Mycroft was new to a lot of things—not fresh-out-of-the-box new, but close. A few lucky young gentlemen at Cambridge had had the pleasure, even if they'd failed to provide a very memorable experience.
For Greg, it had been a bit of a relief to find out. Ceremonial virginity-taking might have been more responsibility than he could handle at the moment. He was still looking after himself in the wake of the divorce, repolishing some long-neglected facets of his soul.
But it was nice, being like this with Mycroft.
It often felt like they were making things up as they went along, discovering each other in the sort of happy haze usually reserved for teenagers, but with the emotional stability and honesty of grown men. There was a wonderful sense of freedom to it—and between them, they'd managed to discover plenty.
Not all of it had taken place in bed. For instance, before Greg arrived on the scene, Mycroft Holmes had never helped someone to bake something. He'd never gone for a jog around Hyde Park with someone, nor shared a bath with them afterwards, and he'd never rewarded himself for all the exercise with an evening of lying in bed eating Chinese food and watching DVDs.
He was getting pretty good at it.
Greg still had to coax the pyjamas out of his hands, of course.
"This isn't a pyjamas situation, darlin'," he said, tossing the light-blue matching set out of his bed and onto the floor. "C'mere. Come lie down and we'll eat."
Naked, and visibly amused, Mycroft consented to settle under the covers with him. Greg reached out an arm, pulled him close and got their skin pressed warm and cosy together, smiling to himself as Mycroft shivered in his arms. The front door of his flat was now locked; all the lamps were off. The television shed just enough light across the bed for them to see.
"There," Greg said, and kissed Mycroft's forehead. "Cushty." He reached out to grab the bag of Chinese food on the bedside. "I hope they sent my crispy beef this time."
Mycroft smiled against Greg's shoulder, shifting to slip an ankle around Greg's calf muscle. "They did," he said. "I took the liberty of checking when it arrived."
"You star. Thanks."
"Heaven forbid you're denied your crispy beef a second time."
"Damn right. I dreamed about this all the way round Hyde Park." Greg handed Mycroft a carton of roast duck with char siu, smiling. "And to complement my choice of takeaway, you've chosen which DVD?"
"If you've no objection," Mycroft said, "I thought Citizen Kane to start. I imagine we can negotiate after that."
"Perfect. Can you check in the other bag for fried rice, please? M'certain I ordered some."
They ate together, happily absorbed in the film, then moved the empty containers out of bed when they'd finished. They watched the rest cuddled up beneath the covers, grazing on the bag of prawn crackers cushioned on Greg's chest. Mycroft seemed to have settled nicely into the contact of their skin. In the few months they'd now been together, he'd grown far more comfortable letting Greg see and touch his naked body, even when they weren't having sex. He often seemed more relaxed here in Greg's small Hackney flat than he did in his own sprawling house.
Greg supposed this place must be a bit of a shelter for him. Mycroft stopped being a political big-shot the moment he walked through Greg's door. He became a man again just like any other, tired after a long working week, with needs and desires and human skin which felt nice when it was stroked. Putting down all that responsibility for a while had to be a relief.
After Citizen Kane, Greg slipped briefly out of bed to fetch a bottle of white wine from the fridge. Film number two was Some Like it Hot. They drank wine as they watched it, Mycroft nestled against Greg's shoulder—though Greg spent most of the film watching Mycroft. He still wasn't over how much Mycroft loved these daft old comedies. Mycroft always gazed at the screen like there was nothing else in the room, stirring unconsciously now and then when Greg found a nice place on his back to stroke. Otherwise, he hardly moved for two hours.
At last, as the credits began to roll, he exhaled against Greg's chest and reached to the bedside for his wine glass.
Greg smiled, watching him drink.
"Can't beat that ending line," he said.
Mycroft huffed against the rim of his glass. "I doubt anyone ever will," he said. He put his wine glass back down, then returned himself comfortably to Greg's shoulder. "A sadly historic era of cinema," he remarked, resting a hand upon Greg's heart. His fingers splayed gently through Greg's chest hair. "Mhm. You're wonderfully warm."
"Am I?" Greg grinned, trailing his fingertips over Mycroft's lower back. "Suppose I'm more fun than a hot water bottle."
"You are. My hot water bottle rarely persuades me into takeaways."
"Well, no wonder it's out of a job."
Mycroft made a sound of amusement, shifting to slip one leg back between Greg's. His toes brushed fondly against Greg's ankle.
"Thank you for another very pleasant weekend," he murmured. "Your ability to vaporise my work stress is remarkable."
Something warm seemed to glow in Greg's stomach. "Don't mention it," he said. "You chill me out, too. Nice remembering there's more to life than Scotland Yard."
Mycroft hummed in agreement. He leaned up to place a line of careful kisses along Greg's collarbones, his eyes closed, his fingertips still idling through Greg's chest hair. Smiling, Greg let his head rest back against the pillows. The quiet strings of the credits were now playing in the background; relaxed by their gentleness, he found his thoughts straying to sex.
"M'glad we have this," he said, softly. "You and me, I mean. Things've been good since we started."
"Mhm. I'm glad as well. It's... nice, this sort of comfort."
Greg grinned a little. Comfort, he thought, as he petted the small of Mycroft's spine. He liked being Mycroft Holmes's comfort. There were far worse things to be in this world.
"Are you sleepy yet?" he asked, as Mycroft quietly smoothed his rumpled chest hair.
"Not vastly." A note of hesitation touched Mycroft's voice. "Are you?"
Greg pressed a gentle kiss to Mycroft's forehead, enjoying the responsive closing of his lover's eyes. He reached up a hand to his chest, wrapping his fingers around the back of Mycroft's own, and they tangled together fondly.
With a guiding pull, he moved Mycroft's hand beneath the sheets.
As he gathered it around his growing erection, Mycroft's breath gave an audible hitch. He shivered, and with a nervous kiss to the hollow at the base of Greg's throat he began to stroke, lightly and carefully brushing up and down.
Greg's stomach curled at the feather-soft contact. He loved how cautious Mycroft was with him sometimes—as if he still wasn't certain how much he was allowed. It was more than a little bit addictive. Greg inhaled, stretched against the bed and pushed up into Mycroft's hand, encouraging the shy and steady stroking.
"Feel me want you?" he murmured against Mycroft's forehead. The grip around him tightened. "Feel me hard for you, darlin'?"
Mycroft's wordless, hopeful shiver was a delight. Greg gently bit his lip, turned his head and looked down into those gorgeous swollen pupils, loving how readily they now reached up for his own.
"You want me too?" he asked, softly. Mycroft nodded, his gaze flickering. "Want to play a little while before we sleep?"
The flush of Mycroft's cheeks deepened. "Play?" he queried, unsure.
Greg smiled, pulling at his lip. "Wind each other up," he said. "Get all hot together and come. Play."
Mycroft shuddered again; his pupils grew huge. "I want that," he whispered.
So much easier these days. Not so nervous anymore. Greg hummed, pulling Mycroft closer.
"Come lie on me, gorgeous," he said. "Let me kiss you. Get my hands all over you."
Mycroft trembled as he obeyed, shifting up on top of Greg with visible longing. He leaned close, wanting kisses, and as their mouths slowly melded Greg decided to himself how this would end: slow, aching, no less than an hour from now. Stomach curling with anticipation, he roamed his hands over Mycroft's bare sides, over his back and his thighs and then up to cup his arse, pleased as Mycroft began to moan just gently and stir against him, offering quiet and soft little sounds. There you go, darlin', he thought, easing his tongue into Mycroft's mouth. Rub up against me, get yourself all hard and hot. M'going to keep you going for a while.
The television remained on, flickering idly across the sheets and their skin as they kissed. The quiet credit music blurred with Mycroft's deepening moans. Greg nipped Mycroft's lower lip and tugged, enjoying the tight little gasp it earned him, then released it with a heartfelt whisper. "Christ, you're lovely... I still love that you're vocal..."
Mycroft flushed. "I hadn't been aware that I'm..."
Greg held Mycroft's gaze, cupping his face. "I know, darlin'," he murmured. "You need a chatty fucker like me to come along and tell you. And it's hot as hell, you know that? Don't ever keep one sound from me."
He let his eyes flick down to Mycroft's mouth, stroking his thumb in a slow sweep beneath it. Mycroft's lip pulled; its soft wet lining and the glimpse of his tongue made an evocative sight.
An idea kindled in the pit of Greg's stomach, smoky and soft.
"How about we sixty-nine a while?" he murmured. "Let me suck your cock for you, mm?"
Mycroft's helpless shudder in response sent a hot gush of longing through Greg's blood. Mycroft moaned, pushing close to catch his mouth again, and their tongues curled restlessly between them.
As they kissed, Mycroft managed to speak between strokes of their lips.
"Greg, I... I don't know if I'm familiar with... 'sixty-nine'."
"Damn, you've never...?" Then, Greg thought, when your only sexual partners had been other nervous virgins at Cambridge, how creative and playful could you have got? He decided he was proud to have the honour. "Alright, posh boy. Here goes. Prepare to have your mind blown."
He tipped Mycroft gently to one side, rolling him onto his back amongst the crumpled sheets. Mycroft flushed deeper and bit into his lip, the first flicker of a smile breaking through his nerves. Happy, Greg thought with a rush. Trusting me. Not even asking. God, you've come so far.
"Shuffle down for me," he murmured. "Here to the middle. Bring a pillow with you... there. Comfy? Alright, gorgeous. Now stay just as you are."
Greg inverted himself on the bed, his head now towards the television. Mycroft watched him shift with flashing eyes, bewildered and hopeful at once.
"Takes a little experimenting to make this work," Greg said, leaned over and laved a first greedy lick along the length of Mycroft's cock. Mycroft swore and jerked. "You're taller than me... but it's all in these magnificent fucking legs of yours, isn't it? We should manage just fine."
As he stretched his lips around Mycroft's straining cock, he reached down, cupping Mycroft's jaw with a hand. He felt Mycroft inhale, shaking; he lifted his chin with obedience into the touch.
"Why 'sixty-nine'?" Mycroft asked.
Gently, Greg turned his jaw.
Mycroft's sound of realisation was possibly the best thing he'd heard in his life. Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg's hips at once, pulling him closer, and without hesitation he swallowed Greg straight down. Greg's heart bucked. He let out a restless, muffled groan around his mouthful, unable to help it, then shuddered and shifted to lean over Mycroft, stroking Mycroft's stomach one-handed as he sucked.
Mycroft whimpered. He huffed, softening his throat to take Greg deeper.
Greg's balls twitched in response, aching a little already. Christ, darlin' How're you getting so good at this? Mycroft had latched onto his cock as if he'd never wanted something so much in his life. His agitated whimpers and the little jerks of his hips were just gorgeous. As Greg nosed into his balls, letting his breath come against them in soft puffs, Mycroft shuddered and gagged and drew back just to pant for a few seconds, letting out his desperate sounds against Greg's thigh.
"Oh god," he whispered. "Oh god, oh god—" His mouth slid back around Greg's cock, wet and eager, his tongue flicking eagerly and searching.
Holy shit. Fuck me up. This wouldn't last as long as Greg had planned, not at this rate. He forced himself to slow down, to shallow his motions and just breathe. After a few moments, Mycroft started following his lead. He continued to tremble but gentled in his movements, curling a hand wrapped around Greg's hips to anchor him. The other splayed gently on Greg's thigh, tempering the slow and lazy thrusts he hadn't even realised he was making.
Greg shuddered, swallowed a mouthful of spit and eased himself free from Mycroft's cock.
"You okay, gorgeous?" he breathed.
Mycroft whimpered around him, nodding restlessly. Greg's stomach contracted at the sensation.
"Doing so well for me," he said, letting his voice husk. He wove his fingers through Mycroft's hair. "You're so good at this. So good for me, sweetheart. Is it nice, having me in your mouth while I suck you?"
Mycroft's muffled gasp and whine cut him to the heart.
"Mhm. I know you love having your mouth full." As Mycroft nuzzled tighter into his groin, Greg shuddered and rewarded him with a long rasp of tongue along his cock. "You're doing beautifully for me, baby. Just keep on going. Warn me when you get close, yeah?"
Mycroft hummed, low and thick in the pit of his throat. Promise. His hips rocked towards Greg, nudging his cock against the offered flat of Greg's tongue. Please. Smiling, Greg gathered Mycroft back inside his mouth.
It was only a matter of minutes before they had to stop again and pant, cheeks resting on each other's thighs. Greg hadn't done this in years; he'd forgotten how easily it created a spiral. Mycroft's soft and wordless pleas were just impossible to resist. Greg couldn't help but work his mouth harder in response, wanting more sounds, more shivers, more pleasure for his gorgeous Mycroft. Mycroft's restless excitement turned into deep and hungry slides around Greg's cock, so maddeningly good that Greg's fingers pulled tight of their own volition, burying deeper in Mycroft's hair. More whimpers came; more pleasure built. Focus and restraint grew harder.
Even panting back from the brink together felt good.
Mycroft gazed along the bed with his cheek on Greg's hipbone, his eyes dark and glittering under half-closed lids. The flush in his face was so pretty it nearly hurt. The television rumbled on in the background, ignored, as Greg felt his breathing slowly start to level. He watched as Mycroft's mouth tilted, brushing the base of his cock, eye contact held all the while.
Greg breathed out a groan. He wet his dry lips, shivering.
"Christ," he whispered. "Your mouth..."
Mycroft extended his delicate and pointed pink tongue, idling it along the crease of Greg's thigh. The tip of Greg's cock rasped his cheek; Greg twitched.
"Why have you waited so long to show me this?" Mycroft inquired. The words came soft, his voice rough with the misuse of his throat. His eyes shimmered in the glow from the screen. "All these weeks of my life that you've wasted."
Even the sound of him tightened Greg's balls up to his body. He grinned, flushing, as he ran his shaky fingers over the back of Mycroft's neck. Nobody else in this world gets to hear this, he thought. Mycroft Holmes, throaty and fucked and undone. "Better late than never?" he suggested.
"Far better," he hummed, and lifted his chin to kiss the head of Greg's cock—tiny, teasing touches, one after another. Greg stretched against the mattress; his mouth dropped open. "You look incredible like this," Mycroft murmured. "When you're restless with it. Do you realise quite how handsome you are?"
"Always happy to be told," Greg said, a little breathless. Mycroft's long, elegant fingers wrapped around his cock. "Always glad to have my ego serviced—" Mycroft's lips pressed and slowly parted around his cock, easing just the head into his mouth. "A-ah—Myc—"
Mycroft hummed. He began to lick Greg very slowly, holding him in the warm bath of his mouth as his tongue painted careful sweeps over the crown, fingertips trailing lightly along the rest. Shuddering, Greg tilted his torso and reached for Mycroft's cock with his open mouth, catching and gathering him in. The urge to swallow the lot was overpowering, work Mycroft strong and hard, but he forced himself to resist it for now. Instead, he focused on mirroring what Mycroft was doing to him: almost maddeningly slow stripes, just at the tip. He lifted a hand to copy the gentle motions of his fingertips.
Mycroft's breath audibly snagged. His touch tremored against Greg's cock, and for a second Greg thought he was going to kick things up again—but he didn't. He kept it slow and focused, taking his time.
This was a new game for Greg. How quickly can we get each other close? was easy and fun, but this one seemed even better: how long can we draw this out? As with all things when it came to Mycroft, Greg wanted to play. He gathered his concentration around how gentle he could make the movements of his mouth, how light the lazy sweeps of his tongue, and though his fingertips carried on petting up and down, he never let their touch settle properly. It was almost just a suggestion of pleasure—whisper-close, if Mycroft wanted it.
Mycroft started to tremble within moments. His breath grew measured and deep, and Greg's stomach squeezed at the thought: Mycroft was trying to fortify his restraint. He was keeping hold of himself. Mycroft stirred against the mattress, letting out a quiet moan around Greg's cock, and his pretty tongue took up Greg's favourite pattern of swirling. He performed it so lavishly slowly that Greg had to dig his heels into the mattress to resist thrusting up, letting his restlessness out in panting. It was a miracle, but he managed not to speed the motions of his mouth. Light and lazy, he told himself, even as his heart began to pound, licking Mycroft as if he were ice cream he didn't want to melt yet—just taste for now. Make it last.
As pleasure grew once more, they kept each other slow and steady. Orgasm still seemed to be kindling, but it was taking much longer this time. It was gathering somewhere deeper in Greg's body. Little tingles and shivers of it echoed through his blood from time-to-time, and he had to fight back the urges each one brought. Part of him wanted just to bury a hand in Mycroft's hair, hold him still and start to fuck his mouth while encouraging Mycroft to get the same from him. It was an aching, almost burning need; his heart and mind knew better, though. The gentleness of this was a superior species of sex. Every brush of Mycroft's mouth seemed to whisper to his skin, I don't want your pleasure to end. I want you to have more.
It was intoxicating.
When Mycroft finally slid Greg deep into his mouth, he barely moved for almost a minute. He simply held Greg there inside him, warm and wet, fingers stroking some comforting pattern on the side of his hip.
Trembling, Greg followed his lead.
It was hell not to suck hard and fast at once. Greg occupied his mind with breathing slowly, letting himself grow accustomed to the weight of Mycroft's cock upon his tongue. Having Mycroft's mouth around him was almost a secondary pleasure; this feeling of stretched, thick, full, was killing him. He could feel the fuzz of climax starting in his lips and his fingers and his toes, a heady skittering heat which seemed to plead with him to chase. This could be over in seconds, if he'd only just surrender. Instead he waited, breathing, and let Mycroft pet his hair.
Close, the shaking fingers seemed to say.
Me too, Greg whispered without words, swallowing thickly to relax his throat. He reached around Mycroft, took hold of his arse, then squeezed and parted as he eased Mycroft's cock beyond his gag reflex, pushing to take in as much as he could.
The slight discomfort was instantly worth it. Mycroft's choked moan sent a throb bolting through his cock. He held still, breathing hard to calm himself as Mycroft took him deeper too, arms wrapping around his waist, bringing their bodies as close and tight as two bodies could possibly ever get.
Unable to resist a moment longer, Greg began to bob his mouth.
He felt the sensation at once along his own cock, tight and hot and wet, sliding very slowly back and forth. It felt almost like they were one being, one body. He was sucking his own cock as much as Mycroft's. He whimpered and nuzzled tighter into Mycroft's groin, panting through his nose as he started to do this like he meant it, wanting to feel, wanting to explode, pulling Mycroft over and over into the back of his throat, and the pleasure seared through his cock like a white-hot burn. He could hear Mycroft struggling to breathe while also sobbing with enjoyment.
As he realised some of the sobs were his own, climax ripped its way through the scrunched knot of pressure in Greg's balls, tearing upwards through his body. He moaned and writhed and choked. The pleasure was sharp, almost stinging; it shattered him apart. Somewhere beyond the rush, he could feel hot fluid gushing down the back of his throat and his own fingers digging into both halves of Mycroft's arse as he swallowed, over and over and over, panting his way desperately through from the peak.
Disengaging from Mycroft's cock felt like pulling his own body in two.
At once, he needed Mycroft's skin. It was not a want; it was a need. He'd die if he didn't get it right now, as much of it as he could reach. With the very last scraps of his strength, he dragged himself the right way up on the bed and collapsed beside Mycroft in a heap.
Mycroft crawled straight into his arms, gathering around him and over him and inside him, surrounding him with skin, fingers driving roughly through his hair. Greg's heart thundered, so hard it shut his eyes. There, he thought, panting, nuzzling into Mycroft's neck. Their legs locked; their arms held tight. Alright again. All okay now.
He could feel Mycroft breathing, wrapped around him like ivy on an old stone wall.
"Oh, god," Mycroft murmured weakly in his ear. "God almighty..."
Greg swallowed, hard.
He knew just what Mycroft meant.
The first few times they'd spent the night together, Greg had woken on Sunday morning to find Mycroft showered and fully-dressed. Mycroft had never once snuck off in the night, nor bolted before they could have breakfast, but it always seemed to feel like a very gentle line had been drawn. Intimacy has now concluded, the buttoned shirt and combed hair seemed to say—and Greg let it be so. Morning-after-etiquette was a minefield, even with people well-accustomed to casual sex. In a way, these small hints from Mycroft were reassuringly helpful. It meant the two of them could have breakfast in the kitchen together, chatting comfortably and drinking coffee, no boundaries crossed, then part at the door as friends with a smile. Easy.
The last few times, things had shifted a little.
Only a little, of course. Greg had woken each Sunday to a final slow kiss, gentle hands on his chest, then Mycroft's murmur against his mouth. "Do you mind if I shower?" He'd murmured each time in response that it was fine, then dozed while Mycroft was busy in the bathroom and dressing. Once the buttons had all been closed, and the line safely drawn, he'd gotten out of bed to make coffee.
This time, unsure why, Greg went to make it as soon as the bathroom door shut.
He was drinking it in bed when Mycroft emerged in a towel.
"Coffee," Greg said, smiling, and nudged the steaming mug on the other nightstand. "How did you sleep?"
Mycroft smiled in return, looking gently surprised by the gesture—but not unsettled.
"Kind of you," he remarked, as he crossed to his overnight bag in the corner. It occupied the same chair on every visit now. Greg had fallen into the habit of leaving that chair free, even in the long weeks between. "I slept very well, as it happens. I hope you did too?"
"Like a dream," Greg said. He watched Mycroft unzip the leather bag, searching through it for some or other necessary. "Are you working today?"
"No," Mycroft said, dimly. "Not today..." He removed a deodorant at last from inside the bag, uncapped it and applied some briefly under each arm. "In truth, I've decided to allow myself to be a little more protective over my weekends. Certain milestones as to age are approaching. I'm trying to train them all not to contact me on Sundays unless strictly necessary."
Greg pulled quietly at his lip, rubbing the handle of his coffee mug. "How's that going so far?"
"Surprisingly well." Mycroft returned his deodorant to its bag, giving Greg a small smile over one shoulder. "Certainly better than I'd anticipated."
Greg smiled in return, his heart tightening at that little glance. He'd never been permitted to watch Mycroft's morning routine before—these little human things like applying deodorant. This was new.
It was nice.
"What're you doing for the rest of the day?" he asked, stretching beneath the covers.
"Very little," Mycroft said, reaching back inside his bag. "I might pay Sherlock a brief visit. If he'll open the door to me, of course." He wandered over to the bedside with his phone now in his hand, scrolling through messages vaguely as he spoke. "Nothing of importance," he concluded, and picked up his coffee.
Greg wondered for a moment, watching him drink. The hope curled softly in his stomach. We're good with each other now, he decided in the end. I can only ask, can't I?
"Hey..." he murmured. Mycroft glanced up from his phone, coffee mug held to his mouth. "If you've not got anywhere to be... if you're not bolting off, I mean... you could always come back to bed for a while."
Mycroft hesitated. Though something uncertain crossed his gaze, his lips parted a little. He glanced down at Greg's bare chest, flushing.
"Set you up right for the day," Greg offered, with a wink.
It was enough to break a smile on Mycroft's face. He looked down into his coffee, gently embarrassed, and spoke in little more than a murmur. "What precisely are you offering me?"
In response, Greg slowly pushed the bedcovers down to mid-thigh. Mycroft's gaze flickered irresistibly to his cock, drawn there as if by magnets; he flushed as he discovered Greg was already hard.
Greg swept his tongue behind his lips, priming his next shot.
"Nothing like riding someone really slow on a Sunday morning," he said. "Come see, gorgeous. You'll like it, I promise."
It was a direct hit. Mycroft's pupils grew twice their size in an instant; his throat visibly tightened as he swallowed. He took a nervous drink of his coffee, put the mug and his mobile aside, then untucked the fold of his towel.
It was the slowest sex they'd ever had. Within minutes, Greg had decided it was the best. Mycroft planted both hands squarely on his chest, pinning him down to the bed, and set a deep and restless pace which had Greg groaning and stretching against the sheets. When he tried to buck upwards and speed things, Mycroft ignored him and kept on just as slowly, taking precisely what he wanted. It was one of the hottest things Greg had ever experienced, and a sight he wouldn't forget: Mycroft flushed across the chest and panting, his damp hair drying with its curl, his eyes closed to focus and enjoy as he lowered himself steadily over and over, never speeding, never rushing, just enjoying. Using me flashed wildly through Greg's mind, tightening his stomach and his groin. Using my prick for your pleasure. Getting what you need from me. He gripped onto Mycroft's wrists and panted, forcing his own pelvis to lie still, letting Mycroft move. Go on, darlin'. Get it. I'm all for you.
Mycroft's eyes flashed down at him, dark and full of fire. He pressed his teeth into his lip.
"Mine," he gasped. Greg's entire soul seemed to groan, his back arching up from the mattress. Mycroft shivered and tipped back his head with a whimper, finally slamming his hips down faster. "God—god, yes—"
Wound so tight, Greg was helpless not to come. Ecstasy ruptured in his blood with a force that took his breath, contorting all his muscles. As he arched against the mattress, panting through his teeth, his only awareness of anything in the world outside his skin was Mycroft's hands curled tight at his shoulders, holding him down, still riding his body as it bucked. Mycroft was coming too, calling out his moans. He sounded desperate.
He sounded beautiful.
As he slumped against Greg's chest, panting, Greg dragged the sheets up round his back. In the shifting to get comfortable and rest together after climax, their mouths somehow found each other. Kissing felt like the most natural and easy thing in the world right now, as necessary in the afterglow as breathing. Mycroft's hands buried deeply in Greg's hair; Greg wrapped him up tighter in the sheets, hiding away all his skin. Mine, he thought. Mine to hold, mine to see. Mine to comfort.
Whether he drifted off to sleep again, he couldn't be certain. Time gently passed, deep and slow as they breathed, and no thoughts interrupted Greg to help him measure it. Even if he simply rested in Mycroft's arms, unthinking, it felt as good and real as sleep.
Mycroft finally stirred, shifting to press his cheek to Greg's. His fingers uncurled in Greg's hair, stroking through the tousled mess he had made.
"I hope that wasn't... unwelcome," he said, and Greg knew at once which bit he meant. Nervously, Mycroft swallowed something back. "I'm afraid it rather slipped out."
Greg dipped the tip of his nose into Mycroft's hair. He inhaled, slow, wanting to get this right.
"You didn't tell me anything I don't know, darlin'," he said. "M'not sleeping with anyone else. Not planning on it, either. I don't mind being yours."
Mycroft remained quiet for a moment, taking this onboard.
"I've become very fond of you, Greg," he said. "You've... shown me a lot of new things. Things I like. I hope that's alright."
Greg smiled; he couldn't help it. It was such a gentle way of putting it.
"M'fond of you too," he said, softly. "And I'm glad I'm the one who gets to show you things. We're good together, Myc. You're easy to be with."
Mycroft lapsed into silence again, still stroking the back of Greg's hair. He seemed to be preparing himself for something.
Greg gave him the quiet that he needed, and let him get there.
"Would you object to seeing each other more often?" Mycroft asked at last.
Greg laid his lips on Mycroft's temple, gently. "How often?"
The silence returned. Greg could almost hear him calculating, nervously trying to decide. As the silence dragged on, and Greg realised Mycroft was tipping into panic, he brushed his mouth with care against Mycroft's cheek.
"Would every weekend be too much?" he suggested.
Mycroft relaxed at once in his arms, all the tension easing in his back. "No," he said, with a shudder of relief. "No, weekly would be... very welcome. If you can."
"I'd say more often, but... well, work."
"Oh—no, I... I'm quite the same. If anything, some weekends I won't be... but I could tell you, of course, in advance. And if you were unavailable, I'd understand entirely. I wouldn't want to inconvenience you. Or become an obligation."
Greg's heart squeezed. He'd never heard Mycroft nervous like this. He let his arms squeeze too, wrapping Mycroft tight in a hug, and pressed another kiss against his cheek.
"Oi," he murmured, and Mycroft responded in an instant to the softness of his voice. The tension melted back out of his shoulders; he settled. Greg gave him a moment just to feel it, just to breathe. "I like you, darlin'. What's not to like? I feel good for days when I've seen you. And the weekend's never as fun when you're not here."
Mycroft said nothing, quiet and marvelling in the safety of Greg's arms.
Greg stroked back his hair, smiling down at the look of anxious learning on his face.
"Let's give weekly a try," he said, and brushed his thumb under Mycroft's mouth. Mycroft's gaze flickered. "Might not always be able to make it, but... well, it'll be nice to have something to rely on. A little comfort every week. Don't you think?"
The smallest, wariest little smile began, just in the corners of Mycroft's mouth.
As Greg watched, smiling back, it started to grow.
"Stay with me for the day," Greg murmured. He leaned close, kissing Mycroft's lips. "We'll go out," he said. "Drive down out of London. Find a nice pub somewhere that serves a proper Sunday roast."
Mycroft gazed at him in a mixture of wonder and amusement, the smile now gorgeously close to a grin.
"I don't recall the last time I entered a pub," he said. "I'm not sure I've ever been to one for Sunday lunch, either."
"You've not lived," Greg told him—and there was the grin, as bright as winter sun on fresh-laid snow. His heart gave a thump at the sight. How many people in this world have made you grin like that, gorgeous? Am I really one of them? "Let me treat you," Greg said, stealing another kiss. "Seeing as it's a special occasion."
"What occasion is that?" Mycroft asked, still grinning, winding his arms around Greg's neck. His eyes flashed as Greg tipped him over onto his back. "What precisely are we celebrating?"
Greg leaned down, cupping his face in one hand.
"Good new things," he said, as Mycroft pulled him close to kiss.