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The irony of his situation was not lost on Greg; here he was, again, about to get naked with his highness, which was all well and good, if he hadn’t been, at that very moment, brushing his teeth while Mycroft turned down the bed. Somehow the stripping down in the hall, hot shower, and killer blow job had turned into full fledged domesticity within the span of 24 hours.
Not that he was complaining, not at all. But after he’d handed his heart to Michael Harrington in year ten, only to have it kicked back in his face, he’d been a little bit leery about blokes. Not fucking them - or even vice versa - he had that part down cold. But the rest of it - like how the hell was he going to get out of these fancy pajamas that he'd been wearing all night and into that man’s skin? Especially given the fact that he'd pretty much bared his soul during their two hour candlelit dinner - through no obvious coercion on Mycroft's part.
He’d sort of hoped that the minute he stepped into the bathroom, Mycroft would have thrown him against the wall and ravaged him with all of the subtlety of an pit bull, because that he could have worked with. That he would have enjoyed - the spit and teeth and the spunk.
That he could have walked away from.
But he had known the minute that he’d gotten back into the car - what with his rather tender memories from the night before on the one hand and Mycroft balancing a carton of takeaway on the other - that wasn’t what was going to happen.
However, even though he knew, in his head, he hadn’t been quite prepared for how sweet it was going to be. It had sort have reminded him of the evenings that he’d spent with his wife during their early days.
Good food, good wine (though they had never had anything near as good the bottle he and Mycroft had just polished off - not even on their honeymoon), good conversation, the ever present tug of desire just below his navel, and the pooling heat right at his core whenever their eyes met just so.
Laying the same toothbrush that he’d used this morning on a washcloth, he wondered what it meant that Mycroft - or rather, one of his legions of people - hadn’t thrown it away. ‘Did that mean that he actually told them Greg would be back? That he’d wanted him to?’
He held his cupped hands under the running water.
Slurp, swish, and spit.
He repeated the sequence one more time, before turning off the water and drying his hands on a thick green towel. Leaving on the light around the mirror, he flipped off the overhead light and made his way into the bedroom. And stopped cold.
The room was in shadows, and the bed had not only been turned back, but stripped all the way to the fitted sheets. A strip of material that he recognized as the belt from Mycroft’s robe was laying draped across one of the oversized pillows next to a bottle of slick and a sleeve of condoms.
Greg literally jumped when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft peel himself away from the closet door, where he’d been all but hidden by the darkness.
“Did I presume too much?” Mycroft asked, his now bare feet silent atop the persian rugs that decorated the otherwise utilitarian room; he stopped a few inches in front of Greg, robe and pajama top open, revealing a smooth expanse of white skin, and a thin smattering of ginger hair.
Taking a good long look, Greg licked his lips. “Uhm, not as far as I’m concerned,” he said; he reached down to undo his own belt, only to have Mycroft still his hands with his own.
“Allow me,” he said, his voice low.
Greg opened his mouth, only to have Mycroft lay a finger across his lips in warning.
“Please,” he said, his voice a near whisper. “Please, Gregory,” he murmured, leaning in until his lips barely brushed the shell of Greg’s ear. “For me? I beg of you.”
Greg let out a deep breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding and his knees damn near buckled. And before he even figured out that the keening moan was coming from him, he was flat on his back.
Mycroft’s hands were everywhere as he stripped open the robe Greg was wearing.
Efficient fingers slipped the buttons of the pajama top, and smooth, warm palms - starting at his shoulders - skimmed their way down to his wrists, freeing him from the silk that suddenly seemed way too confining, leaving him in a puddle of luxury. The paleness of his own body backlit across an ocean of blue and black.
“Jesus,” Greg exclaimed, reaching up to pull Mycroft down for a kiss.
“Did you not listen?” Mycroft shook his head, his lips pursed in what looked like disappointment. “I asked you to let me, Gregory,” he reminded, throwing one leg over Greg’s hip until he was straddling his lap.
Greg could feel him, every inch of him, weighing heavily against him.
“I thought you said ‘beg,’” he all but snarled, “not tease to death!”
“I said please,” Mycroft pouted then leaned forward.
But instead of grinding down, or even giving Greg a kiss, he wrapped his hand around Greg’s wrist and pulled it over his head, flush against the pillow case.
“Place your hand around the bedpost,” he commanded, tugging at Greg’s arm to get it that much straighter.
“But - “
“Please, Gregory.” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “Do not make me restrain you.”
Greg blinked. “What?” he asked, barely able to hear the sound of his own voice over the pounding in his ears. Mycroft may have had the words down, but his delivery had very little to do with supplication.
“I think you heard me.” Mycroft leaned down, teasing Greg’s lips with his own. “Please, Gregory, I - quite literally - beg you to let me. Let me do whatever I want to you. For you.” He traced his tongue around the shell of his ear, and then nipped the earlobe gently. “In you.”
Still holding Greg’s hand high above his head, flush against the Egyptian cotton, Mycroft shifted, and then burned a trail of kisses from Greg’s jaw, to his shoulder and then back again. He used his tongue to paint circles in the little bowl beneath his clavicle. And he used his free hand to stroke Greg’s flanks, as if trying to soothe a startled animal.
“Mycroft, I - “
“Shh....” he interrupted; his light stubble catching on Greg’s chin. “Just be quiet. Be still and let me do this.”
Their eyes met and what Greg saw there took his breath away.
Whatever foolish romantic thoughts he may have been having earlier, he realized that he wasn’t entirely alone in this - whatever this was. Mycroft wanted him - badly. Greg had never seen such unguarded desire before, especially not coupled with so much tenderness.
“Okay,” he whispered, using his free hand to caress Mycroft’s hip. “But I can touch you too, right?”
Mycroft shook his head, his eyes sharpening, becoming more familiar, more safe. “No,” he said gently, reaching to to give Greg a gentle kiss. “Not this time.”
Greg lost track of the time as Mycroft touched, explored, or caressed literally every part of his body with fingers, tongue, teeth, or any variety of body parts. He seemed to especially enjoy burrowing his face into Greg’s skin, rubbing his lightly stubbled cheek up Greg’s inner thigh, for example, and taking deep, breathy inhales.
He also used his forearm, which was stronger than it looked - as Greg found out the first time that he’d tried to rear from off the bed - to explore the textures of Greg’s skin.
At points his focus was so intense, Greg wondered if he was taking notes.
It was weird.
It was really weird.
But it was also wonderful.
Surrendering his desire to do anything, but embracing his desire to feel everything, Greg allowed himself to relax and let Mycroft do whatever he wanted. Well, he said, ‘let.’
‘Yes,’ he kept thinking every time Mycroft took him too close to some edge, be it pleasure or personal comfort.
‘Yes,’ he reminded himself as Mycroft slipped one, two, and finally three of his long, elegantly manicured fingers into Greg’s ass.
“Yes!” he said, out loud, when Mycroft took Greg’s cock head into his mouth, swirling his tongue about in an answering kiss.
And chances were he said it again when Mycroft slid his lips entirely down his shaft, and Greg found himself completely encased in the beautiful pale throat, that also seemed stronger than it looked.
And God knows he said it when Mycroft finally stopped fingering his entrance and started hitting the prostate with each and every thrust. Or at least he assumed that’s what he said if Mycroft’s muffled chuckle was anything to go by.
Greg’s brain was literally melting. He close his eyes, only to find swirls of beautiful color. Nothing made sense. It was too much. It - Mycroft - all of it, was too much. It was too bloody much - he felt like he was dying!
Just as he started to wrench himself out of the sensation, the touches that changed colors and swirled in and out of his vision in kaleidoscopic patterns, he heard Mycroft say, or maybe it was all in his mind, ‘Say yes.’
And he did.
Greg woke up to find Mycroft kneeling near his shoulders, leaning across the length his body; he had one hand wrapped around Greg’s cock and the other was fingering his hole, which was still wet from saliva and slick.
The lights were off, but someone - he hoped to hell it had been Mycroft - had pulled the curtains just so that they were illuminated in a pool of moonlight.
Mycroft was totally naked. His skin like alabaster. It was the first time Greg had seem him entirely bare. He was stunning.
“I think I may have passed out,” Greg admitted, his throat raspy.
Mycroft dropped his cock and immediately reached for something; it took Greg a few seconds to realize that he was pulling on his robe.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Greg struggled to turn over and raised his hand, to cup Mycroft’s heavy sac. “Don’t do that.”
“You’re awake,” Mycroft said; the first unnecessary thing that Greg had ever heard him say.
“Hard to sleep through something like that.” Greg grinned. “Kiss me,” he said, as he rolled Mycroft’s testicles across his fingers. “Come here and for God’s sake get rid of that bloody robe so I can look at you.”
Mycroft stiffened. “I’d be more comfortable if I kept the robe.”
Greg sighed, letting Mycroft’s genitals slip from his hand. Just as Mycroft moved to shove one arm into its sleeve, Greg pushed himself up and rolled them both over, managing to free Mycroft’s arm and throw the offending garment into the far corner of the room in the process.
“Gregory!” Mycroft exclaimed as Greg lowered himself down between his legs, aligning their erections with a couple of slow, lazy thrusts.
“I did it your way last time and I loved it - I bloody well loved every minute of it.” Greg captured Mycroft’s gaze, almost daring him to look away. “And I’d like...” He hoped that he wasn’t giving to much away, but he felt that he had to say it. “...I’d like to believe that maybe we might have a chance to do it your way again, sooner rather than later.”
He took a deep breath, trying to gauge Mycroft’s reaction, but the man was impossible to read. Letting it go for the time being, he leaned down until their lips were almost touching.
“But now it’s my turn,” he stated baldly. “My turn. My way. My rules. And right now, and for as long as I can stand it - I want you naked.”
Mycroft swallowed, but he didn’t attempt to break eye contact.
“Good,” Greg lifted one hand to cradle Mycroft’s cheek. He couldn’t help but notice how big his eyes had gotten, his irises so dark that they looked nearly black. “And now what I want is to taste myself from your tongue. Are you good with that?’
Mycroft nodded.
“Good.” Greg leaned down, licking his way into Mycroft’s mouth, relishing the taste of his own semen and God only knew what else. “Very good indeed.”
Despite Mycroft’s apparent unease with his own body, Greg was in heaven. Mycroft’s skin was as soft as any woman’s and it went on forever. Miles and miles of sweet honeyed silk that slid like satin beneath his questing fingers and tongue.
The curve of his shoulder, the flat of his back, and the gentle swell of his ass. He was perfect as far as Greg was concerned, but it was clear that he didn’t agree.
Therefore, whenever he’d push Greg away from the soft flesh of his stomach, Greg would knock his hands away and spend more time there - touches, licks, and nips, it didn’t matter. Mycroft protested at almost every turn, but Greg ignored him, burying his nose in the crease where thigh met groin, rubbing his face in the wiry ginger hair. Inhaling that primal, tantalizing scent that was uniquely Mycroft.
“Mmm....” Greg hummed, even as Mycroft tried to push him away. “You’re gorgeous,” he said, licking his way to the base of Mycroft’s cock, which was already red and swollen. A warm drop of pre-cum fell softly on Greg’s cheek, leaving a thin gossamer trail in its wake. He took a moment to wipe the moisture into his mouth before licking his way to the source.
“You taste great,” he said, all the while trailing his hand across the soft mound right above the base of the penis.
“You are insane,” Mycroft tried to push his hand away, but Greg merely captured his fingers and then drew them down to his mouth for a kiss.
“Why don’t you hand me some of that slick and I’ll so show you crazy....”
The moment his fingers breached the tight ring of muscle Greg knew that if he didn’t get the chance to get inside this man he was never going to forgive himself. He was so hot, so tight. And surprisingly wet.
And the noises that Mycroft made went straight from his ears to his cock.
Greg had never been as hard in his entire life - not even the first time he’d had someone else’s hand on his cock when he was sixteen and had come in less than a minute. Though he was sure that he’d make it longer, this time, there was some of that same energy. That frenetic pull to get outside of your body, to make a connection, to really be with someone - to be in someone. To actually become that person, if only for a moment.
Not that he would have put it that way then. At sixteen it was all about “God, yes!” and “Fuck yea!” but the thought was the same, even if he hadn’t had the words.
Right now, all he wanted was to own Mycroft, to know him - every single bit of him. The parts of him that no one else ever got to see.
As he continued to plumb his sexy pert ass, something caught on his hand, causing him to jerk. Without a second thought, he withdrew his fingers, and slipped off his wedding ring that his ex- had put there some 6 years past and he hadn’t had the heart - at least not until now - to remove.
“Gregory?” Mycroft all but whimpered.
“It’s okay,” Greg reassured, taking just a second to stare at the golden band before letting it fall to the mattress. He slipped his fingers - this time three, instead of the two - back inside of Mycroft in one swift move, opening him up with a groan.
“I want to fuck you,” he said, voice thick with something more than just desire.
“God, yes,” Mycroft answered breathily. “Please, Gregory, please. Seriously, I will beg if I have to....”
Greg shifted up and licked his way back into Mycroft’s mouth. Without breaking the kiss, he reached for the condoms. He was literally trembling by the time he got the package opened and the raincoat in place. His labored breathing filled the room as he stroked the lube over the condom and around and inside Mycroft’s entrance.
“It’s not going to last,” he apologized in advance, as he lifted Mycroft’s legs up and placed them over his shoulders. He lined himself and pushed forward in one slow thrust. “I’m sorry,” he said, knowing it must hurt. He was so fucking tight.
“Don’t you dare apologize!” Mycroft snapped reaching between them with one hand to grab his own cock, and using the other to pull Greg by the hip. “And don’t you dare stop moving!”
Greg grinned, unable to help himself. “You’re awfully bossy, you know that?” He teased, snapping his hips, causing his balls, heavy with seed to slap Mycroft’s ass. He took a deep breath, trying to slow the inevitable train wreck; he could last a couple of minutes, but after that....
Refusing to come first, he reached down and wrapped his hand around Mycroft’s erection and squeezed, increasing the pressure and the speed simultaneously.
“Oh!” Mycroft’s eyes flew open and his hips rose up to meet Greg thrust for thrust. “Gregory!” he cried out. Just as he opened his mouth to say something else, his body seized and his entire face crumpled, his breath coming out in a startled, “Oh.”
“Oh yes. Oh yes. Oh yes,” Greg chanted as he felt his lungs move up to meet this throat. “Oh, God, yes!”
Greg’s mobile sounded and he had it in his hand and the sound switched off before he realized that it was supposed to be in his jacket pocket. The jacket that was supposedly still hanging downstairs in Mycroft's entry way.
“Good morning,” Mycroft mumbled sleepily; one of his hands was wrapped around Greg’s shoulder and the other lay heavily atop his hip.
Greg lay the phone back down on the bedside table and turned to face his bedmate. “Care to explain how my phone got here?”
Mycroft smiled and lifted his hand to trail his fingers down Gregory’s cheek. “I heard it go off about an hour ago. The third time it happened, I decided it might be important.” He stroked Greg’s temple, as if trying to ease the lines on his face.
Greg groaned, then closed his eyes. “Maybe I should try that again,” he offered.
“Maybe.”
Counting to three, Greg rolled towards the man next to him and opened his eyes. Mycroft was smiling and Greg smiled in return. “Good morning,” he said, leaning in to give Mycroft a sweet, rather simple kiss. He twined their fingers together, then pulled Mycroft’s hand towards him, dropping another kiss on the inside of his wrist. “I missed you,” he said, for no other reason than it being the truth.
Mycroft's smile widened. “Did you?”
“I did.” Greg ducked his head down, knowing full well that he was blushing.
Mycroft tilted his face towards him for another kiss. “Good,” he said. “Because I missed you too.”
As their lips met, Greg’s phone vibrated. He groaned and then stole a quick kiss before casting Mycroft an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I should probably get this.”
“Trust me, Gregory, if I didn’t completely understand I would have turned the phone off and left in your jacket.” Mycroft reached for his robe that he’d left conveniently on the foot of the bed. Much to Greg’s disappointment, he slipped it on and got out of bed. “I have a meeting myself this morning, so I’ll be on my way so that you may attend to your business in private. Feel free to take all the time you need. I’ll just be downstairs.” He took one step before turning back to take Greg’s hand. “I had a wonderful evening with you, Gregory.”
Greg nodded. “Me too.”
By the time he got out of the shower, he had a total of seven messages: three from Donovan, who was obviously Jonesing for a permanent position on his team, two from Wilson, one from Anderson, and one from Sherlock.
From what he could tell, three bodies had been found in different parts of the city. Same M.O. Small bullet wound to the back of the neck, execution style, after what looked like hours of torture with something small, sharp, and very painful. All of the bodies were in rooms that had been locked from the inside with no other visible means of entrance. There was also nothing tying the victims together.
It was ugly, and yet all so typical.
Anderson was stumped. Donovan was angry. And Sherlock was acting like he’d won the lottery.
Wilson just wanted to know where the hell he was.
Following the smell of coffee, Greg stepped into the kitchen, only to come to a full stop. Like him, Mycroft had showered and changed into a brown suit. But unlike the other suits that Greg had seen him in, this one was bulky and unflattering. It added about two stone to his otherwise lanky frame, making him look a good 10 years older. It wasn’t flattering. It certainly wasn’t welcoming.
He looked like he was wearing armor.
Glancing down at his own suit - another fashionably tailored charcoal number with, this time, an olive shirt and thin black tie - he frowned.
“Everything okay, Mycroft?”
“Yes,” he answered succinctly. He poured Greg a cup of coffee and slid it across the counter, keeping the barrier between them. “Why do you ask?”
All of his instincts on high alert, Greg reached forward and took the coffee.
“No reason.” He brought the cup to lips and blew to cool it. “You just seem a little bit distant.”
Mycroft smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes; so different from the man with whom Greg had awoken less than an hour before. “You’ll be on your way?”
Greg blinked, and then took a too hot drink in an attempt to cover his surprise. “I suppose.” He sat the coffee down without really tasting it. “There’s been a couple of murders. Looks like a serial killer.”
“I see.”
Greg opened his mouth, but there was something in Mycroft’s face that caused him to snap it shut.
“Is there a problem?” he asked again.
“No.” Mycroft grimaced. “Not at all.” His mouth turned up in one of the fakest smiles Greg had ever seen. “I took the liberty of preparing you a lunch.” Without another word, he went over to the fridge and pulled out a blue cloth lunch bag. “It’s some of the duck,” he said, setting it on the island next to Greg’s abandoned coffee cup. “It simply wouldn’t do for you to spend yet another day without proper nourishment.”
Greg looked up at this man in front of him and wanted to hit something - maybe him.
“What’s on your agenda?” he asked instead, motioning to Mycroft’s old man suit. “Seems like you’re all suited out for some sort of war.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Inspector.” Mycroft turned away. “As I said, I’m merely a low level bureaucrat - “
The only thing that stopped Greg from calling him a liar outright and demanding to know that the fuck had happened to the man he’d spent the night with and could he possibly come back for five fucking minutes so that Greg could at least say goodbye properly - assuming that’s what this was about (Oh my God, this was him getting dumped!) - was the fact that his phone rang yet again.
Greg pulled his mobile out of his pocket and checked the number; it was Sherlock.
He punched the off button with his thumb and threw the phone on the counter top with an angry clatter.
“Did you just really call me Inspector?” Greg demanded. “Jesus Christ.” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “Look, Mycroft, if you don’t want to see me again, I get it.”
“No!”
Greg looked up in time to see Mycroft take a step back as if he’d been slapped.
“Then tell me what the hell is going on.”
“I’m not very good at these things,” Mycroft said by way of explanation.
“Thanks for that, Mr. Obvious.” Greg took a deep breath and then let it go. He started to say something, but thought better of it, when his phone started vibrating against the tile. “Good God.”
“You need to go,” Mycroft said, his voice emotionless.
“Yes, I should,” Greg returned.
He grabbed his phone and stuffed it back in his jacket pocket, without looking at the number. Without thinking it through, he also grabbed the lunch bag, tucking it under his arm. “Look, I was serious when I said that I had a good time.”
“As was I.”
Greg put his hand up, cutting him off. “And maybe you didn’t hear me when I said that I’d like to see you again. But, I guess it really doesn’t matter what I want, because the ball’s in your court.” He laughed, not even trying to hide the bitterness rising in his throat. “Hell, in this case, it’s your ball and your court. So, I suppose I’ll see you around, Mycroft.” God, he felt like such an idiot. “But just so you know, feel free to send a car whenever you’re bored, or whatever the hell this was about for you.”
He took a another quick drink of coffee, burning his mouth, before turning to go.
“Gregory!” Mycroft sounded a bit like he had swallowed a bird.
Greg stopped, but he didn’t turn around.
“Gregory,” Mycroft repeated, his voice back in its normal range. “Please.”
Greg bit his lip, steeling himself, before turning around.
Once their eyes met, Mycroft reached into his pocket and pulled a small white card. He laid it on the island that separated them and slid it across, face down.
Greg took two steps forward. “What’s this?” he asked. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled his wallet out and picked up the card. He tucked it in one of the exterior slots without looking.
His heart was beating so loud he was surprised Mycroft didn’t seem to hear it.
And when Mycroft didn’t answer, he put his wallet away.
And when he still didn’t respond, Greg made a move to go.
“You’re not going to look?” Mycroft asked, his words clipped.
“Well, I reckon it's your contact information and if that’s the case, then I guess that’s your way of telling me that I can call you.”
“I want you to,” Mycroft clarified, finally stepping forward.
Greg grinned, but he wasn’t sure it met his eyes. “Do you now?”
“Yes. I just thought you’d want to know who I really am.”
“My, I know who you really are. And I really don’t think there’s anything on that card that I need to know about you right this minute.” Greg took a step to help close the distance between them, but left it up to Mycroft to make the final move.
“And, if whatever it is on that card is whatever put that look on your face, and it’s really naff enough for me to rethink this...” He waved his hand back and forth between them. “...whatever this is, I’d just as soon not find out about it right when I have to go catch a killer. Make sense?”
“Not in any rational way, no,” Mycroft answered, though something about the way he’d been holding himself ever since Greg had walked into the kitchen shifted, relaxed.
Greg smiled and this time it felt more genuine. “Welcome to my world, Mycroft.” His phone started vibrating and there really was nothing left to do but laugh. “Welcome to my world.”