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Greg's day had already fallen away from him, and he'd only been at Mycroft's for five minutes. Slumped boneless, he rolled his head back and forth on the back of the sofa to feel the hardwood underneath the wide-woven upholstery. Even above the wood smoke from the fireplace, he smelled polish and dust and old things.

He was beginning to find that comforting.

"And your response?" Mycroft said.

"I didn't know what to say." Greg sipped his tea. It was from an expensive tea cup from an expensive saucer on an expensive side table. Much as he'd finally started to like the sitting room, there were things about dating Mycroft he'd still have to get used to. But it was early days yet. "I was glad to get next weekend off for Sharon's visit, of course I was, but I didn't know about the rest. I told him I like my job as is. If I went for Chief Inspector, I wouldn't get my hands dirty as much, and I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

"I'd like to point out that you're already in a leadership position."

"But I get to focus on cases, not management. I want to hold on as long as I can."

"Well. I think that's admirable."

Greg blinked. "Really? Most people think it's asinine."

"Most people let desire for money and prestige cloud their vision. You, on the other hand, have other priorities. It's always been very clear to me."

"I feel like that's a backhanded compliment, but I can't put my finger on why." Greg spun sideways and gently placed his feet in Mycroft's lap.

Surprised, after a moment Mycroft set his cup aside and rested his hands on his ankles. The warmth was grounding. "It's intended to be a whole-hearted compliment."

"Is it."

"Gregory, how often do you think I encounter people who aren't driven solely by ambition?"

Greg considered. "Good point."

"The fact I'm intending to get across is this: you have an air of tremendous security with yourself and your position, and that security is very attractive."

The compliment hung in the air, making Greg a little squirmy. "How attractive?" Greg said, changing the subject. He shifted his foot to prod Mycroft's cock through his fine trousers, and delighted in his quiet sniff of reaction.

"Are you angling for a demonstration?"

"Usually." Greg's heart was already beginning to speed in anticipation. He moved his foot in small circles, and felt the flesh under his arch twitch.

Mycroft hummed and shifted his hips. "That could be arranged."

"I was hoping so."

For a minute or so, the room was quiet but for the sound of Mycroft's breath deepening as Greg roused him. Greg was rifling through ideas which way this could go when Mycroft lifted his feet to the floor.

"Stand," he instructed evenly. "I'm going to make you come down my throat."

Greg's cock, already beginning to be interested in the proceedings, leapt. Even after all this time, when Mycroft detailed in plain English any details of what they got up to sexually, it made Greg flush. Perhaps it was the manner in which he spoke it, or something about that particular voice pronouncing those particular words in such smooth, rolling tones, but whenever Mycroft said anything remotely salacious it made Greg want to hide in a hole like an embarrassed teenager with an erection. If Mycroft ever started fully exploring the world of dirty talk, Greg didn’t know what he would do: laugh himself out of the room, or come so hard he’d feel it the next day.

He knew it was probably the latter.

Trying to keep his limbs steady, he stood in front of Mycroft. Then he met his gaze.

The desire in it made the world fall away. He watched, mouth dry, as Mycroft's eyes fluttered closed and he dove in, rubbing his face on the placket of Greg's trousers, nipping at the fabric, huffing hot breath, worshipping. Greg strained harder at the sight.

"Jesus," he whispered. He rested his hands on Mycroft's head and felt him moan. Mycroft let down Greg's zip, and Greg gave over to the sensation: pressure and wet heat, slipping and suction.

He was never going to get used to this. Ever. A mouth that praised detachment, that spoke state secrets to spies and diplomacy to queens, a voice that dripped so often with condescension, was currently sucking him off. Was currently sucking him off with tremendous enthusiasm, if the noises he was making were any indication.

The blow job went on, and on. Greg floated in a timeless sea of pleasure, revelling in Mycroft's greed, buffeted by the desire lit by the pornographic noise and the soft-sharp-hot carnality. When Mycroft licked a sloppy line between his testicles, separating them, wetting them, it was too much. He curled his fingers into Mycroft's hair and whimpered. Then he remembered himself and jammed his hands into his armpits.

Mycroft reached up and tugged on his elbow.



Mycroft moaned and sucked harder, and so Greg took that for an answer.

With his fingers twisted in Mycroft's hair, Greg had something to push against. He rocked forward to meet Mycroft's mouth, shoving in, matching him. "Oh, christ yes. Oh christ yes. Take it. Take it. Oh god, this is good. Oh god yes. Mycroft…you're just… Mycroft…please…please…please… Oh god, I…" He watched Mycroft's mouth stretch red and wet around his cock, and saw him reach toward his lap for a moment then deliberately place his hand on his knee. Greg sucked in a breath. Desire raged. "Oh, god yes. Do it."

Mycroft met his eyes. He shifted in his seat.

"Do it," Greg murmured.

In five seconds Mycroft had his own cock in his hand and was sucking Greg down again, moaning, and Greg's head snapped back with the sudden blaze of pleasure. "Oh, fuck yes, come. Ohhh, christ I want to come. I want to come down your throat." Mycroft moaned, and Greg felt his hand move faster. Greg flexed his arse so his cock bumped Mycroft's soft palate. "You want to taste me, don't you. I know you like how I taste. It makes you so hard."

Mycroft started jerking, completely scattering the rhythm of the blow job, but seeing the breakdown of control only made Gregory's arousal flare hotter.

"You love it. I bet you can taste me already. Come on, harder. Harder. Harder." Mycroft seemed to have completely lost track of anything but his own pleasure. His mouth had completely fallen open and he was panting, twitching, so very, very close. Greg took his own cock in hand and started jacking himself while he watched.

When Mycroft used both hands on himself, Greg knew it was about to kick off. Greg pulled furiously, not for a moment taking his eyes from Mycroft as he lifted his hips a few inches off the sofa, slowed his hand, and froze. His groan filled the sitting room and he dropped over the other side, coming onto his hands and across Greg's trousers rucked up on the floor, with each breath letting out a heartbreaking whimper.

"Yesss…" Greg hissed. He watched Mycroft clasp himself with both hands and twitch with aftershocks, his eyes closed, floating. Not for the first time, Greg felt a stab of pride that he got to witness this man, with his forbearance and his self-control, give himself entirely over to pleasure.

And then, Mycroft opened his eyes.

The softness in them was heartbreaking. He gazed up at Greg like a devotee, like a supplicant, and Greg's heart flipped. Greg moved his hand faster and stared back, the pleasure filling up behind his eyes like warm water, like a rising tide of arousal. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe and he needed to breathe, but something about the expression on Mycroft's face made that impossible. Greg's chest ached. His throat was tight. When he moaned, it sounded like pain instead of pleasure.

All of Greg's muscles drew up, and he crested mindless with tension before his orgasm hit in a sudden, full-body drop. It struck half a moment before he felt the first speeding pulse of ejaculation, hot and wet and perfect, and he rocked forward to stripe Mycroft's cheek and jaw. It wrung him dry, jerking through his thigh muscles, pulsing over and over in ever-decreasing strength like the ripples at the edge of a pond. Greg twitched and dripped the last of it onto Mycroft's tongue.

When it finally ended, he looked down to see the evidence of his pleasure all over Mycroft's face—filthy, glistening—and reached down to smear his hand across his cheek.

In a rush of movement Mycroft stood and swooped in for a kiss. It was slickness and semen, heat and desire, and Greg grabbed his arse with both hands to keep his knees from buckling. But just as forcefully as it began the kiss slid sideways into a slow, aching sort of tenderness, and Greg moaned into his mouth and held on as tightly as he dared.

For several timeless minutes, they held each other in the middle of the sitting room, half dressed, clutching, panting, inextricable. Greg squeezed his eyes shut. His heart thundered.

"Gregory," Mycroft said, and he gripped on tighter. He buried his face against his neck. Their skin slipped.

Greg reeled and tried to breathe. The post-orgasm hormones were doing a number on him; everything felt painful and too hot, but he couldn't make himself pull away. Mycroft made a quiet noise of distress and started swaying back and forth, shifting Greg's weight with him. Greg breathed him in, his sweat and his faded cologne. The affection he felt was tender as a new bruise.

He lost track of time as they leaned on each other, but eventually his system cleared, and so did his head. Greg stepped back. His heart still pounded as he stood there staring into Mycroft's eyes, with too-empty hands and an ache to go on holding him. Any release that had come from the orgasm was wiped away by his longing.

"Well. Thanks." He didn't know what else to say.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Thank you."

"I…" Greg swallowed down the remaining press of emotion. "You'll…you'll need to wash your face."

"I will." After a moment for breath, Mycroft turned to the door.

"Sorry I got a little…" He gestured at his face. "…On you."

Mycroft stopped and turned. His expression was deadly serious. "Don't you ever apologise for that."

Greg stomach fluttered. "Oh."

He stared at Greg for another moment. It looked as if he was going to say something else, but instead he left the room in silence. Greg scrubbed at the semen on his trousers with his pants, balled them up into a pocket, and put his trousers back on without them. Then he threw himself down onto the settee and exhaled slowly.

By the time Mycroft had come back, settled down, and lifted Greg's feet onto his lap again, Greg had finally got ahold of himself. Mycroft squeezed his ankles.



"This sofa is terrible,” Greg said, scrambling for a new subject, and the ridge of furniture frame which was currently jammed against the back of his skull seemed as good a topic as any.

"This sofa, as you're calling it, is a settee and is three hundred years old."

"You're shitting me."

Mycroft chuckled mildly. "I am not."

"How old is your bed?"

"A mere one hundred. It has the bones of youth."

"That explains why we don't get naked here. The bed's harder to break."

"Yes, that's the reason we don't regularly have sex on a three-hundred-year-old settee."

"I hope we didn't get anything on it."

"We didn't. Though the consequences would have… Well. I suspect it would have been worth it even if we had."

Greg cast an eye at the fabric and snorted. "I'm not sure that's true."

"Stop fretting."

"I'm not."

Mycroft examined him sidelong. Greg let him. After a moment, his eyebrows raised. "No, you're not. You're relaxed."

"I am."

"Good," he said, gently pleased.

"Coming here is always a good idea."

Mycroft reached out and took a sip of his stone-cold tea. "Is that meant to be a pun?"

It took a moment. Then Greg snorted. "Accidental." He decided no longer being thirsty was more important than the temperature of the tea, and half sat up for a drink.

"I would hope so. I like to think I'm more to you than an orgasm machine."

His timing was impeccable. Greg nearly sprayed all over the coffee table, and had to set down the cup so he didn't spill while he choked. Orgasm machine. Jesus. He coughed and laughed at the same time. "You're a menace."

"If you say so."

"I do."

"Well, you're a professional authority on menaces, so I'll defer."

Leaning back against the arm of the settee, Greg considered him in profile while he wiped his mouth. He could see Mycroft trying to hide a smile behind his teacup, and so he pressed his heels down on his thigh: a moment of pressure meant to function as affection. "More than a machine."

"I'm glad to hear it."

As Mycroft drank more of his tea, Greg smiled to himself. He listened to the crackle of the fire in the grate and luxuriated in the calm that settled round them.