Bad Decisions Are Contagious
grayson crawford x nadine pascal-said
valesport
rated nsfw for extremely unsafe workplace practices and pandas
what do you mean not every forensic lab has a vince masuka
grayson crawford x nadine pascal-said
valesport
rated nsfw for extremely unsafe workplace practices and pandas
what do you mean not every forensic lab has a vince masuka
"So are you going to uncuff me, or what?"
Grayson clapped a hand over Nadine's mouth. "Keep it down," he hissed. He took his hand off her mouth to point an accusatory finger in her face. "And, no, I'm not. I told you I was going to arrest you. I am arresting you. You are under arrest."
"You've been saying that," she said, "for a half hour now. And I almost believed you! It was very impressive. But you still haven't read me my rights, and this is not booking."
This was, in fact, the lab. She was currently sitting on a cold metal counter – table? desk? – far away from anything she could damage by kicking it. Because sometimes she kicked. Grayson was completely in control of this situation.
"You don't get to tell me how to do my job," he said.
"Actually," she said, "I'm pretty sure you get paid by, like, taxes? So you work for me."
"You've never paid a tax in your life."
"I pay sales tax."
"With other people's money," he pointed out.
"There is no ethical consumption under late-stage capitalism," she said loftily instead of denying it.
"Oh my god you're just saying words now, shut up, stop talking."
"Make me," she said, which he should have predicted, rubbing his hands over his face in frustration.
"Don't think I won't," he warned. "I'll do it. Do you think we don't have duct tape in here? We've got a lot of shit in here."
Nadine started to giggle, and when he tried to put his hand over her mouth again he recoiled when she nearly bit him. "Is that why you brought me here?" she asked, still grinning. "So you can threaten me with forensic science until I promise not to say anything incriminating to your boss?"
"Yes," he said.
That was a lie. He had actually brought her here because he had panicked. She'd called his bluff, and he was not remotely prepared to actually arrest her. When they'd pulled up to the station and she still hadn't surrendered, he'd... dragged her into his lab. Because that made fucking sense. Maybe he should have brought her to the morgue. Morgues were scary, right?
"Ooooh noooo," she said, rolling her eyes, giving her feet tiny kicks. Presumably she was trying to indicate that she was shaking in her boots. Her fucking ridiculous, high-heeled sneaker boots that she had bought with his goddamn money, along with the rest of her outfit, including the fucking panda socks to match her fucking panda nails. Where did she find these socks? Was there an emporium somewhere, dedicated to pissing him off and wasting his money?
The Batman bracelet was the offensive icing on the bullshit cake, and he wasn't even going to start with the cutesy little heart collar. God only knew how much she'd spent before he'd caught her. Too much, definitely too much, because it was absolutely not worth it and he definitely did not enjoy looking at her.
He grabbed her ankles as a precaution, because getting kicked with those spike heels was not his idea of a good time. "Don't make me get the ankle cuffs," he warned.
"Aren't you guys supposed to use zip ties now?"
He brought his face close to hers, ignoring the way she was practically vibrating with amused anticipation. "I'm old-fashioned," he said flatly, and he leaned back immediately, successfully avoiding her attempt to lean forward and surprise him with a kiss. "Now stay still," he warned as he let her go, "and be quiet."
"Or whaaaat," she asked, drawing out the vowel, eyes following him as he walked away. When he was too far behind her for her head to turn, she leaned back to watch him upside-down. In the process she hooked a heel on the edge of the counter and arched her back, and he pointedly ignored the pose. As well as the fact that he had a woman and a knee-panda staring at him upside-down.
This was so fucking stupid.
"I'm serious."
"You already ran my prints," she said. "I don't think you can fit me in a centrifuge. I also don't think you want me getting any of my DNA on most of your equipment. You really should have given me a hairnet."
"What did I just say about shutting the fuck up?"
"It doesn't really take much blood for a DNA sample," she continued, "so I'm not really worried about that. Unless you wanna explain why you have, like. A random bucket of blood in the lab."
"Oh my god."
"Hey, wait." She rolled over suddenly, pulled up her knees so she was kneeling on the counter with her dress dangerously high. With her hands still cuffed behind her back, she had to push her glasses up with her shoulder. "Can you actually do that here?"
He paused, looking up at her from the lab computer where he was pretending to work and was actually just scrolling through old files. "Bleed you into a bucket?"
"No!" She made a face at him. "I mean, DNA sequencing."
He narrowed his eyes at her as he adjusted his glasses, but she seemed to be completely serious. She wasn't making her fake-serious face, or her fake-innocent face.
Weird.
"We don't do DNA sequencing," he said. "This isn't a research hospital. We do profiling."
"Oh." She drooped with a little frown. "But, can't you still do that thing where it's like. Rainbow squares?"
"'Rainbow squares'," he repeated, and it was hard to keep glaring at her when she actually looked kind of hopeful. "Are you asking me to fingerprint you on a gel?"
"I have no idea!" she said, despite sounding very excited about it. "I don't know what that means! Would that make rainbow squares?"
"Yes." She perked up. "But we don't do that anymore." She sagged.
"I thought you were old-fashioned."
"Not that kind of old-fashioned. We just let the computer analyze it now."
"... does it look cool?" He should not have, but he brought up a file and tilted the monitor towards her. He was definitely breaking several laws right now. "That looks... not cool."
He shrugged, closing it and moving the monitor back. "Why do you care, exactly?"
She shrugged in return, and he really wished her thighs weren't so close to eye level. Every time he nearly looked up her skirt, there were goddamn panda guardians there, staring at him. Not that he was looking up her skirt. Ever. "Colorful representations of the core programming that make a person are rad?" she hypothesized.
He squinted at her.
"The building blocks of life," he said slowly, "... are rad."
"Pretty much?"
"What are you."
"You should run a... gel... test... fingerprint. To find out. Or do you not even have the stuff?"
"We have the–" He huffed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I am not using department resources to run unnecessary – and antiquated – analyses of you."
"You're just going to bring a destructive felon into a lab full of expensive equipment and important evidence, instead."
"So you admit you're a felon!" he said triumphantly, as if this was any kind of a victory. "And destructive."
"C'moooon," she coaxed. "It'll take, like. Five minutes."
"More like five days."
"What! That's dumb. You should work overtime. Chop-chop."
"I am not working overtime just so you can have some kind of... abstract molecular selfie." She cackled, tossing her head back and giving him a view of the metal heart over her throat. He sighed. "If I do this – and I am not working overtime, you can fucking wait, you should probably be in the database anyway – will you consider shutting the fuck up for five minutes?"
"You won't even know I'm here," she said sweetly, and he doubted that enormously.
"Fine. Fine." He pulled open a drawer to find a pair of gloves, and she wiggled with gleeful anticipation.
Yup. Yuuup. Just... at work. With a woman on a table. Putting on gloves before he touched her, which she was way too excited about. This was all fine, and normal, and definitely not weirdly arousing jesus fucking christ what was he doing with his life.
"You need to rinse your mouth out first," he said as he pulled his second glove on. She raised an eyebrow. She looked at the sink. She looked back at him. She made vague, clearly half-assed gestures toward flailing her handcuffed arms at the faucet.
"Right," he sighed. "Right. You're still... yeah." He grabbed a paper cup and ignored her giggling.
"You could always uncuff me," she pointed out.
"No," he said sternly. "You've lost your hands privileges." She laughed again. "This sounds suspiciously like not shutting the fuck up." She quieted, but with an expression that spoke volumes, which should not have counted. "Don't drink it," he warned as he brought the cup to her mouth, "just swish and spit." She did as she was told, but raised an eyebrow. "Shut up," he added, even though she hadn't said anything.
He opened up a pack of swabs and set up solution wells, glowering all the while, taking her jaw in one hand to open her mouth. He was definitely not noticing how obediently she opened her mouth wide for him while he swabbed her cheek. Because that would be stupid. So, so stupid. And it was completely necessary to take three samples, because redundancy was good. He sealed up the wells and stuck them in the incubator, and pretended not to be pleased that she'd actually stayed quiet.
... which was how he heard someone coming down the hall.
She yelped as he yanked her down off the table, covering her mouth as he ducked behind it with her. It was not exactly subtle, what with the clattering of equipment and the sound of a body – however small – hitting the ground.
"... Crawford?"
He stood upright, leaving Nadine at his feet, trapping her between his legs and various boxes of gloves and swabs. "Yes, Sergeant?" he asked, attempting to sound casual as he splayed his hands out on the table.
"Are you alright?" she asked, coming around the various computers and pieces of equipment in her way so she could see him. "I thought you weren't coming in today."
"Yeah," he said. "Just looking for gloves." She looked at his hands. He also looked at his hands. His gloved hands. "Different gloves," he added, immediately peeling them off to toss them in the biohazard bin. "New ones. These ones are contaminated. But I couldn't find any clean gloves. Over here. Daryl must have been on my side of the lab. Contaminating my gloves."
Harding made a face.
"Not like that." He paused. "I... hope." He did not dare look down to where a tiny woman was surely grinning like a Cheshire cat on the floor. "I just wanted to get this started now," he said, jerking his head toward the incubator, "to... save time. Later in the week."
Harding nodded thoughtfully. "Is that from the, ah..." She gestured vaguely to her neck, presumably to indicate The Worst Case That Ruined His Life Forever.
... what was Nadine doing between his legs?
She had his zipper in his teeth. That was what she was doing.
"No." Harding blinked at his vehemence. "These samples aren't from there," he added, trying to keep the strain from his voice. He tried, and failed, to subtly nudge Nadine away with his knee. He cleared his throat, and hoped to god it covered the sound of his pants getting unzipped.
He was going to kill her. He was going to fucking kill her.
"Which case is it?" she asked, apparently not noticing the crisis in progress.
"Don't – don't – know. I don't know. Someone just left it here. With a note. For me to run it. I assumed you told someone to do that." It was taking a lot of work to keep his palms pressed against the counter. A lot of very difficult work, pressing very hard.
"And you didn't think to ask what it was?" she asked, raising an incredulous eyebrow.
"Oh. Well, you know. I'm just doing my job. Not paid to ask questions."
"... yes. You are." Both of Harding's eyebrows had now disappeared beneath her bangs, and he almost attempted a smile before recalling that would be more suspicious rather than less. His boss was staring at him while he got head. This was a nightmare. A literal nightmare. A recurring one, in fact. Although in that version he was the one handcuffed.
"Tha-a-a-at's yes, yes, you're right, that was a mistake."
She frowned. "Are you okay?" she asked, stepping closer. He held up a staying hand to try and keep her at a distance, gritting his teeth and reaching for en excuse.
"I went to the taco truck," he blurted.
He could literally feel Nadine silently giggling with his dick in her mouth.
At least it worked, since Harding made a face and took a step back. "Oh, no," she said, sounding disappointed in him, and, goddammit, the giggling was making her vibrate, this was awful, this was the fucking worst. "Crawford," she chided, "you never go to the taco truck."
"I know," he said, running his hand through his hair and attempting to will himself out of existence.
"Daryl goes there," she added. "With his... gloves..."
"I have made a lot of bad decisions."
"Well originally I came in here to see why the cameras weren't working–"
"Daryl," Grayson lied immediately. He'd actually become very good at disabling cameras, ever since his hobbies had become... strange. And focused.
"I am going to have a talk with him," she sighed, finally turning to leave. "Is he still here?"
"At his desk," Grayson said, voice high with strain and with no idea whether he was right.
"Go home before you vomit all over the lab," she ordered as she left.
"Yes sir," he groaned, and when the door shut behind her he sagged. "You," he snarled, reaching down to grab Nadine by the hair, and she cackled even as he pulled her up. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he demanded, and she continued to giggle, pointedly pressing her lips together to remind him that she'd promised not to talk. "You are the fucking devil," he accused, using both hands to lift her up and turn her around. She wasn't quite entirely bent over the counter, because that would be too high, but she was high enough that her feet didn't touch the ground. "You are literally fucking Satan."
Hiking up her dress didn't take much effort when it was so short, and neither did pulling her panties down to her knees. He held her there and dug through the nearby cupboards and drawers with his other hand until he found a bottle of lube that hadn't been tampered with. This was absolutely not why they had this, and he absolutely did not care even a little. He poured it into his palm, smeared it over his cock before pressing it against her ass.
"Grayson," she squealed in surprise.
"I'm sorry," he said, "did you say something, dark lord, prince of fucking lies?" She burst into laughter, and the sheer honest delight in the sound did not help matters at all. Her laughter died with a gasp as he pushed his cock into her ass, not as slow as he should have been. He told himself that was her fault. She was as impossibly noisy as always, so he covered her mouth with his hand to quiet her, his face buried in her hair and his chest pressed against her back, the handcuffs still around her wrists digging into his stomach.
"Next time," he growled in her ear, "I am actually arresting you." This was probably untrue, the thrusting of his hips jerky and erratic because every muffled sound made him want to force his cock deeper. "All you had to do," he said through gritted teeth, "was apologize." He loosened his grip on her mouth for a moment to see if she had anything to say in her own defense.
"Harder," she gasped, and immediately he clamped his hand down again. It was too late, because he was thrusting into her hard and fast like she'd given him an order, her glasses balanced precariously on the tip of her nose where they'd been knocked down by the force of his body against hers. She was tight and hot and still smelled like him, like his soap and his beer and his bed, squirming and soft. He buried his face in her shoulder to muffle his groan as he came, hand sliding from her mouth to hear the way she panted.
"... Grayson?"
He froze, and so did Nadine. Slowly, he looked up.
"Daryl," he said, attempting to sound casual. As if this was a normal thing to be happening.
"Lace said you had tacos."
"... yes."
Daryl looked at Nadine. He looked at Grayson. "Did that... come with the tacos?"
Nadine turned her head to hide her face behind her hair, shaking with barely restrained laughter.
"Yes," Grayson said, because this could not possibly get worse so he might as well just fucking go for it, why not.
"Hola," Nadine squeaked before he could stop her.
Daryl looked at the mess of black curls on the table beneath Grayson. They still had not moved. "I thought you were gay," he said finally, and Nadine bit her lip, holding her breath to keep quiet.
"Yeah," Grayson said, adjusting his glasses so his hand would hide the twitch of his mouth. "This is a guy."
Nadine snorted, then swallowed the laugh with a whimper of pained restraint. "Is that... on the secret menu?" Daryl asked.
"Yes," Grayson said. "Very... secret." He struggled to remember his high school Spanish, which had not covered this scenario. "It's the... biblioteca." He immediately had to cover Nadine's mouth again, because she completely lost it.
"Is that what that means?" Daryl asked. "That explains a lot." Nadine laughed harder, gasping for air against Grayson's hand. "Look, I know you probably think I'm mad at you for telling Harding about the gloves and the camera–"
"–wait, what."
"–but you really did me a solid steering her away from the Büchner flasks–"
"–what–"
"–so you don't have to worry about me snitching." Daryl attempted to wink, but could not, and so instead blinked aggressively while pointing fingerguns at the couple. "Bro-code, right? We gotta stick together."
"Wait," Grayson said, but the worst coworker in the world was already leaving. "Wait," he said again, pulling away from Nadine and attempting to zip his jeans back up, wiping his hand gracelessly against his thigh. "Daryl, what the fuck have you been doing with the Büchner flasks? I swear to god–"
"Hey!" Nadine called as Grayson tried to run after him. "You could fucking uncuff me first!" She huffed, blowing a curl out of her eyes. "Cops," she muttered into the empty room.
Grayson clapped a hand over Nadine's mouth. "Keep it down," he hissed. He took his hand off her mouth to point an accusatory finger in her face. "And, no, I'm not. I told you I was going to arrest you. I am arresting you. You are under arrest."
"You've been saying that," she said, "for a half hour now. And I almost believed you! It was very impressive. But you still haven't read me my rights, and this is not booking."
This was, in fact, the lab. She was currently sitting on a cold metal counter – table? desk? – far away from anything she could damage by kicking it. Because sometimes she kicked. Grayson was completely in control of this situation.
"You don't get to tell me how to do my job," he said.
"Actually," she said, "I'm pretty sure you get paid by, like, taxes? So you work for me."
"You've never paid a tax in your life."
"I pay sales tax."
"With other people's money," he pointed out.
"There is no ethical consumption under late-stage capitalism," she said loftily instead of denying it.
"Oh my god you're just saying words now, shut up, stop talking."
"Make me," she said, which he should have predicted, rubbing his hands over his face in frustration.
"Don't think I won't," he warned. "I'll do it. Do you think we don't have duct tape in here? We've got a lot of shit in here."
Nadine started to giggle, and when he tried to put his hand over her mouth again he recoiled when she nearly bit him. "Is that why you brought me here?" she asked, still grinning. "So you can threaten me with forensic science until I promise not to say anything incriminating to your boss?"
"Yes," he said.
That was a lie. He had actually brought her here because he had panicked. She'd called his bluff, and he was not remotely prepared to actually arrest her. When they'd pulled up to the station and she still hadn't surrendered, he'd... dragged her into his lab. Because that made fucking sense. Maybe he should have brought her to the morgue. Morgues were scary, right?
"Ooooh noooo," she said, rolling her eyes, giving her feet tiny kicks. Presumably she was trying to indicate that she was shaking in her boots. Her fucking ridiculous, high-heeled sneaker boots that she had bought with his goddamn money, along with the rest of her outfit, including the fucking panda socks to match her fucking panda nails. Where did she find these socks? Was there an emporium somewhere, dedicated to pissing him off and wasting his money?
The Batman bracelet was the offensive icing on the bullshit cake, and he wasn't even going to start with the cutesy little heart collar. God only knew how much she'd spent before he'd caught her. Too much, definitely too much, because it was absolutely not worth it and he definitely did not enjoy looking at her.
He grabbed her ankles as a precaution, because getting kicked with those spike heels was not his idea of a good time. "Don't make me get the ankle cuffs," he warned.
"Aren't you guys supposed to use zip ties now?"
He brought his face close to hers, ignoring the way she was practically vibrating with amused anticipation. "I'm old-fashioned," he said flatly, and he leaned back immediately, successfully avoiding her attempt to lean forward and surprise him with a kiss. "Now stay still," he warned as he let her go, "and be quiet."
"Or whaaaat," she asked, drawing out the vowel, eyes following him as he walked away. When he was too far behind her for her head to turn, she leaned back to watch him upside-down. In the process she hooked a heel on the edge of the counter and arched her back, and he pointedly ignored the pose. As well as the fact that he had a woman and a knee-panda staring at him upside-down.
This was so fucking stupid.
"I'm serious."
"You already ran my prints," she said. "I don't think you can fit me in a centrifuge. I also don't think you want me getting any of my DNA on most of your equipment. You really should have given me a hairnet."
"What did I just say about shutting the fuck up?"
"It doesn't really take much blood for a DNA sample," she continued, "so I'm not really worried about that. Unless you wanna explain why you have, like. A random bucket of blood in the lab."
"Oh my god."
"Hey, wait." She rolled over suddenly, pulled up her knees so she was kneeling on the counter with her dress dangerously high. With her hands still cuffed behind her back, she had to push her glasses up with her shoulder. "Can you actually do that here?"
He paused, looking up at her from the lab computer where he was pretending to work and was actually just scrolling through old files. "Bleed you into a bucket?"
"No!" She made a face at him. "I mean, DNA sequencing."
He narrowed his eyes at her as he adjusted his glasses, but she seemed to be completely serious. She wasn't making her fake-serious face, or her fake-innocent face.
Weird.
"We don't do DNA sequencing," he said. "This isn't a research hospital. We do profiling."
"Oh." She drooped with a little frown. "But, can't you still do that thing where it's like. Rainbow squares?"
"'Rainbow squares'," he repeated, and it was hard to keep glaring at her when she actually looked kind of hopeful. "Are you asking me to fingerprint you on a gel?"
"I have no idea!" she said, despite sounding very excited about it. "I don't know what that means! Would that make rainbow squares?"
"Yes." She perked up. "But we don't do that anymore." She sagged.
"I thought you were old-fashioned."
"Not that kind of old-fashioned. We just let the computer analyze it now."
"... does it look cool?" He should not have, but he brought up a file and tilted the monitor towards her. He was definitely breaking several laws right now. "That looks... not cool."
He shrugged, closing it and moving the monitor back. "Why do you care, exactly?"
She shrugged in return, and he really wished her thighs weren't so close to eye level. Every time he nearly looked up her skirt, there were goddamn panda guardians there, staring at him. Not that he was looking up her skirt. Ever. "Colorful representations of the core programming that make a person are rad?" she hypothesized.
He squinted at her.
"The building blocks of life," he said slowly, "... are rad."
"Pretty much?"
"What are you."
"You should run a... gel... test... fingerprint. To find out. Or do you not even have the stuff?"
"We have the–" He huffed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I am not using department resources to run unnecessary – and antiquated – analyses of you."
"You're just going to bring a destructive felon into a lab full of expensive equipment and important evidence, instead."
"So you admit you're a felon!" he said triumphantly, as if this was any kind of a victory. "And destructive."
"C'moooon," she coaxed. "It'll take, like. Five minutes."
"More like five days."
"What! That's dumb. You should work overtime. Chop-chop."
"I am not working overtime just so you can have some kind of... abstract molecular selfie." She cackled, tossing her head back and giving him a view of the metal heart over her throat. He sighed. "If I do this – and I am not working overtime, you can fucking wait, you should probably be in the database anyway – will you consider shutting the fuck up for five minutes?"
"You won't even know I'm here," she said sweetly, and he doubted that enormously.
"Fine. Fine." He pulled open a drawer to find a pair of gloves, and she wiggled with gleeful anticipation.
Yup. Yuuup. Just... at work. With a woman on a table. Putting on gloves before he touched her, which she was way too excited about. This was all fine, and normal, and definitely not weirdly arousing jesus fucking christ what was he doing with his life.
"You need to rinse your mouth out first," he said as he pulled his second glove on. She raised an eyebrow. She looked at the sink. She looked back at him. She made vague, clearly half-assed gestures toward flailing her handcuffed arms at the faucet.
"Right," he sighed. "Right. You're still... yeah." He grabbed a paper cup and ignored her giggling.
"You could always uncuff me," she pointed out.
"No," he said sternly. "You've lost your hands privileges." She laughed again. "This sounds suspiciously like not shutting the fuck up." She quieted, but with an expression that spoke volumes, which should not have counted. "Don't drink it," he warned as he brought the cup to her mouth, "just swish and spit." She did as she was told, but raised an eyebrow. "Shut up," he added, even though she hadn't said anything.
He opened up a pack of swabs and set up solution wells, glowering all the while, taking her jaw in one hand to open her mouth. He was definitely not noticing how obediently she opened her mouth wide for him while he swabbed her cheek. Because that would be stupid. So, so stupid. And it was completely necessary to take three samples, because redundancy was good. He sealed up the wells and stuck them in the incubator, and pretended not to be pleased that she'd actually stayed quiet.
... which was how he heard someone coming down the hall.
She yelped as he yanked her down off the table, covering her mouth as he ducked behind it with her. It was not exactly subtle, what with the clattering of equipment and the sound of a body – however small – hitting the ground.
"... Crawford?"
He stood upright, leaving Nadine at his feet, trapping her between his legs and various boxes of gloves and swabs. "Yes, Sergeant?" he asked, attempting to sound casual as he splayed his hands out on the table.
"Are you alright?" she asked, coming around the various computers and pieces of equipment in her way so she could see him. "I thought you weren't coming in today."
"Yeah," he said. "Just looking for gloves." She looked at his hands. He also looked at his hands. His gloved hands. "Different gloves," he added, immediately peeling them off to toss them in the biohazard bin. "New ones. These ones are contaminated. But I couldn't find any clean gloves. Over here. Daryl must have been on my side of the lab. Contaminating my gloves."
Harding made a face.
"Not like that." He paused. "I... hope." He did not dare look down to where a tiny woman was surely grinning like a Cheshire cat on the floor. "I just wanted to get this started now," he said, jerking his head toward the incubator, "to... save time. Later in the week."
Harding nodded thoughtfully. "Is that from the, ah..." She gestured vaguely to her neck, presumably to indicate The Worst Case That Ruined His Life Forever.
... what was Nadine doing between his legs?
She had his zipper in his teeth. That was what she was doing.
"No." Harding blinked at his vehemence. "These samples aren't from there," he added, trying to keep the strain from his voice. He tried, and failed, to subtly nudge Nadine away with his knee. He cleared his throat, and hoped to god it covered the sound of his pants getting unzipped.
He was going to kill her. He was going to fucking kill her.
"Which case is it?" she asked, apparently not noticing the crisis in progress.
"Don't – don't – know. I don't know. Someone just left it here. With a note. For me to run it. I assumed you told someone to do that." It was taking a lot of work to keep his palms pressed against the counter. A lot of very difficult work, pressing very hard.
"And you didn't think to ask what it was?" she asked, raising an incredulous eyebrow.
"Oh. Well, you know. I'm just doing my job. Not paid to ask questions."
"... yes. You are." Both of Harding's eyebrows had now disappeared beneath her bangs, and he almost attempted a smile before recalling that would be more suspicious rather than less. His boss was staring at him while he got head. This was a nightmare. A literal nightmare. A recurring one, in fact. Although in that version he was the one handcuffed.
"Tha-a-a-at's yes, yes, you're right, that was a mistake."
She frowned. "Are you okay?" she asked, stepping closer. He held up a staying hand to try and keep her at a distance, gritting his teeth and reaching for en excuse.
"I went to the taco truck," he blurted.
He could literally feel Nadine silently giggling with his dick in her mouth.
At least it worked, since Harding made a face and took a step back. "Oh, no," she said, sounding disappointed in him, and, goddammit, the giggling was making her vibrate, this was awful, this was the fucking worst. "Crawford," she chided, "you never go to the taco truck."
"I know," he said, running his hand through his hair and attempting to will himself out of existence.
"Daryl goes there," she added. "With his... gloves..."
"I have made a lot of bad decisions."
"Well originally I came in here to see why the cameras weren't working–"
"Daryl," Grayson lied immediately. He'd actually become very good at disabling cameras, ever since his hobbies had become... strange. And focused.
"I am going to have a talk with him," she sighed, finally turning to leave. "Is he still here?"
"At his desk," Grayson said, voice high with strain and with no idea whether he was right.
"Go home before you vomit all over the lab," she ordered as she left.
"Yes sir," he groaned, and when the door shut behind her he sagged. "You," he snarled, reaching down to grab Nadine by the hair, and she cackled even as he pulled her up. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he demanded, and she continued to giggle, pointedly pressing her lips together to remind him that she'd promised not to talk. "You are the fucking devil," he accused, using both hands to lift her up and turn her around. She wasn't quite entirely bent over the counter, because that would be too high, but she was high enough that her feet didn't touch the ground. "You are literally fucking Satan."
Hiking up her dress didn't take much effort when it was so short, and neither did pulling her panties down to her knees. He held her there and dug through the nearby cupboards and drawers with his other hand until he found a bottle of lube that hadn't been tampered with. This was absolutely not why they had this, and he absolutely did not care even a little. He poured it into his palm, smeared it over his cock before pressing it against her ass.
"Grayson," she squealed in surprise.
"I'm sorry," he said, "did you say something, dark lord, prince of fucking lies?" She burst into laughter, and the sheer honest delight in the sound did not help matters at all. Her laughter died with a gasp as he pushed his cock into her ass, not as slow as he should have been. He told himself that was her fault. She was as impossibly noisy as always, so he covered her mouth with his hand to quiet her, his face buried in her hair and his chest pressed against her back, the handcuffs still around her wrists digging into his stomach.
"Next time," he growled in her ear, "I am actually arresting you." This was probably untrue, the thrusting of his hips jerky and erratic because every muffled sound made him want to force his cock deeper. "All you had to do," he said through gritted teeth, "was apologize." He loosened his grip on her mouth for a moment to see if she had anything to say in her own defense.
"Harder," she gasped, and immediately he clamped his hand down again. It was too late, because he was thrusting into her hard and fast like she'd given him an order, her glasses balanced precariously on the tip of her nose where they'd been knocked down by the force of his body against hers. She was tight and hot and still smelled like him, like his soap and his beer and his bed, squirming and soft. He buried his face in her shoulder to muffle his groan as he came, hand sliding from her mouth to hear the way she panted.
"... Grayson?"
He froze, and so did Nadine. Slowly, he looked up.
"Daryl," he said, attempting to sound casual. As if this was a normal thing to be happening.
"Lace said you had tacos."
"... yes."
Daryl looked at Nadine. He looked at Grayson. "Did that... come with the tacos?"
Nadine turned her head to hide her face behind her hair, shaking with barely restrained laughter.
"Yes," Grayson said, because this could not possibly get worse so he might as well just fucking go for it, why not.
"Hola," Nadine squeaked before he could stop her.
Daryl looked at the mess of black curls on the table beneath Grayson. They still had not moved. "I thought you were gay," he said finally, and Nadine bit her lip, holding her breath to keep quiet.
"Yeah," Grayson said, adjusting his glasses so his hand would hide the twitch of his mouth. "This is a guy."
Nadine snorted, then swallowed the laugh with a whimper of pained restraint. "Is that... on the secret menu?" Daryl asked.
"Yes," Grayson said. "Very... secret." He struggled to remember his high school Spanish, which had not covered this scenario. "It's the... biblioteca." He immediately had to cover Nadine's mouth again, because she completely lost it.
"Is that what that means?" Daryl asked. "That explains a lot." Nadine laughed harder, gasping for air against Grayson's hand. "Look, I know you probably think I'm mad at you for telling Harding about the gloves and the camera–"
"–wait, what."
"–but you really did me a solid steering her away from the Büchner flasks–"
"–what–"
"–so you don't have to worry about me snitching." Daryl attempted to wink, but could not, and so instead blinked aggressively while pointing fingerguns at the couple. "Bro-code, right? We gotta stick together."
"Wait," Grayson said, but the worst coworker in the world was already leaving. "Wait," he said again, pulling away from Nadine and attempting to zip his jeans back up, wiping his hand gracelessly against his thigh. "Daryl, what the fuck have you been doing with the Büchner flasks? I swear to god–"
"Hey!" Nadine called as Grayson tried to run after him. "You could fucking uncuff me first!" She huffed, blowing a curl out of her eyes. "Cops," she muttered into the empty room.
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