Rolling in the Deep (9/?)
Rolling in the Deep
Title: Rolling in the DeepSeries: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part III of IV)
Author:
melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish they were mine, but they aren't. Nor am I creative enough to have written the song that gave this instalment its title. That belongs to Adele, and whomever else had IP rights along side her.
Author's Notes: Well, I'm fairly sure that by the time most of you read this it will probably be Monday. Sorry about that. Unfortunately computer issues and time zones conspired against this chapter, but at least it's a little present to brighten isn't really a good word with this story, to compliment your start to the week.
Just a heads up, Mycroft is a little volatile in this chapter, so if you think he's flip flopping between moods, you are completely correct.
Without further ado, betaed again by theartofprose (thank you!), Chapter 8.
Warnings: Dub-con, minor gender issues
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Chapter 1: Introduction - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
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“And here we are, Benny-boy. Home sweet home.” Greg juggled his son, the bag and his keys, mostly successfully. “Now remember, we don’t believe anything Uncle Sherlock says about Daddy and I, yes? I am not that stupid and Daddy does not need to lose weight.”
“Thank you for that ringing endorsement, Gregory.” Mycroft was leaning casually on the bannister, smiling his tight amused smile.
“Hi, Mycroft. You’re home.” Greg smiled much more widely back. “Sherlock didn’t say anything, by the way. About your weight, I mean. Just trying to make sure, he doesn’t start, you know….Habits…”
Mycroft fondly shook his head at Greg’s sheepish explanation and stepped forward, holding out his arms for Ben. Greg didn’t really want to hand him over, but he’d cuddled Ben the whole way home and it was hardly fair to deny Mycroft the same now.
“Yeah, well, about that,” he started, as he settled Ben in Mycroft’s arms. “Any chance of you having a word with Sherlock and asking him not to deduce our sex life in front of our son? Or teaching him to do it?”
Mycroft raised an eloquent eyebrow and Greg sighed. Sometimes he hated how much Mycroft could say with a raised brow.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll ask John.”
“Probably for the best,” Mycroft nodded. “So other than what I assume was a little observation incident, how was he?”
“Sherlock?”
Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation, prompting an amused snort of laughter from his erstwhile Sub.
“A little angel, I think,” Greg told Mycroft as he rolled his shoulders back, working out the kinks. “I hadn’t even got out of the flat before Sherlock started stripping, so the debrief was less than comprehensive, but clearly nothing that’s put them off having kids.”
Mycroft smiled again, his tight smirk loosening a little as he swayed gently while holding Ben. Greg wondered whether Mycroft realised he did that, how much softer he was around their son, but he wasn’t going to ask and risk bringing it to My’s attention. If he did, Mycroft would probably stop.
“Come on.” Greg hefted the baby bag higher onto his shoulder and started up the stairs. “He’s had a nap, so you can probably get some time playing with him before he needs feeding and bed.”
“Oh, and if I might enquire precisely what we are playing, Gregory?”
Despite his naturally arch tone and general lack of a playful bone in his body, Mycroft’s footsteps followed his up the stairs, and Greg felt a content grin spread over his lips.
“Well, I was going to put on the Wheels on the Bus and collapse on the sofa. Anything else is up to you, though Sherlock assures me Ben likes being tickled and what I think is peek-a-boo. Sherlock isn’t the most conventional baby entertainer in the world, so who knows what he was actually doing.”
Greg swore he could hear Mycroft roll his eyes.
“Alternatively, we could foster his mental development with something a little more notable.”
“He’s been listening to Tchaikovsky all day, My, let him have some social development time now.”
Greg made sure to reach the player before Mycroft, laying claim to the music. He got to see Mycroft’s exasperated head shake that time.
“Go get a bottle ready,” Mycroft ordered in his own brand of disdainful amusement.
“Why don’t you just feed him? You’re here after all,” Greg pointed out, leaning casually on the dresser as he watched Mycroft engage with Ben.
It seemed a logical suggestion to him, but the shuttered mask fell across Mycroft’s face and was replaced just as quickly with trademark haughty derision. Greg had still seen it though, he knew what it meant.
“Is it because I’m here?” he asked, unsure why it was suddenly a problem after last time.
Mycroft didn’t reply, as he lay Ben on his play mat and favoured him with a smile that was noticeably absent from his face when he stood up.
“You’ve seen me feed Ben before,” Mycroft replied neutrally with just a touch of frost.
“Yeah, and I rather thought you enjoyed the result last night. I mean, wouldn’t it be easier? You’re an-” Greg asked bluntly.
“Do not get into the habit of thinking of me as an Omega,” Mycroft snapped over Greg’s reply. “That is not who I am.”
“But. . . ” Greg’s eyes slid to Ben, who was lying wide eyed and unaware on the floor. “You are an-”
“I’ll get his bottle then.” Mycroft pivoted and strode out of the door with the air of someone who wanted to slam it behind them.
With a sigh Greg sat on the floor next to Ben. “Okay, I get it. Omega - bad. Guess your Dad’s not the only one having identity issues. Sorry Tyke, we’re a real mess aren’t we? At least Mycroft can afford a good therapist when we totally stuff you up.”
Ben stuffed his fingers in his mouth and slobbered on them. Mycroft was right, he would need feeding soon.
The bottle arrived with Mycroft and his own personal ice cloud. Greg moved to the opposite side of the room without protest and dealt with the baby bag, keeping himself to himself as far away as possible from the silent demand for space.
He didn’t leave though. Images of Mycroft clutching at his hand while telling him to hurry up and go during labour strengthened his resolve to show Mycroft he was there and was part of it. So when he was done, rather than be chased out by the chilly silence broken only by Ben suckling on the artificial teat, Greg pulled a baby book off the shelf and settled on the couch to read, sneaking occasional glances at Mycroft and Ben.
It wasn’t viscerally arousing like it had been the night before, possibly because of the bottle, possibly because of the invisible wall Mycroft had erected around himself, but it was still comforting to see that none of that cold brusqueness translated into Mycroft’s handling of Ben. For Ben there were gentle touches, brief smiles and murmured words not audible where Greg sat.
Ben was obviously more worn out by his day at 221B than Greg had thought, because he fell asleep while Mycroft was still manoeuvring him into his sleep suit.
“Is Mrs Potts better? Do I need to drop him back tomorrow?” Greg asked quietly, not wanting to disturb Ben.
“I’ll take him over in the morning. Give her another day,” Mycroft replied without looking at Greg, tucking the blanket around Ben’s sleeping form.
“I’ll pick him up,” Greg volunteered. “Have a word with John.”
“Agreed.”
Mycroft straightened and turned away from the crib. Faced directly with Greg’s physical presence for the first time since he’d stormed out of the room, the walls softened a little, ice cloud giving just the slightest.
“So what’s for dinner?” Greg asked as they left the room. “I presume we’re foraging for ourselves like ye olden days.”
“Correct.”
“How hungry are you?”
“For food?” Mycroft’s voice had a light croon that dragged Greg’s attention very much back to his love.
“Yeah, food.” Greg’s tongue darted out and he licked his lips, thrown by the sudden change of attitude.
“Not very.” Mycroft’s eyes practically glowed green.
“For other things?” Greg tried to sound nonchalant, which wasn’t easy in the face of his Dom stalking towards him with intent and definite breathlessness.
“Starved,” Mycroft whispered into his mouth.
Abruptly the electric fission of arousal and lust snapped over Greg, sending goose bumps running over his body.
“Please, Master,” he whispered.
Please kiss me, please touch me, please let me believe you love me.
“Bedroom,” Mycroft ordered as he dragged his teeth lightly along Greg’s lower lip.
Greg shivered and responded with his own nip. The returned affection seemed to startle Mycroft a little and he pulled back. Greg arched his brow, somewhat seductively he hoped, and sauntered into the bedroom as ordered.
Mycroft must have hesitated else he would have been right on Greg’s heels. What that meant Greg didn’t know, but given that Mycroft looked a little blank and just a little closed off, it was probably related to his earlier outburst.
“As ordered,” he indicated, his grin only a little forced.
For some reason his heart was racing. Not the usual kind of racing either - it was more like the frantic beat of a bird’s wings, close to what he’d last felt when confronting Mycroft about their relationship’s secrecy clause.
“Indeed. Anything in particular?” Mycroft asked.
He sounded a little bit tetchy. Not a lot, but just enough for Greg to notice. Greg’s nerves weren’t helped as he noticed the slight clenching of Mycroft’s jaw. Somewhere, he’d gone wrong.
“Whatever you’d like…?”
Greg tried not to make it sound like a reluctant question, but the uncertainty would have been obvious to anyone, let alone Mycroft Holmes.
At the reassurance of control, Mycroft relaxed again, jaw loosening almost imperceptivity and demeanour changing from aggravated to aroused. Then Mycroft was prowling forward and that spark that had fizzed along his skin just started the slow burn in his abdomen.
Worried, Greg wondered. Had Mycroft been worried? Uncertain? Or was that wishful thinking as he slowly lost the ability to reason anywhere close to rationally?
“Hmmm…” Mycroft drew a hand across Greg’s cheek, nestling it among the short strands of his hair. His eyes sped over Greg’s body, evaluating. “What to do.”
“Haven’t tied me up in a while,” Greg offered breathily.
“True,” Mycroft pleasantly agreed, with a predator’s smile on his face. “But that’s a little more … time consuming than I’m in the mood for.”
“Is that so?” Greg asked lightly, trying to ignore the embarrassing catch at the beginning of his sentence. He chalked it up to the way his blood was streaming south.
“Oh yes,” Mycroft remarked conversationally. “I was thinking something a little sharper, a little more immediate.”
“There - there’s the, uh,” Greg tried, stumbling over the words as Mycroft unblinkingly stared into his soul.
“Yes, Gregory?” Amusement laced Mycroft’s words, resonating just behind the serious façade Greg was faced with.
Increasingly aroused and slipping gradually from his own mind, he was slowly losing the ability to read behind the lines.
“Back to basics, maybe?” Mycroft breathed in his ear.
“Yes, Master.” Greg closed his eyes, lightly swaying and oh so vaguely light headed.
“No more talking.” Mycroft stepped back. “Strip.”
Greg’s hands flew automatically to his buttons, fingers operating on autopilot. He didn’t dally, didn’t try to make it sexy. Back to basics meant back to the rules and that meant prompt obedience: orders followed to the letter.
Mycroft’s lips gave an approving twitch and he moved to investigate the drawer while Greg struggled with his socks. His hand hovered over several items, moving around the options without ever actually landing while he considered exactly what he would go for. Just as Greg managed to fling his errant socks onto the pile, Mycroft reached a conclusion and pulled out the two sets of padded cuffs Greg had first worn in that bed.
Greg respectfully sank to his knees, head bowed.
“On the bed.” Mycroft placed a gentle hand on his hair, holding Greg still as he moved to obey. “Up kneeling, facing the bedstead. Hold the third rung.”
The restraining hand removed itself and Greg rose, climbing as elegantly onto the bed as he could and arranging his limbs as requested. Hands on the bedhead, Greg started letting things go, relaxing into it as Mycroft clasped the inch wide leather cuffs around his wrists.
Mycroft only used one set this time, looping it through the iron work to maintain the pressure on Greg’s arms. Without his bracelets, the leather didn’t encase his wrists and forearms the same way, but it was enough to centre him, stop the focus on the what and the why.
Mycroft began removing his own clothes. Not having been told not to look, Greg turned his head to watch, drinking in the sight of skin as each layer was removed and carefully stored on the chair. Once he was finished, clad only in his pants, Mycroft picked up the first of the accessories set out on the bedside table.
Seeing what he held, Greg shifted his weight attempting to make his chest as accessible as possible.
“Good.” Mycroft kissed him lightly as he attached the clamps and deceptively delicate looking chain.
The effect of the clamps was instantaneous as the cleansing bite washed away the rest of the world. The chain was the long game: it was so light now, but as his body tired it would feel heavier and heavier and drag him further down. Mycroft climbed up behind him on the bed, yanking his hips backwards until Greg was stretched out struggling to keep his hold on the bedstead. The sudden motion sent the chain swinging and a fresh pinch shuddering along his nerves.
It had been so long since he felt this, the delicate slide into oblivion that was subspace. His perception shrank, drilling down to Mycroft’s hands running along his back, the firm muscles of their thighs touching, and the light, insistent pinpricks on his nipples.
He hadn’t managed this last time, when he’d been too bound up in his own head from what they were doing and before that... before that it had been months since Mycroft had sent him under. The slide eased the tightness-not the one in his chest he never seemed rid of-the one down his spine and behind his forehead he’d only become aware of the first time Mycroft had taken it away. It had been building imperceptibly while Mycroft was away, lost under the myriad of other sensory demands and every day stresses.
Now it uncoiled, released, letting Greg fit comfortably back into his own skin as he arched against Mycroft and soundlessly purred.
“Beautiful.” Mycroft kissed his spine, a wet humid point springing into existence in Greg’s narrowing world and lingering beyond the touch of Mycroft’s tongue and lips.
“Gorgeous.” Manicured fingernails drew gently down his side, rocking the chain as Mycroft changed to rougher streaks, nails leaving stinging lines of skin along Greg’s sides.
Mycroft drew back, mouth hovering millimetres off Greg’s skin as he pulled away, dropping one more spot of water borne heat at the base of Greg’s buttocks.
“How are you feeling?”
Greg hummed contentedly, Mycroft’s voice flowing over him raising tingles as it went, before he realised sluggishly that it was a question he was probably meant to answer.
“Good, Master,” he slurred, his mouth and tongue not co-operating.
Mycroft chucked and dropped another kiss on his back.
“I meant after yesterday,” he rumbled, giving Greg’s arse a squeeze for emphasis.
“All right,” Greg mumbled, struggling not to lose focus as the insinuation hit him in the centre of his chest.
It was like being caught in a maelstrom, a hurricane that ripped him suddenly and harshly from subspace, throwing him brutally to the surface at the memory. His head spun, disoriented, and he felt like he was going to be sick right there on the bed.
Breathe, he had to breathe, get control before he made an absolute fool of himself.
Shocked back to awareness, the world flooded in: the room, his knees getting stiff on the bed, the ache in his shoulders, the pain on his chest - no longer arousing or helpful, just pain that his body wanted to get away from. Mycroft was standing by the bed, pouring lube onto his fingers and completely unaware of the shift his words had caused in a matter of milliseconds.
Under, he had to get back under before Mycroft noticed, before they did anything. He’d barely been able to cope last time, floundering in the shallows as he’d been. There was no way he could do it raw, exposed and aware.
Mycroft’s fingers touched him and he was glad, so, so glad, that he was on his knees facing away from him because it meant his face was hidden from view. There was less of a chance of Mycroft noticing his turmoil, his inability to stay down, if he couldn’t see his face. His body was still pliant and relaxed, only his mind and that hard knot lodged in his chest wouldn’t comply.
Mycroft’s fingers were gentle and wet, pushing and probing as lightly as possible to start, his entire attention focused on preparing Greg as carefully as he could. It gave Greg time to try and hide his mental struggle.
Did he want to hide it? Shouldn’t he let Mycroft see and they could - no. Not after Mycroft’s outburst at being more than an Omega. The Alpha in him shied away from showing failure, weakness.
It also tried to shy away from Mycroft’s fingers.
Misinterpreting, Mycroft eased out and reapplied the lube, thinking it was physical pain Greg was flinching away from and being oh so careful to try and alleviate it. The cold slick fingers pressed back, gently circled him attempting to make sure the viscous gel was well and truly spread before slowly beginning to apply pressure.
Static wails spiralled to squawky electronic heights as Ben awoke and found something to his displeasure.
“Shit,” Greg heard Mycroft swear.
The long fingers withdrew and a cloth started softly but briskly wiping away the dribbling lube he’d just liberally applied to Greg’s arse.
“Gregory? Gregory, I’m going to have to go and deal with Ben, okay? I need you to start coming up now.” Mycroft called him firmly, keeping contact as he attempted to ease him up gently, not knowing Greg had already roughly surfaced.
“I’m going to take this off and let your hands go, understand? I don’t know how long I’ll be and I can’t leave you like this, I’m sorry.” Mycroft kept talking in his low voice, unclamping the nipple clamps and rubbing a perfunctory layer of cream on them as Greg hissed and Ben cried ever more loudly, distracting Mycroft away from the fact Greg that didn’t need the care, rushed as it was.
Last off were the handcuffs, dropped carelessly on the bedside table instead of carefully stowed as was Mycroft’s usual practice. His normal routine of cleaning and packing away exchanged for throwing on a dressing gown and laying Greg down on the bed, promising to be back as soon as possible before running out.
Greg didn’t protest. Anything to avoid drawing attention to how his heart was hammering with relief not desperation and trembling from gratitude not shock.
Free to move about he shuffled as quickly as his limbs would allow him into the bathroom for a more thorough clean up than the one Mycroft had had time for. There wasn’t much left to do, Mycroft was nothing if not efficient, but he went over it all anyway and downed a glass of water, slopping some of it on his chest as he gulped.
He towelled off roughly, drying the sweat that had broken out over his skin at the same time. Maybe he was a little shocky after all.
His pyjamas were under ‘his’ pillow, now that he was an unofficial permanent fixture in Mycroft’s bed whether they were or weren’t having sex. He usually didn’t bother, just slipping on a t-shirt and boxers to sleep in, but tonight he wanted the coverage.
He snorted at himself as he got into bed. What? Was he worried My was going to be overcome by the sight of his shins and plunge straight in? If that were the result he’d have been sleeping in boxers since day one to encourage it.
He wore the long bottoms anyway, and when the sounds of Mycroft laying a much happier Ben back down filtered through the baby monitor he turned his back on the door and curled up, pretending to be asleep.
The door shut with a quiet click and Mycroft approached the bed in a rustle of silk.
“Gregory?”
Greg stayed where he was, keeping his breathing even. The sounds of Mycroft pulling on his own nightwear reached his ears, followed by the waft of cool air as Mycroft slid under the sheet, despite the early hour.
A gentle kiss was dropped on his temple and a delicate exhale wafted Mycroft’s semi-fresh breath over Greg’s face as he held there, nose buried in Greg’s hair. He pressed another gentle kiss on the back of Greg’s neck and nestled behind him.
Greg tried not to curl into a cringing ball and lay there consumed with inexplicable guilt, wide awake long after Mycroft had fallen asleep, still wrapped around Greg in an unnecessary attempt to be considerate and prevent him waking up in a drop.
He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t explain any of it, but when his alarm went off the only surprise was that after lying awake and waiting for it for so long, it hadn’t sounded sooner.
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Previous - Next
Title: Rolling in the DeepSeries: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part III of IV)
Author:
melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish they were mine, but they aren't. Nor am I creative enough to have written the song that gave this instalment its title. That belongs to Adele, and whomever else had IP rights along side her.
Author's Notes: Well, I'm fairly sure that by the time most of you read this it will probably be Monday. Sorry about that. Unfortunately computer issues and time zones conspired against this chapter, but at least it's a little present to brighten isn't really a good word with this story, to compliment your start to the week.
Just a heads up, Mycroft is a little volatile in this chapter, so if you think he's flip flopping between moods, you are completely correct.
Without further ado, betaed again by theartofprose (thank you!), Chapter 8.
Warnings: Dub-con, minor gender issues
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Chapter 1: Introduction - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
“And here we are, Benny-boy. Home sweet home.” Greg juggled his son, the bag and his keys, mostly successfully. “Now remember, we don’t believe anything Uncle Sherlock says about Daddy and I, yes? I am not that stupid and Daddy does not need to lose weight.”
“Thank you for that ringing endorsement, Gregory.” Mycroft was leaning casually on the bannister, smiling his tight amused smile.
“Hi, Mycroft. You’re home.” Greg smiled much more widely back. “Sherlock didn’t say anything, by the way. About your weight, I mean. Just trying to make sure, he doesn’t start, you know….Habits…”
Mycroft fondly shook his head at Greg’s sheepish explanation and stepped forward, holding out his arms for Ben. Greg didn’t really want to hand him over, but he’d cuddled Ben the whole way home and it was hardly fair to deny Mycroft the same now.
“Yeah, well, about that,” he started, as he settled Ben in Mycroft’s arms. “Any chance of you having a word with Sherlock and asking him not to deduce our sex life in front of our son? Or teaching him to do it?”
Mycroft raised an eloquent eyebrow and Greg sighed. Sometimes he hated how much Mycroft could say with a raised brow.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll ask John.”
“Probably for the best,” Mycroft nodded. “So other than what I assume was a little observation incident, how was he?”
“Sherlock?”
Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation, prompting an amused snort of laughter from his erstwhile Sub.
“A little angel, I think,” Greg told Mycroft as he rolled his shoulders back, working out the kinks. “I hadn’t even got out of the flat before Sherlock started stripping, so the debrief was less than comprehensive, but clearly nothing that’s put them off having kids.”
Mycroft smiled again, his tight smirk loosening a little as he swayed gently while holding Ben. Greg wondered whether Mycroft realised he did that, how much softer he was around their son, but he wasn’t going to ask and risk bringing it to My’s attention. If he did, Mycroft would probably stop.
“Come on.” Greg hefted the baby bag higher onto his shoulder and started up the stairs. “He’s had a nap, so you can probably get some time playing with him before he needs feeding and bed.”
“Oh, and if I might enquire precisely what we are playing, Gregory?”
Despite his naturally arch tone and general lack of a playful bone in his body, Mycroft’s footsteps followed his up the stairs, and Greg felt a content grin spread over his lips.
“Well, I was going to put on the Wheels on the Bus and collapse on the sofa. Anything else is up to you, though Sherlock assures me Ben likes being tickled and what I think is peek-a-boo. Sherlock isn’t the most conventional baby entertainer in the world, so who knows what he was actually doing.”
Greg swore he could hear Mycroft roll his eyes.
“Alternatively, we could foster his mental development with something a little more notable.”
“He’s been listening to Tchaikovsky all day, My, let him have some social development time now.”
Greg made sure to reach the player before Mycroft, laying claim to the music. He got to see Mycroft’s exasperated head shake that time.
“Go get a bottle ready,” Mycroft ordered in his own brand of disdainful amusement.
“Why don’t you just feed him? You’re here after all,” Greg pointed out, leaning casually on the dresser as he watched Mycroft engage with Ben.
It seemed a logical suggestion to him, but the shuttered mask fell across Mycroft’s face and was replaced just as quickly with trademark haughty derision. Greg had still seen it though, he knew what it meant.
“Is it because I’m here?” he asked, unsure why it was suddenly a problem after last time.
Mycroft didn’t reply, as he lay Ben on his play mat and favoured him with a smile that was noticeably absent from his face when he stood up.
“You’ve seen me feed Ben before,” Mycroft replied neutrally with just a touch of frost.
“Yeah, and I rather thought you enjoyed the result last night. I mean, wouldn’t it be easier? You’re an-” Greg asked bluntly.
“Do not get into the habit of thinking of me as an Omega,” Mycroft snapped over Greg’s reply. “That is not who I am.”
“But. . . ” Greg’s eyes slid to Ben, who was lying wide eyed and unaware on the floor. “You are an-”
“I’ll get his bottle then.” Mycroft pivoted and strode out of the door with the air of someone who wanted to slam it behind them.
With a sigh Greg sat on the floor next to Ben. “Okay, I get it. Omega - bad. Guess your Dad’s not the only one having identity issues. Sorry Tyke, we’re a real mess aren’t we? At least Mycroft can afford a good therapist when we totally stuff you up.”
Ben stuffed his fingers in his mouth and slobbered on them. Mycroft was right, he would need feeding soon.
The bottle arrived with Mycroft and his own personal ice cloud. Greg moved to the opposite side of the room without protest and dealt with the baby bag, keeping himself to himself as far away as possible from the silent demand for space.
He didn’t leave though. Images of Mycroft clutching at his hand while telling him to hurry up and go during labour strengthened his resolve to show Mycroft he was there and was part of it. So when he was done, rather than be chased out by the chilly silence broken only by Ben suckling on the artificial teat, Greg pulled a baby book off the shelf and settled on the couch to read, sneaking occasional glances at Mycroft and Ben.
It wasn’t viscerally arousing like it had been the night before, possibly because of the bottle, possibly because of the invisible wall Mycroft had erected around himself, but it was still comforting to see that none of that cold brusqueness translated into Mycroft’s handling of Ben. For Ben there were gentle touches, brief smiles and murmured words not audible where Greg sat.
Ben was obviously more worn out by his day at 221B than Greg had thought, because he fell asleep while Mycroft was still manoeuvring him into his sleep suit.
“Is Mrs Potts better? Do I need to drop him back tomorrow?” Greg asked quietly, not wanting to disturb Ben.
“I’ll take him over in the morning. Give her another day,” Mycroft replied without looking at Greg, tucking the blanket around Ben’s sleeping form.
“I’ll pick him up,” Greg volunteered. “Have a word with John.”
“Agreed.”
Mycroft straightened and turned away from the crib. Faced directly with Greg’s physical presence for the first time since he’d stormed out of the room, the walls softened a little, ice cloud giving just the slightest.
“So what’s for dinner?” Greg asked as they left the room. “I presume we’re foraging for ourselves like ye olden days.”
“Correct.”
“How hungry are you?”
“For food?” Mycroft’s voice had a light croon that dragged Greg’s attention very much back to his love.
“Yeah, food.” Greg’s tongue darted out and he licked his lips, thrown by the sudden change of attitude.
“Not very.” Mycroft’s eyes practically glowed green.
“For other things?” Greg tried to sound nonchalant, which wasn’t easy in the face of his Dom stalking towards him with intent and definite breathlessness.
“Starved,” Mycroft whispered into his mouth.
Abruptly the electric fission of arousal and lust snapped over Greg, sending goose bumps running over his body.
“Please, Master,” he whispered.
Please kiss me, please touch me, please let me believe you love me.
“Bedroom,” Mycroft ordered as he dragged his teeth lightly along Greg’s lower lip.
Greg shivered and responded with his own nip. The returned affection seemed to startle Mycroft a little and he pulled back. Greg arched his brow, somewhat seductively he hoped, and sauntered into the bedroom as ordered.
Mycroft must have hesitated else he would have been right on Greg’s heels. What that meant Greg didn’t know, but given that Mycroft looked a little blank and just a little closed off, it was probably related to his earlier outburst.
“As ordered,” he indicated, his grin only a little forced.
For some reason his heart was racing. Not the usual kind of racing either - it was more like the frantic beat of a bird’s wings, close to what he’d last felt when confronting Mycroft about their relationship’s secrecy clause.
“Indeed. Anything in particular?” Mycroft asked.
He sounded a little bit tetchy. Not a lot, but just enough for Greg to notice. Greg’s nerves weren’t helped as he noticed the slight clenching of Mycroft’s jaw. Somewhere, he’d gone wrong.
“Whatever you’d like…?”
Greg tried not to make it sound like a reluctant question, but the uncertainty would have been obvious to anyone, let alone Mycroft Holmes.
At the reassurance of control, Mycroft relaxed again, jaw loosening almost imperceptivity and demeanour changing from aggravated to aroused. Then Mycroft was prowling forward and that spark that had fizzed along his skin just started the slow burn in his abdomen.
Worried, Greg wondered. Had Mycroft been worried? Uncertain? Or was that wishful thinking as he slowly lost the ability to reason anywhere close to rationally?
“Hmmm…” Mycroft drew a hand across Greg’s cheek, nestling it among the short strands of his hair. His eyes sped over Greg’s body, evaluating. “What to do.”
“Haven’t tied me up in a while,” Greg offered breathily.
“True,” Mycroft pleasantly agreed, with a predator’s smile on his face. “But that’s a little more … time consuming than I’m in the mood for.”
“Is that so?” Greg asked lightly, trying to ignore the embarrassing catch at the beginning of his sentence. He chalked it up to the way his blood was streaming south.
“Oh yes,” Mycroft remarked conversationally. “I was thinking something a little sharper, a little more immediate.”
“There - there’s the, uh,” Greg tried, stumbling over the words as Mycroft unblinkingly stared into his soul.
“Yes, Gregory?” Amusement laced Mycroft’s words, resonating just behind the serious façade Greg was faced with.
Increasingly aroused and slipping gradually from his own mind, he was slowly losing the ability to read behind the lines.
“Back to basics, maybe?” Mycroft breathed in his ear.
“Yes, Master.” Greg closed his eyes, lightly swaying and oh so vaguely light headed.
“No more talking.” Mycroft stepped back. “Strip.”
Greg’s hands flew automatically to his buttons, fingers operating on autopilot. He didn’t dally, didn’t try to make it sexy. Back to basics meant back to the rules and that meant prompt obedience: orders followed to the letter.
Mycroft’s lips gave an approving twitch and he moved to investigate the drawer while Greg struggled with his socks. His hand hovered over several items, moving around the options without ever actually landing while he considered exactly what he would go for. Just as Greg managed to fling his errant socks onto the pile, Mycroft reached a conclusion and pulled out the two sets of padded cuffs Greg had first worn in that bed.
Greg respectfully sank to his knees, head bowed.
“On the bed.” Mycroft placed a gentle hand on his hair, holding Greg still as he moved to obey. “Up kneeling, facing the bedstead. Hold the third rung.”
The restraining hand removed itself and Greg rose, climbing as elegantly onto the bed as he could and arranging his limbs as requested. Hands on the bedhead, Greg started letting things go, relaxing into it as Mycroft clasped the inch wide leather cuffs around his wrists.
Mycroft only used one set this time, looping it through the iron work to maintain the pressure on Greg’s arms. Without his bracelets, the leather didn’t encase his wrists and forearms the same way, but it was enough to centre him, stop the focus on the what and the why.
Mycroft began removing his own clothes. Not having been told not to look, Greg turned his head to watch, drinking in the sight of skin as each layer was removed and carefully stored on the chair. Once he was finished, clad only in his pants, Mycroft picked up the first of the accessories set out on the bedside table.
Seeing what he held, Greg shifted his weight attempting to make his chest as accessible as possible.
“Good.” Mycroft kissed him lightly as he attached the clamps and deceptively delicate looking chain.
The effect of the clamps was instantaneous as the cleansing bite washed away the rest of the world. The chain was the long game: it was so light now, but as his body tired it would feel heavier and heavier and drag him further down. Mycroft climbed up behind him on the bed, yanking his hips backwards until Greg was stretched out struggling to keep his hold on the bedstead. The sudden motion sent the chain swinging and a fresh pinch shuddering along his nerves.
It had been so long since he felt this, the delicate slide into oblivion that was subspace. His perception shrank, drilling down to Mycroft’s hands running along his back, the firm muscles of their thighs touching, and the light, insistent pinpricks on his nipples.
He hadn’t managed this last time, when he’d been too bound up in his own head from what they were doing and before that... before that it had been months since Mycroft had sent him under. The slide eased the tightness-not the one in his chest he never seemed rid of-the one down his spine and behind his forehead he’d only become aware of the first time Mycroft had taken it away. It had been building imperceptibly while Mycroft was away, lost under the myriad of other sensory demands and every day stresses.
Now it uncoiled, released, letting Greg fit comfortably back into his own skin as he arched against Mycroft and soundlessly purred.
“Beautiful.” Mycroft kissed his spine, a wet humid point springing into existence in Greg’s narrowing world and lingering beyond the touch of Mycroft’s tongue and lips.
“Gorgeous.” Manicured fingernails drew gently down his side, rocking the chain as Mycroft changed to rougher streaks, nails leaving stinging lines of skin along Greg’s sides.
Mycroft drew back, mouth hovering millimetres off Greg’s skin as he pulled away, dropping one more spot of water borne heat at the base of Greg’s buttocks.
“How are you feeling?”
Greg hummed contentedly, Mycroft’s voice flowing over him raising tingles as it went, before he realised sluggishly that it was a question he was probably meant to answer.
“Good, Master,” he slurred, his mouth and tongue not co-operating.
Mycroft chucked and dropped another kiss on his back.
“I meant after yesterday,” he rumbled, giving Greg’s arse a squeeze for emphasis.
“All right,” Greg mumbled, struggling not to lose focus as the insinuation hit him in the centre of his chest.
It was like being caught in a maelstrom, a hurricane that ripped him suddenly and harshly from subspace, throwing him brutally to the surface at the memory. His head spun, disoriented, and he felt like he was going to be sick right there on the bed.
Breathe, he had to breathe, get control before he made an absolute fool of himself.
Shocked back to awareness, the world flooded in: the room, his knees getting stiff on the bed, the ache in his shoulders, the pain on his chest - no longer arousing or helpful, just pain that his body wanted to get away from. Mycroft was standing by the bed, pouring lube onto his fingers and completely unaware of the shift his words had caused in a matter of milliseconds.
Under, he had to get back under before Mycroft noticed, before they did anything. He’d barely been able to cope last time, floundering in the shallows as he’d been. There was no way he could do it raw, exposed and aware.
Mycroft’s fingers touched him and he was glad, so, so glad, that he was on his knees facing away from him because it meant his face was hidden from view. There was less of a chance of Mycroft noticing his turmoil, his inability to stay down, if he couldn’t see his face. His body was still pliant and relaxed, only his mind and that hard knot lodged in his chest wouldn’t comply.
Mycroft’s fingers were gentle and wet, pushing and probing as lightly as possible to start, his entire attention focused on preparing Greg as carefully as he could. It gave Greg time to try and hide his mental struggle.
Did he want to hide it? Shouldn’t he let Mycroft see and they could - no. Not after Mycroft’s outburst at being more than an Omega. The Alpha in him shied away from showing failure, weakness.
It also tried to shy away from Mycroft’s fingers.
Misinterpreting, Mycroft eased out and reapplied the lube, thinking it was physical pain Greg was flinching away from and being oh so careful to try and alleviate it. The cold slick fingers pressed back, gently circled him attempting to make sure the viscous gel was well and truly spread before slowly beginning to apply pressure.
Static wails spiralled to squawky electronic heights as Ben awoke and found something to his displeasure.
“Shit,” Greg heard Mycroft swear.
The long fingers withdrew and a cloth started softly but briskly wiping away the dribbling lube he’d just liberally applied to Greg’s arse.
“Gregory? Gregory, I’m going to have to go and deal with Ben, okay? I need you to start coming up now.” Mycroft called him firmly, keeping contact as he attempted to ease him up gently, not knowing Greg had already roughly surfaced.
“I’m going to take this off and let your hands go, understand? I don’t know how long I’ll be and I can’t leave you like this, I’m sorry.” Mycroft kept talking in his low voice, unclamping the nipple clamps and rubbing a perfunctory layer of cream on them as Greg hissed and Ben cried ever more loudly, distracting Mycroft away from the fact Greg that didn’t need the care, rushed as it was.
Last off were the handcuffs, dropped carelessly on the bedside table instead of carefully stowed as was Mycroft’s usual practice. His normal routine of cleaning and packing away exchanged for throwing on a dressing gown and laying Greg down on the bed, promising to be back as soon as possible before running out.
Greg didn’t protest. Anything to avoid drawing attention to how his heart was hammering with relief not desperation and trembling from gratitude not shock.
Free to move about he shuffled as quickly as his limbs would allow him into the bathroom for a more thorough clean up than the one Mycroft had had time for. There wasn’t much left to do, Mycroft was nothing if not efficient, but he went over it all anyway and downed a glass of water, slopping some of it on his chest as he gulped.
He towelled off roughly, drying the sweat that had broken out over his skin at the same time. Maybe he was a little shocky after all.
His pyjamas were under ‘his’ pillow, now that he was an unofficial permanent fixture in Mycroft’s bed whether they were or weren’t having sex. He usually didn’t bother, just slipping on a t-shirt and boxers to sleep in, but tonight he wanted the coverage.
He snorted at himself as he got into bed. What? Was he worried My was going to be overcome by the sight of his shins and plunge straight in? If that were the result he’d have been sleeping in boxers since day one to encourage it.
He wore the long bottoms anyway, and when the sounds of Mycroft laying a much happier Ben back down filtered through the baby monitor he turned his back on the door and curled up, pretending to be asleep.
The door shut with a quiet click and Mycroft approached the bed in a rustle of silk.
“Gregory?”
Greg stayed where he was, keeping his breathing even. The sounds of Mycroft pulling on his own nightwear reached his ears, followed by the waft of cool air as Mycroft slid under the sheet, despite the early hour.
A gentle kiss was dropped on his temple and a delicate exhale wafted Mycroft’s semi-fresh breath over Greg’s face as he held there, nose buried in Greg’s hair. He pressed another gentle kiss on the back of Greg’s neck and nestled behind him.
Greg tried not to curl into a cringing ball and lay there consumed with inexplicable guilt, wide awake long after Mycroft had fallen asleep, still wrapped around Greg in an unnecessary attempt to be considerate and prevent him waking up in a drop.
He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t explain any of it, but when his alarm went off the only surprise was that after lying awake and waiting for it for so long, it hadn’t sounded sooner.
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