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.
Greg was exceedingly comfortable. The sheet was a smooth cool presence, a sparse weight of tightly woven cotton. Blanketing his back was the warmth of a lover. A heavy arm across his middle kept him possessively clasped to a chest slowly moving with each breath.
He blinked awake, noting the time on the clock. Plenty of space for an indulgence before work. The erection prodding him indicated this would be one of his better fantasies. A change in breathing pattern and slight shift of weight told him that his dream was about to heat up.
The whole room seemed to hold its breath, the arm across him tensing. Then, a gruffly familiar voice delivered in low tones, “Good morning,” to his ear.
“God, I love this one,” he muttered. Suddenly wriggling, Greg worked to turn himself over without becoming tangled in the sheet. He frowned and the arm lifted as if to offer him his freedom. He wasn’t interested in freedom, but couldn’t even manage to be graceful in a dream.
Having completed his one hundred and eighty degree flip, Greg felt no shame in draping himself boneless across Gil Grissom’s nude form. He finally replied into the hollow of the older man’s throat, tongue darting out to taste. “What a very good morning.”
As Greg nuzzled, the arm lowered once more. It seemed only right that Gil give a low breathy sigh of contentment.
Resting at the joint of a bicep and shoulder, a hand settling into the small of his back, Greg felt cherished. Gil groaned as Greg found the spot just at the back of his jaw.
“You are delightful, Pet.”
Greg shuddered anew. Those words… in that voice… He lifted his head to meet Grissom’s eyes. “Have I been a good boy?” he asked with a decidedly suggestive undertone.
Gil groaned. This young man had him wrapped around his pinkie. Arching up, he brushed kisses along Greg’s throat as he pressed their bodies tighter together. Greg twisted as he returned the pressure. The combined stimulus delayed Gil’s growl of, “A very good boy.”
Greg whined as he felt the pressure of teeth on either side of his adam’s apple. He wanted a mark. He wanted to feel this all shift. He wanted to blush whenever he saw the real Gil Grissom as he remembered what he’d imagined the man had done to him.
He whimpered. “I don’t wanna go to work. Wanna stay here.”
A grumble that echoed a desire for agreement. Sucking kisses across Greg’s collarbone as he lifted to provide the easier access.
“I don’t imagine that you actually believe I would allow you to remain idle?”
Grissom’s head pulled back to stare at Greg with serious intensity. Greg panted, his hand straying down the haired chest.
“But here I have you. If I wake up, I’ll be alone again.”
Greg had glanced away to track the path of his hand under the sheet. He missed the flare of panic in Gil’s eyes. It was clearly necessary that they both know what was happening.
Gil lifted his hand from Greg’s back, quickly catching the fingers straying disturbingly close to his groin. Greg tugged, flustering Grissom as the younger man grinned unrepentantly. It led to a short struggle. Gil, needing this resolved, used the advantage of his greater bulk to lever Greg over and trap him.
Greg was panting, his arousal pressing into Gil’s thigh as his hands were held extended over his head.
“Greg?” Grissom asked carefully.
Greg’s eyes were dilated wide and dark with passion. “Anything, please,” he begged.
Gil swallowed hard but held tight to his control. It seemed incredibly odd, but Grissom found himself asking, “Am I real?”
Greg squirmed at the piercing gaze. He whined in reply, “No, but it’s always so good.”
In a flash, Greg was released. He reclined for a moment, wondering why his nudity suddenly felt awkward. Turning his head, he could clearly see Grissom sitting on the side of the bed with the majority of the top sheet swathing his modesty.
Greg clambered to his knees. Inching unsteadily across the bed, he laid his right hand on Gil’s left shoulder. “Hell of a thing when a guy feels rejected even in his own fantasy.”
Grissom twisted, catching Greg’s wrist in his own right hand and pulled the young man close. “Dammit, Greg. You. Are. Awake.”
He released Greg when the younger man yanked, only to scramble off the bed seconds later. Grissom had caught a glimpse of panicked eyes before a pale ass disappeared into the en suite.
The faint sounds of retching followed him as he found his clothes. It was suddenly very clear which one of them had been dreaming.
There were occasions on which the fact that Heather never seemed to sleep annoyed Gil to no end. This evening, as he burst into her presence, disheveled and brutally awake, he was merely relieved not to have to search her out.
“Tear it up,” he said flatly in lieu of a greeting. “Tear it all up.”
Lady Heather looked up from the desk that was a necessity in any business. Dropping her reading glasses onto the highly polished Queen Anne surface, she stared at him quizzically. Some of her concern leaked through as he so stringently hid all of his own emotions.
“Why ever would I do such a thing?”
The façade broke and Gil scowled. His eyes were dark, stormy. “You were wrong. It’s over.”
He turned his back on her. “I’m done.”
It was highly unusual to see Lady Heather hurry anywhere. To see her literally running in the Domain must be a sign of the apocalypse.
She entered the room without knocking, but it was empty of anyone who would object. As no one was present to explain, there was also no one to appreciate the depth of her knowledge of profanity.
The entire shift was being held up by the lack of a supervisor. Catherine had been yanked into Ecklie’s office and no one had seen any sign of Grissom.
Greg refused to look up from the tabletop as the tip of his sneaker tapped convulsively on the floor. Catherine finally entered the breakroom to silence.
Self-preservation kept them from the usual comments in the face of her wrathful expression. “Grissom,” she began, “called in.”
Warrick was quick to ask, “Called in what? Dead?”
Nick snorted. “He’d have to be… Remember when he had that flu and gave it to the rest of us because he wouldn’t go home?”
Catherine’s icy stare kept the chuckles to a minimum. She passed out assignments without speaking. Greg still didn’t look up when one was slapped down in front of him.
When a few days had passed and Grissom still hadn’t returned to work, Greg approached Catherine in her office. “Uh… Catherine?”
She glanced his way before returning her attention to the stack of files. “Not now, Greg.”
He entered anyway, closing the door after him. Taking a deep breath, he blurted out, “Is Gil okay?”
Catherine looked up, her automatic response, “Do you care?”
Greg flinched, sitting heavily across the desk from her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“No, Greg,” she rebutted. “I’m sorry. I thought you would need to be protected from his insensitivity. I never imagined the opposite.”
Greg clenched his hands tight. The nails on the inside of his fists cut into palms tender from frequent repetition of this action. “I can’t find him. There are things I need to say.”
Catherine’s mouth twisted as she restrained her urge to yell. “I’ve spoken with him. I think you made your feelings clear.” She continued before he had the chance to respond. “I never thought you were cruel. Couldn’t you find a way to turn him down that didn’t involve puking your guts up?”
She’d been addressing his down-bent head. When Greg looked up, it was clear that he’d started to cry at some point. Tear tracks crossed his cheeks and his voice broke as he said, “I can’t lose him… not now…”
“You already did, Greg.”
His base dejection told her all that was needed. Heather permitted her shoes to click as she approached the table. Greg looked up, unable to find the slightest smile for her. She seated herself and poured a cup of tea, noting that Greg had touched none of the edibles.
“Tell me what happened.”
It was all the opportunity that Greg needed. “When I woke up, I couldn’t believe that it was really him. I thought I was dreaming. When he told me…” Greg paused, gulping air. “I have an ulcer. I’ve always had one… since high school. To go from being that excited to that nervous, I’d screw it all up… By the time I came out of the bathroom, he was gone.”
Lady Heather’s cup set down with a decided click. “You are a pair of fools.”
Greg nodded meekly. “Can you help me find him?”
She stood, crossing to the side of the room before returning with a flat jeweler’s case. Open, she laid it before Greg.
His focus was caught in the links, twinned and twisted of gold and platinum. The disc-like medallion hiding the clasp glittered with a circle of diamonds. An ant, etched into the center of that gold field was clearly his Master’s sigil.
“Do you deserve him?”
End Part Seven