Be Mine Part 11
Title: Be Mine
Characters: Mycroft Holmes/Gregory Lestrade
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~2,300
Warnings: D/S AU, Dom!Mycroft, Sub!Gregory (more warnings may come in the future, likely bondage)
Summary: In a world where everyone is a dom or a sub, Greg has no interest in finding another dom. Unfortunately, he seems to have caught Mycroft's attention, and Mycroft isn't prepared to take no for an answer.
Written for a prompt on the kink meme.
---
Greg wakes up to find himself curled up in a bed that’s about twice the size of the one in his flat. The mattress beneath his body is deceptively soft, easing tension out of his aching muscles and forcing him to relax, yet at the same time it supports him just enough to make sure his back doesn’t go into spasm. He blinks hazily up at the ceiling, fighting off the urge to go just roll over and go back to sleep, trying to remember how he got here. His last memory is of getting into the car with Mycroft outside of the hospital; he must have passed out on the way to the flat because he doesn’t remember anything after that.
He rubs a hand over his face and sits up, looking instinctively towards the clock. His eyes widen when he realizes that it’s 1:00pm. “Bloody hell!” he mutters with a shake of his head. The last time he slept so late was… well, it would have been when he was in school and possibly not even then. He can’t believe that no one from the Met has been after him yet. He’ll probably have a ton of voicemails and texts waiting for him.
Still, it’s nice, feeling so rested. He can still feel fatigue weighing him down - bone deep exhaustion doesn’t just disappear overnight - but he feels a hell of a lot better than he did. Good enough to wonder what on Earth had possessed him last night when he climbed onto Mycroft Holmes’s lap and snogged the man. Just the memory of it is enough to make his cheeks burn and he climbs off of the bed. There’re two doors in the room and a quick check of both shows that one leads to a fully equipped bathroom. He takes the opportunity for a very long, very hot shower.
The thing is, it was good, last night. He’d do it again if he got the chance. There’s something about Mycroft that makes Greg think that maybe he could be different, could be trusted. Greg’s not used to that and it makes him nervous to even contemplate giving up so much to another person. But at the same time he’s not sure he wants to spend the rest of his life thinking about what could have been. He’s had enough regrets in his life and he doesn’t want to add any more to the list. As he gets out of the shower and towels off, he’s still not sure what to do. He gets dressed in the jeans and shirt that were left for him and decides he’ll start with food.
The tempting smell of bacon leads him to the kitchen. Greg grins when he walks in. “I never fancied you for a chef,” he says.
Mycroft turns around and smiles. He’s wearing what probably passes for casual for him, a pair of dress trousers and a perfectly pleated shirt in a pale green that makes the auburn in his hair stand out. “I find it enjoyable,” he says. “It’s challenging enough to keep my mind occupied and yet I never have to yell at the sugar for making a bad deal with the eggs.”
Greg chuckles. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Sit down. It’s almost ready.”
He does, realizing that following the order (suggestion?) doesn’t make him feel uneasy. He watches curiously as Mycroft finishes the meal and serves him: three rashers of bacon, an egg, a piece of toast, and some fruit. Mycroft sits down across from him with a similar plate and silently hands Greg a cup of tea that’s made up just the way Greg likes it. He sips from the cup to hide the wry smile that lingers on his lips and digs into his meal with relish. It’s been a very long time since he’s enjoyed a home-cooked meal.
“I’m not a serial killer,” Mycroft says abruptly.
A piece of food goes down the wrong way and Greg chokes, coughing. “I know you’re not,” he says between sputters. “Sherlock would love any chance to put you away. He’d have taken the opportunity long ago.”
Mycroft smirks. “Yes, he would.”
“I know you’re not,” Greg repeats, fiddling with his fork. The humiliation of it swells over him again. He’s never felt as stupid as he did at that moment, watching his fellow men come for his dom, seeing them taking the man away into custody, having to listen to other officers telling him how lucky he’d been, overhearing the rumours that had circulated the Yard for months afterwards. Lucky. “That’s not why I was… apprehensive. I never thought that about you, Mycroft.” He drinks some tea again and asks, “How is Sherlock?”
“He’s doing very well,” Mycroft says, and there’s something in his voice that makes Greg look at him quickly. There’s a soft look on Mycroft’s face that makes Greg squirm. It’s gone in a split second but there’s no denying that it was there.
“What?” he says.
To his credit, Mycroft doesn’t try to pretend he doesn’t know what Greg’s talking about. “I know you asked Sherlock why I am so interested in you,” he says. “I’m sure that he gave you a thorough explanation, but Sherlock being Sherlock, he’ll have missed out on something important in particular. I told you once that I was intrigued by the way that you were able to stand up to my brother. That’s true. I’ve had subs in the past, Gregory, and even though all of the relationships would have ended eventually, many of them ended prematurely because of my brother. They were jealous of the attention I gave to Sherlock.”
Greg doesn’t know what to say to that.
“I have always worried about him. Sherlock is a large part of my life. I knew that I would need to find a sub who could understand my desire to keep him safe.” Mycroft looks at him squarely. “Not only can you give me that understanding, you work with Sherlock of your own free will. You like him. That’s more than I could have hoped for.”
Greg meets his gaze and is suddenly reminded of the warning Sherlock gave him when they were in the hospital together. “Be careful with my brother”. At the time he’d thought it was meant to protect Greg. Now, he realizes that maybe it was meant to protect Mycroft. He says gently, “I wouldn’t be like that.”
“Yes, I know. Does this mean you will give me a chance?”
Does it? Greg hesitates. He can say no and walk out, or he can yes and see what happens next. He has the feeling that Mycroft will accept either one at this point. “If I agree, I want to take it slow,” he says. “No putting me under without my permission. And you can’t… you can’t run my life. I like my job and I want to keep it. Sometimes it requires long hours, as I’m sure you know, and it can be dangerous but it makes me happy.”
Mycroft nods. “Not an issue.”
“Then… Alright, I’m willing to give it a shot.” He feels something like relief as soon as he says those words, like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. In spite of everything he is still a sub, and the desire for a dom is something that is built into him. The desire for this dom, well, that’s likely just insanity brought about from years of chasing criminals around London.
There’s a moment in which Mycroft just looks at him, eyes moving over his face, no doubt searching for any sign that this isn’t what he wants. Greg keeps his face open and honest, letting Mycroft draw whatever conclusions that he likes. At last, Mycroft pushes away from the table and holds a hand out to him. It’s a silent question, Greg’s last chance to say no, to pretend that he hasn’t seen the offering, but he’s in this now, he’s committed. He slides his hand into Mycroft’s and gets up when Mycroft’s hand tightens around his and pulls gently. He walks around the table and stands in front of the man and lets Mycroft stare up at him. There’s something indefinable in his face that tells Greg that Mycroft wasn’t expecting this and he likes that.
“So,” he says, “I seem to recall you telling me about this fantasy you had of me being on my knees in front of you.” It’s surprisingly easy to drop to his knees. Mycroft’s eyes go dark and he squeezes Greg’s hand hard when Greg reaches up and slowly thumbs open the button on his trousers. He settles between Mycroft’s parted thighs and pulls his zip down to reveal a pair of silk boxers that already has a damp patch on the front. He leans forward and mouths the spot, tasting Mycroft’s cock.
“Gregory,” Mycroft rumbles.
“Hmm,” Greg hums in response, using his free hand to tug the boxers down. Mycroft’s cock fits nicely between his fingers when it pops out. He inhales the musky scent and sighs slowly, deliberately exhaling over the leaking head. It’s been a long time since he’s sucked someone off; his last three relationships have all been with women. He’s surprised to find how much he’s missed it.
Mycroft lets out a low moan when Greg takes him in, just the tip to start with, using his tongue like it’s a particularly tasty lolly. The taste is bitter but not unappealing and he eagerly goes deeper until the head bumps against the spongy palate at the back of his throat. Mycroft groans, his hips twitching, and it’s obvious he’s fighting to keep himself from losing it. Greg swallows, keeping his hand wrapped around the base to prevent him from taking in more than he’s comfortable with, and then pulls back, dragging his tongue along the underside, loving the way that Mycroft squirms at the pleasurable sensation. He licks his lips and builds up a mouthful of saliva to keep everything wet before he takes the tip again and suckles lightly.
“Fuck,” Mycroft gasps roughly. “Gregory, your mouth.”
Knowing that he’s reduced Mycroft, who is always so controlled, to swearing makes Greg groan in reply. He pulls back just enough to say, “Yeah, yeah, go on.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, Mycroft, I want you to; I’m giving you permission. Push me under.”
He feels it immediately as Mycroft stops holding back and lets go with a sound that’s not quite a groan of relief. It’s not at full strength, not yet, but the push is still a low, humming fizz in the back of his mind, like the tickle of soda against his throat after the can is first opened. Greg accepts it, doesn’t fight against it, and the push surrounds him in a warm bubble that suddenly makes everything feel magnified. His eyes half-lidded with pleasure - this is different from what he gets from the clubs, this is his dom - he takes Mycroft in again, sucking harder. He wants it, wants as much as he can, whatever Mycroft will give him, this is what he needs.
“Gregory, my god, you are so perfect,” Mycroft says above him. His free hand slides into Greg’s hair and tugs gently. “So beautiful, even better than I had imagined.”
Some part of Greg soaks up the praise but Mycroft is still a bit too coherent for his liking. He renews his sucking with determination and Mycroft writhes above him, hips rocking gently into the warm wet heat. He can feel it when Mycroft is getting close and then the man is tensing with a sharp gasp as he comes, his cock swelling, and Greg deliberately sucks him down as far as he can, swallowing whatever he’s given as best he can. Mycroft breathes heavily and slumps back against the chair, his eyes glazed, staring down at Greg with a look of wonderment. It isn’t until Greg whines and squirms that he snaps out of it and his lips curve into a knowing smile.
“My apologies, Gregory,” he murmurs, using their still joined hands to pull Greg to his feet. He palms Greg’s cock, feeling the heaviness through the trousers. Greg whimpers at the touch, which is almost enough to push him over the edge, but not quite. Mycroft tugs him closer and then turns them both, urging Greg backwards until he bumps into the table, and then Greg gets it; he hops up onto the table and Mycroft stands up in front of him.
Mycroft doesn’t unzip his trousers. He rubs Greg’s cock through the material and every touch makes Greg squirm, panting heavily as the cotton of his pants drags against the sensitive head of his cock. His head falls back and Mycroft nibbles at his throat, biting at the bare skin before using his warm tongue to soothe the pain. It’s all too much - the warmth and the nibbling and the push, making him feel light and euphoric and dizzy with the amount of pure pleasure that’s shivering through him. He clutches at Mycroft’s hand and shudders, gasping, as the man increases the pressure.
“Come on, I want to see you,” Mycroft says. “Let me see, Gregory. Let me see what’s mine.”
“Mycroft,” Greg chokes out, his orgasm overtaking him in a warm rush. He comes in his trousers like a teenager and Mycroft releases his cock and wraps an arm around his waist, supporting him through it, which is a good thing seeing as Greg’s whole body feels like jelly. He leans heavily against Mycroft and breathes in the scent of the man’s skin. The push is still there and he burrows into it, savouring the feeling of being cared for, of being surrounded, of having surrendered to something that they can both make work, in a place where nothing can reach him but Mycroft.
End
Characters: Mycroft Holmes/Gregory Lestrade
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~2,300
Warnings: D/S AU, Dom!Mycroft, Sub!Gregory (more warnings may come in the future, likely bondage)
Summary: In a world where everyone is a dom or a sub, Greg has no interest in finding another dom. Unfortunately, he seems to have caught Mycroft's attention, and Mycroft isn't prepared to take no for an answer.
Written for a prompt on the kink meme.
---
Greg wakes up to find himself curled up in a bed that’s about twice the size of the one in his flat. The mattress beneath his body is deceptively soft, easing tension out of his aching muscles and forcing him to relax, yet at the same time it supports him just enough to make sure his back doesn’t go into spasm. He blinks hazily up at the ceiling, fighting off the urge to go just roll over and go back to sleep, trying to remember how he got here. His last memory is of getting into the car with Mycroft outside of the hospital; he must have passed out on the way to the flat because he doesn’t remember anything after that.
He rubs a hand over his face and sits up, looking instinctively towards the clock. His eyes widen when he realizes that it’s 1:00pm. “Bloody hell!” he mutters with a shake of his head. The last time he slept so late was… well, it would have been when he was in school and possibly not even then. He can’t believe that no one from the Met has been after him yet. He’ll probably have a ton of voicemails and texts waiting for him.
Still, it’s nice, feeling so rested. He can still feel fatigue weighing him down - bone deep exhaustion doesn’t just disappear overnight - but he feels a hell of a lot better than he did. Good enough to wonder what on Earth had possessed him last night when he climbed onto Mycroft Holmes’s lap and snogged the man. Just the memory of it is enough to make his cheeks burn and he climbs off of the bed. There’re two doors in the room and a quick check of both shows that one leads to a fully equipped bathroom. He takes the opportunity for a very long, very hot shower.
The thing is, it was good, last night. He’d do it again if he got the chance. There’s something about Mycroft that makes Greg think that maybe he could be different, could be trusted. Greg’s not used to that and it makes him nervous to even contemplate giving up so much to another person. But at the same time he’s not sure he wants to spend the rest of his life thinking about what could have been. He’s had enough regrets in his life and he doesn’t want to add any more to the list. As he gets out of the shower and towels off, he’s still not sure what to do. He gets dressed in the jeans and shirt that were left for him and decides he’ll start with food.
The tempting smell of bacon leads him to the kitchen. Greg grins when he walks in. “I never fancied you for a chef,” he says.
Mycroft turns around and smiles. He’s wearing what probably passes for casual for him, a pair of dress trousers and a perfectly pleated shirt in a pale green that makes the auburn in his hair stand out. “I find it enjoyable,” he says. “It’s challenging enough to keep my mind occupied and yet I never have to yell at the sugar for making a bad deal with the eggs.”
Greg chuckles. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Sit down. It’s almost ready.”
He does, realizing that following the order (suggestion?) doesn’t make him feel uneasy. He watches curiously as Mycroft finishes the meal and serves him: three rashers of bacon, an egg, a piece of toast, and some fruit. Mycroft sits down across from him with a similar plate and silently hands Greg a cup of tea that’s made up just the way Greg likes it. He sips from the cup to hide the wry smile that lingers on his lips and digs into his meal with relish. It’s been a very long time since he’s enjoyed a home-cooked meal.
“I’m not a serial killer,” Mycroft says abruptly.
A piece of food goes down the wrong way and Greg chokes, coughing. “I know you’re not,” he says between sputters. “Sherlock would love any chance to put you away. He’d have taken the opportunity long ago.”
Mycroft smirks. “Yes, he would.”
“I know you’re not,” Greg repeats, fiddling with his fork. The humiliation of it swells over him again. He’s never felt as stupid as he did at that moment, watching his fellow men come for his dom, seeing them taking the man away into custody, having to listen to other officers telling him how lucky he’d been, overhearing the rumours that had circulated the Yard for months afterwards. Lucky. “That’s not why I was… apprehensive. I never thought that about you, Mycroft.” He drinks some tea again and asks, “How is Sherlock?”
“He’s doing very well,” Mycroft says, and there’s something in his voice that makes Greg look at him quickly. There’s a soft look on Mycroft’s face that makes Greg squirm. It’s gone in a split second but there’s no denying that it was there.
“What?” he says.
To his credit, Mycroft doesn’t try to pretend he doesn’t know what Greg’s talking about. “I know you asked Sherlock why I am so interested in you,” he says. “I’m sure that he gave you a thorough explanation, but Sherlock being Sherlock, he’ll have missed out on something important in particular. I told you once that I was intrigued by the way that you were able to stand up to my brother. That’s true. I’ve had subs in the past, Gregory, and even though all of the relationships would have ended eventually, many of them ended prematurely because of my brother. They were jealous of the attention I gave to Sherlock.”
Greg doesn’t know what to say to that.
“I have always worried about him. Sherlock is a large part of my life. I knew that I would need to find a sub who could understand my desire to keep him safe.” Mycroft looks at him squarely. “Not only can you give me that understanding, you work with Sherlock of your own free will. You like him. That’s more than I could have hoped for.”
Greg meets his gaze and is suddenly reminded of the warning Sherlock gave him when they were in the hospital together. “Be careful with my brother”. At the time he’d thought it was meant to protect Greg. Now, he realizes that maybe it was meant to protect Mycroft. He says gently, “I wouldn’t be like that.”
“Yes, I know. Does this mean you will give me a chance?”
Does it? Greg hesitates. He can say no and walk out, or he can yes and see what happens next. He has the feeling that Mycroft will accept either one at this point. “If I agree, I want to take it slow,” he says. “No putting me under without my permission. And you can’t… you can’t run my life. I like my job and I want to keep it. Sometimes it requires long hours, as I’m sure you know, and it can be dangerous but it makes me happy.”
Mycroft nods. “Not an issue.”
“Then… Alright, I’m willing to give it a shot.” He feels something like relief as soon as he says those words, like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. In spite of everything he is still a sub, and the desire for a dom is something that is built into him. The desire for this dom, well, that’s likely just insanity brought about from years of chasing criminals around London.
There’s a moment in which Mycroft just looks at him, eyes moving over his face, no doubt searching for any sign that this isn’t what he wants. Greg keeps his face open and honest, letting Mycroft draw whatever conclusions that he likes. At last, Mycroft pushes away from the table and holds a hand out to him. It’s a silent question, Greg’s last chance to say no, to pretend that he hasn’t seen the offering, but he’s in this now, he’s committed. He slides his hand into Mycroft’s and gets up when Mycroft’s hand tightens around his and pulls gently. He walks around the table and stands in front of the man and lets Mycroft stare up at him. There’s something indefinable in his face that tells Greg that Mycroft wasn’t expecting this and he likes that.
“So,” he says, “I seem to recall you telling me about this fantasy you had of me being on my knees in front of you.” It’s surprisingly easy to drop to his knees. Mycroft’s eyes go dark and he squeezes Greg’s hand hard when Greg reaches up and slowly thumbs open the button on his trousers. He settles between Mycroft’s parted thighs and pulls his zip down to reveal a pair of silk boxers that already has a damp patch on the front. He leans forward and mouths the spot, tasting Mycroft’s cock.
“Gregory,” Mycroft rumbles.
“Hmm,” Greg hums in response, using his free hand to tug the boxers down. Mycroft’s cock fits nicely between his fingers when it pops out. He inhales the musky scent and sighs slowly, deliberately exhaling over the leaking head. It’s been a long time since he’s sucked someone off; his last three relationships have all been with women. He’s surprised to find how much he’s missed it.
Mycroft lets out a low moan when Greg takes him in, just the tip to start with, using his tongue like it’s a particularly tasty lolly. The taste is bitter but not unappealing and he eagerly goes deeper until the head bumps against the spongy palate at the back of his throat. Mycroft groans, his hips twitching, and it’s obvious he’s fighting to keep himself from losing it. Greg swallows, keeping his hand wrapped around the base to prevent him from taking in more than he’s comfortable with, and then pulls back, dragging his tongue along the underside, loving the way that Mycroft squirms at the pleasurable sensation. He licks his lips and builds up a mouthful of saliva to keep everything wet before he takes the tip again and suckles lightly.
“Fuck,” Mycroft gasps roughly. “Gregory, your mouth.”
Knowing that he’s reduced Mycroft, who is always so controlled, to swearing makes Greg groan in reply. He pulls back just enough to say, “Yeah, yeah, go on.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, Mycroft, I want you to; I’m giving you permission. Push me under.”
He feels it immediately as Mycroft stops holding back and lets go with a sound that’s not quite a groan of relief. It’s not at full strength, not yet, but the push is still a low, humming fizz in the back of his mind, like the tickle of soda against his throat after the can is first opened. Greg accepts it, doesn’t fight against it, and the push surrounds him in a warm bubble that suddenly makes everything feel magnified. His eyes half-lidded with pleasure - this is different from what he gets from the clubs, this is his dom - he takes Mycroft in again, sucking harder. He wants it, wants as much as he can, whatever Mycroft will give him, this is what he needs.
“Gregory, my god, you are so perfect,” Mycroft says above him. His free hand slides into Greg’s hair and tugs gently. “So beautiful, even better than I had imagined.”
Some part of Greg soaks up the praise but Mycroft is still a bit too coherent for his liking. He renews his sucking with determination and Mycroft writhes above him, hips rocking gently into the warm wet heat. He can feel it when Mycroft is getting close and then the man is tensing with a sharp gasp as he comes, his cock swelling, and Greg deliberately sucks him down as far as he can, swallowing whatever he’s given as best he can. Mycroft breathes heavily and slumps back against the chair, his eyes glazed, staring down at Greg with a look of wonderment. It isn’t until Greg whines and squirms that he snaps out of it and his lips curve into a knowing smile.
“My apologies, Gregory,” he murmurs, using their still joined hands to pull Greg to his feet. He palms Greg’s cock, feeling the heaviness through the trousers. Greg whimpers at the touch, which is almost enough to push him over the edge, but not quite. Mycroft tugs him closer and then turns them both, urging Greg backwards until he bumps into the table, and then Greg gets it; he hops up onto the table and Mycroft stands up in front of him.
Mycroft doesn’t unzip his trousers. He rubs Greg’s cock through the material and every touch makes Greg squirm, panting heavily as the cotton of his pants drags against the sensitive head of his cock. His head falls back and Mycroft nibbles at his throat, biting at the bare skin before using his warm tongue to soothe the pain. It’s all too much - the warmth and the nibbling and the push, making him feel light and euphoric and dizzy with the amount of pure pleasure that’s shivering through him. He clutches at Mycroft’s hand and shudders, gasping, as the man increases the pressure.
“Come on, I want to see you,” Mycroft says. “Let me see, Gregory. Let me see what’s mine.”
“Mycroft,” Greg chokes out, his orgasm overtaking him in a warm rush. He comes in his trousers like a teenager and Mycroft releases his cock and wraps an arm around his waist, supporting him through it, which is a good thing seeing as Greg’s whole body feels like jelly. He leans heavily against Mycroft and breathes in the scent of the man’s skin. The push is still there and he burrows into it, savouring the feeling of being cared for, of being surrounded, of having surrendered to something that they can both make work, in a place where nothing can reach him but Mycroft.
End