he was younger, he asked if he could paint his bedroom in those colours, but he made do with blue instead. He liked blue almost as much.

He likes the fresh clean smell as well. Nectarines aren't a pungent fruit like lemons or oranges, but they have a delicate fragrance of their own that Greg finds pleasantly relaxing. Of course, he does get very odd looks when he's found sniffing nectarines as if they give off solvent fumes.

He likes the skin that dresses a nectarine. It offers a very slight resistance to his teeth as he bites. Maybe he's crazy, but to him that adds an extra satisfaction to the action, like a predator gone vegetarian sinking its fangs into a whole new prey.

He likes the first tantalising tang of juice that touches his tongue like the light tickling caress of mist. He likes the almost fibrous pull of flesh from stone. He likes the easiness of eating a nectarine, for lack of a better phrase. Unlike when eating an apple, it isn't necessary to call for extra jaw power- if anything, it's a more persuasive, coaxing action. Softly softly eaty fruity.

If he were honest, he would have to say that he especially adores nectarines with a sour taste- the ones that make his taste buds wake with a start and wonder what the hell is going on. He likes a taste that will tap dance carelessly through his mouth with much nonessential stomping and screaming. He's eaten practically every type of nectarine there is, and sweet has nothing on sour.

Sweet is pathetic. Sweet rolls over on its back and dies an unobtrusive death. Whereas sour fights back, still grinning as it shuffles off its mortal coil.

Greg wonders if it's a bit weird to be personifying the taste of nectarines, but dismisses it as useless speculation.

His favourite thing about nectarines is the juice. He ignores it as it runs in joyful trickles down his hands, prickling over his wrists and soaking his chin. He slurps happily as most of it bypasses his mouth entirely to cover most of the lower half of his face and neck, his hands and his arms. As he finishes the fruit, he can feel the sweet-sour liquid slowly becoming sticky and resistant on his skin, gluing his fingers together and clinging stubbornly to his jaw.

He likes that feeling. But what he likes more, relishes in fact, is the knowledge that his lover is just as mad about nectarines as he is, and hopelessly indulgent when Greg is doing his utmost to be charmingly inept. Greg knows that when he is helplessly covered in fruit juice and sticking to everything, his lover finds him irresistible.

So really, this is his favourite thing about nectarines. The unequivocal capture of his hands and the daringly erotic laving of a hot tongue at the stickiness that covers him. He loves the abject moan that erupts inevitably from his throat and the delicious thrill of being pulled into a strong embrace as something much better than nectarines fails to bypass his mouth.

He loves the last glimpse he gets of his lover's eyes as they kiss, the mischievous glint which tells Greg that Gil knows exactly what his young lover had been planning when he went grocery shopping. He loves the certain knowledge that their bed will remain unmade for at least one more languorous hour.

There is one bad thing about nectarines, one ting that Greg doesn't like about his favourite fruit. He doesn't like Gil's tendency to eat the things at work. Because that's just as irresistible. And it's becoming hard to find places where he can safely pounce on his boss and lick the resistance out of him.


Well, that got odd. Hope you enjoyed it!