MoiraiThanatoio (moiraithanatoio) wrote,

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FIC: Hand That Feeds 03/?? - CSI, Gil/Greg, NC-17

AN: Thus begins the angst...

Title: The Hand That Feeds 03 / ??
Author: Lakhesis
Pairing: Gil/Greg
Rating: NC-17
Beta: Sterling Dragonfly
Summary: Greg is unable to trust until he finds the perfect Master.
Warnings: Unsafe sex, BDSM, Kink, Angst
Disclaimer: CSI is the property of CBS Broadcasting, Inc. and Alliance-Atlantis Communications. Nothing was incurred in the creation of this fic other than a little amusement.


“This cannot continue.”

“In that, you are perfectly correct.”

Lady Heather allowed the slightest glimmer of satisfaction to curve her lips. “Then we are in agreement.”

Gil stared at her for a moment before shaking his head. “No.”

Her face closed off, colder and more barren than she usually directed at him. “You are making a mistake.”

“Perhaps,” Gil acknowledged with a tilt of his head. “Better myself than him.”


Greg had been half-hard all day in anticipation. It certainly didn’t make his job any easier. Just when he’d vanquished the reaction, he would remember that he had another appointment. Sara, for one, kept giving him unusually considering glances.

It was somewhat surprising, when he arrived at the Domain, to be directed to the smaller private dining room. Greg’s brow creased as he climbed the stairs. The room was where Lady Heather usually took tea, where she conducted personal interviews.

After a day spent anticipating another session, was he to be denied?

An unexpectedly sharp frisson of hope surged through Greg and he hurried his steps. The room was also where Lady Heather assisted with negotiations. Had he finally found that Holy Grail? A person as fascinated with him as he was with them.

As he’d considered, Lady Heather was waiting just inside. Greg was smiling as he crossed to her. He failed to notice the atypically somber aspect of her features. His eyes were solely focused on the black cloth hanging from her hand.

Instantly, he was erect.

Greg never registered the slight whimper that issue from his own throat as he raised his hands to divest himself of his shirt. Lady Heather gestured with her empty hand for him to stop. He did, immediately.

His fingers were wound in the hem of his shirt, his stance shifting slightly to ease the constriction of his trousers. Lady Heather stepped closer. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but remained silent.

“Lady Heather?” Greg questioned tentatively.

The awkward quiet was broken by his soft voice. Released from her odd daze, Lady Heather was once more all business. She smiled in the barest of reassuring fashions. Greg’s eyes tracked the black scarf as she raised it, hardly noticing that she was speaking to him.

“He wishes to undress you. You need only enjoy… and obey,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

Greg trembled. The cool silky fabric on his face was a kiss of the most intimate kind. No scene he’d experienced before, no master, had called to him this way.

Lady Heather’s hands were oddly hesitant as she tied the fabric. Her hesitation, as if she wanted to make it too loose, was surely his imagination. Greg’s balance changed from left foot to right and back again as she paused with her hand on his shoulder.

He never heard the click of the door opening over her question. “This man has made you happy, has he not, my dear Mr. Sanders?”

“Like no one before,” Greg whispered in reply.

Of course, he could not see the challenging looks traded between the man and woman over his welfare. Greg only knew that Lady Heather’s touch released him before arms reached around to the buttons at the neck of his polo shirt. They were undone, Greg rarely having attained a truly professional image.

He worried all the same. “No, you said,” he uttered, reaching to stop Lady Heather’s hands.

The hands told him that he had guessed wrong. They were the wrong size, shape to be Lady Heather’s.

Greg sighed, leaning back slightly until his body rested against the form of his previously silent companion.


The slightly sibilant gust of air caressed his neck, preceding the light kiss of welcome just below his ear. Greg tilted his head, offering his lover all the space he wished. He could tell now that Lady Heather had left. A deep breath found no trace of her signature lilac.

Instead, Greg fancied that he could scent the pheromones that must be perfuming the air. The intangible markers drew his response to this lover far swifter than any obvious scent.

Greg drew a breath as the hands moved down his chest in a caress, pausing at his waistband. The faintest of chuckles echoed in his ear as one hand slid slightly lower and palmed his turgid cock. The silent grip mirrored his own heart-felt urgency as his belt buckle, button, and zipper were undone with hurried jerks.

It could have been the slight chill against his sensitive flesh that had Greg moaning as the hands slid into his underwear. But it was definitely the firm caress that had him thrusting into the grip as he leaned further on his partner.

His pants and boxers were shoved roughly around his hips as he was manipulated. On Greg’s slim hips, without the support of his belt, the trousers rapidly slithered to the floor. He writhed against the grasp on his erection, pressing himself back in a wordless plea.

The caressed continued, a frantic seeking of pleasure. Then, with no indications, they ceased.

Greg keened at the loss as the hands shifted to a bruising grasp of his hips. With palms at the side, the fingers just covered the bony edge of hipbones. Greg gasped as he was pulled back, a clothed yet insistent hardness quivering against his ass.

“Please,” dropped quietly from Greg’s lips. It seemed to surprise not only himself, but also his partner. A forehead, faintly damp with a sheen of sweat, dropped against his cotton-covered shoulder.

Greg could hear his partner’s attempts to regulate his breathing. Finally, when Greg was barely restraining his desire to know what had gone wrong, the embrace eased. He could feel the absence of the warmth at his back.

A faint rustling of noise, then the hands returned as they steadied his knees from the front. His feet were lifted in turn, each sneaker and sock carefully removed as he was slipped from his clothing. Palms glided up his legs, molding to each curve and plane as they returned to his waist.

Greg shifted, restless, as his shirt was raised and taken over his head. A momentary internal battle raged. Greg wished his shirt would dislodge the scarf and he’d know his lover. At the same time, he prayed the scarf would remain inviolate and take no risk of this ending.

His attention was drawn to the curled first pressed into his sternum. It perplexed him for a moment before the fingers unfurled and moved against his skin. Only as the motions ceased did Greg have any assumption as to what it had been.

Was it sign language?

It had been delivered as one might with a blind person… though that was usually against the hand. Did his lover not speak because deafness kept his voice different from the norm?

Greg burned with curiosity as the muscles of his shoulders and arms were soothed with long strokes. He only knew one person who spoke American Sign Language. As he could never explain the circumstances to Grissom, he could never ask for a translation.

He was urged into motion. Apparently, his clothing hadn’t been simply dropped. Nothing impeded the path of his feet across the carpet. He knew that shortly he must pass through the arched portal into the sunny nook in which Lady Heather served tea.

And, yes, his feet had moved onto tiles warmed by the unforgiving Las Vegas sun. The room was warmer by a few degrees, the air soft with the potted orchids of which Lady Heather was so proud.

Greg was turned to the side, away from the table that he knew usually sat before the window. The urging grasp moved from his elbow to his shoulders, instructing him silently to turn around. He did, backing up at the slight pressure until he felt the shape of furniture behind him.

He sat, laying himself out when directed. His lips curved with wicked humor. He was lying on a fainting couch, sprawled in pleasure across richly plush fabric like any member of a Roman orgy. The tickling rasp of velvet nearly distracted Greg from his still twitching erection, but not quite.

Greg luxuriated in sensation. It was finally enough to break the thought that he was too gawky or gangly for his surroundings. He was satisfied and secure for the first time. No one would take this much care with him if he wasn’t worth it.

Was it possible to fall in love without ever having seen their face?

Greg inhaled through his nose as something warm and faintly wet was brushed across his lips. Instinctively, his tongue darted out to taste. Chicken teriyaki, he identified as the morsel was popped into his mouth with his retreating tongue.

As he chewed, there was a drizzle over his nipple followed by a warm lapping. Greg shuddered and moaned as he was alternately fed and used as a plate. Typically, this wouldn’t have been something he could see himself doing.

But now?

Now he relished the attention. Greg wallowed in the care offered. He knew that this person was the one for whom he’d been searching.

Daring, Greg spoke as dessert was licked from his navel. “Please… Let me see you.”

The motion of tongue stopped. Greg smiled as anticipation rose. Any second now he’d feel them. Hands would untie the scarf, he’d know his partner at last, and he’d finally have the chance for something permanent. The upholstery under him shifted and Greg felt the presence of someone looming over him.

He arched, seeking contact with his silent master. The hands moved, not as expected to the back of his head, but to cup his jaw. Greg’s erection rubbed at his lover’s trousers as the man crouched over him. Although Greg yielded completely, the kiss never moved beyond delicate.

A soft press at the scarf over each eye. A gentle glide down the line of his nose and across each cheekbone. A single nip at the point of his chin.

Greg sighed as lips returned to his own, pressing in a moment of adulation. Then the hands left his face, the body was no longer above him, the sense that someone else was in the room was gone.

Waiting, Greg was certain he must be wrong. He couldn’t have been left here. Had he been too presumptuous? Should he apologize?

What had previously seemed the height of luxurious indulgence was suddenly awkward. Greg fidgeted restlessly. There was the sudden sharp sound of hurried footsteps.

He tensed.

The hands working the knotted scarf were too small. Lilac betrayed her even before he regained his vision.

“Lady Heather?” Greg asked in a small voice. His need had been forgotten, his erection flagging as anxiety grew.

“Aren’t you quite the mess, my dear Mr. Sanders?”

He certainly was a mess. Sticky and painted with the unfinished residue of his lover’s meal. Before he could reply, she gestured to a side door.

“There is a bath through there. Your bag has already been taken in. Why don’t you clean up and join me for coffee?”

Greg was having trouble with the rapid transition. He stood, as wobbly on his feet as a newborn foal, and stumbled to the bathroom.

His face in the mirror was pale, dazed. Greg cleaned himself quickly, yanking on the clean clothes from his bag with restless abandon.

His head told him this was good. Lady Heather’s presence was normal, the path to a reintroduction of sorts. His heart was afraid to hope.

Greg stepped out of the bathroom, his sneakers squeaking. The room was vastly changed. The chaise had been taken away, presumably to be cleaned. There was no food on the table, only Lady Heather’s tea service and a shining silver coffee urn.

Lady Heather looked up and indicated a chair. “Please, be seated.”

Still slightly numb, Greg sat. He reached automatically for the cup she held out. They traded the usual niceties of tradition, sugar and cream, taste and compliments. It felt wrong, but Greg was hesitant to speak. He kept his clammy hands wrapped around the warm porcelain.

“You have done very well,” Lady Heather began. “Consider your membership no longer at risk. I will, of course, take care that your needs generate no further false reports.”

Greg forced himself to look up from the murky brown surface of his drink. “When will I see him?”

Lady Heather’s impartial visage cracked and she looked away to adjust her tea. “You will not.”

Greg set his cup down, rattling it against its saucer. He folded his shaking hands in his lap and stared at them.

“What did I do wrong?” he finally asked, whisper soft.

“It wasn’t you, Greg,” Lady Heather reassured. “He simply…”

Greg never heard the rest of her explanation. His ears were too clogged with the voices of his past.

“I’m just too young for a serious boyfriend.”

“I don’t want to go to college as the ‘fag’ jock.”

“I need to be needed totally.”

“I’m just not comfortable around people.”

“Do we pay you by the word?”

“My submissives must give me all of themselves and I can never own you totally.”

“Do not yearn for your parents, Gregor. They are simply not ready to raise a child.”

End Part Three

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  • Weird epiphanies...

    On a glut of H50 fanfic, I came to a realization.... There are not many military people in fandom. Either that, or they're hiding it better than I…

  • I LOVE Ao3

    Yes, deep and abiding love... Love it for the ease of reading. Love it for the ease of taking my reading with me offline. (Otherwise known as load up…

  • Reichenbach

    Twenty years ago, I read The Final Problem for the first time.... Today I am standing at Reichenbach Falls. Posted via LiveJournal app…