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Greg hands Mycroft the packet of papers on a perfectly boring Wednesday evening. 

“What is this?”

Greg smirks over his wine glass, still half-full from dinner. “Read it.”

He watches Mycroft’s eyes scan the first page, enjoying the way his eyebrows fly up toward his hairline. When Mycroft looks up again, Greg schools his expression into something smoother and aims to look innocent. 

“The thing is,” he says, “I never got a list from you.” 

Mycroft huffs, ruffling the pages. “It has been years.”

“Two years,” Greg supplies, as if Mycroft doesn't know. “Yep. But it occurred to me that when you made me that offer, you said you knew I was a switch.”

“I said you were versatile.”

Of course Mycroft remembers his exact words. “Right,” Greg agrees.

“I wouldn’t call you a switch, necessarily.”

Greg rolls his eyes and leans back in his seat at the kitchen table. “Oh, really?”

Mycroft shoots him a bland, unimpressed look. “Please,” he says flatly. 

Greg really doesn't have a leg to stand on. He goes down so easy for Mycroft these days, it should be embarrassing. Somehow, it isn’t. 

“Alright fine,” he laughs. “Fine, fine. I’m not asking you to do it so I can do the sort of things to you that you do to me. I wouldn’t want to, you’re right. You don’t have to fill it out at all. I know you pretty well, I think.”

Mycroft’s expression shifts, his eyes going warmer. “You do.” 

Greg smiles and feels all glowy from the inside, like he’s done something good. “Still,” he says. “Sometimes I think you know every single thing about me, not just what I like, but everything. And that’s great! Really! But… I dunno.”

Mycroft just puts out his palm, his lips twitching like they do when he’s trying to hide a genuine smile. “Do you have a pen?”


After Mycroft fills out the kinky checklist Greg gave him - identical to the one Mycroft handed him almost two years ago - he returns it to Greg even more annotated than Greg’s had been. Greg loves that, and can’t wait to read it. Can’t wait to see if any of it surprises him. 

“For the record,” Mycroft says, dropping a kiss to Greg’s shoulder before slipping around him to get to the kettle, “I don’t know everything about you. You surprise me constantly.” 


Lots of things surprise Greg on the list Mycroft gives him, and lots of things don’t. 

Some things are never going to happen - for example, riding crops and floggers are just never going to be Greg’s thing. But only a couple are hard no’s, and Greg doesn't feel weird about that. Mycroft would’ve known, from the things Greg has said and done, and the packet of papers he’d filled out first - where they didn’t match perfectly. Clearly it doesn’t bother him. Seeing now that Mycroft has a couple hard no’s that are major yes’s for Greg, Greg doesn't feel at all like he’s missing out. 

On the contrary. 

There are items on the list with little strings of numbers and letters next to them, and that’s when Greg realizes that Mycroft’s added a few sheets of paper at the end. He’s gone and done numbered endnotes. 

Jesus, Greg loves him in a really ridiculous way. Seriously. 

One item has an entire page of elaboration attached. By the time Greg finishes reading, he’s hot and flushed and hard as a rock. 

Yeah, he can work with this. 


He orders what he needs using his own credit card, and not the checking account he has access to at Mycroft’s insistence. He generally doesn't need to buy… anything. He puts his paycheck into the checking account, but never knows what the balance actually is. He uses it to pay for his new-to-him car, his insurance policy, lunch at work. 

But Mycroft handles everything else, and while Greg used to question it, there’s no point. Mycroft likes buying his clothes, his shoes, little gifts, big gifts, providing for the both of them with the house and groceries, with the bills, with nights out and the vacation he’s been trying to get Greg to go on. He even offered to pay off Priscilla’s house once. Greg had to put a stop to that by aggressively shuffling him out of the room where Greg had been chatting with her on the phone. 

Greg doesn't know how closely Mycroft pays attention to the account. He’s pretty sure it’s not very closely. Mycroft’s nosey and presumptuous, completely without boundaries a lot of the time, and very sure that he knows best - and all of that’s putting it mildly. But they’ve had their go-rounds. He tempers himself when it comes to Greg, which Greg appreciates.

Anyway, just to be safe he orders with his own credit card and stashes the packages, when they arrive, in the boot of his little compact car - which Mycroft never rides in. 

One night over dinner, when he’s set the whole thing up and is pretty sure he got it past Mycroft, Greg says, “Would you mind doing something really different tonight?”

Mycroft doesn't need him to explain himself. He quirks one eyebrow. “How different is really different?”

“You’d sort of have to trust me,” Greg replies, and takes a nervous sip of his wine. 

“Well,” Mycroft says, reaching for the bottle to top up his own glass. “Of course I do.” 

Greg tries not to swoon, and reaches across the kitchen table to tip the bottle further toward the glass. “Maybe a little more of that. Relax a little.” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes, but lets Greg pour him a comically large measure of wine. 


Greg leads him upstairs, noticing  the surprise on his face when they don’t go into the second bedroom. Greg almost scoffs a little. He’d told Mycroft it wouldn’t be that different. They use the second room sometimes. The big iron bed from the old flat is in there and it’s better for certain activities than the mahogany four-poster in the master suite. 

He changed the sheets and duvet in the master bedroom earlier, swapping out the gray satin stripe for crisp white, and the heavy winter counterpane for yet more white, the lush down comforter topped with a soft, nubbly blanket. At the moment, the bed looks like it belongs in a spa resort. 

In the center of it, stark against all that white egyptian cotton, carefully laid out: a simple, scoop-neck, thin-strapped chemise; a pair of matching shorts, the hems fluttery even laying flat like they are; and a bralette that is all strap, no cup. It’s all made to Mycroft’s measurements in midnight blue silk. Greg had placed a highly classified call to the tailor, and then done a lot of internet searching to find just the right thing. 

Mycroft stands at the foot of the bed, and Greg can’t see his face, but he’s almost totally sure the tension in his spine is anticipation, not upset. 

“I hope they’re alright,” Greg says softly, placing his hands gently on Mycroft’s back. He can feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his shirt and waistcoat. His palms remember the softness of Mycroft’s skin underneath it all. He can say, almost with complete certainty, exactly where all his favorite freckles are, under his fingers and the satin and the cotton. 

“They’re beautiful,” Mycroft says after a moment. “Where did you—” 

“I’ll explain my shopping adventure later,” Greg teases. “Can I undress you and then… re-dress you?”

Mycroft turns, and Greg’s hands end up pressed to his ribs, so he just slips them further around, resting them at Mycroft’s sides. 

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “And then?”

“And then I dunno.” Greg tugs him a little closer. “I’ll take it all back off you eventually, I suppose. You could maybe direct that, a bit?” 

“Oh, I could, maybe?”

Greg laughs, pressing it into Mycroft’s neck, then leaving a kiss there, then another and another, working up toward his jaw. “Yeah, maybe,” he says. “I wanna… I wanna eat you out. I wanna kiss you everywhere. Wanna feel all that silk all over my skin. And you, all over my skin.” 

Mycroft leans back, dislodging Greg from his pursuit of Mycroft’s throat, and brings their mouths together, open and wet and a little messy. 

“Very well,” he says, up against Greg’s mouth, then bites gently at Greg’s lower lip. “You’re planning to dress me up and manhandle me, then?”

“Oh, now, that’s not what I said,” Greg drawls, thrilled that Mycroft took it that way - or is at least pretending that he did. “Don’t fret. Your switchy boyfriend isn’t about to rock your entire world off its axis without warning. I read your bloody textbook’s worth of notes on your sexual preferences.” 

“It was a few extra pages,” Mycroft snips, even as Greg’s taking one of his wrists gently in hand so he can remove the first cufflink. “At least I made it so you could read my notes. Yours were stuffed into the margins and basically illegible.”

“And yet,” Greg says, pocketing both cufflinks. “You had me dead to rights from day one, hmm?”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m very intelligent.”

Greg chuckles, divesting him of the waistcoat, and then the braces, both of which he drops to the floor. He opens Mycroft’s trousers before starting on the shirt buttons. “You are very, very sharp. It’s true. I love it.” 

“Convenient,” Mycroft murmurs. 

Greg gets the shirt open and pushes it off his shoulders, leaving it to slide haphazardly down his arms. He leans in and kisses a gentle line over Mycroft’s collarbones. “Mmhmm, it is,” he agrees. “Convenient for you, I mean. What if I liked stupid men?” 

He gets Mycroft naked in short order, shoving the expensive suiting aside with his foot, and laughing at Mycroft’s scandalized expression. 

“Okay,” Greg says, plucking up the pile of silky straps from the bed. “This is going to look so good around these.” He traces light fingers over Mycroft’s pink, hardening nipples. “All of this is made with a man’s body in mind, and specifically to your measurements.” Mycroft raises an eyebrow and Greg grins. “Arms,” he says. 

He slips the wider straps up Mycroft’s arms to his shoulders, making sure he scratches sweetly with his fingernails on the way up. He lays all the thin straps flat, dark and lovely against Mycroft’s pale skin, and then presses a chaste kiss to the center of his sternum, just above the center of the bralette. He takes a couple of steps around him, tugging the band taut and hooking it so it’s snug but not too tight. 

Greg’s glad he went with this and not lace or triangles of satin. The deep blue silk straps are like lines drawn with a paintbrush, guiding the eye to all the most delicious places. When he circles back around to the front, the straps over Mycroft’s pectorals only need a couple of minor adjustments. 

“Wow,” Greg breathes. When he glances up to check Mycroft’s face, he finds that he himself is being watched. He meets Mycroft’s calm, hooded gaze, and leans close, nuzzling their noses together before he kisses him firmly. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs, and then reaches for the sweet little pair of shorts. “Okay so far?”

“Mmm,” Mycroft hums. 



Satisfied with that, Greg goes down on one knee. He nuzzles the insides of Mycroft’s thighs, the same way he’d slowly brushed his way to Mycroft’s lips a moment ago. He works his way to Mycroft’s hardening cock, and when he gets there he brushes his lips from base to tip. Mycroft is still, not even a twitch. Greg smiles into the crease of his thigh. Mycroft always starts off stoic and unaffected. Half the fun is getting him to make that first really good noise. 

“Right foot,” Greg prompts, and slips the right leg of the shorts over. “Left foot.” As he drags the silk up Mycroft’s shins, knees, and thighs, he rises slowly to stand again, dragging his stubble carefully against Mycroft’s soft lower belly, his ribcage, which moves quickly with his breath, the only indication that this is really working for him. Greg lips at his chest hair, but stops dawdling and stands. He kisses his way up Mycroft’s neck to his ear, and then presses in close, chest to chest, silk and skin on display and kept safe next to Greg’s fully clothed body.

“How does it feel?”

Mycroft’s arms hold Greg close. “Soft,” he says, and there’s a hint of breathiness there. 

“You look so beautiful,” Greg murmurs, rubbing his face against him like a cat. “You’re so pretty, Mycroft.”

Mycroft shudders, an infinitesimal tremor that’s gone as quick as it happens. 

“You are,” Greg says, aiming for a lower register, trying to silken up his voice the way Mycroft does for him sometimes. “Can I put on the last piece?”

Mycroft nods and lets Greg step away from him to grab the chemise. It slips and cascades over Mycroft’s shoulders and torso like dark water. When Greg smooths it down with his hand, the fabric conducts Mycroft’s body heat; it’s like he’s touching bare skin, not silk. 

“Let me look at you,” Greg says. “Sit on the edge of the bed?” 

Mycroft’s notes had been detailed. He’s never done anything with lingerie, but he’s thought about it extensively. He had written about what he wouldn’t want - to be degraded or patronized, to be referred to by any of the common terms for a man getting into this sort of play - and what he would - softer touch, teasing, being displayed, being (for lack of a better word) worshipped. Maybe some limited power exchange, he had written. 

Greg thought he could work with all of that, and looking at Mycroft now Greg knows he was right.

Sitting on the edge of the white bedding, Mycroft’s long legs are spread just a little, the tops of his thighs caressed by blue silk. One of the straps of the chemise slips from his shoulder, revealing a hint of the bralette beneath, the way the straps meet in a point below his collarbone. He does look softer, but still very much himself. 

Greg steps between Mycroft’s knees and slips a finger under the exposed bra strap. “Wow,” he murmurs. “How do you feel?”

“Slightly ridiculous,” Mycroft says, and the lack of expression in his voice gives away his nerves. 


“I’m a fifty year old man wearing a dress and a bra.”

Greg shakes his head. “This isn’t a dress,” he says, finger tracing the upper edge of the chemise, which scoops widely across Mycroft’s chest. “That’s not really a bra. You look fucking amazing, I promise you.” 

Mycroft’s hands rest beside his thighs. His thumbs worry at the edges of the shorts. 

Greg kneels and places his hands over Mycroft’s bare knees. “You have great legs,” he says. “I’ve said so before.” 


Greg loves the feel of Mycroft’s legs as much as he loves the look of them. His skin is smooth, save for a scar from a surgery to repair a broken bone when he was in his twenties, and the hair covering them is soft and straight, and very light in color. Greg leans in to press his mouth to the inside of Mycroft’s left knee, then rubs his face gently over the top, feeling the hair with his lips, the smooth cap of bone with his nose. He drags his mouth up along the top of Mycroft’s thigh and sighs, content. 

Finally, Mycroft’s hand steals into Greg’s hair, not pulling, just threading through gently. Greg tips his head to the side, resting his cheek on his thigh, and looks up. Mycroft stares down, lips parted. 

“I’m still all yours,” Greg says. “I love this. I love you. I just want you to let me do things for you like this. Whatever you like. Say no to anything. Tell me to do anything. Control everything or nothing. This is for you.” He kisses the inside of his thigh once, lightly. “Do you want to lie back?” 

Mycroft nods and Greg straightens, tipping his face up for a kiss first. He’s tentative, waiting to see if Mycroft will control it, which he does. Greg almost expects it to be hard and fast to balance out whatever dissonance Mycroft’s experiencing. But it’s not. It’s hot but it’s sweet, their lips and tongues melding together over and over, long and drawn out. Greg takes the opportunity to slip both hands up Mycroft’s legs, fingertips stroking just under the hem of the shorts. 

Mycroft lies back and Greg moves away to get him a pillow and prop him up a bit with it. Then it’s back to his knees, nuzzling all over Mycroft’s gorgeous thighs. 

Mycroft always looks a bit bigger than he actually is when he’s all suited out, and then a bit slimmer than he actually is when he’s down to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. The impeccable tailoring draws the eye. Mycroft’s not as big and heavy as he thinks he is, nor is he slight or weak. Greg loves Mycroft’s soft thighs and belly. He likes the way he’s fuller around his chest and his middle than his clothes and his poise would have you believe. 

Greg likes that Mycroft is refined. That he always smells amazing. That his fingernails are always clean and manicured. That his wrists are delicate. 

He likes that Mycroft is also strong. That he is commanding and intense. That he isn’t completely any one thing. 

But these clothes are delicate. They’re soft. They soften him as they caress him. They emphasize the places that dip and swell, instead of the ones that are firm and straight. They’re the opposite of the suits. These clothes present Mycroft exactly as he is, really, and Greg is struck a little dumb by it. 

Greg realizes he’s been murmuring some version of all of this in a stream of consciousness bubble of bliss the entire time he’s been rubbing his face over Mycroft’s lap like a cat. He realizes this when Mycroft finally, finally gasps, startling Greg out of his chatter, the words stuttering to a stop.

Greg closes his mouth over Mycroft’s cock through the silk shorts, and breathes hot air through the fabric. 

Mycroft writhes, then quickly catches himself and tries to hold still. Greg pushes his hands all the way up the legs of the shorts, and holds his hips firmly. He wets the silk with his tongue and finds the veiny ridges by feel, pressing and stroking them while he soaks the shorts until they’re plastered to Mycroft’s cock. When he’s done, he pulls back and blows cool air over it all. 

“Ha—” Mycroft twitches. “Ah.”


“You know it is.”

Greg chuckles and closes his mouth over the shape of Mycroft’s bollocks before breathing out hot again. He slips his hands around to the backs of Mycroft’s thighs, stroking his thumbs at the crease where legs meet backside. 

After long minutes of this, of Greg teasing with his tongue and lips, of playing with the temperature of the wet silk against Mycroft’s skin, Mycroft’s hand reaches for his hair again, tight this time, and squeezes. 

“Yes?” Greg rasps, leaning up with his elbows on the bed. “Is there something I can do for you, gorgeous man?”

Mycroft’s been chewing on his lip; it’s red and wet and shiny. “I would not object to my cock down your throat at this juncture.”

“Hm…” Greg fiddles with the waistband of the shorts. “Not yet,” he says, and tugs them down, peeling the wet fabric away, slipping them down Mycroft’s legs and then tossing them aside. “But soon.”

Mycroft makes a noise of outrage - he’s not used to being told no by anyone, but especially by Greg - but cuts himself off when Greg hitches both legs over his shoulders before licking obscenely behind Mycroft’s balls. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs between licks, “knew you wouldn’t mind.”


Greg uses his thumbs to hold Mycroft’s cheeks apart enough so that he can place a wet kiss over his hole. 


“You’ve never asked,” Greg says, “but I liked this with women, too.” 


“I liked being bossed about. I liked fancy underthings and little outfits. I liked buying them and putting them on her and taking them off.”

“I’m not—” 

“Oh, I know.” Greg bites gently at the soft, sensitive spot at the very top of the inside of Mycroft’s thigh. “I know you aren’t. But I like this. I like making you feel lovely and special and perfect. I’d stay here on my knees at your feet all night.” 

Mycroft’s breath catches audibly. 

“We both know you’d love that. You could use me to prop up your feet and I would let you.” Greg sucks gently at Mycroft’s sac. “Did you know that?”


Greg licks, broad and wet, over Mycroft’s hole, cutting him off. He licks again, and again, then nuzzles the space behind his balls, then sucks them again while Mycroft pants and clings to his scalp, both hands now buried in Greg’s hair. 

“This isn’t so different,” Greg says. “From going down on a woman, I mean.” He demonstrates by burying his face between Mycroft’s cheeks and hitching Mycroft’s legs higher over his shoulders. He breathes hot and humid there and then licks some more, luxuriating in it, pretending for a moment that he doesn't need to stop to breathe, ever. 

“Christ,” Mycroft gasps. 

Greg slides one hand up under the chemise, tracing his fingers up the center of Mycroft’s trembling stomach. He works him over with his tongue, feeling the way Mycroft’s started to really relax into it, going boneless and open for him. Greg groans, convinced he’s somehow harder than he was a moment ago, uncomfortable in his trousers and too hot in his work shirt and tie (he likes that, too). Mycroft’s petting him now, like a beloved pet who is behaving well. 

Greg does need to come up for more than the occasional quick gulp of air eventually. He rocks back, resting on his heels, and pushes Mycroft’s legs up and open so he can see the wet mess he’s made of him. He doesn't linger long, because if he does it will make Mycroft self-conscious and knock him out of things. He lowers Mycroft’s legs and hauls himself off the floor so he can stand and lean over him, one hand on the bed, the other cupped over the throbbing length of Mycroft’s neglected cock. 

Mycroft rewards him by yanking him down into a bruising kiss, his teeth sinking into Greg’s lip and tugging at the end. 

“Did I do a good job of it, then?” Greg breathes, grinning. 

“Yes,” Mycroft says, and leans up to kiss him again, no doubt tasting himself all over Greg’s mouth. “Get your clothes off.”

Greg does, quickly, before climbing up onto the bed. Mycroft rolls him, presses him onto his back, and straddles his thighs. Greg gapes at him, eyes travelling from his burning eyes down his silk-clad torso to the shiny glans and veiny shaft standing out from under the chemise. 

“Jesus.” Greg’s hands are drawn to Mycroft’s hips like magnets. “You look like a painting.” 

Mycroft smirks and rocks back, his arse rubbing against Greg’s aching cock. “Thank you,” he says. His voice is soft and genuine now, despite the smug quirk of his mouth and the way he’s seamlessly taken the upperhand. 

Greg bunches the fabric of the chemise in his hands, pushing it up. “Can I see you? More of you?”

“I suppose you deserve to,” Mycroft says, still rocking, his cock swaying with his movements, a bead of precome dripping down onto Greg’s belly. “You did put in a lot of work.”

“I could put in a lot more,” Greg says, reaching around to brush his fingers down the cleft of Mycroft’s arse. “If you want.”

“Oh, I do,” Mycroft murmurs. “Get your arms out.”

Greg knew it. He lays his arms out flat on the bed and wriggles until Mycroft eases off him to let him adjust his position. At this point, Greg could get himself in the right spot on the mattress with a blindfold on. Come to think of it, he has. His wrists sit exactly where they need to for Mycroft to reach down to the sides of the bed and pick up the straps connected to the bed frame under the boxspring. In no time, he has Greg’s wrists cuffed and tethered, the straps yanked short so he can’t lift his hands at all. 

“Tell me you want my arse,” Mycroft commands softly, knelt at Greg’s side. 

Greg grins and shivers. “I want your arse, want it so bad.”

“Tell me you want my come.”

“Want it all over me,” Greg says, pulling against the cuffs and humming happily. “Want you to let me come in you. Will you let me?”

“If you’re very good.” 

Greg chuckles. “I promise I’ll be very good. You gonna sit on my face?”

“Well,” Mycroft says, feigning surprise and then stalling for a moment by pretending to think about it. “I suppose I could.”

“Come on, then.” Greg strains against the tie-downs, lifting his head. “Let me open you up some more.” 

Mycroft swings a leg over and straddles Greg’s chest. He strokes his own cock, too far away for Greg to get his mouth on it, but close enough that he can see how hard it is, how it’s glistening at the head. “Lay your head back down.”

Greg obeys, tilts it back further than he really needs to, and licks his lips showily. 

Mycroft huffs at him, but moves up, kneels at either side of Greg’s head, and lowers himself to Greg’s mouth.

Greg hums and licks at him like before, goes at it like he would with a pussy, even - sucking and licking, moving his head from side to side, pressing his tongue flat to Mycroft’s perineum and rubbing at it like he would a clit. He was expecting it, but it still takes him by surprise when Mycroft sinks down, pressing himself into Greg’s face, cutting off his air with his flesh. Greg’s hands curl into fists and he jerks against the restraints. If he had realized when it would happen, he would have taken a deep breath first. Mycroft gets one hand in Greg’s hair and keeps him just where he wants him, steers his face this way and that with rough tugs. Greg keeps his tongue working as much as he can and after a moment Mycroft eases up to let him gasp in air. 

“You’re so good at that,” Mycroft says above him. “Do it again.”

He sinks down, and Greg does it again. And again. By the time Mycroft slides back and lets Greg lick over his bollocks and the shaft of his cock, Greg’s face is wet with sweat and spit, and he can feel how flushed he is from the heat blazing in his cheeks. Mycroft rolls his hips lazily, thrusting his cock over Greg’s slick mouth and chin. 

Greg whines when Mycroft moves away, but then the straps holding Greg are being loosened a little. He can sit up with help, which Mycroft gives him, then he adjusts the straps again before settling in Greg’s lap. The silk of the chemise is heavenly against Greg’s chest, and if he had the full use of his arms, he’d grab handfuls of it right now. 

Mycroft kisses him deep and messy, really filthy considering all they’ve been doing, but this far into it, it really doesn't matter. Mycroft rocks in Greg’s lap, Greg’s cock trapped between his spit-wet arse cheeks. 

“The lube’s under the pillow,” Greg gasps when they stop kissing for long enough to get words out. “Wish you’d let me do it.” 

Mycroft doesn't have anything to say to that - he just leans back and strips the chemise off himself, revealing the criss-crossing lines of the strappy bralette. Greg’s mouth waters; he wants to get his tongue on those perfect pink nipples right now. 

Mycroft loops the chemise around Greg’s neck and twists it, not tight enough to affect his airway, but enough to make him feel a little like he’s been collared and leashed. With silk. Greg whimpers. 

“Tell me what you want,” Mycroft says.

“You know what I want.”

“Tell me, or you won’t get it.” 

“Let me suck your nipples.” Greg has no qualms about asking. He likes to see if he can get Mycroft to let it slide, though. “Please, sweetheart, let me.” 

“Sweetheart?” Mycroft’s expression twists, displeased. “Where did that come from?” 

“I—” Greg winces. “Sorry, I— “

“Just because I’m wearing this—”

“No!” Greg yelps, “No, no, that’s not it, that’s… Mycroft.” Greg lets his head fall forward, trying to press it against Mycroft’s chest and hide his face away. Mycroft jerks on the loop of silk around Greg’s throat and holds him in place. Greg sighs. “I think it all the time,” he admits. “I didn’t think you would like pet names, so I… I never say it. I don’t know why I said it just now. It’s not the lingerie.”

Mycroft’s eyes dart over Greg’s face. 

“You know I would never…” Greg huffs and fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Me, of all people? I’m not going to treat you differently based on this. Not purposefully. It was just a slip of the—”

Mycroft lets go of the chemise, and it hangs there around Greg’s neck, most of the fabric sliding like a waterfall down his back. It’s so light and airy Greg barely feels it there. Mycroft’s mouth on his, in contrast, is firm. Decisive. Not hard or biting. But solid and sweet. 

“You can say it,” Mycroft says quietly. “Now. And other times. You may call me that. If you like.” 

Greg suddenly kind of wants to cry. Really needs to be able to touch him, at least. “Will you let me have my hands, please? Just for a minute?”

Mycroft unbuckles the cuffs wordlessly, and the moment both Greg’s wrists are free he reaches for him, holding him close. And then very quickly they’re grappling with each other and rolling down into the plush bedclothes, ending up on their sides with Mycroft’s leg over both of Greg’s so he can grind against him while kissing him senseless.  

“Don’t hold back from me,” Mycroft scolds. “Ever.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” Greg insists. “I just… Thank you for being like this. For letting me see you like this. I love you.” 

“If you don’t get inside me now—” 

Greg laughs and reaches for the lube. “Can I do it?” 

“Immediately,” Mycroft snaps, though it’s a pale imitation of his usual command. 

Greg slicks his fingers and slides two into him easily, and Mycroft shudders around them. 

“Hard,” he says through his teeth. 

“Would you give me a second?” Greg teases, a little mocking. “Christ, you’re just so desperate for it.” 

“I will do unimaginable damage to your backside for tha—  Ah.”

Greg’s added a third finger, and he laughs into Mycroft’s neck as he shoves in good and hard. “I look forward to it,” he says, and tips Mycroft onto his back. “Spread your legs wider for me, put ‘em up.” 

Finally, finally, Greg gets his mouth over one of those gorgeously framed nipples, and sucks. Mycroft heaves under him, trying to grind down and shove his leaking cock up against whatever part of Greg he can reach. 

“Gonna fuck you so hard,” Greg sighs against the silk straps, lipping at them absently. “I’ll be so, so good for you. And then you can spank me if you want, I’d love it.” 

“Ambitious,” Mycroft gasps. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Greg says. He can’t help but laugh. God, this is fun. He applies himself to sucking and biting Mycroft’s nipples puffy and red, rubbing his pale skin a little raw. It goes pink under the bra straps. He sits up between Mycroft’s thighs. “Fuck, you’re so pretty.” 

Mycroft’s eyes are glassy. “Please,” he says. “Just—” 

Please. Greg almost comes on the spot. “Don’t beg me, darling,” he says, squeezing lube into his palm. He grits his teeth as he slicks himself, terrified he’s going to come. “I thought you were gonna ride me with my arms tied down, so… so just tell me what you want, tell me how you want it.” 

They’ve never done it any other way. Greg’s only ever fucked Mycroft a few times, and they all involved a certain degree of bondage. Greg never controls it, and he’s fine with that, he loves being used like that. He loves being exactly what Mycroft wants, whatever that might be. So he’ll lie down to be tied up again right now if he’s told to. 

Mycroft’s usual clear-eyed command is missing, though. That’s not what’s going to happen tonight. 

“Just like this,” Mycroft says. “Unless that’s—” 

“Anything you want.” Greg kisses him, softer and sweeter than he usually would, then grabs a pillow from up the bed. “Hitch up,” he instructs, and gets it under Mycroft’s lower back. “Yeah, good.” 

And then it’s just a matter of rocking into him. Mycroft is incredibly wet and open right now. Still tight, but it’s easy after all that prep. Greg goes slowly, his blood pounding in his ears and almost drowning out the low whines coming from Mycroft’s chest. Greg holds his legs open, but doesn't shove them up yet, like he suspects Mycroft wants. He just slides slowly in, and watches Mycroft’s brow crease and smooth as he adjusts. 

“Gorgeous,” Greg murmurs, getting one of his hands free to trail under the lower edge of the bralette. “So fucking beautiful. Too good for me.” 

Mycroft tries to move, to thrust his hips up to meet Greg’s slow press inside. 

Greg hooks his fingers into the bra and tugs. “Hey, give me a minute, stop trying to—” 

“I want—”

“Yeah, I know,” Greg holds still, fully seated inside him now, and leans forward, guiding Mycroft’s legs up and around him. “I’ll give you exactly what you want. Just let me love you a little first? Will you give me that? I think I’ve been good. I think I’ve earned it.” 

Mycroft’s arms wrap around him, and his legs tighten around Greg’s body. “You have.” 

“Sweetheart,” Greg breathes, and rocks gently. Grinds slowly.

The silk around Greg’s neck - nearly forgotten - is tugged tighter again, but much more gently than before, Mycroft’s hand tangling in it and holding it. “Greg,” he moans, and clings. “More.” 

“Sure, baby,” Greg murmurs, another endearment slipping out. Mycroft shivers under him. “Yeah? Baby? You like that? You can like it, you can belong to me for just a little bit. I’ll still be yours when it’s over.”


He thrusts, only pulling out halfway before rolling back in firmly. “Hm? You wanna let me take care of you? Wanna stop fighting it?”

Mycroft’s cry is strangled. “Y-yes—” 

“Stop fighting it, then. I’m trying to teach you how.” Greg rocks and grinds and thrusts shallowly, over and over in waves.  

Mycroft writhes against him and falls quiet, breathing harsh and heavy against Greg’s cheek. 

Greg rewards him by deepening his thrusts, and hitching Mycroft’s legs up higher. “There you go,” Greg murmurs, amazed that this is happening, that he’s managing this. That Mycroft is slowly going boneless around him. He sets a smooth, leisurely rhythm. It feels bloody amazing. Mycroft is tight and hot and incredibly slick, and every sound he makes and slap of their skin together urges Greg closer and closer to the edge. He bites the inside of his cheek, determined not to let this end too soon. 

“Did you like your pretty clothes?” Greg asks, mouth against Mycroft’s ear, partially to distract himself from impending orgasm and partially because he does want to know; wants to make Mycroft admit it while they’re like this. 

“Yes,” Mycroft replies. “Yes, I love them.” 

“Did you feel special? Hm? All wrapped up like a present?”


Greg lets it slide. He won’t torture it out of him like Mycroft would absolutely do to him. All Greg wants is to know he did this right. He doesn't need a soliloquy about it. “You looked like it,” he whispers. “You looked perfect. You are perfect. Everything to me, sweetheart.” 

Mycroft groans and turns his head, meshing their mouths together. 

“I think you’re ready,” Greg says, tugging his lip free of Mycroft’s teeth. “Yeah?” 

Mycroft huffs, a little annoyed sound that communicates all that it needs to: Obviously. I’ve been ready. I already told you. Hurry up. 

Greg shifts up. “Legs,” he says, getting them up over his shoulders. “Yeah, like this.”

The angle is good - for both of them, judging by Mycroft’s sharp intake of breath on the first hard shove in.

“That it? That the spot?”

“Nearly,” Mycroft pants. 

Greg pushes his legs further up into his chest, tilting his hips up just a little higher, and shoves in again. 


Greg laughs and fucks him, good and hard like Mycroft’s been wanting. He presses his lips to the inside of Mycroft’s knee, just like he did earlier when he was still all dressed up in his pretty silk, and knows he won’t be able to last much longer, not with Mycroft’s cries as breathy as they are. 

“Come in me,” Mycroft demands. “I know you’re almost—  Just—”

“Want you to come.” 

“Damn you, do what I sa—  Oh!”

Greg strips Mycroft’s cock mercilessly, and doesn't let his thrusts stutter. “Come on,” he groans. “Come on, come on pretty, you can do it.”


Come splatters Mycroft’s chest, the first shot going the distance. Greg’s pretty sure if he’d been thinking to aim for him, it would’ve hit Mycroft’s chin. More splatters his belly and drips down Greg’s wrist. 

“Oh god, oh god,” Mycroft’s got his teeth clenched again. “Do it now, damn it, fill me up.”

Greg doesn't really need telling; it’s already happening.

“Jesus—  Oh— “ He feels the orgasm like a hook in his spine that yanks. Like a rollercoaster drop. It’s sudden and expected all at once, and thrilling in its intensity. He goes still, muscles tightening everywhere. “Oh my god.” 

Mycroft twitches hard under him when Greg slides his wet hand off him, slick and too much over the head. 

“Sorry, sorry!” Greg shudders and whimpers. He’s still coming. 

Mycroft slides his legs down off Greg’s shoulders and wraps them back around him instead. He does something, bears down or squeezes his muscles, shocking another pulse of orgasm out of Greg’s shaking body. 

“Hold still,” Greg gasps. “Sensitive.”

Mycroft smirks up at him and does it again. 

“Ah!” Greg giggles with it, it’s so very too much. “Mycroft—  Ah, oh my god.” 

“I should make you pull out and touch yourself until you’re hard again.” 

Greg makes a sound even he can’t really parse. He’s not sure if it’s disbelief or objection or a plea for Mycroft to follow through on that. 

“But I am exhausted,” Mycroft adds wryly. “You need to pull out. Please.”

“Please,” Greg echoes, and gently pulls back and out of him with another overstimulated cry. “That… that was amazing.” 

Mycroft hums and shifts, nudging at Greg with one knee to get him to slide to the side. “Agreed,” he says thoughtfully, but isn’t forthcoming with anything else. He helps Greg untangle from the silk chemise, caught now around his arm.

Greg holds him close and bumps their noses together. “Want me to unhook this for you?” He snaps one of the bra straps lightly. 


“You’re about to see a skill you didn’t know I had,” Greg warns him, and unhooks the bra with one hand and a single smooth motion. “Ta-da!”

Mycroft laughs, surprised. “Oh!” He helps Greg disentangle him from the sunburst of fabric. “That was naughty. How many poor girls did you have to practice that on?”

Greg snorts. “Poor girls,” he quotes. “I’ll have you know that all the girls whose brassieres I’ve removed were treated quite well, thank you very much.”

“I have no doubt,” says Mycroft sincerely. He kisses Greg soft and glancing. “You… you’re amazing. I don’t know how you manage to be good at everything.”

“I’m not,” Greg murmurs. His eyes are heavy. “Not really. But with you I feel like I am. With you, everything is perfect. Love you, baby.”

“Sweetheart is fine,” Mycroft tells him, one hand stroking down Greg’s side. “But I’d like us to set ‘baby’ aside for very… rare, specific, times. If you don’t mind.” 

“Mmm, I could never mind.” Greg can feel himself drifting. He thinks something about pet names, about how wonderful Mycroft is to him and how soft his eyes go sometimes and how he loves Greg in good and sweet and dark and twisted ways. He can’t do all those words at present. “Thanks, sweetheart. Thanks for....”

And then he’s out like a light, doesn't remember a thing after that. 


In the very early hours, Mycroft does strap Greg’s arms down again and ride him like he’s little more than a toy. He shoves the silk shorts in Greg’s mouth, muffling his cries as Mycroft edges him into oblivion. 

After they rinse off in the shower, Mycroft sinks Greg into a hot, fragrant bath and washes his hair for him. 

“So should I buy you some more outfits?” He checks, leaning back into the massaging of Mycroft’s fingers against his scalp. Mycroft makes a satisfied little hum that Greg knows he can translate as a yes. “I have opinions about lace.”

“Do you?” Mycroft tilts Greg’s head back, quirking an eyebrow at him upside down. “Interesting.” 

“Turns out being your fancy pet has made me fussy.” Greg grins. “Congratulations.” 

Mycroft shakes his head and kisses his forehead before pushing his head forward again, none too gently. “You are not my pet.” 

“I was just kidding.” Greg chuckles. “Hey… I realized we didn’t really… we didn’t really discuss that beforehand. I figured the clothes would be it, you know? I didn’t expect… I didn’t expect you to want me to steer that much. Was it okay?”

“Yes,” says Mycroft simply. “Of course it was.” 

“Do you… I mean, I’d do it again. More, maybe. Up to you.”

Mycroft runs a sudsy hand teasingly down the side of Greg’s throat. “Oh?”


“Well,” Mycroft says. His fingers walk their way toward Greg’s nipple. Greg braces himself for a pinch. “I would be amenable to that.”

His fingers twist, and Greg gasps.