Though I Walk Through the Valley (17/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (17/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: There are definite warnings in here, especially for very incorrect BDSM play. Not in a bad way or an anyone gets hurt way, just a not how it should be logic way. Definitely not appropriate for real life. Borderline in this au.
Warnings: Sex, general BDSM, general incorrect BDSM
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20
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Greg knelt on the rich chestnut carpet and wondered exactly how he got there.
Well, no, wondered was too strong a word. The tiniest part of his brain way down deep at the back that wasn’t already floating in Subspace ruminated; the rest was a blissful haze in a problem free world.
It certainly wasn’t how he’d anticipated ending up that evening, though given his sex life had gone from non-existent to every single night it was somewhat inevitable. He’d thought he’d come back, attempt to cook Mycroft an apology dinner and then they could spend the evening talking, laughing, maybe some Yes, Minister like the friends they were still struggling to be. He’d needed it.
The terror he’d felt when he’d woken up in the morning, once the anger, guilt and hurt had receded enough for him to think clearly and realised how close he’d come to hurting his Omega, his pregnant Omega, was indescribable. Oh, there had never been any actual danger of him attacking Mycroft physically, or really even hurting him physically at all, but his emotions had been so out of control they’d overridden all his protective instincts.
He hadn’t cared that Mycroft might be hurt, and what if Greg had kept going, kept throwing things as he railed? He wouldn’t have aimed at Mycroft, but Greg would also have to be the first to admit that he wasn’t the world’s best shot and sooner or later, intention or not, he was more than likely to have hit My.
The whole incident brought home how hormones, instincts and pheromones were at the end of the day just hormones, instincts and pheromones, and outside of Estrus they were easily overpowered by emotions and personality. Greg had known this; he’d worked domestic violence cases where an Alpha had whaled on their pregnant Omega. He’d seen bodies with bruise patterns far beyond consensual play, but he’d always thought those Alphas had something wrong in the head, some switch or neuron not quite firing correctly. It had been easy to believe, easy to slip into the thought pattern that because the only cases of it he ever saw, reported or otherwise, were from the working classes and not uncommonly associated with drugs or alcohol use by one or both parties, that it was a medical problem, a drugs problem, a junkie from a council estate problem.
He should have known better. He’d grown up on a council estate, it wasn’t like he didn’t know what it was like, the good and the bad, but it had been so easy to fall into that blinkered prejudiced way of thinking that he didn’t even realise he had.
It was a long way from possibly accidently harming his Omega as collateral damage to deliberate harm and abuse, but still... but still... The lack of control scared him.
He hadn’t even been angry with Mycroft, not really. In another frame of mind Mycroft’s presence in the house would have been a good thing. Slightly painful because Mycroft’s presence at home was Anthea related, but when it came to the office Greg readily admitted that Anthea was Queen and even Mycroft Holmes danced to her tune.
She’d smiled at him once when he’d asked her what she did and enigmatically replied “Behind every great statesman is a woman and her Blackberry.” Greg hadn’t asked again.
So all in all, Anthea dictating Mycroft’s hours - not that unusual. She didn’t counter Mycroft’s inclinations often, but there was certainly precedent.
What hurt was that Mycroft would do it for Her, but not Greg. Hurt wasn’t anger, though already stressed, aggravated, annoyed, angry, it had certainly added fuel to the fire.
Mycroft had stopped him. Greg didn’t appreciate being ordered to kneel, but he had to admit that it had forced him to stay still and deal rather than continue to rant and rave. His usual de-stressing methods would have allowed him to push it all to one side and ignore it, but he wouldn’t have dealt with it. Just dumped it. Not that it had been his choice in the end what he would do.
What if Mycroft had struck back, provided Greg with the fight he wanted?
“Stop thinking.” Mycroft had grumbled into his pillow. “I assure you, you’re overreacting.”
Mycroft, in his own way, had chosen to give Greg space to think when civil conversation had failed, but even if he hadn’t and had elected to bite back, Greg would never have taken it too far, and really, he was massively overreacting. At the end of the day, really, it was just the shock factor.
He’d kissed Mycroft’s ear in apology for disturbing him and got up to let the pounding pavement sooth away any remaining thoughts of Armageddon. Being told to stop thinking by a Holmes made him wander whether or not hell had frozen over.
Mycroft had still been in bed asleep when Greg had returned and showered. The dark circles under his eyes contrasted with his pale skin, though they were rarely noticeable when he was awake, a fact Greg ascribed to the sheer intensity of Mycroft’s gaze. Greg had left him there, dropping a small kiss to an uncovered shoulder, torn between hoping Mycroft overslept and got the rest he, they, needed and the fact that the country would probably grind to a halt were Mycroft Holmes late to work.
Or maybe not. After all, She was there.
The rest of the day had been fairly unimpressive. Sally and Anderson had avoided each other like the plague, Sally and PC Weatherly had avoided each other like the plague, and everyone avoided Greg, who apparently had earned quite a bit of fear credit among the rank and file for daring to kick Sherlock Holmes off a crime scene after fighting with him in front of his Dom (John had his own high level of fear/respect around the Yard, mainly because the last few times he’d been in the building he’d been forced to remind them what lay behind the cuddly exterior).
Greg just accepted the reprieve and politely failed to notice the latest pool: How long until Dr Watson takes DI Lestrade apart for yelling at the Freak?
Nothing about his day had prepared him to end up here.
The exacting nature of the marks left across his skin last time should really have clued him into the possibility that one of the things Mycroft was especially fond of was bondage. At the first instance his blood had all been in his cock, but he’d had three weeks since then and the marks certainly hadn’t faded overnight. True, other than on that occasion, restraints had been limited (handcuffs, silk scarves, self-control), but nonetheless the evidence had been there.
If he were still capable of thought he’d have been kicking himself for missing it. He hated whenever he proved Sherlock correct and acted like a blind idiot.
The evening had started as planned. Mycroft was home on time, Greg had been home early and didn’t burn dinner, Mycroft had smiled as he asked about Greg’s day, Greg had rolled his eyes and replied that it had been better than the day before, thanks so much for asking.
They’d eaten dinner, Greg had had wine, they’d talked: latest release movies, new economic theory, the football, the financial markets, the Olympics, the current political climate. Then Greg had managed to fluster Mycroft over a policy point, a rare occurrence marked by a slight furrow between the eyes and a minute hitch to his reply, always to be treasured, and he’d looked at Mycroft and felt all his love for the totally unique genius bubble up in his chest and positively burn his heart. Greg had known it had shown on his face, a blind deaf idiot probably could have read it off his face, but he just felt so much.
Lips had met Greg’s in a harsh mashing of skin, teeth and tongue. Greg came back to himself, awareness finally released from the dedicated plunder of his mouth and the sheer wonder that now he could kiss Mycroft whenever these feelings arose, to realise Mycroft had guided them halfway up the staircase towards their rooms. Greg had let him steer them, concentrating instead on buttons and ties and zips so there was a steady trail of clothing marking their path.
“So much time tonight.” Mycroft’s panted litany was still seared across Greg’s brain, words drifting calmly around him in Subspace. “Nice and early, so I’ll take you down slowly, way down, further than I’ve taken you before.”
Master’s hand drifted along the line of Greg’s shoulder, keeping in constant contact so Greg never had to wonder where he was. There could be no fear of the unknown with that trickling touch, always present always somewhere, proof that Master was still there and that Greg wasn’t alone.
The first thing Mycroft had done upon entering the room was break free of Greg’s embrace. Greg had tried to kiss him again, but took the silent hand pressing against his chest as an order to stay still while thoughts flicked and whirred on Mycroft’s face. Greg could see the moments when various ideas slotted together and the calm satisfaction when the session plan fell into place in Mycroft’s head.
“Finish undressing.” He’d instructed.
A rush of longing had flavoured Greg’s removal of his belt, trousers and pants. The passionate climb up the stairs hadn’t been long enough for Greg to divest Mycroft of all his clothing, so the Dom was still clad in trousers and his shirt, though his shirt was at least mostly undone.
The fingers threaded through his hair and Greg leant into the touch as best as he could. The caress ended as Greg’s hair was pulled backwards. He hovered there waiting for the next move.
As per developing tradition Mycroft had removed the items he was intending to use and displayed them, this time on the dressing table. The flogger Greg was already intimately acquainted with, as he was the silk scarf and the riding crop, but the yards and yards of scarlet rope were new. Last time Mycroft had bound him with rope rather than handcuffs there had been nowhere near as much of it. Greg had suspected there was more up there than he could see as it wouldn’t take Mycroft that long to assemble the collection on display. The unknown element added an extra thrill and had caused him to shiver.
From the moist heat hovering just off his shoulder, Master was leaning over, lips just separated from Greg’s skin. Greg longed to lean into the body that must be in front of him and close the precarious gap, burying his Master’s face in the crook of his neck, but the choice to move was well out of his hands. With the slowest and most delicate of caresses, lips made contact and Greg gasped.
“Where to start?” Mycroft’s gaze had been evaluating as he weighed each item in his hand.
“Wherever you wish, Master.” The title had rolled off Greg’s tongue naturally without a second thought, drawn out by the heavy atmosphere growing between them by the second.
“So many wishes.”
“We have years.”
“Yes.” The stillness settling over Mycroft’s body had suggested he hadn’t thought of it like that before. “Yes, I suppose we do.”
The position Greg was required to hold in order to kiss Mycroft added to the delicious strain settling low into his muscles. It was startling gentle, even loving if Greg dared describe it that way, and fuelled the slow burn in his groin, so different from the heat of exertion in his other muscles. It felt lazy, the arousal, languid and slippery like silk instead of the hard driving force that had sent them careening up the stairs in the first place, a change marked by the soft nibbles and long caresses bestowed on Greg’s lips.
“Stand with your hands behind your back. Hold your forearms.” Mycroft had instructed.
Greg’s obedience was instant and he had felt Mycroft bind his wrists together behind his back. The rope then passed around his torso a scant number of inches below his nipples, which had already peaked in anticipation. The rope reversed direction behind his back and made a second pass just above the previous line, almost touching the two eager nubs of flesh. Greg had been forced to employ considerable restraint to stop himself pressing into Mycroft’s hand as it had brushed by.
His nipples ached now with far more than anticipation. Still kissing Greg, Master’s hand drifted down his front over the ropes and pulled gently on the chain hanging freely from his chest. Attached to his nipples by two clamps, the jolt of pain caused Greg to gasp and kicked the slow moving arousal drifting through his body up a notch.
The double wrap of his chest had been repeated just above his nipples as well. An intricate series of loops followed as Mycroft wove the rope around him before gently tilting Greg’s chin up and out of the way to pull the rope underneath and over Greg’s shoulder.
The binding was nowhere near complete, but already Greg could feel the soft, but persistent bite of the rope into his skin. Each pass of the cord restricted not only his torso, but also the movement of his lower arms, which were anchored at the bottom of the wraps. An experimental arm pull had demonstrated the lack of give, and Greg had felt himself sink into it with a relieved sigh. There would be no doing anything until Mycroft released the binding.
The chain still swung with the residue of Master’s pull, creating little sparks that fed the rearing fire.
“Have you had enough rope time, my dear? Ready to liven it up?” Master’s low smooth tones flowed through Greg’s ear.
“Yes, Master.”
The rope had been passed under the growing entanglement running up Greg’s back one last time and then split, at which point Greg had become aware the ‘rope’ holding him was actually a doubled over length. The individual ropes ran left and right between Greg’s torso and arms.
“Are you going to squirm, Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice had huffed gently into his ear.
“No, Master.” Greg had replied, resolving not to do so.
“Very well.”
The rope had passed over the lower of the chest wraps and returned back down, avoiding the upper wrap on both sides, before being crossed over Greg’s back. With each pass he’d been able to feel it binding him more completely, removing the illusion of control his rationale mind tried to cling to, allowing him to relax, relax, relax under the weight of the constricting loops.
Greg’s neck was once again pulled uncomfortably backward, except this time an object was offered up to him instead of a kiss. Feeling the press of rubber and leather against his lips, Greg obediently opened to accept the ball gag.
A second length of rope had been collected from the dresser and placed on the floor closer to Greg. Then Mycroft had stood in front of him and gracefully aided Greg to his knees and then belly. The fingers run along his back hadn’t been entirely sensual, Greg had felt them probing various connections and sections of the bindings for give, and testing the level of restriction of blood flow, but they’d left soothing tingles and loosened muscles in their wake.
The process had been repeated with the second rope around his legs and ankles, tying them into a crossed position as Greg lost more and more coherence. The loose ends had been passed under the lines on his back, pulling his feet towards his head. The leftover rope had been intricately twined and lay heavily along Greg’s back. The final act had been the wrapping of the silk scarf over Greg’s eyes, plunging him into darkness.
The ball gag completed the set of restrains in an electric fashion. Mycroft had left him bound and blindfolded to enjoy the sensations and fall gradually deep into Subspace at his own pace, truly sending him down more than Greg thought he could go, but this... Something about being bound, blind folded and gagged without a vestige of options left to him was so liberating. Every day stresses had already fallen away, banished by the bite of hemp rope and lack of sight, but with the addition of the gag, Greg felt some knot of tension deep inside that he’d never been aware of ease.
The tie holding his feet to his hands was released and Master’s hands smoothed along the muscles, digging in to relieve the built up strain as he manoeuvred Greg into another position.
The point at which Mycroft had become Master even inside Greg’s head was uncertain, but it was probably around the point Master’s long dextrous fingers had coaxed his nipples into even harder nubs and attached the clamps and chain. The arch in Greg’s back had barely been sufficient to hold his chest off the floor and keep the chain free, but he’d managed despite the muscle ache as rolling forward had caught the chain under his body and pulled sharply downward on the metal links. Every time his muscles had given in he came forward into this sharper embrace and endured it until he was capable of pulling back up.
The new position curled him the other way, legs crossed in front and the chest harness connected to his ankles, keeping him hunched over. Not only did it allow the chain to swing at will, tugging again and again on the nipple clamps, but it also gave some space for his erection.
Soft suede whispered over his back as Master’s grounding fingers disappeared. It was the first time since Greg had been blindfolded that the connection had been removed. It was disorientating and without his sight to provide context Greg felt himself physically falling as the world spun, unable to tell up from down.
The sharp sting as the flogger impacted against his back orientated him to Master’s location and returned the ground to him. The ball gag didn’t prevent all sound, and Greg moaned around the rubber.
The flogger came down again and again, the soft tails swishing through the air, and Greg automatically attempted to arch back into the stroke, but the ropes held him down, preventing the move. The denial forced a whimper out and around the gag, and earned another stroke.
Each tail left a blazing line on Greg’s skin. Rationally he knew the strokes weren’t hard, that Master had given him harder before, but the combined muscle strain and focus on each point of impact as his link to his Dom, and through him the world at large, made them burn.
The flogger descended again and again. At one point the lag between strokes was long enough Greg began to fret as the world turned, but a sharp stroke, harder than its predecessors, put his senses to rights. After that the strokes fell regularly, with barely a break in the pattern until Greg’s whole back was gloriously aflame.
The gentle swish of the flogger being placed on the luxurious carpet drew a plaintive whimper around the gag and set Greg squirming, rolling his weight side to side in agitation.
“Hush, Gregory.” Fingers landed on his head and the distant sounds of Master kneeling before him penetrated his haze.
The link between his ankles and chest was broken and he was rearranged in a conventional upright kneeling position. The blindfold lifted and Greg blinked several times in rapid succession as his eyes adjusted.
Master stood in front of him, shirt undone, belt missing and barefoot, exactly as Greg had last seen him. The pad of Master’s thumb collected and wiped away the thin line of drool seeping around one side of the gag.
“So beautiful.” One blunt nail curved along Greg’s jawbone. “I wish I could record you like this, send you under bound in ropes and photograph you in all different poses. I’d have to get new supplies for you. You would absolutely glow in navy with your hair.”
Greg gazed up at his Dom with dewy eyes, willing him to read the willingness on Greg’s behalf.
The fingers pistol gripped his jaw and tilted his head up and back. Greg let his eyes fall closed as Master’s gaze roamed greedily over his body.
“Not as beautiful as you.” Greg wanted to say, knowing instinctually that that was the thought passing through his Dom’s mind.
With a flick of the wrist the ball gag was released and Greg gently brought forward to nestle against Master’s leg as the button and fly were undone. Greg knew more drool was leaking out the sides of his mouth, but it wasn’t even a consideration as Mycroft’s cock came into view.
Sucking Mycroft’s cock wasn’t a new experience, nor was sucking it with his hands behind his back, but for some reason, maybe the lead up, this felt different, more raw. He was stripped bare in a way that had nothing to do with being nude and everything to do with being naked.
Master’s breath hitched and his fingers fluttered against Greg’s shoulder. The sweat rolling down his back stung as it crossed one of the blazing lines.
A sob broke free as Greg’s tongue wrapped around the tip and then took him down his throat in a single swallow. Greg intensified his efforts, bringing forth more broken cries and aborted whimpers. He wasn’t the only one stripped naked tonight.
The hot flood of semen down Greg’s throat was heralded by a strangled cry and tightening of the grip on his shoulders. He swallowed it down regretfully. It meant this tenuous state of affairs was almost over. Slowly he cleaned his Dom’s cock and was supported over to the bed. Once there Greg expected the ropes to be released, but instead he was laid on his back, head supported by the unnecessary number of pillows, and his own cock swallowed in a single unexpected move.
Abs rippling with the strain, Greg arched off the bed and let out a desperate gasp for air. He vaguely remembered Mycroft giving him a blow jog during Heat, but the Omega hadn’t even come close since then. It took all his remaining neurons not to thrust up into the hot wet mouth as he was taken apart physically as easily as Master had taken him apart mentally earlier.
“M...M...” Greg stuttered in warning, feeling the sharp rush as every last iota of languid arousal turned savage and raced through his body, settling in his cock and balls, full to overflowing.
His warning was just in time, but rather than pull away, Mycroft left his mouth where it was and suckled Greg through the throes of his orgasm, leaving him boneless on the bed.
Greg half expected the deep calm of Subspace to fall away as Mycroft loosened the ropes and slowly unwound the restraints from Greg’s body, but there was no rapid hitch in his slow rise from wherever he’d gone inside his own head. Instead he felt akin to a cat, drunk on sunlight and catnip, stealing all the physical and emotional warmth from Mycroft’s dedicated after care he could.
The emerald silk of the dressing gown Mycroft had pulled on over his clothing, yet another one Greg hadn’t seen before, was a cooling slither along Greg’s body as the rope fell away and Mycroft gently manipulated each limb, expertly checking for soreness or any soft tissue damage.
“Might have to take up yoga.” Greg slurred, still too deep and too relaxed to care how he sounded as he watched the graceful flow of verdant sleeves.
“Increased flexibility would allow me to safely bind you in some of the more advanced positions.” Mycroft absently commented as he rotated Greg’s arm, checking the shoulder joint.
“Mmm. You’d like that. You like this.” Greg’s voice caught on the final ssss and he hissed as Mycroft removed first one and then the other clamp and blood rushed painfully back into the area.
“Kinbaku originates in an ancient art of rope binding for the purposes of torture, but was resurrected in the 1900’s with a more sensual intent. It requires significantly more concentration and skill than handcuffing you to the bed.” Having covered Greg’s nipples with salve, Mycroft replaced the jar of moisturiser in the drawer.
Greg smiled fondly. Trust Mycroft to get off on obscure bondage styles that required intellectual effort.
“Never heard of it.”
“In the West it is more commonly known as Shibari.” The Japanese sounds flowed off Mycroft’s tongue with ease. “It doesn’t surprise me you are unfamiliar with it, Gregory. Your situation has encouraged only the most vanilla of play in you. It is not that uncommon, though there are few who are acknowledged as Grandmasters.”
“You one of them?” Greg teased lazily.
He loved these moments when he was emerging from Subspace and Mycroft took care of him. At these times the Dom seemed so relaxed, so accessible, and it gave Greg hope that one day they wouldn’t need the session and the sex for Mycroft to drop his masks around Greg.
“No,” Mycroft chuckled and met Greg’s smile with a tiny, but genuine one of his own. “No, Gregory, I am afraid you’re stuck with an amateur.”
Greg rolled his eyes and settled back against the pillows supporting him as the final binding unwound. The ropes slithered free and Mycroft stood to coil it.
“My, why don’t you use a safeword?” Greg asked softly.
He wanted to know. The past month had shown him that his initial impression, that Mycroft refused to use one because he wanted to do whatever he wanted to Greg with no limits, was wrong.
Mycroft’s movements slowed. Eventually he sighed.
“Normally I do.” He admitted.
The remaining vestiges of Subspace left Greg relaxed and disconnected, but not so much the confusion he felt wasn’t written all over his face.
“If I were to walk out on the street and select any random Submissive for a session I would use a safeword.” Mycroft elaborated, still methodically coiling the scarlet expanse, the ease of the session flowing out of his body as his own movements became more structured and deliberate at Greg’s question.
“So why-” Greg began.
“What is the purpose of a safeword, Gregory?” Mycroft’s interruption was soft, but firm.
“To stop things if one party doesn’t want to keep going?”
It shouldn’t have been a question. Every member of society knew what a safeword was for and had one. Everyone except romantic fools who believed their love was such they didn’t need one, or danger junkies who got off on the lack, that was. Greg wasn’t comfortable working out which category he fell into.
“Not quite.” The first length of rope was placed on the table and Mycroft began to coil the second. “A safeword is for when a Submissive needs to stop a session because his or her Dominant has failed to do so.”
Greg frowned and turned on his side as Mycroft kept talking.
“There is an infantile need rampant among the lesser Dominants of society to prove their dominance with posturing and unnecessary aggression in a misguided attempt to claim status.”
Despite the serious nature of Mycroft’s words, Greg couldn’t help the pale amusement that flowed through him at the characteristic Holmesian arrogance. Of course Mycroft would consider the everyday struggles of ordinary Doms a waste of time.
“In particular this manifests in carelessly extreme play and creates a macho need to mark a Submissive beyond society’s bounds - so called Subscars.”Mycroft sniffed disdainfully. “No proficient Dominant should be damaging a Submissive in such a way.”
“Not into scarification then?” Greg was relieved. He had never ventured close himself and wasn’t sure whether he would like it. If Mycroft didn’t believe in it, it saved Greg a lot of soul searching.
“A deliberate and precisely executed permanent design bears no resemblance at all to careless lines left by whip wielding incompetents.” The second coil of rope joined the first. “A safeword is required to return a measure of control to the Submissive party as their Dominant cannot be trusted to stop him or herself.”
“So-”
“A safeword, Gregory, is only as good as its use.”
Mycroft pulled one of the drawers smoothly open and held an antique dagger and sheath up to the light. With a flick of the wrist the blade slid far enough from the sheath to demonstrate that this was no ornamental display blade.
“I could walk over to you right this second and carve my initials into your flesh, and even if you could, you wouldn’t safeword, despite not being sure if you want it.” Mycroft remarked conversationally, eyes transfixed by the play of light over the blade. “Your Alpha nature makes you a dangerous Submissive, Gregory, as dangerous as you could have been as a Dominant, only to yourself rather than others.”
The knife slid back into the sheath with a metallic shing and Greg managed his first breath since it had been revealed as the atmosphere lightened incrementally.
“With your average Submissive off the street I would require a safeword. I am more perceptive than your average Dominant, but not even I could read a stranger well enough not to run the potential risk of misusing their trust. Their bodies would be mine to read, but their mental and emotional landscapes unmapped, unknown dangers buried in the psyche, uncertain training possibly in contradiction to my expectations.”
The knife was returned to the drawer.
“And... and me?” Fingers clutched the pillow under his cheek.
“With you Gregory?” For the first time since Greg had unknowingly begun this series of revelations Mycroft turned his head and met Greg’s eyes.
Mycroft always had a presence, was always the focus of the room when people forgot to focus elsewhere and let their eyes naturally draw back to the most Dominant force exuded. The intensity of Mycroft’s gaze was magnetic and Greg found himself leaning toward him, a lodestone to the North.
“I know you.” The words were soft whispers, rumbling vibrations crossing the void between them. “I know your thoughts, your hopes, your wishes and your dreams. I know how you strive, I know how you fight, fail and fall. I know your body, your muscles and scars, as no one else ever has. I know your heart, I know your mind, I know your soul. I know your limits, your boundaries, your borders better than you yourself. I know you.”
Mycroft’s gaze broke away and slid to the ropes, neatly awaiting storage. A finger trailed around the coil before running down the stacked rounds. “With you, Gregory, there is no safeword.”
Greg turned his face into the pillow and blinked furiously. Distantly he could hear items being collected from the floor and being packed away, drawers sliding open and shut.
If he lifted his head and asked Mycroft more, he thought the Dom might actually answer. It felt that way, as if he could ask anything and have it answered. He opened his mouth and let it fall closed.
He could ask, but he felt raw, emotions run ragged as he rose that last distance from Subspace. Mycroft appeared even more emotionally wrought than Greg felt, was probably an absolute mess on the inside. It wasn’t Mycroft saying he loved Greg, but somehow, somehow...
“Come to bed.” Greg’s arm flailed in Mycroft’s direction.
“I should clean up.” Mycroft demurred.
What he wanted was space, space to resurrect his masks and walls. Greg knew this, which is why he didn’t want to let Mycroft leave.
“My, come to-”
“Sleep, Gregory.” Mycroft stepped away from the dressing table, last item returned to its place. “I have some things to take care of.”
He walked towards the door, silk rustling around his legs with every step.
Against his better judgement, Greg let him go.
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Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (17/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: There are definite warnings in here, especially for very incorrect BDSM play. Not in a bad way or an anyone gets hurt way, just a not how it should be logic way. Definitely not appropriate for real life. Borderline in this au.
Warnings: Sex, general BDSM, general incorrect BDSM
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20
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Greg knelt on the rich chestnut carpet and wondered exactly how he got there.
Well, no, wondered was too strong a word. The tiniest part of his brain way down deep at the back that wasn’t already floating in Subspace ruminated; the rest was a blissful haze in a problem free world.
It certainly wasn’t how he’d anticipated ending up that evening, though given his sex life had gone from non-existent to every single night it was somewhat inevitable. He’d thought he’d come back, attempt to cook Mycroft an apology dinner and then they could spend the evening talking, laughing, maybe some Yes, Minister like the friends they were still struggling to be. He’d needed it.
The terror he’d felt when he’d woken up in the morning, once the anger, guilt and hurt had receded enough for him to think clearly and realised how close he’d come to hurting his Omega, his pregnant Omega, was indescribable. Oh, there had never been any actual danger of him attacking Mycroft physically, or really even hurting him physically at all, but his emotions had been so out of control they’d overridden all his protective instincts.
He hadn’t cared that Mycroft might be hurt, and what if Greg had kept going, kept throwing things as he railed? He wouldn’t have aimed at Mycroft, but Greg would also have to be the first to admit that he wasn’t the world’s best shot and sooner or later, intention or not, he was more than likely to have hit My.
The whole incident brought home how hormones, instincts and pheromones were at the end of the day just hormones, instincts and pheromones, and outside of Estrus they were easily overpowered by emotions and personality. Greg had known this; he’d worked domestic violence cases where an Alpha had whaled on their pregnant Omega. He’d seen bodies with bruise patterns far beyond consensual play, but he’d always thought those Alphas had something wrong in the head, some switch or neuron not quite firing correctly. It had been easy to believe, easy to slip into the thought pattern that because the only cases of it he ever saw, reported or otherwise, were from the working classes and not uncommonly associated with drugs or alcohol use by one or both parties, that it was a medical problem, a drugs problem, a junkie from a council estate problem.
He should have known better. He’d grown up on a council estate, it wasn’t like he didn’t know what it was like, the good and the bad, but it had been so easy to fall into that blinkered prejudiced way of thinking that he didn’t even realise he had.
It was a long way from possibly accidently harming his Omega as collateral damage to deliberate harm and abuse, but still... but still... The lack of control scared him.
He hadn’t even been angry with Mycroft, not really. In another frame of mind Mycroft’s presence in the house would have been a good thing. Slightly painful because Mycroft’s presence at home was Anthea related, but when it came to the office Greg readily admitted that Anthea was Queen and even Mycroft Holmes danced to her tune.
She’d smiled at him once when he’d asked her what she did and enigmatically replied “Behind every great statesman is a woman and her Blackberry.” Greg hadn’t asked again.
So all in all, Anthea dictating Mycroft’s hours - not that unusual. She didn’t counter Mycroft’s inclinations often, but there was certainly precedent.
What hurt was that Mycroft would do it for Her, but not Greg. Hurt wasn’t anger, though already stressed, aggravated, annoyed, angry, it had certainly added fuel to the fire.
Mycroft had stopped him. Greg didn’t appreciate being ordered to kneel, but he had to admit that it had forced him to stay still and deal rather than continue to rant and rave. His usual de-stressing methods would have allowed him to push it all to one side and ignore it, but he wouldn’t have dealt with it. Just dumped it. Not that it had been his choice in the end what he would do.
What if Mycroft had struck back, provided Greg with the fight he wanted?
“Stop thinking.” Mycroft had grumbled into his pillow. “I assure you, you’re overreacting.”
Mycroft, in his own way, had chosen to give Greg space to think when civil conversation had failed, but even if he hadn’t and had elected to bite back, Greg would never have taken it too far, and really, he was massively overreacting. At the end of the day, really, it was just the shock factor.
He’d kissed Mycroft’s ear in apology for disturbing him and got up to let the pounding pavement sooth away any remaining thoughts of Armageddon. Being told to stop thinking by a Holmes made him wander whether or not hell had frozen over.
Mycroft had still been in bed asleep when Greg had returned and showered. The dark circles under his eyes contrasted with his pale skin, though they were rarely noticeable when he was awake, a fact Greg ascribed to the sheer intensity of Mycroft’s gaze. Greg had left him there, dropping a small kiss to an uncovered shoulder, torn between hoping Mycroft overslept and got the rest he, they, needed and the fact that the country would probably grind to a halt were Mycroft Holmes late to work.
Or maybe not. After all, She was there.
The rest of the day had been fairly unimpressive. Sally and Anderson had avoided each other like the plague, Sally and PC Weatherly had avoided each other like the plague, and everyone avoided Greg, who apparently had earned quite a bit of fear credit among the rank and file for daring to kick Sherlock Holmes off a crime scene after fighting with him in front of his Dom (John had his own high level of fear/respect around the Yard, mainly because the last few times he’d been in the building he’d been forced to remind them what lay behind the cuddly exterior).
Greg just accepted the reprieve and politely failed to notice the latest pool: How long until Dr Watson takes DI Lestrade apart for yelling at the Freak?
Nothing about his day had prepared him to end up here.
The exacting nature of the marks left across his skin last time should really have clued him into the possibility that one of the things Mycroft was especially fond of was bondage. At the first instance his blood had all been in his cock, but he’d had three weeks since then and the marks certainly hadn’t faded overnight. True, other than on that occasion, restraints had been limited (handcuffs, silk scarves, self-control), but nonetheless the evidence had been there.
If he were still capable of thought he’d have been kicking himself for missing it. He hated whenever he proved Sherlock correct and acted like a blind idiot.
The evening had started as planned. Mycroft was home on time, Greg had been home early and didn’t burn dinner, Mycroft had smiled as he asked about Greg’s day, Greg had rolled his eyes and replied that it had been better than the day before, thanks so much for asking.
They’d eaten dinner, Greg had had wine, they’d talked: latest release movies, new economic theory, the football, the financial markets, the Olympics, the current political climate. Then Greg had managed to fluster Mycroft over a policy point, a rare occurrence marked by a slight furrow between the eyes and a minute hitch to his reply, always to be treasured, and he’d looked at Mycroft and felt all his love for the totally unique genius bubble up in his chest and positively burn his heart. Greg had known it had shown on his face, a blind deaf idiot probably could have read it off his face, but he just felt so much.
Lips had met Greg’s in a harsh mashing of skin, teeth and tongue. Greg came back to himself, awareness finally released from the dedicated plunder of his mouth and the sheer wonder that now he could kiss Mycroft whenever these feelings arose, to realise Mycroft had guided them halfway up the staircase towards their rooms. Greg had let him steer them, concentrating instead on buttons and ties and zips so there was a steady trail of clothing marking their path.
“So much time tonight.” Mycroft’s panted litany was still seared across Greg’s brain, words drifting calmly around him in Subspace. “Nice and early, so I’ll take you down slowly, way down, further than I’ve taken you before.”
Master’s hand drifted along the line of Greg’s shoulder, keeping in constant contact so Greg never had to wonder where he was. There could be no fear of the unknown with that trickling touch, always present always somewhere, proof that Master was still there and that Greg wasn’t alone.
The first thing Mycroft had done upon entering the room was break free of Greg’s embrace. Greg had tried to kiss him again, but took the silent hand pressing against his chest as an order to stay still while thoughts flicked and whirred on Mycroft’s face. Greg could see the moments when various ideas slotted together and the calm satisfaction when the session plan fell into place in Mycroft’s head.
“Finish undressing.” He’d instructed.
A rush of longing had flavoured Greg’s removal of his belt, trousers and pants. The passionate climb up the stairs hadn’t been long enough for Greg to divest Mycroft of all his clothing, so the Dom was still clad in trousers and his shirt, though his shirt was at least mostly undone.
The fingers threaded through his hair and Greg leant into the touch as best as he could. The caress ended as Greg’s hair was pulled backwards. He hovered there waiting for the next move.
As per developing tradition Mycroft had removed the items he was intending to use and displayed them, this time on the dressing table. The flogger Greg was already intimately acquainted with, as he was the silk scarf and the riding crop, but the yards and yards of scarlet rope were new. Last time Mycroft had bound him with rope rather than handcuffs there had been nowhere near as much of it. Greg had suspected there was more up there than he could see as it wouldn’t take Mycroft that long to assemble the collection on display. The unknown element added an extra thrill and had caused him to shiver.
From the moist heat hovering just off his shoulder, Master was leaning over, lips just separated from Greg’s skin. Greg longed to lean into the body that must be in front of him and close the precarious gap, burying his Master’s face in the crook of his neck, but the choice to move was well out of his hands. With the slowest and most delicate of caresses, lips made contact and Greg gasped.
“Where to start?” Mycroft’s gaze had been evaluating as he weighed each item in his hand.
“Wherever you wish, Master.” The title had rolled off Greg’s tongue naturally without a second thought, drawn out by the heavy atmosphere growing between them by the second.
“So many wishes.”
“We have years.”
“Yes.” The stillness settling over Mycroft’s body had suggested he hadn’t thought of it like that before. “Yes, I suppose we do.”
The position Greg was required to hold in order to kiss Mycroft added to the delicious strain settling low into his muscles. It was startling gentle, even loving if Greg dared describe it that way, and fuelled the slow burn in his groin, so different from the heat of exertion in his other muscles. It felt lazy, the arousal, languid and slippery like silk instead of the hard driving force that had sent them careening up the stairs in the first place, a change marked by the soft nibbles and long caresses bestowed on Greg’s lips.
“Stand with your hands behind your back. Hold your forearms.” Mycroft had instructed.
Greg’s obedience was instant and he had felt Mycroft bind his wrists together behind his back. The rope then passed around his torso a scant number of inches below his nipples, which had already peaked in anticipation. The rope reversed direction behind his back and made a second pass just above the previous line, almost touching the two eager nubs of flesh. Greg had been forced to employ considerable restraint to stop himself pressing into Mycroft’s hand as it had brushed by.
His nipples ached now with far more than anticipation. Still kissing Greg, Master’s hand drifted down his front over the ropes and pulled gently on the chain hanging freely from his chest. Attached to his nipples by two clamps, the jolt of pain caused Greg to gasp and kicked the slow moving arousal drifting through his body up a notch.
The double wrap of his chest had been repeated just above his nipples as well. An intricate series of loops followed as Mycroft wove the rope around him before gently tilting Greg’s chin up and out of the way to pull the rope underneath and over Greg’s shoulder.
The binding was nowhere near complete, but already Greg could feel the soft, but persistent bite of the rope into his skin. Each pass of the cord restricted not only his torso, but also the movement of his lower arms, which were anchored at the bottom of the wraps. An experimental arm pull had demonstrated the lack of give, and Greg had felt himself sink into it with a relieved sigh. There would be no doing anything until Mycroft released the binding.
The chain still swung with the residue of Master’s pull, creating little sparks that fed the rearing fire.
“Have you had enough rope time, my dear? Ready to liven it up?” Master’s low smooth tones flowed through Greg’s ear.
“Yes, Master.”
The rope had been passed under the growing entanglement running up Greg’s back one last time and then split, at which point Greg had become aware the ‘rope’ holding him was actually a doubled over length. The individual ropes ran left and right between Greg’s torso and arms.
“Are you going to squirm, Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice had huffed gently into his ear.
“No, Master.” Greg had replied, resolving not to do so.
“Very well.”
The rope had passed over the lower of the chest wraps and returned back down, avoiding the upper wrap on both sides, before being crossed over Greg’s back. With each pass he’d been able to feel it binding him more completely, removing the illusion of control his rationale mind tried to cling to, allowing him to relax, relax, relax under the weight of the constricting loops.
Greg’s neck was once again pulled uncomfortably backward, except this time an object was offered up to him instead of a kiss. Feeling the press of rubber and leather against his lips, Greg obediently opened to accept the ball gag.
A second length of rope had been collected from the dresser and placed on the floor closer to Greg. Then Mycroft had stood in front of him and gracefully aided Greg to his knees and then belly. The fingers run along his back hadn’t been entirely sensual, Greg had felt them probing various connections and sections of the bindings for give, and testing the level of restriction of blood flow, but they’d left soothing tingles and loosened muscles in their wake.
The process had been repeated with the second rope around his legs and ankles, tying them into a crossed position as Greg lost more and more coherence. The loose ends had been passed under the lines on his back, pulling his feet towards his head. The leftover rope had been intricately twined and lay heavily along Greg’s back. The final act had been the wrapping of the silk scarf over Greg’s eyes, plunging him into darkness.
The ball gag completed the set of restrains in an electric fashion. Mycroft had left him bound and blindfolded to enjoy the sensations and fall gradually deep into Subspace at his own pace, truly sending him down more than Greg thought he could go, but this... Something about being bound, blind folded and gagged without a vestige of options left to him was so liberating. Every day stresses had already fallen away, banished by the bite of hemp rope and lack of sight, but with the addition of the gag, Greg felt some knot of tension deep inside that he’d never been aware of ease.
The tie holding his feet to his hands was released and Master’s hands smoothed along the muscles, digging in to relieve the built up strain as he manoeuvred Greg into another position.
The point at which Mycroft had become Master even inside Greg’s head was uncertain, but it was probably around the point Master’s long dextrous fingers had coaxed his nipples into even harder nubs and attached the clamps and chain. The arch in Greg’s back had barely been sufficient to hold his chest off the floor and keep the chain free, but he’d managed despite the muscle ache as rolling forward had caught the chain under his body and pulled sharply downward on the metal links. Every time his muscles had given in he came forward into this sharper embrace and endured it until he was capable of pulling back up.
The new position curled him the other way, legs crossed in front and the chest harness connected to his ankles, keeping him hunched over. Not only did it allow the chain to swing at will, tugging again and again on the nipple clamps, but it also gave some space for his erection.
Soft suede whispered over his back as Master’s grounding fingers disappeared. It was the first time since Greg had been blindfolded that the connection had been removed. It was disorientating and without his sight to provide context Greg felt himself physically falling as the world spun, unable to tell up from down.
The sharp sting as the flogger impacted against his back orientated him to Master’s location and returned the ground to him. The ball gag didn’t prevent all sound, and Greg moaned around the rubber.
The flogger came down again and again, the soft tails swishing through the air, and Greg automatically attempted to arch back into the stroke, but the ropes held him down, preventing the move. The denial forced a whimper out and around the gag, and earned another stroke.
Each tail left a blazing line on Greg’s skin. Rationally he knew the strokes weren’t hard, that Master had given him harder before, but the combined muscle strain and focus on each point of impact as his link to his Dom, and through him the world at large, made them burn.
The flogger descended again and again. At one point the lag between strokes was long enough Greg began to fret as the world turned, but a sharp stroke, harder than its predecessors, put his senses to rights. After that the strokes fell regularly, with barely a break in the pattern until Greg’s whole back was gloriously aflame.
The gentle swish of the flogger being placed on the luxurious carpet drew a plaintive whimper around the gag and set Greg squirming, rolling his weight side to side in agitation.
“Hush, Gregory.” Fingers landed on his head and the distant sounds of Master kneeling before him penetrated his haze.
The link between his ankles and chest was broken and he was rearranged in a conventional upright kneeling position. The blindfold lifted and Greg blinked several times in rapid succession as his eyes adjusted.
Master stood in front of him, shirt undone, belt missing and barefoot, exactly as Greg had last seen him. The pad of Master’s thumb collected and wiped away the thin line of drool seeping around one side of the gag.
“So beautiful.” One blunt nail curved along Greg’s jawbone. “I wish I could record you like this, send you under bound in ropes and photograph you in all different poses. I’d have to get new supplies for you. You would absolutely glow in navy with your hair.”
Greg gazed up at his Dom with dewy eyes, willing him to read the willingness on Greg’s behalf.
The fingers pistol gripped his jaw and tilted his head up and back. Greg let his eyes fall closed as Master’s gaze roamed greedily over his body.
“Not as beautiful as you.” Greg wanted to say, knowing instinctually that that was the thought passing through his Dom’s mind.
With a flick of the wrist the ball gag was released and Greg gently brought forward to nestle against Master’s leg as the button and fly were undone. Greg knew more drool was leaking out the sides of his mouth, but it wasn’t even a consideration as Mycroft’s cock came into view.
Sucking Mycroft’s cock wasn’t a new experience, nor was sucking it with his hands behind his back, but for some reason, maybe the lead up, this felt different, more raw. He was stripped bare in a way that had nothing to do with being nude and everything to do with being naked.
Master’s breath hitched and his fingers fluttered against Greg’s shoulder. The sweat rolling down his back stung as it crossed one of the blazing lines.
A sob broke free as Greg’s tongue wrapped around the tip and then took him down his throat in a single swallow. Greg intensified his efforts, bringing forth more broken cries and aborted whimpers. He wasn’t the only one stripped naked tonight.
The hot flood of semen down Greg’s throat was heralded by a strangled cry and tightening of the grip on his shoulders. He swallowed it down regretfully. It meant this tenuous state of affairs was almost over. Slowly he cleaned his Dom’s cock and was supported over to the bed. Once there Greg expected the ropes to be released, but instead he was laid on his back, head supported by the unnecessary number of pillows, and his own cock swallowed in a single unexpected move.
Abs rippling with the strain, Greg arched off the bed and let out a desperate gasp for air. He vaguely remembered Mycroft giving him a blow jog during Heat, but the Omega hadn’t even come close since then. It took all his remaining neurons not to thrust up into the hot wet mouth as he was taken apart physically as easily as Master had taken him apart mentally earlier.
“M...M...” Greg stuttered in warning, feeling the sharp rush as every last iota of languid arousal turned savage and raced through his body, settling in his cock and balls, full to overflowing.
His warning was just in time, but rather than pull away, Mycroft left his mouth where it was and suckled Greg through the throes of his orgasm, leaving him boneless on the bed.
Greg half expected the deep calm of Subspace to fall away as Mycroft loosened the ropes and slowly unwound the restraints from Greg’s body, but there was no rapid hitch in his slow rise from wherever he’d gone inside his own head. Instead he felt akin to a cat, drunk on sunlight and catnip, stealing all the physical and emotional warmth from Mycroft’s dedicated after care he could.
The emerald silk of the dressing gown Mycroft had pulled on over his clothing, yet another one Greg hadn’t seen before, was a cooling slither along Greg’s body as the rope fell away and Mycroft gently manipulated each limb, expertly checking for soreness or any soft tissue damage.
“Might have to take up yoga.” Greg slurred, still too deep and too relaxed to care how he sounded as he watched the graceful flow of verdant sleeves.
“Increased flexibility would allow me to safely bind you in some of the more advanced positions.” Mycroft absently commented as he rotated Greg’s arm, checking the shoulder joint.
“Mmm. You’d like that. You like this.” Greg’s voice caught on the final ssss and he hissed as Mycroft removed first one and then the other clamp and blood rushed painfully back into the area.
“Kinbaku originates in an ancient art of rope binding for the purposes of torture, but was resurrected in the 1900’s with a more sensual intent. It requires significantly more concentration and skill than handcuffing you to the bed.” Having covered Greg’s nipples with salve, Mycroft replaced the jar of moisturiser in the drawer.
Greg smiled fondly. Trust Mycroft to get off on obscure bondage styles that required intellectual effort.
“Never heard of it.”
“In the West it is more commonly known as Shibari.” The Japanese sounds flowed off Mycroft’s tongue with ease. “It doesn’t surprise me you are unfamiliar with it, Gregory. Your situation has encouraged only the most vanilla of play in you. It is not that uncommon, though there are few who are acknowledged as Grandmasters.”
“You one of them?” Greg teased lazily.
He loved these moments when he was emerging from Subspace and Mycroft took care of him. At these times the Dom seemed so relaxed, so accessible, and it gave Greg hope that one day they wouldn’t need the session and the sex for Mycroft to drop his masks around Greg.
“No,” Mycroft chuckled and met Greg’s smile with a tiny, but genuine one of his own. “No, Gregory, I am afraid you’re stuck with an amateur.”
Greg rolled his eyes and settled back against the pillows supporting him as the final binding unwound. The ropes slithered free and Mycroft stood to coil it.
“My, why don’t you use a safeword?” Greg asked softly.
He wanted to know. The past month had shown him that his initial impression, that Mycroft refused to use one because he wanted to do whatever he wanted to Greg with no limits, was wrong.
Mycroft’s movements slowed. Eventually he sighed.
“Normally I do.” He admitted.
The remaining vestiges of Subspace left Greg relaxed and disconnected, but not so much the confusion he felt wasn’t written all over his face.
“If I were to walk out on the street and select any random Submissive for a session I would use a safeword.” Mycroft elaborated, still methodically coiling the scarlet expanse, the ease of the session flowing out of his body as his own movements became more structured and deliberate at Greg’s question.
“So why-” Greg began.
“What is the purpose of a safeword, Gregory?” Mycroft’s interruption was soft, but firm.
“To stop things if one party doesn’t want to keep going?”
It shouldn’t have been a question. Every member of society knew what a safeword was for and had one. Everyone except romantic fools who believed their love was such they didn’t need one, or danger junkies who got off on the lack, that was. Greg wasn’t comfortable working out which category he fell into.
“Not quite.” The first length of rope was placed on the table and Mycroft began to coil the second. “A safeword is for when a Submissive needs to stop a session because his or her Dominant has failed to do so.”
Greg frowned and turned on his side as Mycroft kept talking.
“There is an infantile need rampant among the lesser Dominants of society to prove their dominance with posturing and unnecessary aggression in a misguided attempt to claim status.”
Despite the serious nature of Mycroft’s words, Greg couldn’t help the pale amusement that flowed through him at the characteristic Holmesian arrogance. Of course Mycroft would consider the everyday struggles of ordinary Doms a waste of time.
“In particular this manifests in carelessly extreme play and creates a macho need to mark a Submissive beyond society’s bounds - so called Subscars.”Mycroft sniffed disdainfully. “No proficient Dominant should be damaging a Submissive in such a way.”
“Not into scarification then?” Greg was relieved. He had never ventured close himself and wasn’t sure whether he would like it. If Mycroft didn’t believe in it, it saved Greg a lot of soul searching.
“A deliberate and precisely executed permanent design bears no resemblance at all to careless lines left by whip wielding incompetents.” The second coil of rope joined the first. “A safeword is required to return a measure of control to the Submissive party as their Dominant cannot be trusted to stop him or herself.”
“So-”
“A safeword, Gregory, is only as good as its use.”
Mycroft pulled one of the drawers smoothly open and held an antique dagger and sheath up to the light. With a flick of the wrist the blade slid far enough from the sheath to demonstrate that this was no ornamental display blade.
“I could walk over to you right this second and carve my initials into your flesh, and even if you could, you wouldn’t safeword, despite not being sure if you want it.” Mycroft remarked conversationally, eyes transfixed by the play of light over the blade. “Your Alpha nature makes you a dangerous Submissive, Gregory, as dangerous as you could have been as a Dominant, only to yourself rather than others.”
The knife slid back into the sheath with a metallic shing and Greg managed his first breath since it had been revealed as the atmosphere lightened incrementally.
“With your average Submissive off the street I would require a safeword. I am more perceptive than your average Dominant, but not even I could read a stranger well enough not to run the potential risk of misusing their trust. Their bodies would be mine to read, but their mental and emotional landscapes unmapped, unknown dangers buried in the psyche, uncertain training possibly in contradiction to my expectations.”
The knife was returned to the drawer.
“And... and me?” Fingers clutched the pillow under his cheek.
“With you Gregory?” For the first time since Greg had unknowingly begun this series of revelations Mycroft turned his head and met Greg’s eyes.
Mycroft always had a presence, was always the focus of the room when people forgot to focus elsewhere and let their eyes naturally draw back to the most Dominant force exuded. The intensity of Mycroft’s gaze was magnetic and Greg found himself leaning toward him, a lodestone to the North.
“I know you.” The words were soft whispers, rumbling vibrations crossing the void between them. “I know your thoughts, your hopes, your wishes and your dreams. I know how you strive, I know how you fight, fail and fall. I know your body, your muscles and scars, as no one else ever has. I know your heart, I know your mind, I know your soul. I know your limits, your boundaries, your borders better than you yourself. I know you.”
Mycroft’s gaze broke away and slid to the ropes, neatly awaiting storage. A finger trailed around the coil before running down the stacked rounds. “With you, Gregory, there is no safeword.”
Greg turned his face into the pillow and blinked furiously. Distantly he could hear items being collected from the floor and being packed away, drawers sliding open and shut.
If he lifted his head and asked Mycroft more, he thought the Dom might actually answer. It felt that way, as if he could ask anything and have it answered. He opened his mouth and let it fall closed.
He could ask, but he felt raw, emotions run ragged as he rose that last distance from Subspace. Mycroft appeared even more emotionally wrought than Greg felt, was probably an absolute mess on the inside. It wasn’t Mycroft saying he loved Greg, but somehow, somehow...
“Come to bed.” Greg’s arm flailed in Mycroft’s direction.
“I should clean up.” Mycroft demurred.
What he wanted was space, space to resurrect his masks and walls. Greg knew this, which is why he didn’t want to let Mycroft leave.
“My, come to-”
“Sleep, Gregory.” Mycroft stepped away from the dressing table, last item returned to its place. “I have some things to take care of.”
He walked towards the door, silk rustling around his legs with every step.
Against his better judgement, Greg let him go.
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