Greg can see it as soon as Mycroft gets through the door. There’s a fragility in the creases around his eyes, a visible need for something that he must have been hiding all day until he could get home. Only Greg is allowed to see him like this... and to give him what he needs to fix it.
He lets Mycroft get off the last traces of work. The briefcase goes to his office, his umbrella in its home in the ornate iron stand by the door. That’s part of Mycroft’s regular routine, shedding the skin he has to wear so often for the benefit of the public and the country, and Greg never interferes with that. The work persona is Mycroft’s to let go of.
Once the man he’s married has returned, however, all his hard edges set aside as he steps out of his office in a suit he would never let be so rumpled anywhere else, Greg meets him, leaning patiently against the wall in the hall. “Alright, love? Rough day?”
“Far better now,” Mycroft murmurs, a shy smile rising across his lips.
Greg steps closers, well into Mycroft’s space, spanning his hands around hips that never look as narrow as they are in his suits. “You want some help shakin’ it off?”
Long, deft fingers reach out to crumple the bottom of Greg’s t-shirt and pull it closer. “Mmmhm.”
“Good. Lemme take care of you.” It’s a testament to the Yard’s fitness routines that Greg’s never had an issue lifting Mycroft and pinning him to the wall, crashing their lips together with a force that’s just short of bruising. Mycroft moans against him, his soft, gentle noises always enough to finish thickening out Greg’s cock. His lips shift, breathing hot against Mycroft’s throat, where he’s always careful not to mark. Calloused hands squeeze the curve of his husband’s arse. “Could have you right here, love. Fuck you until the paintings fall off the walls.”
Mycroft huffs a laugh. “Only if you would like to pay for the new glass this time.”
“Mmm. Driving a hard bargain. Bedroom it is.”
Greg doesn’t overestimate his fitness- carrying Mycroft up the stairs, while they’d both certainly enjoy it, would almost certainly lead to a slipped disc. They snog their way into the bedroom, pausing only when Greg cups Mycroft’s chin and tilts it toward himself, studying his lover’s eyes intently. “How rough?”
There’s hardly a pause. “Rough.”
“Alright.” He steps back, letting his voice lower into the growl that he knows damn well drives Mycroft absolutely mad. “Strip. Then kneel for me, darlin’.”
Greg doesn’t have to look to know Mycroft is complying, focusing instead on getting the lube in reach and casually slipping his belt free like he doesn’t know his husband is most certainly watching. Mycroft needs this, sometimes, after weeks on end of dealing with one crisis or another. Needs to not be in control for a while. Greg’s not bossy by nature, he’s not the sort to go for this in every single little aspect of his life, but he has developed a certain set of skills when it comes to fucking Mycroft right through coherence and into sleepy insensibility.
It’s also pretty hot when Mycroft just does whatever he asks.
He turns to take in his lovely husband. Mycroft is kneeling, naked, his clothes carefully put away. His eyes are softly closed, breathing slowly like he’s meditating, which means today must have been particularly challenging with work and his mind is already trying to throw itself into a pliant, submissive state.
Greg drags a thumb across Mycroft’s lips, gently parting them and watching the lower bounce. “Ready to be obedient for me, love?”
Mycroft’s eyes flick open, looking up into Greg’s. “Yes.” Greg’s thumb uses the word to slide in, resting on Mycroft’s tongue, just waiting for a moment and quietly appreciating exactly how docile Mycroft is being.
“Very good.” He steps closer, Mycroft’s wrists going up out of instinct to accept the band of leather belt around them, easily cinched by the buckle. Greg lets them fall once tied and lowers the zip on his jeans. His eyes never leave Myroft’s, and Mycroft gazes back at him with a look of open devotion bordering on reverence. Greg always feels tempted to pause when he sees Mycroft like that. No one could look at those eyes and not feel honored to have this man in his life, let alone his bed and wearing his ring. But all the words he would say are better suited for later, when he’s gently soothing Mycroft to sleep.
Right now Mycroft requires a firmer hand.
Mycroft’s jaw goes slack, accepting the thick weight of Greg’s cock across his tongue. Greg works his hand into Mycroft’s hair, tightening his grip to rock his husband’s head back and forth, stroking himself without letting Mycroft do a thing. Not that there’s much for him to do with his wrists bound and resting compliantly at his waist.
Greg enjoys watching this almost as much as he enjoys the soft, wet heat of Mycroft’s mouth. His husband’s eyes flutter closed, letting himself rest fully in Greg’s grip even when he presses fully to the back of his throat and holds it there for a few seconds before allowing him to breathe again. “Very good, gorgeous. That’s it.”
He waits until he can feel Mycroft go fully pliant, accepting the guidance of Greg’s hand almost bonelessly. “There we go, sweetheart. Now come up here.” It’s harder for Mycroft to rise with his wrists bound, but that’s part of the exercise and he manages admirably. He knows where Greg wants him without being asked, kneeling on the bed and reaching his arms out for the rest of the belt to be tied about a metal loop of their headboard.
Running his fingers over Mycroft’s back, Greg traces the curves of his husband before starting to rotate his caresses with firm, open-handed smacks, reddening the otherwise pale skin. As requested, he isn’t gentle about it. He knows his husband well enough to gauge exactly how hard he can swing to walk that line of pleasurable pain and send Mycroft the rest of the way into the floating, happy headspace he wants to get into.
“Still with me, gorgeous?” Mycroft murmurs an affirmative that sounds almost sleepy, turning in to the press of Greg’s lips against his neck and cheek. “Good.”
Fucking Mycroft in this state is always nice for his ego. While he’s not coherently vocal, he’s much more open with his sounds, crying out and moaning for Greg without reservation. Every thrust gets a loud response, especially when he snaps his hips hard enough for their skin to clap together. Greg comes first, spilling heat with his lips pressed into Mycroft’s shoulder.
He murmurs praise as he comes down from his own climax, his hands running over warm skin and keeping them connected. “You were so good for me, weren’t you, love? Are you ready for your reward?”
Mycroft whimpers his plea for it. Greg rolls him over, kissing his way down from throat to nipple to cock, leaving no span of flesh unworshipped. He sucks and laps and strokes as Mycroft strains against the belt, increasingly restless the closer he gets to his own release. Holding his husband’s hips down through it, Greg swallows with ease and smiles as he reaches up to free Mycroft’s wrists from their bonds.
“Mmmhm.” Mycroft curls into him, head resting just under Greg’s chin. It’s easy to wrap him up from there, encasing him in arms and blanket against the reassuring beat of Greg’s own heart. There are words as well, words that tell Mycroft exactly how cherished he is in every way Greg can possibly think of. He’s honestly never quite sure if Mycroft can really hear that part, or if he’s still foggy in his processing, but it does seem to soothe him down.
Eventually he’ll need to sneak up and tidy both of them, but Mycroft will be asleep by then, soundly sated and out for hours. "Love you," Greg murmurs into Mycroft's hair, stroking it softly. "Do you need anything, gorgeous?"
"Just you," Mycroft mutters quietly, muted by the wrap of blankets and skin. "Only you."
"You have me, love," Greg whispers back, watching Mycroft's eyes close as sleep creeps onto him. "You'll always have me. For whatever you need."