Though I Walk Through the Valley (9/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (9/38)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: If you found the last chapters a little emotional, then you may want to be prepared for this one
Warnings: discussion of abortion (pro and against)
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 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
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Mycroft kept his body still as he listened to Gregory’s retreating footsteps thunder up the stairs. He knew he looked calm and composed - a perfect statue of ice with frozen expression revealing nothing.
Frozen was a good word for it, but rather than the cool icy competence he cultivated he felt more akin to a rabbit caught in a hunter’s beam.
What had he just done?
Gregory suspected nothing, Mycroft was sure; was completely unaware of the galloping heart rate, sweaty palms and whirlwind, no, cyclone of thoughts rushing around in his head. He tried to force himself to move, to uncross his legs, face the door, twitch his finger, but despite usually being so competent under pressure and being fully proficient at acting in emergencies, he was well and truly immobilised. No amount of mental yelling or rattling bars could free his conscious mind from its prison. Was this how ordinary people felt when faced with guns or knives or life and death scenarios?
He didn’t like it.
Eventually he managed to slow his panicked breaths into longer inhales and exhales. Eventually he managed to reduce his heart rate to something approximating normal. Eventually he managed to retard his thoughts enough that the rushing noise as they roared past disappeared and the words and other constituent parts could be broken down, thought about and analysed rather than left to swirl around his brain.
As he brought his thoughts under control he wondered whether other people, people other than himself or Sherlock, ever felt like this, as if their brain was racing ahead and thinking all of its own accord and it had to be manually and deliberately tempered to allow interpretation, or were other people not aware, letting their subconscious mind run away and barely scratching the surface of its input?
Finally his finger moved on command and almost instantaneously his body collapsed leaving him curled over in his chair, arms wrapped around his body.
What had he done?
He sat there, ignoring his agitated thoughts now moving at a manageable speed around his mind, refusing for that moment to pluck any out to focus on them. Just staying, absorbing the magnitude of his act.
He needed to move, it had probably been five minutes, but infuriatingly his time sense had collapsed when his body froze and now he couldn’t accurately say whether it had been 30 seconds or an hour. His rise to standing was not graceful and he staggered the couple of steps to the door, his hands falling against the frame just as Gregory’s had only a short time ago.
He had agreed to keep the baby - the parasitical growth that risked his life, his work, and his family’s legacy. It was illogical, totally impractical, and it was dangerous, actually dangerous in the way he strived to avoid with bodyguards who doubled as personal assistants and security codes.
Everything was planned. Dr Koen had been advised of the situation and had consented to perform the highly illegal termination (as he had been expected to. Treating Mycroft was, in general, highly illegal from the suppression medication on.) It was scheduled: nine o’clock tomorrow morning this situation would be fixed.
Mycroft’s fingers convulsed on the doorframe. He just wanted things to go back to normal. Normal where he made Gregory laugh and Gregory made him smile without either of them having to question what it meant; where they had fun and Gregory challenged him intellectually in areas he’d never have thought a homicide detective would be able to offer thoughtful comment and critique; where his job was his world only impinged on by Sherlock, and his assistant didn’t cancel appointments with the highest authority in the land because she could. He just wanted things to be as they were, was that too much to ask?
He thrust himself through the doorway. Of course it was. That was wishing, begging fate and trying to change things that couldn’t be changed. He was a Holmes: he edited the past, adjusted the future, and made things happen through acts, not dreams. He was pragmatic and logical and he would not stand here and pray.
The child.
‘Well, you need an heir.’ The pragmatic voice at the back of his head piped up.
Yes, he did-That wasn’t the point! He would have a nephew sooner or later, and Sherlock could be made to see sense. There had been a Holmes in government for centuries. His brother wouldn’t destroy all that for - and besides, even if he did need an heir because it was unlikely that his nephew would be suitable (or available), Gregory was hardly the class of Alpha the Holmes family would consider appropriate for genetic donation and none of that mattered because this thing was going to cause enormous problems and put all his work at risk and he wouldn’t have it.
The stair was a slight shock. He had forgotten he’d been moving.
The political consequences would be disastrous. There would be no way for him to continue in government and all his pipeline and in-progress works would be cancelled, and most of his past progress, completed, over and done with or not, would be undone. England would lose traction on the world stage and the government would suffer a critical blow.
He took a step.
Why had he agreed? It was incomprehensible. He had covered all these grounds, thought through every angle that afternoon and decided it was too dangerous. He wasn’t the only one who would suffer. England would suffer without his guiding hand. It wasn’t arrogance to say this when he knew how many fingers he had in how many pies. He was the only person who knew how many balls were in the air, let alone the pattern required to keep them aloft. Through England he influenced the world, both remnants of the Empire and outside countries and conflicts. Anthea was good, but she was only his assistant, not him, and he had no colleagues. He had peers, many peers in many single, isolated fields, but his role, his position straddling so many areas and so much knowledge and power, was unique.
Without him there to perform his duty, war would be the least of the problems.
‘So you need an heir, someone to carry on after you.’
Yes, but there was Sherlock, he ignored the mental snort, and even if there wasn’t Gregory was not-
‘Who else? Who else could you have? There is no appropriately connected Alpha you could have, that’s why you never married and forwent that avenue of collecting power. You can’t sire children, only carry. Could you trust one of those society climbing Alphas with your secret?’
No, of course not, that’s why he didn’t already have a Mate and an heir.
‘But you would do it? If one of those old family Alphas came to you, you would have your child?’
Of course he would, he needed an -
No.
Mycroft shook his head violently and paused halfway up the stairs. No, he was thinking himself in circles. It would be too risky. The consequences were too high. He’d been over this, he’d decided this already. He’d spent hours on it.
He’d say no. He’d walk straight into his room and tell Gregory he’d changed his mind, that it had been a mistake in a moment of weakness brought about by the intense need to comfort his Submissive, his poor, frightened, anguished Submissive who it was his job to -
No!
Gregory was not his Submissive. Yes, he was a Submissive, but he was not Mycroft’s. It was not Mycroft’s duty to keep him safe, to protect him from the world in exchange for total devotion and trust, trust he had been ripping from Gregory’s soul with his pronouncement despite the fact that it was within his power to keep him whole, and he needed to fix and reassure and -
NO!
No, no, no. Gregory was not his. He’d been over this. Being the father of his child did not give Mycroft anymore claim over Gregory than he’d had before. Gregory was not his.
He could be.
No.
He would walk in and say no. Say no to Gregory, say no to keeping the baby.
‘You’ll lose him.’
Yes, Mycroft knew, had known before saying that Gregory would hate him forever, that Gregory would never have anything to do with him again. It was as much the reason why he wanted to keep it to himself as the distaste at revealing he’d made such a massive mistake. Damn Sherlock for interfering! This could have been sorted so simply, a quick injection, some cramps and nausea, and he could go back to Gregory, maybe even assent to lowering the boundaries he was trying to rebuild until he recovered his emotional balance once the hormones left his system; curl up in Gregory’s presence to mourn what had been lost and lick his metaphorical wounds, without Gregory ever knowing the reason why.
Not anymore.
Now Gregory knew. Now he would lose Gregory, lose him more completely than Mycroft had ever wanted. He had wanted space from Gregory, space to allow things to settle, not for him to go. Not for him to be gone.
He would lose Gregory and the baby.
The baby didn’t matter, he didn’t want the baby, didn’t care about the baby. The baby was a nuisance, a parasite, a blot, a defect in his perfectly functioning life and he wanted it gone and -
He paused at the top of the stairs, right hand clutched tight around the banister, left curled convulsively around his abdomen protecting its precious cargo.
No, he didn’t want the baby. This was hormones, just hormones. He knew this, had been taught in class years ago about the massive influx of hormones triggered by pregnancy to bond Omega and child, a necessity given how infrequently children were the result of happy Bondings and how frequently they were the result of what without the Estrus cycle would be rape.
‘Like yours.’
Yes, like him, though who was raping who would have been up for debate - both so chemically eager; both who would otherwise have said no. This issue was the reason there could still be no rape in the eyes of the law of an Omega in Estrus.
‘But you would have chosen him. Out of everyone, you would have chosen him.’
Mycroft couldn’t deny that, but he would have chosen no one first.
‘You were so relieved when he showed up.’
Of course he had been relieved, he had been desperate for an Alpha’s knot, and to have it be someone he liked, trusted, and who was compatible - at the least it prevented the broken bones that would have accompanied two Dominants in bed for four days. At best, it had the potential to be perfect.
It was perfect.
There was nothing perfect about where he was now. A strangled half-growl, half-whine was dragged out of his throat and he stuffed his right hand into his mouth to bite down on a finger, preferring to let go of his balance point than unwrap the protective arm around his baby.
His baby. It was a foetus, nothing more than cells, barely worthy of a name yet. Brain barely developed, limbs not fully formed, a mere bean shaped thing in amniotic fluid. It only just had fingers, tiny fingers.
‘If you don’t want it, why did you spend two hours creating a plan to keep it, a plan you have now enacted. Why spend all that time if it didn’t mean anything to you?’
Because he’d been planning, that was all. Investigating all possible routes including the one where he got to keep his best friend and his child.
‘And be happy?’
Was his child, his friendship with Gregory, worth the weight of the country? The weight of the world?
Did he want them to be?
Yes, no, maybe, he squeezed his eyes tight shut and concentrated on breathing, pushing all his thoughts away and locking his emotions down tight. Logic: that was the key. Let the thoughts back, keep the emotions away.
No child was worth a war. If Mycroft was uncovered, whether he lived or died (which was an option, especially once he lost his government security) several wars were more probably than not. The Middle East was only one area he was attempting to contain, and though his efforts were not singular, unique or unequalled, he was a major piece on the board and a power imbalance would result from his removal.
But his-
No.
He’d been over this and over this that afternoon.
No.
Just No.
He didn’t even want it anyway (yes he did, no he didn’t, yes he did). He would walk into that room, tell Gregory no, and leave before his Dominant instincts kicked in to protect and reassure his Submissive.
He paused next to the door. Surely it was worth the risk?
No.
Last chance. One more step and he’d be seen. Last chance to say no. Last chance to have everything, or as close to everything as he was capable of.
He stood up tall, drew his shoulders up and back, wiped the stray tear that mysteriously had appeared on his cheek, and with the greatest of effort unglued his left arm from his middle.
He was a Holmes. He would face this like the Dominant he was.
He’d made this choice before, over and over - himself or his duty. It would sting, like it hadn’t done since he was a teenager learning to put aside his hopes and heart, but he would recover and would be thicker skinned than ever. Once the hormones were gone, he wouldn’t even care.
Last chance.
He stepped forward.
Gregory was kneeling in the middle of the carpet, still as a statue despite the extended wait and the havoc the position must have been playing with his knees.
‘Look at him,’ the voice in his head whispered, ‘study the person you are about to destroy.’
Gregory wasn’t young, but then neither was Mycroft, and he wore his years well. His hair had completely changed colour, but the silver, not grey, never as dull as grey, only added character, wisdom and distinction, not age. Muscles were still firm and defined under his skin, even if a slight middle age pudge had made its way around Gregory’s middle. The skin was drawn and slightly slack, evidence of recent weight loss. Mycroft’s heart, traitorous organ, performed a regretful triple beat out of time. Sherlock had been right, Gregory hadn’t been eating well.
He drew his eyes up to Gregory’s face, refusing to go lower and tempt himself even if it was the cowardly thing to do. Gregory was watching him, brown eyes large, expressive and cloaked.
“I was starting to wonder if you were coming.” There was nothing in his voice Mycroft could discern to prove hope, disappointment, resignation or judgement, which just proved how unsettled he still was. Gregory was nothing if not expressive.
He had to tell him, had to open his mouth and watch, cause, a heart, a heart that unlike his own may have been bruised and repressed, but never denied, never that, break. It would be worse now because Gregory believed him, took him at his word with so little proof of intent, and now...
Gregory’s arms were behind his back, wrists together in total surrender, even though he wasn’t tied, even though Mycroft hadn’t been here to dictate a pose. With a bit of training he could be-
He was just so-
He had even, Mycroft belatedly noticed, knowing Mycroft’s preference for neatness, taken the time to fold his clothes.
He was going to lose him.
With three quick strides Mycroft crossed the floor and sank to his knees in front of Gregory, capturing his lips in a burning kiss.
He would never do this again. He was only just willing to admit that his body, for whatever reason, wanted to and he would never have the opportunity again. He would never see him again.
Gregory kept his hands clasped behind his back, but that didn’t stop him returning the kiss tenfold. His tongue was twining with Mycroft’s in a way that never quite seemed like surrender, even when Mycroft thrust deep into Gregory’s mouth in complete control of their actions. He let out a delightful little groan as Mycroft drew back, dragged his teeth along his lips before forcing his tongue past yielding lips to continue mapping the inside of Gregory’s mouth.
Mycroft’s fingers were buried as deep in Gregory’s short hair as they could be. Gregory would have to let it grow longer in the future so he could get a proper grip.
One of his hands manoeuvred Gregory’s head exposing his throat. Mycroft started up at his ear, drawing the earlobe gently between his teeth, before slowly nipping and biting down the proffered expanse to the tune of Gregory’s muffled whimpers and breathy sighs, reacquainting himself with skin he knew he had previously marked, but had little to no memory of having done so.
This was getting out of control. It had been one kiss, one kiss before he had to say goodbye forever.
It had been no kisses.
Oh, but Gregory was intoxicating. He was like a drug running through Mycroft’s system, and like a drug addiction Mycroft’s brain was yelling no and his body was ignoring the cries, preferring to sate its craving as months of unrecognised repressed longing flooded his system.
His hand left Gregory’s hair, trailing down his back and over flexed shoulder muscles to wrap around his waist and pull him flush against Mycroft.
Yes, that was all he needed. One more, one more time to show his body that the ‘magic’ was all chemically induced drive from Estrus. One more time to prove to himself that Gregory was nothing special.
He returned to Gregory’s lips gently rolling the flesh between his teeth, laving the trapped expanse with his tongue. Gregory’s lips weren’t smooth or soft or even overly generous. They were chapped from the cold and the wind, the skin pebbly beneath his tongue.
Mycroft’s left hand tightened in Gregory’s hair, preventing Gregory moving towards him to force a firmer contact as Mycroft slowly released his hold on his Submissive’s mouth. Mycroft paused, just the barest fraction from contact.
He had to stop, had to think. He had come here to give Gregory a message, a non-negotiable statement.
Oh, but once more. Just once more.
He shouldn’t. Gregory would hate him even more if Mycroft had sex with him while he laboured under false impressions.
‘He’ll hate you anyway. You’ll never see him again, what more can it do? And look at him, so desperate, so needy, begging for a strong hand to guide him. What kind of Dominant would let such a willing specimen pass?’
Gregory wouldn’t be willing if he was aware Mycroft had changed his mind.
‘Look at his eyes, how glazed they are. He’s already falling into Subspace, already going deep. What kind of irresponsible Dominant would let a Submissive go in such a state, prime target for harm, without bringing him properly through the cycle and safely returning him to the surface?’
Mycroft’s thumb drew lazy circles on Gregory’s hip bone, feeling the smooth glide of skin and the change of texture as he crossed scar tissue.
Anger flared through him. Those scars shouldn’t be there. The very presence of such marks was proof of Dominant failure, proof that no one had kept Gregory safe.
‘He doesn’t have a Dominant to keep him safe. He’s out there, blundering around London, safe only because no one looks, no one truly observes. What happens if you let him go? He only has you to look after him. What happens when he’s discovered and claimed by the first Dominant to cross his path and know? He’s too strong for them; they’d destroy him to break him. He’ll be in danger.’
Mycroft’s hands tightened possessively on hair and hip. He could keep Gregory safe.
‘He needs teaching, guidance.’
He let his lips ghost over Gregory’s, feeling the trembling suffusing his body as the Submissive tried to not move when Mycroft had made his wishes so clear, but yearning to increase the contact. He couldn’t quite stop himself and Mycroft felt the tip of Gregory’s tongue press against his lips before it was dragged forcibly back by its owner.
No, he shouldn’t. He didn’t need or want a Submissive. His existing casual arrangement was as much sexual gratification as he required and it was far too much effort to claim a Submissive, especially a Submissive he couldn’t claim.
‘But think about your family. Think about coming home to Gregory opening the door, your son asleep on your lap while you finish a glass of wine and Gregory smiling from the other seat as you talk.’
But that wasn’t what he wanted. His job, his career was everything.
‘But is that really true, especially now that this is right in front of you for the taking?’
Yes, it was. He never wanted the family life.
‘Really? Not even Before, when you used to dream about it, dream about your future? Your own family, how you’d bring Sherlock to live with you, away from them, so you could take care of him until he Bonded, your children, your Bonded Mate and how you’d look after them all.’
Mycroft stilled. That was a long time ago. Those dreams were gone. He’d got rid of them, he’d had to.
‘But you don’t have to now.’
Gregory whimpered slightly, head trying to nestle further into Mycroft’s hand without moving as his distress translated through to his Submissive.
I don’t need it.
‘You want it.’
No, he didn’t.
He leant Gregory’s head on his shoulder and nuzzled the join of neck and shoulder. It wasn’t Estrus, there was no overabundance of pheromones pouring out of Gregory’s skin to flavour his scent and taste, and yet, and yet there was still a hint of flavour there, something that made Mycroft want to pull Gregory onto the bed with him and twine them together until there was no way to tell where one of them started and the other ended.
His hand was moving on Gregory’s back. Tracing the lines he’d put there last time, he realised.
“They’ve faded.” The words were whispered into his jacket, Gregory’s voice catching slightly as he tried to force them out. “You could make new ones.”
Mycroft pushed him back slightly, cupping Gregory’s chin to tilt his head. Gregory really was falling under already, and at quite a rapid pace if the expression in his eyes was to be believed. His eyelids were half closed, eyes sleepy and content though he clearly wasn’t tired. The muscles holding his shoulders back had relaxed, still keeping his arms in place, but making it look less forced as he accepted the posture.
“It’s you.” The words were dreamy coming from Gregory’s mouth, country accent thicker than in normal speech. “Tried with others, couldn’t even kneel for them, but you, all you have to do is look at me.”
Mycroft’s finger traced along Gregory’s jaw.
“It was written on your face, that you were wondering.” A smile twitched at the edges of those thin chapped lips. “Despite what you might like to believe, I’m not a total idiot.”
“I have never believed you were.” He drew Gregory back forward into his chest.
Gregory let out a small sigh into his shirt. “That makes one of you.”
Suddenly Mycroft very much wanted to renew those marks, retrace Gregory’s skin with hands and teeth and leather.
“Stand.” He growled.
Gregory scrambled to his feet, releasing his hands in his haste to stand. Mycroft made his ascent much more gracefully, pinning Gregory in place as the Submissive started to follow him over to his bedside drawer with a pointed and commanding look.
What to use, what to use? He’d used the paddle and the crop last time. Did he want to repeat, relive that experience, or use this last time for something new, for more memories to file away in the recesses he never let himself look at in his mind? His fingers drifted over the paddle, the riding crop, the flogger... yes, maybe the flogger. Black suede, 30 tails only 15 inches long, ideal for some of the more... intimate areas.
Did he want gloves? His black leather gloves rested in their assigned space in the drawer. The sensation of leather whispering over skin could heighten the experience beautifully, but not tonight. Tonight he wanted the feeling of Gregory under his fingertips, to caress his skin with Mycroft’s own hands, not through a barrier, no matter how tantalising.
He let a small smile curl over his lips. It wasn’t as if Gregory required the extra stimulation, so Mycroft may as well indulge.
He briskly closed the drawer and pivoted, flogger resting casually in one hand. Gregory stood still, shoulders back and down, legs spread apart in a stance obviously learnt at the police academy, though little used since. It lacked the military precision that would have accompanied parade rest, but it was certainly more than adequate for what Mycroft had planned.
“Stay.” He put a small measure of Dominance behind the command to ensure that Gregory stayed still, but also because he enjoyed the shiver that ran over the body before him.
His pace as he walked forward was measured, calculating. It was a mask more than anything, he already knew what he was going to do, but the act seemed to interest Gregory if the way his breathing hitched was any indication. Mycroft stopped a full two feet away from him, letting his eyes trail up and down Gregory’s body in a much more deliberate and provocative manner than before. Arms at his sides, fingers balled into fists to restrain himself. He was unconsciously holding his stomach in, paranoid that Mycroft would find him wanting? Nonsensical behaviour. Thighs very well-muscled, police work would do that if you refused to stay behind a desk and let other people do the work for you, and he had very well defined calves.
As he gaze drifted back up Mycroft deliberately and obviously took in the sight he’d denied himself earlier. Gregory wasn’t as long as he’d thought from his hazy recollections, but he was quite a bit thicker. His cock was certainly interested in the proceedings, though it had settled slightly since it was a hot brand against Mycroft’s thigh on the floor, mostly, but not fully erect as Gregory waited for the proceedings to play out.
Mycroft felt a throb in his own groin in reaction to the member he’d known very intimately a few months past and a sudden answering empty echo from his rear. It wasn’t that long ago he’d been stretched around that length. The burn had taken a couple of days to fade, despite the lubrication from his cycle.
He stretched out his arm and placed the head of the flogger’s handle on Gregory’s shoulder, the tails unfurling down his back as Mycroft strolled casually around to his body. The marks had indeed faded from the flesh. That was okay, Mycroft would be renewing them soon.
The gentle movement of the suede was causing little involuntary leaps and jumps in the muscles down Gregory’s back. The scar on his hip, knife if Mycroft was any judge and at least five years old, curled around onto his back. A small thing, but one that meant so much. Gregory had other scars, on his knees from childhood falls, on his wrist from an ill-conceived blood oath during a drunken university party, but this one, this knife wound, it shouldn’t be there.
There were no scars from rough play during sessions, nowhere that Mycroft could see, and right now he could see all of Gregory. No marks along his back or buttocks consistent with a whip or crop in any form, no scars around his wrists from yanking on handcuffs not designed for the play they were used in. Gregory’s body was for him. No other, pathetic, irresponsible Dominant had been there to harm him and permanently blemish the skin through lack of skill. Mycroft’s lips curled in a disgusted snarl. No proficient Dominant should be leaving scars on a Submissive, but that didn’t mean that most of society didn’t.
The first strike drove an expletive from Gregory’s lips. “Rule number four, Gregory.”
Teeth sank into the flesh of Gregory’s lower lip as he attempted to keep another word escaping with the second blow.
He remembered. That was good.
Mycroft let the flogger trail over Gregory’s back, circling each globe of his arse before teasing the edge of his thighs. The next blow fell squarely on the top of Gregory’s calves and then immediately on his shoulder, keeping him off balance, the movements unpredictable.
More blows rained down, turning his back, buttocks and thighs a glorious pink. They would have to move to the bed soon, Gregory was losing his balance as he fell further and further from true thought.
“Wider.” Mycroft whispered, the first words in the five minutes he’d spent decorating Gregory’s skin.
Gregory eagerly spread his legs wider. So responsive, so beautiful. Mycroft stepped closer and let the black suede tails drip down Gregory’s chest. The clothing barrier between his chest and Gregory’s back prevented him feeling the heat he knew must be radiating off the flesh, but there was more than sufficient satisfaction as Gregory’s head tilted back against his shoulder, nipples tightening at the soft touches, cock bobbing full and red between his legs, fully erect again.
The flogger came down hard, catching the bud of one nipple, leaving white streaks across Gregory’s ribs and chest which quickly flushed red and faded to pink. The whimpering moan released against his neck was exquisite.
“Shhh.” Mycroft whispered against the short silver bristles, nuzzling the top of Gregory’s head. “I have you.”
There was an answering nuzzle and sigh against his neck, barely accessible to Gregory with the jacket and shirt.
He ran the flogger the length of his Submissive’s body again, draping its fronds across the eager cock, drifting tantalisingly between thighs and brushing over sensitive skin. The next strike was more of a flick, tails skimming the edge of Gregory’s balls and perineum.
A gasp, but no withdrawal.
Mycroft brought the flogger down again, this time across Gregory’s lower belly so that only a few stray tails flicked against his cock.
This time there was a bite to his neck and Gregory ground back against Mycroft’s own erection, straining through his trousers. He was obviously not adverse to a little pain as well as pleasure. That fit with what Mycroft remembered of their previous play.
“Please.” The word was a soft, barely more than an exhale. Teeth gently grazed his neck again and a tongue slowly began to prod and probe the pulse point.
Mycroft closed his eyes and let Gregory do as he wished. It felt glorious to have those lips fluttering over his skin, tasting him, memorising him like he was memorising Gregory.
Emboldened by his lack of punishment, Gregory’s hand came up to cup Mycroft’s cheek and turn his face to his own. “Please” his lips said, though no sound was emitted as they caressed Mycroft’s own. “Please” The other hand slipped between their bodies and began to undo the buttons on Mycroft’s trousers.
Mycroft smiled into the kiss. Why not? It would be interesting to see if real life lived up to his little fantasy.
He propelled Gregory forward and then stepped away, walking casually to the bed. There was confusion in Gregory’s eyes, a look that conflicted with the general haziness over his demeanour, clearly unsettled by the turn of events.
He could have used the chair, made the situation exactly like his fantasy, but this seemed more appropriate somehow.
Mycroft was aware of the hunger in Gregory’s eyes as he positioned himself on the edge of the bed. He watched Gregory watching him, watching him lean back provocatively on his elbows, one leg cocked at the knee to rest a sock clad foot, slippers abandoned in the hallway, on the edge of the bed. The eagerness written into every line of Gregory’s body as he openly eyed Mycroft’s reclining figure, eyes lingering on his partially revealed neck, covered wrists and groin... no, not groin, Mycroft raised an evaluating eyebrow, his rear, was so obvious it was almost a caricature, but that didn’t stop a wave of heat rushing through his body and pooling in Mycroft’s cock at the visual confirmation of interest.
“Well?” His voice was unexpectedly hoarse.
Understanding flashed through Gregory’s eyes and replaced the consternation with... confidence? Arrogance? Possession? No, Mycroft realised, hunting. Predator instincts. Well, well, well, he’d awoken the Alpha. He’d been wondering whether he’d come out to play.
Mycroft would have expected the Submissive state Gregory had fallen into to disintegrate as the Alpha came to the fore, but the general sense of submission never faded as Gregory sauntered towards him.
Ah, sauntered, not stalked. Of course, being an Alpha gave Gregory predatory instincts, but the Submissive nature changed how they were satisfied. Gregory wouldn’t hunt him with aggression, force and power; He’d lure Mycroft with traps of seduction, submission and consent.
‘Intriguing,’ Mycroft thought, letting his head fall back as Gregory knelt to kiss his foot, his ankle, his calf, ‘how intriguing.’
The kisses slowly migrated up Mycroft’s extended leg, teeth nipping at the flesh beneath the fabric. When he reached Mycroft’s upper leg, Gregory began to intersperse the nips with pointed nuzzles along Mycroft’s inner thigh. There was something exhilarating in the deceptively simple acts, the adrenaline heightened sensation that resulted from the irrepressible feeling that he was holding a tiger on a leash, and that the tiger was only tame by choice.
The feeling, the thrill of controlling such potential, was intoxicating.
Gregory’s nose was nudging the very top of Mycroft’s inseam and not moving. Mycroft tore his gaze from whatever it was his eyes were focusing on on the ceiling to look down at Gregory’s face. It was clearly a deliberate act to achieve that exact result because the eyes that stared back were heated and sly. As soon as their gazes were locked and Gregory was assured of Mycroft’s full attention, he moved that final centimetre, nose hovering just where Mycroft’s cock was straining through his trousers, refusing to touch. It was so easy to imagine the fabric barrier wasn’t there, that he could feel Gregory’s warm breath blowing over his taut flesh in an insubstantial caress.
His inadvertent fantasy hadn’t involved Gregory’s mouth, but now that the thought had occurred, now that it was teasing him just out of reach, Mycroft knew that nothing else would satisfy. It had to be Gregory’s mouth, his teeth, his throat, and his Submissive would do it too. It was clearly his intent, staying there, challenging Mycroft’s control over both himself and Gregory, waiting to see which of them would break first. It wouldn’t be Mycroft. In just a few seconds Gregory would move his hand to Mycroft’s trousers, would pull down the zipper, and do much more satisfactory things than hover out of reach. Yes, he was moving, moving-
Down Mycroft’s leg, with the most deliberate and purposeful glint in his eye.
A growl escaped Mycroft’s throat, even as part of him saluted the audacity of his Submissive. He would teach him his place; show him that it didn’t pay to tease his Dominant.
Gregory merely threw him a teasing glance and nipped his inner thigh on his way down to Mycroft’s other foot.
“Gregory.” Mycroft hadn’t meant to speak, had meant in fact to wait out the teasing and then punish Gregory with a few well-earned strokes of the paddle or the crop, but the name came unbidden from his throat.
At least he wasn’t moaning or otherwise revealing how desperate such simple acts had made him. At least it was a snarl, not a whimper, but it was still conceding and Mycroft would berate himself over giving the ground.
Later, much later, because right now Gregory’s mouth had returned to the juncture of Mycroft’s legs and his nose was buried in the fabric of Mycroft’s trousers and his, oh, his teeth were drawing the zipper down to allow his tongue access to Mycroft’s pants.
The button at the top of his trousers and his belt were still fastened, but that didn’t stop Gregory’s eager tongue saturating the silk covering Mycroft’s erection. His hands were still locked behind his back, Mycroft hazily noticed, he was maintaining the position as best he could. It also meant that Gregory wasn’t going to undo that button, wasn’t going to remove the belt.
Fine, Mycroft would do it, and he would use it to secure Gregory’s hands behind his back, since his cock-tease of a Submissive seemed to like it so much.
Transferring his weight onto one elbow so his other hand was free was almost more coordination than Mycroft was capable of at that time. It was ridiculous, absolutely incomprehensible, how aroused he was, how much he needed Gregory. Gregory hadn’t even done anything yet, had merely run a gentle touch along Mycroft’s trousers, yet somehow, somehow Mycroft was more worked up than he’d ever been. Worked up enough that when he managed the button and his belt, and Gregory instantly nosed his erection out through the slit in the silk pants to engulf the tip in his hot, hot mouth, Mycroft dropped the belt and abandoned all thoughts of restraining his Submissive in favour of burying his hand back in Gregory’s hair.
It was indescribable. In sharp contrast to his teasing acts Gregory had swallowed as much of Mycroft in one go as he could, aided, finally, by his hands which were released from behind his back. He was clearly inexperienced, unable to take much of Mycroft’s length and gagging as the short, aborted thrusts of Mycroft’s hips pushed it too deep, but just the feeling of the moist cavern, the tiny hint of teeth, deliberate or not, as Gregory pulled back up the shaft and the tentative swirl of tongue around the head before sucking the length back in, was more perfect that the most experienced Submissive Mycroft had ever had on their knees in front of him.
Some part of Mycroft’s brain, the part that wasn’t panting and straining in Gregory’s mouth and flexing fingers in his hair, noted that Gregory had clearly restricted himself mainly to female Submissives, despite showing no aversion to the male genders. Perhaps he’d found them easier to Dominate for some reason? Lack of, or less intense, interest maybe?
The thought was quickly derailed as every bone in Mycroft’s Dominant body screamed out a rejection at the thought of Gregory ever touching or being touched by anyone else. The anger flowed through Mycroft’s voice, filling the air with an animalistic rumble.
Gregory was his, his Submissive, his Alpha, the sire of his child. No one else would touch him, no one else could touch him. He belonged to Mycroft and only Mycroft. He thrust his hips forward, not caring that Gregory was likely to gag at the intrusion. Gregory was his, his to possess in every way.
Sure enough Gregory’s throat convulsed around the hard length that suddenly found its way down his throat.
“Relax.”
Mycroft kept thrusting, trusting his dominance to work long enough on Gregory’s muscles for him to learn how to take Mycroft deliberately, without the need for Mycroft’s help. Gregory felt so good around him, nose brushing against the curly hair at the hilt of his penis, hands clutching Mycroft’s thighs for balance. His throat, swallowing wildly to accommodate every inch of swollen member, felt so tight and warm with every thrust and the sensation so heady that Mycroft took several strokes to realise he was no longer the one setting the pace, but Gregory who, with a couple of reflexive tears rolling down his face, was drawing Mycroft in and out, hand on his hair just resting no longer commanding.
Perfect, so perfect. He shouldn’t have learnt so fast, shouldn’t have been able to go from choking to making Mycroft’s eyes roll back in his head so quickly. Mycroft had been expecting to have to lead Gregory through it with dominance, but the matter was well and truly out of his hands as Gregory sped up.
Mycroft’s whimpers that he would never ever admit to were gaining strength and pushing themselves out his own throat. His Submissive, his amazing Submissive. His rear gave a throb, constricting around nothing and reminding Mycroft how empty he was, how much he wanted Gregory’s fingers, no his cock, buried deep in Mycroft’s arse, but that would mean taking his cock out of Gregory’s mouth, of removing himself from that decadent warmth, and as much as Mycroft wanted, needed, Gregory beneath him, thrusting up into his arse, he couldn’t stand to withdraw long enough to remove his trousers let alone the duration of prep now that they no longer had the Estrus induced aid.
He needed Gregory to come, needed to feel the sensation of that throat closing around him as Gregory spilled, needed to see what Gregory looked like and remember it. It took effort to drag his hand out of the short silver strands to push at Gregory’s own, but he managed. It took three tries, Mycroft too far beyond words to give verbal directions, before his inelegant shoves on Gregory’s wrist conveyed his message and with a moan that sparked from Mycroft’s cock to his head and his toes, Gregory obeyed.
Mycroft couldn’t see Gregory’s hand, could barely make out the expression on his face, his senses had reached such a point of betrayal, but he could feel every shudder of pleasure that migrated through Gregory’s body and directly into Mycroft’s cock.
“Oh G-God, Greg-gory, come for me.”
Gregory’s face went slack as he pushed himself over the edge, expression suffused with pleasure. The sight was too much and Mycroft bucked his hips again, roughly taking Gregory’s mouth for one, two, three more strokes before the pressure exploded out of his balls and all the tension in his body released.
Gregory pulled off and spluttered, having been too far into Subspace to consciously think about swallowing without a command Mycroft hadn’t thought to give, and then climbed up on the bed next to where Mycroft had collapsed. The feel of Gregory next to him on the bed, the phantom memory of last time they had been together, fluttered through his body, not enough to rouse him again, but enough to cause almost painful pangs of need as his arse clenched around nothing.
Next time, he promised himself as he pulled Gregory closer and swung his legs onto the bed, next time he would do as he vaguely remembered promising Gregory during Estrus and use the cock ring to ride him until he was so sensitive, so ready to burst, that he came on command without Mycroft even touching him. Hours, it would take hours, hours of appropriate prep and play to build the sensation and make it last, make it burn rather than flare and subside, but Mycroft was patient and they would do it and he would ride Gregory to his own completion before ordering him to come too.
Next time.
Next time, there was no next time. This was a one-time thing, a last go to clear his ridiculous obsession before he told Gregory that he was aborting the baby. There would be no next time.
‘Yes, there will be.’ The voice in his head laughed in cruel satisfaction. ‘You know there will be.’
No-
‘Stop fighting it. There will be a next time, and a time after that.’
The baby-
‘You want it. Admit it, you want it, and you want him, buried to the hilt in your body, fucking you until he begs for mercy.’
Mycroft tensed, languid muscles locking into terrified place.
‘Admit it.’
No, no the risk-
He would take it. God help him, for Gregory, he was selfish enough to risk the world.
Gregory nuzzled his neck comfortingly, slowly rising from Subspace as he came down from his endorphin induced high. Mycroft pushed him off, threw his legs off the side of the bed, and hung his head in his hands, emotions and thoughts at war.
“Mycroft?” Gregory’s voice was scratchy and would probably remain so for a couple of days.
He had felt so good!
A gentle hand came to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder. Gregory, giving again, offering more of himself than Mycroft wanted to, could, take.
“I will never collar you.” His hands dropped from his face, elbows resting on knees. He kept his gaze on the wall, refusing to turn around.
The hand fell away. “I know.”
“I will never give or take a bracelet from you.”
“I know.”
“I will never acknowledge you in public, or in private.”
“I know.” The hand rested on the bed next to him, reassurance without contact. Gregory was trying to give him space! “I don’t expect you to, Mycroft.”
Fingertips gently brushed over his sleeve.
“I know you don’t love me, not like I love you. I don’t expect you to. I don’t even think you can, not because you’re incapable of the emotion, but because you will never ever let go of enough control to let yourself feel it. That’s okay, Mycroft. This, I can live with this.” He was guided back to lean back on the pillows. “Being this close to you, the only person in your life, even if you don’t love me, even if you never do, it’s enough.”
Gregory’s eyes were kind, but sad. It won’t stay enough, Mycroft wanted to tell him, wanted to rage at him and tell him that sooner or later Gregory wouldn’t be able to stand for it, but he couldn’t, because if he did, Gregory might leave.
For whatever illogical reason that he was willing to throw away so much for so little gain, Mycroft didn’t want Gregory to leave.
With a lingering sigh the Submissive, his Submissive (but not), lay down next to him. Mycroft expected Gregory to stay there, to attempt to curl Mycroft into his arms as Mycroft had hazy Estrus recollections of him doing, but instead Gregory rearranged himself lower on the bed, head resting on Mycroft’s lower rib. It seemed so natural to allow his hand to fall back into the hair, for his thumb to run across the more sensitive skin at the nape of the neck.
Why was he doing this? Twice now he had been forced to acknowledge that this wasn’t what he wanted, that it couldn’t happen, and three times he had succumbed to unsteady emotional reasoning with no solid consistent basis. He should refuse, should follow through with his plans, only the plans now seemed to involve Gregory and a child, not a distinct lack of either like they should.
When had Gregory become so important? He’d spent the past months since heat pushing him away, re-establishing the boundaries that had just been trampled over. It was incomprehensible. He didn’t like incomprehensible.
It took Mycroft a while to realise that Gregory’s fingers were not still, that they were in fact undoing the rough silk vest and had moved onto the lower buttons on Mycroft’s shirttail without him realising it. Before he could say anything the fingers brushed the fabric aside and splayed across his stomach, the pervading warmth at the contact driving all thoughts of protest out of Mycroft’s mind. The fingers stroked gently, brushing sweeps that should have been teasing or ticklish, but were only inexplicably soothing.
The baby, Mycroft realised, kicking himself for being so slow though in the last hour around Gregory it seemed a recurring pattern. Gregory was curled protectively around the baby and in his own way was saying hello.
They lay there, neither of them speaking, the only movements Gregory’s fingers, though Mycroft was beginning to feel a compulsive need to tuck himself back into his trousers and fix the zip.
“You were going to abort anyway, weren’t you?” Gregory’s voice was a shock in the silence. He didn’t turn his head to look at Mycroft. “That’s why you took so long downstairs; you’d talked yourself back into it.”
The air felt heavy, loaded.
“Yes.” There was no use denying it.
“Are you going to now?” Even with the rasp to his voice it was possible to tell Gregory’s tone was guarded as he tried to hide how worried he was. The fingers stopped, hand stretching over Mycroft’s middle as far as possible, as if trying to gather and protect the foetus.
This was the first time Gregory had been able to touch his child, even by proxy through Mycroft’s skin. He’d only known for an hour, and yet he was clearly attached, clearly terrified Mycroft would make the smart, sensible, responsible choice and terminate the pregnancy.
He should say yes. “No.”
The fingers gently curled and resumed their rhythmic stroking.
“What changed your mind?”
“I don’t know.”
There was the slightest movement of Gregory’s head, an acknowledging non-existent nod.
“You.” Mycroft said suddenly.
He didn’t know why he said it, didn’t know where the answer had come from, but he knew it was true, that despite the utter illogic of the answer (Gregory was not important enough to Mycroft’s duties to make a valid consideration, even if Mycroft considered him important in his personal life and it was vexing that so much of his thought process had been absorbed by Gregory, Gregory, Gregory) it was the truth.
A soft kiss was laid on his abdomen. “Thank you.”
What did one reply to that? ‘You’re welcome, I’m only risking the fate of the free world for you’? ‘No problem, I only might die for this’? Mycroft chose to say nothing.
There was a muted buzz from the foot of the bed where Gregory’s clothes were still neatly folded. A text message.
“Sherlock must have got tired of calling.” Gregory murmured into his abdomen, not moving from his position and continuing to flutter kisses around Mycroft’s belly button.
“Sherlock?” Mycroft changed to little circles instead of brush strokes.
It was relaxing, lying like this. It was never something he had indulged in with his other partners. Sessions had always been more... arrangements than assignations and even with Arum work had usually quickly summoned them back to reality.
“Mmm. Called me three times trying to get hold of me this afternoon. Wanted to know if you’d contacted me. Insisted that if you didn’t tell me, that he would. Didn’t tell me what, just that if you didn’t tell me to call him.”
Of course Sherlock had contacted Gregory.
“How did he take it?” Gregory asked suddenly.
“Hmm?” Mycroft craned his neck slightly to see the back of the silver head on his chest.
“Sherlock. When you told him you were, you know, pregnant. How did he take it?”
Mycroft frowned. “He was less than pleased.”
Gregory sighed. “I can imagine. That can’t have been easy to hear.”
“Pardon?” Mycroft wracked his brain, forcing the sluggish connections to start firing again after their brief shut down.
“Well, when you told him that you were going to have a baby. You said he was finding it hard to cope with the fact he couldn’t get pregnant so-”
Mycroft froze, images of Sherlock’s face, Sherlock’s anguished face and the hurt behind the immediate anger.
“Mycroft?” Gregory rolled over, dislodging Mycroft’s hand.
Mycroft paid him no notice. How could he not have thought? He’d been so wrapped up in himself, in his problem that it had never even occurred to him the effect it would have on Sherlock. He was Sherlock’s older brother, he had sworn when he was born to protect him from harm and he’d...
“You didn’t.” Gregory’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. His policeman’s voice, the one he used at particularly bad crime scenes when he was holding everything back so he could do his job. “Mycroft, tell me you broke it to him gently.”
“Not,” Mycroft licked his lips, feeling very off balance, “not quite.”
“Not quite?” There was protectiveness in Gregory’s posture, but no possession. Interesting. Mycroft hadn’t realised Gregory considered Sherlock so important, that their relationship was such that outside biological interference Gregory would react as a Family Alpha when the Omega was threatened.
He licked his lips again.
“I may have been quite vocal, and used some, less than flattering terms in reference to the foetus.”
“Unflattering terms?” There was a dangerous edge to Gregory’s voice, the Alpha in him reacting violently to the perceived threat. From the underlying growl in his tone Mycroft suspected the only reason Gregory hadn’t manhandled him into a position more conducive to forcing answers was because he was an Omega, Gregory’s Omega, at least in Gregory’s mind.
This was not going to go down well.
“The phrase ‘parasitical growth’ may have been employed, and I’m afraid I made my plans regarding its continual impingement on my life quite plain.”
Gregory covered his face with his hand. “You told Sherlock, an Omega who is actively trying with everything he has, and failing, to fall pregnant that you were pregnant, that the baby was a parasite, and that you were going to abort it as soon as possible because you loathed its existence.”
Put that way, it did sound rather awful.
“Yes.”
“In raised voices.”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Pardon?”
Gregory gave him a no nonsense glare. “You wouldn’t look this guilty if it were just that, Mycroft. What else did you do?”
Mycroft swallowed, hand tingling compulsively where it had impacted with Sherlock’s cheek. “Things were heated.”
“Tell me you didn’t Dom him.”
Mycroft didn’t say anything. It was, after all, technically true and certainly the preferred path for Gregory’s thoughts to travel down.
“Call him.” It was an order, said softly or not, and the words made Mycroft bristle instinctively. “Mycroft,” Gregory’s tone was placating, “call him. Now.”
“Now?” Mycroft gestured with an imperious nod of the chin at their dishevelled and not entirely, or at all, clothed state.
“It’s a phone call, My. He won’t be able to see through the phone. Call him, now.”
He did need to call Sherlock. He needed to apologise, to check that he hadn’t poked Sherlock’s open wound too hard and caused it to bleed uncontrollably. It was all too easy to imagine he’d tipped Sherlock’s fragile emotional state too far and that the Omega Submissive had raided the stash of drugs he absolutely did not secrete in the flat for emergencies, in case.
His phone was in his pocket. He didn’t even have to move to fetch it. The second ring, the third ring, the fourth, were not surprising. The fact that Sherlock picked up before the fifth was.
He didn’t speak, just let the absence of connecting buzz provide his greeting.
“Sherlock.”
“Mycroft.”
Mycroft winced, forgetting momentarily that Gregory was there to see the facial expression. Sherlock’s voice was cold and detached in a very deliberate and cutting way. He was, at least, sober.
“I-” He didn’t know what to say. “I’ve changed my plans.”
“Indeed?” He could imagine the sarcastically inquisitive eyebrow that accompanied the tone of voice.
“Yes, I will be cancelling my appointment with Dr Koen tomorrow.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Still cold, still distant, still bored.
“I suppose it is appropriate to express some form of gratitude.” Mycroft ignored the sarcastic huff from his midriff where Gregory had resettled himself.
“You have been in contact with Lestrade then?”
“Yes.”
There was silence. Gregory poked his stomach just below the rib.
“I also believe I owe you an apology. My words were ill-chosen and fuelled by inappropriate impulses.”
Another poke.
“And I should not have forced you into actions against your will, or reacted so forcibly to your opinions.” It was as close as Mycroft would risk coming to acknowledging his physical actions with Gregory in the room.
There was a slight pause as Sherlock weighed the sincerity of his remorse. “Apology accepted.”
Pause.
“Was there anything else?”
“No, no, that was everything I needed to say.” Mycroft let his free hand be stolen by Gregory, his fingers squeezed in either warning or approval. These conversations were always quick between them, when one or the other pushed too far. Neither he nor Sherlock enjoyed the intrinsic emotional vulnerability that necessarily accompanied them.
“In that case, I have an experiment that requires my attention before it melts the bench top again.”
Mycroft didn’t ask. “Good evening then.”
“Yes. Oh, and Mycroft,” Mycroft paused, about to lower the phone from his ear to hang up, “next time, take the extra moments to fix your trousers and let Lestrade redress.”
The dial tone sounded in his ear. Gregory froze, ears flushing red in a manner that by necessity meant his face was completely aflame.
Mycroft merely smile, and placed the phone gently on the bedside table.
Let Gregory be embarrassed. With those words, Sherlock had confirmed that Mycroft was actually forgiven.
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Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (9/38)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: If you found the last chapters a little emotional, then you may want to be prepared for this one
Warnings: discussion of abortion (pro and against)
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 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
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Mycroft kept his body still as he listened to Gregory’s retreating footsteps thunder up the stairs. He knew he looked calm and composed - a perfect statue of ice with frozen expression revealing nothing.
Frozen was a good word for it, but rather than the cool icy competence he cultivated he felt more akin to a rabbit caught in a hunter’s beam.
What had he just done?
Gregory suspected nothing, Mycroft was sure; was completely unaware of the galloping heart rate, sweaty palms and whirlwind, no, cyclone of thoughts rushing around in his head. He tried to force himself to move, to uncross his legs, face the door, twitch his finger, but despite usually being so competent under pressure and being fully proficient at acting in emergencies, he was well and truly immobilised. No amount of mental yelling or rattling bars could free his conscious mind from its prison. Was this how ordinary people felt when faced with guns or knives or life and death scenarios?
He didn’t like it.
Eventually he managed to slow his panicked breaths into longer inhales and exhales. Eventually he managed to reduce his heart rate to something approximating normal. Eventually he managed to retard his thoughts enough that the rushing noise as they roared past disappeared and the words and other constituent parts could be broken down, thought about and analysed rather than left to swirl around his brain.
As he brought his thoughts under control he wondered whether other people, people other than himself or Sherlock, ever felt like this, as if their brain was racing ahead and thinking all of its own accord and it had to be manually and deliberately tempered to allow interpretation, or were other people not aware, letting their subconscious mind run away and barely scratching the surface of its input?
Finally his finger moved on command and almost instantaneously his body collapsed leaving him curled over in his chair, arms wrapped around his body.
What had he done?
He sat there, ignoring his agitated thoughts now moving at a manageable speed around his mind, refusing for that moment to pluck any out to focus on them. Just staying, absorbing the magnitude of his act.
He needed to move, it had probably been five minutes, but infuriatingly his time sense had collapsed when his body froze and now he couldn’t accurately say whether it had been 30 seconds or an hour. His rise to standing was not graceful and he staggered the couple of steps to the door, his hands falling against the frame just as Gregory’s had only a short time ago.
He had agreed to keep the baby - the parasitical growth that risked his life, his work, and his family’s legacy. It was illogical, totally impractical, and it was dangerous, actually dangerous in the way he strived to avoid with bodyguards who doubled as personal assistants and security codes.
Everything was planned. Dr Koen had been advised of the situation and had consented to perform the highly illegal termination (as he had been expected to. Treating Mycroft was, in general, highly illegal from the suppression medication on.) It was scheduled: nine o’clock tomorrow morning this situation would be fixed.
Mycroft’s fingers convulsed on the doorframe. He just wanted things to go back to normal. Normal where he made Gregory laugh and Gregory made him smile without either of them having to question what it meant; where they had fun and Gregory challenged him intellectually in areas he’d never have thought a homicide detective would be able to offer thoughtful comment and critique; where his job was his world only impinged on by Sherlock, and his assistant didn’t cancel appointments with the highest authority in the land because she could. He just wanted things to be as they were, was that too much to ask?
He thrust himself through the doorway. Of course it was. That was wishing, begging fate and trying to change things that couldn’t be changed. He was a Holmes: he edited the past, adjusted the future, and made things happen through acts, not dreams. He was pragmatic and logical and he would not stand here and pray.
The child.
‘Well, you need an heir.’ The pragmatic voice at the back of his head piped up.
Yes, he did-That wasn’t the point! He would have a nephew sooner or later, and Sherlock could be made to see sense. There had been a Holmes in government for centuries. His brother wouldn’t destroy all that for - and besides, even if he did need an heir because it was unlikely that his nephew would be suitable (or available), Gregory was hardly the class of Alpha the Holmes family would consider appropriate for genetic donation and none of that mattered because this thing was going to cause enormous problems and put all his work at risk and he wouldn’t have it.
The stair was a slight shock. He had forgotten he’d been moving.
The political consequences would be disastrous. There would be no way for him to continue in government and all his pipeline and in-progress works would be cancelled, and most of his past progress, completed, over and done with or not, would be undone. England would lose traction on the world stage and the government would suffer a critical blow.
He took a step.
Why had he agreed? It was incomprehensible. He had covered all these grounds, thought through every angle that afternoon and decided it was too dangerous. He wasn’t the only one who would suffer. England would suffer without his guiding hand. It wasn’t arrogance to say this when he knew how many fingers he had in how many pies. He was the only person who knew how many balls were in the air, let alone the pattern required to keep them aloft. Through England he influenced the world, both remnants of the Empire and outside countries and conflicts. Anthea was good, but she was only his assistant, not him, and he had no colleagues. He had peers, many peers in many single, isolated fields, but his role, his position straddling so many areas and so much knowledge and power, was unique.
Without him there to perform his duty, war would be the least of the problems.
‘So you need an heir, someone to carry on after you.’
Yes, but there was Sherlock, he ignored the mental snort, and even if there wasn’t Gregory was not-
‘Who else? Who else could you have? There is no appropriately connected Alpha you could have, that’s why you never married and forwent that avenue of collecting power. You can’t sire children, only carry. Could you trust one of those society climbing Alphas with your secret?’
No, of course not, that’s why he didn’t already have a Mate and an heir.
‘But you would do it? If one of those old family Alphas came to you, you would have your child?’
Of course he would, he needed an -
No.
Mycroft shook his head violently and paused halfway up the stairs. No, he was thinking himself in circles. It would be too risky. The consequences were too high. He’d been over this, he’d decided this already. He’d spent hours on it.
He’d say no. He’d walk straight into his room and tell Gregory he’d changed his mind, that it had been a mistake in a moment of weakness brought about by the intense need to comfort his Submissive, his poor, frightened, anguished Submissive who it was his job to -
No!
Gregory was not his Submissive. Yes, he was a Submissive, but he was not Mycroft’s. It was not Mycroft’s duty to keep him safe, to protect him from the world in exchange for total devotion and trust, trust he had been ripping from Gregory’s soul with his pronouncement despite the fact that it was within his power to keep him whole, and he needed to fix and reassure and -
NO!
No, no, no. Gregory was not his. He’d been over this. Being the father of his child did not give Mycroft anymore claim over Gregory than he’d had before. Gregory was not his.
He could be.
No.
He would walk in and say no. Say no to Gregory, say no to keeping the baby.
‘You’ll lose him.’
Yes, Mycroft knew, had known before saying that Gregory would hate him forever, that Gregory would never have anything to do with him again. It was as much the reason why he wanted to keep it to himself as the distaste at revealing he’d made such a massive mistake. Damn Sherlock for interfering! This could have been sorted so simply, a quick injection, some cramps and nausea, and he could go back to Gregory, maybe even assent to lowering the boundaries he was trying to rebuild until he recovered his emotional balance once the hormones left his system; curl up in Gregory’s presence to mourn what had been lost and lick his metaphorical wounds, without Gregory ever knowing the reason why.
Not anymore.
Now Gregory knew. Now he would lose Gregory, lose him more completely than Mycroft had ever wanted. He had wanted space from Gregory, space to allow things to settle, not for him to go. Not for him to be gone.
He would lose Gregory and the baby.
The baby didn’t matter, he didn’t want the baby, didn’t care about the baby. The baby was a nuisance, a parasite, a blot, a defect in his perfectly functioning life and he wanted it gone and -
He paused at the top of the stairs, right hand clutched tight around the banister, left curled convulsively around his abdomen protecting its precious cargo.
No, he didn’t want the baby. This was hormones, just hormones. He knew this, had been taught in class years ago about the massive influx of hormones triggered by pregnancy to bond Omega and child, a necessity given how infrequently children were the result of happy Bondings and how frequently they were the result of what without the Estrus cycle would be rape.
‘Like yours.’
Yes, like him, though who was raping who would have been up for debate - both so chemically eager; both who would otherwise have said no. This issue was the reason there could still be no rape in the eyes of the law of an Omega in Estrus.
‘But you would have chosen him. Out of everyone, you would have chosen him.’
Mycroft couldn’t deny that, but he would have chosen no one first.
‘You were so relieved when he showed up.’
Of course he had been relieved, he had been desperate for an Alpha’s knot, and to have it be someone he liked, trusted, and who was compatible - at the least it prevented the broken bones that would have accompanied two Dominants in bed for four days. At best, it had the potential to be perfect.
It was perfect.
There was nothing perfect about where he was now. A strangled half-growl, half-whine was dragged out of his throat and he stuffed his right hand into his mouth to bite down on a finger, preferring to let go of his balance point than unwrap the protective arm around his baby.
His baby. It was a foetus, nothing more than cells, barely worthy of a name yet. Brain barely developed, limbs not fully formed, a mere bean shaped thing in amniotic fluid. It only just had fingers, tiny fingers.
‘If you don’t want it, why did you spend two hours creating a plan to keep it, a plan you have now enacted. Why spend all that time if it didn’t mean anything to you?’
Because he’d been planning, that was all. Investigating all possible routes including the one where he got to keep his best friend and his child.
‘And be happy?’
Was his child, his friendship with Gregory, worth the weight of the country? The weight of the world?
Did he want them to be?
Yes, no, maybe, he squeezed his eyes tight shut and concentrated on breathing, pushing all his thoughts away and locking his emotions down tight. Logic: that was the key. Let the thoughts back, keep the emotions away.
No child was worth a war. If Mycroft was uncovered, whether he lived or died (which was an option, especially once he lost his government security) several wars were more probably than not. The Middle East was only one area he was attempting to contain, and though his efforts were not singular, unique or unequalled, he was a major piece on the board and a power imbalance would result from his removal.
But his-
No.
He’d been over this and over this that afternoon.
No.
Just No.
He didn’t even want it anyway (yes he did, no he didn’t, yes he did). He would walk into that room, tell Gregory no, and leave before his Dominant instincts kicked in to protect and reassure his Submissive.
He paused next to the door. Surely it was worth the risk?
No.
Last chance. One more step and he’d be seen. Last chance to say no. Last chance to have everything, or as close to everything as he was capable of.
He stood up tall, drew his shoulders up and back, wiped the stray tear that mysteriously had appeared on his cheek, and with the greatest of effort unglued his left arm from his middle.
He was a Holmes. He would face this like the Dominant he was.
He’d made this choice before, over and over - himself or his duty. It would sting, like it hadn’t done since he was a teenager learning to put aside his hopes and heart, but he would recover and would be thicker skinned than ever. Once the hormones were gone, he wouldn’t even care.
Last chance.
He stepped forward.
Gregory was kneeling in the middle of the carpet, still as a statue despite the extended wait and the havoc the position must have been playing with his knees.
‘Look at him,’ the voice in his head whispered, ‘study the person you are about to destroy.’
Gregory wasn’t young, but then neither was Mycroft, and he wore his years well. His hair had completely changed colour, but the silver, not grey, never as dull as grey, only added character, wisdom and distinction, not age. Muscles were still firm and defined under his skin, even if a slight middle age pudge had made its way around Gregory’s middle. The skin was drawn and slightly slack, evidence of recent weight loss. Mycroft’s heart, traitorous organ, performed a regretful triple beat out of time. Sherlock had been right, Gregory hadn’t been eating well.
He drew his eyes up to Gregory’s face, refusing to go lower and tempt himself even if it was the cowardly thing to do. Gregory was watching him, brown eyes large, expressive and cloaked.
“I was starting to wonder if you were coming.” There was nothing in his voice Mycroft could discern to prove hope, disappointment, resignation or judgement, which just proved how unsettled he still was. Gregory was nothing if not expressive.
He had to tell him, had to open his mouth and watch, cause, a heart, a heart that unlike his own may have been bruised and repressed, but never denied, never that, break. It would be worse now because Gregory believed him, took him at his word with so little proof of intent, and now...
Gregory’s arms were behind his back, wrists together in total surrender, even though he wasn’t tied, even though Mycroft hadn’t been here to dictate a pose. With a bit of training he could be-
He was just so-
He had even, Mycroft belatedly noticed, knowing Mycroft’s preference for neatness, taken the time to fold his clothes.
He was going to lose him.
With three quick strides Mycroft crossed the floor and sank to his knees in front of Gregory, capturing his lips in a burning kiss.
He would never do this again. He was only just willing to admit that his body, for whatever reason, wanted to and he would never have the opportunity again. He would never see him again.
Gregory kept his hands clasped behind his back, but that didn’t stop him returning the kiss tenfold. His tongue was twining with Mycroft’s in a way that never quite seemed like surrender, even when Mycroft thrust deep into Gregory’s mouth in complete control of their actions. He let out a delightful little groan as Mycroft drew back, dragged his teeth along his lips before forcing his tongue past yielding lips to continue mapping the inside of Gregory’s mouth.
Mycroft’s fingers were buried as deep in Gregory’s short hair as they could be. Gregory would have to let it grow longer in the future so he could get a proper grip.
One of his hands manoeuvred Gregory’s head exposing his throat. Mycroft started up at his ear, drawing the earlobe gently between his teeth, before slowly nipping and biting down the proffered expanse to the tune of Gregory’s muffled whimpers and breathy sighs, reacquainting himself with skin he knew he had previously marked, but had little to no memory of having done so.
This was getting out of control. It had been one kiss, one kiss before he had to say goodbye forever.
It had been no kisses.
Oh, but Gregory was intoxicating. He was like a drug running through Mycroft’s system, and like a drug addiction Mycroft’s brain was yelling no and his body was ignoring the cries, preferring to sate its craving as months of unrecognised repressed longing flooded his system.
His hand left Gregory’s hair, trailing down his back and over flexed shoulder muscles to wrap around his waist and pull him flush against Mycroft.
Yes, that was all he needed. One more, one more time to show his body that the ‘magic’ was all chemically induced drive from Estrus. One more time to prove to himself that Gregory was nothing special.
He returned to Gregory’s lips gently rolling the flesh between his teeth, laving the trapped expanse with his tongue. Gregory’s lips weren’t smooth or soft or even overly generous. They were chapped from the cold and the wind, the skin pebbly beneath his tongue.
Mycroft’s left hand tightened in Gregory’s hair, preventing Gregory moving towards him to force a firmer contact as Mycroft slowly released his hold on his Submissive’s mouth. Mycroft paused, just the barest fraction from contact.
He had to stop, had to think. He had come here to give Gregory a message, a non-negotiable statement.
Oh, but once more. Just once more.
He shouldn’t. Gregory would hate him even more if Mycroft had sex with him while he laboured under false impressions.
‘He’ll hate you anyway. You’ll never see him again, what more can it do? And look at him, so desperate, so needy, begging for a strong hand to guide him. What kind of Dominant would let such a willing specimen pass?’
Gregory wouldn’t be willing if he was aware Mycroft had changed his mind.
‘Look at his eyes, how glazed they are. He’s already falling into Subspace, already going deep. What kind of irresponsible Dominant would let a Submissive go in such a state, prime target for harm, without bringing him properly through the cycle and safely returning him to the surface?’
Mycroft’s thumb drew lazy circles on Gregory’s hip bone, feeling the smooth glide of skin and the change of texture as he crossed scar tissue.
Anger flared through him. Those scars shouldn’t be there. The very presence of such marks was proof of Dominant failure, proof that no one had kept Gregory safe.
‘He doesn’t have a Dominant to keep him safe. He’s out there, blundering around London, safe only because no one looks, no one truly observes. What happens if you let him go? He only has you to look after him. What happens when he’s discovered and claimed by the first Dominant to cross his path and know? He’s too strong for them; they’d destroy him to break him. He’ll be in danger.’
Mycroft’s hands tightened possessively on hair and hip. He could keep Gregory safe.
‘He needs teaching, guidance.’
He let his lips ghost over Gregory’s, feeling the trembling suffusing his body as the Submissive tried to not move when Mycroft had made his wishes so clear, but yearning to increase the contact. He couldn’t quite stop himself and Mycroft felt the tip of Gregory’s tongue press against his lips before it was dragged forcibly back by its owner.
No, he shouldn’t. He didn’t need or want a Submissive. His existing casual arrangement was as much sexual gratification as he required and it was far too much effort to claim a Submissive, especially a Submissive he couldn’t claim.
‘But think about your family. Think about coming home to Gregory opening the door, your son asleep on your lap while you finish a glass of wine and Gregory smiling from the other seat as you talk.’
But that wasn’t what he wanted. His job, his career was everything.
‘But is that really true, especially now that this is right in front of you for the taking?’
Yes, it was. He never wanted the family life.
‘Really? Not even Before, when you used to dream about it, dream about your future? Your own family, how you’d bring Sherlock to live with you, away from them, so you could take care of him until he Bonded, your children, your Bonded Mate and how you’d look after them all.’
Mycroft stilled. That was a long time ago. Those dreams were gone. He’d got rid of them, he’d had to.
‘But you don’t have to now.’
Gregory whimpered slightly, head trying to nestle further into Mycroft’s hand without moving as his distress translated through to his Submissive.
I don’t need it.
‘You want it.’
No, he didn’t.
He leant Gregory’s head on his shoulder and nuzzled the join of neck and shoulder. It wasn’t Estrus, there was no overabundance of pheromones pouring out of Gregory’s skin to flavour his scent and taste, and yet, and yet there was still a hint of flavour there, something that made Mycroft want to pull Gregory onto the bed with him and twine them together until there was no way to tell where one of them started and the other ended.
His hand was moving on Gregory’s back. Tracing the lines he’d put there last time, he realised.
“They’ve faded.” The words were whispered into his jacket, Gregory’s voice catching slightly as he tried to force them out. “You could make new ones.”
Mycroft pushed him back slightly, cupping Gregory’s chin to tilt his head. Gregory really was falling under already, and at quite a rapid pace if the expression in his eyes was to be believed. His eyelids were half closed, eyes sleepy and content though he clearly wasn’t tired. The muscles holding his shoulders back had relaxed, still keeping his arms in place, but making it look less forced as he accepted the posture.
“It’s you.” The words were dreamy coming from Gregory’s mouth, country accent thicker than in normal speech. “Tried with others, couldn’t even kneel for them, but you, all you have to do is look at me.”
Mycroft’s finger traced along Gregory’s jaw.
“It was written on your face, that you were wondering.” A smile twitched at the edges of those thin chapped lips. “Despite what you might like to believe, I’m not a total idiot.”
“I have never believed you were.” He drew Gregory back forward into his chest.
Gregory let out a small sigh into his shirt. “That makes one of you.”
Suddenly Mycroft very much wanted to renew those marks, retrace Gregory’s skin with hands and teeth and leather.
“Stand.” He growled.
Gregory scrambled to his feet, releasing his hands in his haste to stand. Mycroft made his ascent much more gracefully, pinning Gregory in place as the Submissive started to follow him over to his bedside drawer with a pointed and commanding look.
What to use, what to use? He’d used the paddle and the crop last time. Did he want to repeat, relive that experience, or use this last time for something new, for more memories to file away in the recesses he never let himself look at in his mind? His fingers drifted over the paddle, the riding crop, the flogger... yes, maybe the flogger. Black suede, 30 tails only 15 inches long, ideal for some of the more... intimate areas.
Did he want gloves? His black leather gloves rested in their assigned space in the drawer. The sensation of leather whispering over skin could heighten the experience beautifully, but not tonight. Tonight he wanted the feeling of Gregory under his fingertips, to caress his skin with Mycroft’s own hands, not through a barrier, no matter how tantalising.
He let a small smile curl over his lips. It wasn’t as if Gregory required the extra stimulation, so Mycroft may as well indulge.
He briskly closed the drawer and pivoted, flogger resting casually in one hand. Gregory stood still, shoulders back and down, legs spread apart in a stance obviously learnt at the police academy, though little used since. It lacked the military precision that would have accompanied parade rest, but it was certainly more than adequate for what Mycroft had planned.
“Stay.” He put a small measure of Dominance behind the command to ensure that Gregory stayed still, but also because he enjoyed the shiver that ran over the body before him.
His pace as he walked forward was measured, calculating. It was a mask more than anything, he already knew what he was going to do, but the act seemed to interest Gregory if the way his breathing hitched was any indication. Mycroft stopped a full two feet away from him, letting his eyes trail up and down Gregory’s body in a much more deliberate and provocative manner than before. Arms at his sides, fingers balled into fists to restrain himself. He was unconsciously holding his stomach in, paranoid that Mycroft would find him wanting? Nonsensical behaviour. Thighs very well-muscled, police work would do that if you refused to stay behind a desk and let other people do the work for you, and he had very well defined calves.
As he gaze drifted back up Mycroft deliberately and obviously took in the sight he’d denied himself earlier. Gregory wasn’t as long as he’d thought from his hazy recollections, but he was quite a bit thicker. His cock was certainly interested in the proceedings, though it had settled slightly since it was a hot brand against Mycroft’s thigh on the floor, mostly, but not fully erect as Gregory waited for the proceedings to play out.
Mycroft felt a throb in his own groin in reaction to the member he’d known very intimately a few months past and a sudden answering empty echo from his rear. It wasn’t that long ago he’d been stretched around that length. The burn had taken a couple of days to fade, despite the lubrication from his cycle.
He stretched out his arm and placed the head of the flogger’s handle on Gregory’s shoulder, the tails unfurling down his back as Mycroft strolled casually around to his body. The marks had indeed faded from the flesh. That was okay, Mycroft would be renewing them soon.
The gentle movement of the suede was causing little involuntary leaps and jumps in the muscles down Gregory’s back. The scar on his hip, knife if Mycroft was any judge and at least five years old, curled around onto his back. A small thing, but one that meant so much. Gregory had other scars, on his knees from childhood falls, on his wrist from an ill-conceived blood oath during a drunken university party, but this one, this knife wound, it shouldn’t be there.
There were no scars from rough play during sessions, nowhere that Mycroft could see, and right now he could see all of Gregory. No marks along his back or buttocks consistent with a whip or crop in any form, no scars around his wrists from yanking on handcuffs not designed for the play they were used in. Gregory’s body was for him. No other, pathetic, irresponsible Dominant had been there to harm him and permanently blemish the skin through lack of skill. Mycroft’s lips curled in a disgusted snarl. No proficient Dominant should be leaving scars on a Submissive, but that didn’t mean that most of society didn’t.
The first strike drove an expletive from Gregory’s lips. “Rule number four, Gregory.”
Teeth sank into the flesh of Gregory’s lower lip as he attempted to keep another word escaping with the second blow.
He remembered. That was good.
Mycroft let the flogger trail over Gregory’s back, circling each globe of his arse before teasing the edge of his thighs. The next blow fell squarely on the top of Gregory’s calves and then immediately on his shoulder, keeping him off balance, the movements unpredictable.
More blows rained down, turning his back, buttocks and thighs a glorious pink. They would have to move to the bed soon, Gregory was losing his balance as he fell further and further from true thought.
“Wider.” Mycroft whispered, the first words in the five minutes he’d spent decorating Gregory’s skin.
Gregory eagerly spread his legs wider. So responsive, so beautiful. Mycroft stepped closer and let the black suede tails drip down Gregory’s chest. The clothing barrier between his chest and Gregory’s back prevented him feeling the heat he knew must be radiating off the flesh, but there was more than sufficient satisfaction as Gregory’s head tilted back against his shoulder, nipples tightening at the soft touches, cock bobbing full and red between his legs, fully erect again.
The flogger came down hard, catching the bud of one nipple, leaving white streaks across Gregory’s ribs and chest which quickly flushed red and faded to pink. The whimpering moan released against his neck was exquisite.
“Shhh.” Mycroft whispered against the short silver bristles, nuzzling the top of Gregory’s head. “I have you.”
There was an answering nuzzle and sigh against his neck, barely accessible to Gregory with the jacket and shirt.
He ran the flogger the length of his Submissive’s body again, draping its fronds across the eager cock, drifting tantalisingly between thighs and brushing over sensitive skin. The next strike was more of a flick, tails skimming the edge of Gregory’s balls and perineum.
A gasp, but no withdrawal.
Mycroft brought the flogger down again, this time across Gregory’s lower belly so that only a few stray tails flicked against his cock.
This time there was a bite to his neck and Gregory ground back against Mycroft’s own erection, straining through his trousers. He was obviously not adverse to a little pain as well as pleasure. That fit with what Mycroft remembered of their previous play.
“Please.” The word was a soft, barely more than an exhale. Teeth gently grazed his neck again and a tongue slowly began to prod and probe the pulse point.
Mycroft closed his eyes and let Gregory do as he wished. It felt glorious to have those lips fluttering over his skin, tasting him, memorising him like he was memorising Gregory.
Emboldened by his lack of punishment, Gregory’s hand came up to cup Mycroft’s cheek and turn his face to his own. “Please” his lips said, though no sound was emitted as they caressed Mycroft’s own. “Please” The other hand slipped between their bodies and began to undo the buttons on Mycroft’s trousers.
Mycroft smiled into the kiss. Why not? It would be interesting to see if real life lived up to his little fantasy.
He propelled Gregory forward and then stepped away, walking casually to the bed. There was confusion in Gregory’s eyes, a look that conflicted with the general haziness over his demeanour, clearly unsettled by the turn of events.
He could have used the chair, made the situation exactly like his fantasy, but this seemed more appropriate somehow.
Mycroft was aware of the hunger in Gregory’s eyes as he positioned himself on the edge of the bed. He watched Gregory watching him, watching him lean back provocatively on his elbows, one leg cocked at the knee to rest a sock clad foot, slippers abandoned in the hallway, on the edge of the bed. The eagerness written into every line of Gregory’s body as he openly eyed Mycroft’s reclining figure, eyes lingering on his partially revealed neck, covered wrists and groin... no, not groin, Mycroft raised an evaluating eyebrow, his rear, was so obvious it was almost a caricature, but that didn’t stop a wave of heat rushing through his body and pooling in Mycroft’s cock at the visual confirmation of interest.
“Well?” His voice was unexpectedly hoarse.
Understanding flashed through Gregory’s eyes and replaced the consternation with... confidence? Arrogance? Possession? No, Mycroft realised, hunting. Predator instincts. Well, well, well, he’d awoken the Alpha. He’d been wondering whether he’d come out to play.
Mycroft would have expected the Submissive state Gregory had fallen into to disintegrate as the Alpha came to the fore, but the general sense of submission never faded as Gregory sauntered towards him.
Ah, sauntered, not stalked. Of course, being an Alpha gave Gregory predatory instincts, but the Submissive nature changed how they were satisfied. Gregory wouldn’t hunt him with aggression, force and power; He’d lure Mycroft with traps of seduction, submission and consent.
‘Intriguing,’ Mycroft thought, letting his head fall back as Gregory knelt to kiss his foot, his ankle, his calf, ‘how intriguing.’
The kisses slowly migrated up Mycroft’s extended leg, teeth nipping at the flesh beneath the fabric. When he reached Mycroft’s upper leg, Gregory began to intersperse the nips with pointed nuzzles along Mycroft’s inner thigh. There was something exhilarating in the deceptively simple acts, the adrenaline heightened sensation that resulted from the irrepressible feeling that he was holding a tiger on a leash, and that the tiger was only tame by choice.
The feeling, the thrill of controlling such potential, was intoxicating.
Gregory’s nose was nudging the very top of Mycroft’s inseam and not moving. Mycroft tore his gaze from whatever it was his eyes were focusing on on the ceiling to look down at Gregory’s face. It was clearly a deliberate act to achieve that exact result because the eyes that stared back were heated and sly. As soon as their gazes were locked and Gregory was assured of Mycroft’s full attention, he moved that final centimetre, nose hovering just where Mycroft’s cock was straining through his trousers, refusing to touch. It was so easy to imagine the fabric barrier wasn’t there, that he could feel Gregory’s warm breath blowing over his taut flesh in an insubstantial caress.
His inadvertent fantasy hadn’t involved Gregory’s mouth, but now that the thought had occurred, now that it was teasing him just out of reach, Mycroft knew that nothing else would satisfy. It had to be Gregory’s mouth, his teeth, his throat, and his Submissive would do it too. It was clearly his intent, staying there, challenging Mycroft’s control over both himself and Gregory, waiting to see which of them would break first. It wouldn’t be Mycroft. In just a few seconds Gregory would move his hand to Mycroft’s trousers, would pull down the zipper, and do much more satisfactory things than hover out of reach. Yes, he was moving, moving-
Down Mycroft’s leg, with the most deliberate and purposeful glint in his eye.
A growl escaped Mycroft’s throat, even as part of him saluted the audacity of his Submissive. He would teach him his place; show him that it didn’t pay to tease his Dominant.
Gregory merely threw him a teasing glance and nipped his inner thigh on his way down to Mycroft’s other foot.
“Gregory.” Mycroft hadn’t meant to speak, had meant in fact to wait out the teasing and then punish Gregory with a few well-earned strokes of the paddle or the crop, but the name came unbidden from his throat.
At least he wasn’t moaning or otherwise revealing how desperate such simple acts had made him. At least it was a snarl, not a whimper, but it was still conceding and Mycroft would berate himself over giving the ground.
Later, much later, because right now Gregory’s mouth had returned to the juncture of Mycroft’s legs and his nose was buried in the fabric of Mycroft’s trousers and his, oh, his teeth were drawing the zipper down to allow his tongue access to Mycroft’s pants.
The button at the top of his trousers and his belt were still fastened, but that didn’t stop Gregory’s eager tongue saturating the silk covering Mycroft’s erection. His hands were still locked behind his back, Mycroft hazily noticed, he was maintaining the position as best he could. It also meant that Gregory wasn’t going to undo that button, wasn’t going to remove the belt.
Fine, Mycroft would do it, and he would use it to secure Gregory’s hands behind his back, since his cock-tease of a Submissive seemed to like it so much.
Transferring his weight onto one elbow so his other hand was free was almost more coordination than Mycroft was capable of at that time. It was ridiculous, absolutely incomprehensible, how aroused he was, how much he needed Gregory. Gregory hadn’t even done anything yet, had merely run a gentle touch along Mycroft’s trousers, yet somehow, somehow Mycroft was more worked up than he’d ever been. Worked up enough that when he managed the button and his belt, and Gregory instantly nosed his erection out through the slit in the silk pants to engulf the tip in his hot, hot mouth, Mycroft dropped the belt and abandoned all thoughts of restraining his Submissive in favour of burying his hand back in Gregory’s hair.
It was indescribable. In sharp contrast to his teasing acts Gregory had swallowed as much of Mycroft in one go as he could, aided, finally, by his hands which were released from behind his back. He was clearly inexperienced, unable to take much of Mycroft’s length and gagging as the short, aborted thrusts of Mycroft’s hips pushed it too deep, but just the feeling of the moist cavern, the tiny hint of teeth, deliberate or not, as Gregory pulled back up the shaft and the tentative swirl of tongue around the head before sucking the length back in, was more perfect that the most experienced Submissive Mycroft had ever had on their knees in front of him.
Some part of Mycroft’s brain, the part that wasn’t panting and straining in Gregory’s mouth and flexing fingers in his hair, noted that Gregory had clearly restricted himself mainly to female Submissives, despite showing no aversion to the male genders. Perhaps he’d found them easier to Dominate for some reason? Lack of, or less intense, interest maybe?
The thought was quickly derailed as every bone in Mycroft’s Dominant body screamed out a rejection at the thought of Gregory ever touching or being touched by anyone else. The anger flowed through Mycroft’s voice, filling the air with an animalistic rumble.
Gregory was his, his Submissive, his Alpha, the sire of his child. No one else would touch him, no one else could touch him. He belonged to Mycroft and only Mycroft. He thrust his hips forward, not caring that Gregory was likely to gag at the intrusion. Gregory was his, his to possess in every way.
Sure enough Gregory’s throat convulsed around the hard length that suddenly found its way down his throat.
“Relax.”
Mycroft kept thrusting, trusting his dominance to work long enough on Gregory’s muscles for him to learn how to take Mycroft deliberately, without the need for Mycroft’s help. Gregory felt so good around him, nose brushing against the curly hair at the hilt of his penis, hands clutching Mycroft’s thighs for balance. His throat, swallowing wildly to accommodate every inch of swollen member, felt so tight and warm with every thrust and the sensation so heady that Mycroft took several strokes to realise he was no longer the one setting the pace, but Gregory who, with a couple of reflexive tears rolling down his face, was drawing Mycroft in and out, hand on his hair just resting no longer commanding.
Perfect, so perfect. He shouldn’t have learnt so fast, shouldn’t have been able to go from choking to making Mycroft’s eyes roll back in his head so quickly. Mycroft had been expecting to have to lead Gregory through it with dominance, but the matter was well and truly out of his hands as Gregory sped up.
Mycroft’s whimpers that he would never ever admit to were gaining strength and pushing themselves out his own throat. His Submissive, his amazing Submissive. His rear gave a throb, constricting around nothing and reminding Mycroft how empty he was, how much he wanted Gregory’s fingers, no his cock, buried deep in Mycroft’s arse, but that would mean taking his cock out of Gregory’s mouth, of removing himself from that decadent warmth, and as much as Mycroft wanted, needed, Gregory beneath him, thrusting up into his arse, he couldn’t stand to withdraw long enough to remove his trousers let alone the duration of prep now that they no longer had the Estrus induced aid.
He needed Gregory to come, needed to feel the sensation of that throat closing around him as Gregory spilled, needed to see what Gregory looked like and remember it. It took effort to drag his hand out of the short silver strands to push at Gregory’s own, but he managed. It took three tries, Mycroft too far beyond words to give verbal directions, before his inelegant shoves on Gregory’s wrist conveyed his message and with a moan that sparked from Mycroft’s cock to his head and his toes, Gregory obeyed.
Mycroft couldn’t see Gregory’s hand, could barely make out the expression on his face, his senses had reached such a point of betrayal, but he could feel every shudder of pleasure that migrated through Gregory’s body and directly into Mycroft’s cock.
“Oh G-God, Greg-gory, come for me.”
Gregory’s face went slack as he pushed himself over the edge, expression suffused with pleasure. The sight was too much and Mycroft bucked his hips again, roughly taking Gregory’s mouth for one, two, three more strokes before the pressure exploded out of his balls and all the tension in his body released.
Gregory pulled off and spluttered, having been too far into Subspace to consciously think about swallowing without a command Mycroft hadn’t thought to give, and then climbed up on the bed next to where Mycroft had collapsed. The feel of Gregory next to him on the bed, the phantom memory of last time they had been together, fluttered through his body, not enough to rouse him again, but enough to cause almost painful pangs of need as his arse clenched around nothing.
Next time, he promised himself as he pulled Gregory closer and swung his legs onto the bed, next time he would do as he vaguely remembered promising Gregory during Estrus and use the cock ring to ride him until he was so sensitive, so ready to burst, that he came on command without Mycroft even touching him. Hours, it would take hours, hours of appropriate prep and play to build the sensation and make it last, make it burn rather than flare and subside, but Mycroft was patient and they would do it and he would ride Gregory to his own completion before ordering him to come too.
Next time.
Next time, there was no next time. This was a one-time thing, a last go to clear his ridiculous obsession before he told Gregory that he was aborting the baby. There would be no next time.
‘Yes, there will be.’ The voice in his head laughed in cruel satisfaction. ‘You know there will be.’
No-
‘Stop fighting it. There will be a next time, and a time after that.’
The baby-
‘You want it. Admit it, you want it, and you want him, buried to the hilt in your body, fucking you until he begs for mercy.’
Mycroft tensed, languid muscles locking into terrified place.
‘Admit it.’
No, no the risk-
He would take it. God help him, for Gregory, he was selfish enough to risk the world.
Gregory nuzzled his neck comfortingly, slowly rising from Subspace as he came down from his endorphin induced high. Mycroft pushed him off, threw his legs off the side of the bed, and hung his head in his hands, emotions and thoughts at war.
“Mycroft?” Gregory’s voice was scratchy and would probably remain so for a couple of days.
He had felt so good!
A gentle hand came to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder. Gregory, giving again, offering more of himself than Mycroft wanted to, could, take.
“I will never collar you.” His hands dropped from his face, elbows resting on knees. He kept his gaze on the wall, refusing to turn around.
The hand fell away. “I know.”
“I will never give or take a bracelet from you.”
“I know.”
“I will never acknowledge you in public, or in private.”
“I know.” The hand rested on the bed next to him, reassurance without contact. Gregory was trying to give him space! “I don’t expect you to, Mycroft.”
Fingertips gently brushed over his sleeve.
“I know you don’t love me, not like I love you. I don’t expect you to. I don’t even think you can, not because you’re incapable of the emotion, but because you will never ever let go of enough control to let yourself feel it. That’s okay, Mycroft. This, I can live with this.” He was guided back to lean back on the pillows. “Being this close to you, the only person in your life, even if you don’t love me, even if you never do, it’s enough.”
Gregory’s eyes were kind, but sad. It won’t stay enough, Mycroft wanted to tell him, wanted to rage at him and tell him that sooner or later Gregory wouldn’t be able to stand for it, but he couldn’t, because if he did, Gregory might leave.
For whatever illogical reason that he was willing to throw away so much for so little gain, Mycroft didn’t want Gregory to leave.
With a lingering sigh the Submissive, his Submissive (but not), lay down next to him. Mycroft expected Gregory to stay there, to attempt to curl Mycroft into his arms as Mycroft had hazy Estrus recollections of him doing, but instead Gregory rearranged himself lower on the bed, head resting on Mycroft’s lower rib. It seemed so natural to allow his hand to fall back into the hair, for his thumb to run across the more sensitive skin at the nape of the neck.
Why was he doing this? Twice now he had been forced to acknowledge that this wasn’t what he wanted, that it couldn’t happen, and three times he had succumbed to unsteady emotional reasoning with no solid consistent basis. He should refuse, should follow through with his plans, only the plans now seemed to involve Gregory and a child, not a distinct lack of either like they should.
When had Gregory become so important? He’d spent the past months since heat pushing him away, re-establishing the boundaries that had just been trampled over. It was incomprehensible. He didn’t like incomprehensible.
It took Mycroft a while to realise that Gregory’s fingers were not still, that they were in fact undoing the rough silk vest and had moved onto the lower buttons on Mycroft’s shirttail without him realising it. Before he could say anything the fingers brushed the fabric aside and splayed across his stomach, the pervading warmth at the contact driving all thoughts of protest out of Mycroft’s mind. The fingers stroked gently, brushing sweeps that should have been teasing or ticklish, but were only inexplicably soothing.
The baby, Mycroft realised, kicking himself for being so slow though in the last hour around Gregory it seemed a recurring pattern. Gregory was curled protectively around the baby and in his own way was saying hello.
They lay there, neither of them speaking, the only movements Gregory’s fingers, though Mycroft was beginning to feel a compulsive need to tuck himself back into his trousers and fix the zip.
“You were going to abort anyway, weren’t you?” Gregory’s voice was a shock in the silence. He didn’t turn his head to look at Mycroft. “That’s why you took so long downstairs; you’d talked yourself back into it.”
The air felt heavy, loaded.
“Yes.” There was no use denying it.
“Are you going to now?” Even with the rasp to his voice it was possible to tell Gregory’s tone was guarded as he tried to hide how worried he was. The fingers stopped, hand stretching over Mycroft’s middle as far as possible, as if trying to gather and protect the foetus.
This was the first time Gregory had been able to touch his child, even by proxy through Mycroft’s skin. He’d only known for an hour, and yet he was clearly attached, clearly terrified Mycroft would make the smart, sensible, responsible choice and terminate the pregnancy.
He should say yes. “No.”
The fingers gently curled and resumed their rhythmic stroking.
“What changed your mind?”
“I don’t know.”
There was the slightest movement of Gregory’s head, an acknowledging non-existent nod.
“You.” Mycroft said suddenly.
He didn’t know why he said it, didn’t know where the answer had come from, but he knew it was true, that despite the utter illogic of the answer (Gregory was not important enough to Mycroft’s duties to make a valid consideration, even if Mycroft considered him important in his personal life and it was vexing that so much of his thought process had been absorbed by Gregory, Gregory, Gregory) it was the truth.
A soft kiss was laid on his abdomen. “Thank you.”
What did one reply to that? ‘You’re welcome, I’m only risking the fate of the free world for you’? ‘No problem, I only might die for this’? Mycroft chose to say nothing.
There was a muted buzz from the foot of the bed where Gregory’s clothes were still neatly folded. A text message.
“Sherlock must have got tired of calling.” Gregory murmured into his abdomen, not moving from his position and continuing to flutter kisses around Mycroft’s belly button.
“Sherlock?” Mycroft changed to little circles instead of brush strokes.
It was relaxing, lying like this. It was never something he had indulged in with his other partners. Sessions had always been more... arrangements than assignations and even with Arum work had usually quickly summoned them back to reality.
“Mmm. Called me three times trying to get hold of me this afternoon. Wanted to know if you’d contacted me. Insisted that if you didn’t tell me, that he would. Didn’t tell me what, just that if you didn’t tell me to call him.”
Of course Sherlock had contacted Gregory.
“How did he take it?” Gregory asked suddenly.
“Hmm?” Mycroft craned his neck slightly to see the back of the silver head on his chest.
“Sherlock. When you told him you were, you know, pregnant. How did he take it?”
Mycroft frowned. “He was less than pleased.”
Gregory sighed. “I can imagine. That can’t have been easy to hear.”
“Pardon?” Mycroft wracked his brain, forcing the sluggish connections to start firing again after their brief shut down.
“Well, when you told him that you were going to have a baby. You said he was finding it hard to cope with the fact he couldn’t get pregnant so-”
Mycroft froze, images of Sherlock’s face, Sherlock’s anguished face and the hurt behind the immediate anger.
“Mycroft?” Gregory rolled over, dislodging Mycroft’s hand.
Mycroft paid him no notice. How could he not have thought? He’d been so wrapped up in himself, in his problem that it had never even occurred to him the effect it would have on Sherlock. He was Sherlock’s older brother, he had sworn when he was born to protect him from harm and he’d...
“You didn’t.” Gregory’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. His policeman’s voice, the one he used at particularly bad crime scenes when he was holding everything back so he could do his job. “Mycroft, tell me you broke it to him gently.”
“Not,” Mycroft licked his lips, feeling very off balance, “not quite.”
“Not quite?” There was protectiveness in Gregory’s posture, but no possession. Interesting. Mycroft hadn’t realised Gregory considered Sherlock so important, that their relationship was such that outside biological interference Gregory would react as a Family Alpha when the Omega was threatened.
He licked his lips again.
“I may have been quite vocal, and used some, less than flattering terms in reference to the foetus.”
“Unflattering terms?” There was a dangerous edge to Gregory’s voice, the Alpha in him reacting violently to the perceived threat. From the underlying growl in his tone Mycroft suspected the only reason Gregory hadn’t manhandled him into a position more conducive to forcing answers was because he was an Omega, Gregory’s Omega, at least in Gregory’s mind.
This was not going to go down well.
“The phrase ‘parasitical growth’ may have been employed, and I’m afraid I made my plans regarding its continual impingement on my life quite plain.”
Gregory covered his face with his hand. “You told Sherlock, an Omega who is actively trying with everything he has, and failing, to fall pregnant that you were pregnant, that the baby was a parasite, and that you were going to abort it as soon as possible because you loathed its existence.”
Put that way, it did sound rather awful.
“Yes.”
“In raised voices.”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Pardon?”
Gregory gave him a no nonsense glare. “You wouldn’t look this guilty if it were just that, Mycroft. What else did you do?”
Mycroft swallowed, hand tingling compulsively where it had impacted with Sherlock’s cheek. “Things were heated.”
“Tell me you didn’t Dom him.”
Mycroft didn’t say anything. It was, after all, technically true and certainly the preferred path for Gregory’s thoughts to travel down.
“Call him.” It was an order, said softly or not, and the words made Mycroft bristle instinctively. “Mycroft,” Gregory’s tone was placating, “call him. Now.”
“Now?” Mycroft gestured with an imperious nod of the chin at their dishevelled and not entirely, or at all, clothed state.
“It’s a phone call, My. He won’t be able to see through the phone. Call him, now.”
He did need to call Sherlock. He needed to apologise, to check that he hadn’t poked Sherlock’s open wound too hard and caused it to bleed uncontrollably. It was all too easy to imagine he’d tipped Sherlock’s fragile emotional state too far and that the Omega Submissive had raided the stash of drugs he absolutely did not secrete in the flat for emergencies, in case.
His phone was in his pocket. He didn’t even have to move to fetch it. The second ring, the third ring, the fourth, were not surprising. The fact that Sherlock picked up before the fifth was.
He didn’t speak, just let the absence of connecting buzz provide his greeting.
“Sherlock.”
“Mycroft.”
Mycroft winced, forgetting momentarily that Gregory was there to see the facial expression. Sherlock’s voice was cold and detached in a very deliberate and cutting way. He was, at least, sober.
“I-” He didn’t know what to say. “I’ve changed my plans.”
“Indeed?” He could imagine the sarcastically inquisitive eyebrow that accompanied the tone of voice.
“Yes, I will be cancelling my appointment with Dr Koen tomorrow.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Still cold, still distant, still bored.
“I suppose it is appropriate to express some form of gratitude.” Mycroft ignored the sarcastic huff from his midriff where Gregory had resettled himself.
“You have been in contact with Lestrade then?”
“Yes.”
There was silence. Gregory poked his stomach just below the rib.
“I also believe I owe you an apology. My words were ill-chosen and fuelled by inappropriate impulses.”
Another poke.
“And I should not have forced you into actions against your will, or reacted so forcibly to your opinions.” It was as close as Mycroft would risk coming to acknowledging his physical actions with Gregory in the room.
There was a slight pause as Sherlock weighed the sincerity of his remorse. “Apology accepted.”
Pause.
“Was there anything else?”
“No, no, that was everything I needed to say.” Mycroft let his free hand be stolen by Gregory, his fingers squeezed in either warning or approval. These conversations were always quick between them, when one or the other pushed too far. Neither he nor Sherlock enjoyed the intrinsic emotional vulnerability that necessarily accompanied them.
“In that case, I have an experiment that requires my attention before it melts the bench top again.”
Mycroft didn’t ask. “Good evening then.”
“Yes. Oh, and Mycroft,” Mycroft paused, about to lower the phone from his ear to hang up, “next time, take the extra moments to fix your trousers and let Lestrade redress.”
The dial tone sounded in his ear. Gregory froze, ears flushing red in a manner that by necessity meant his face was completely aflame.
Mycroft merely smile, and placed the phone gently on the bedside table.
Let Gregory be embarrassed. With those words, Sherlock had confirmed that Mycroft was actually forgiven.
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