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Mycroft panted, his grip flexing on Greg's upper arms, thumbs digging into the muscle. It might've been almost painful, if the sensation weren't being nearly completely blitzed out by the incomparable waves of pleasure caused by Mycroft riding Greg's cock. Greg’s own fingers tensed in response, and some primal part of his brain hoped there would be bruises, fingermarks left in shadow under that cream bright skin of hip and thigh and buttock, secret proof that he'd been there.
Mycroft released a shivering moan, concentrating on memorising each change in Greg's face depending on each shift of his hips. It was always a test for his normally snap-quick synapses, to do more than live heartbeat to heartbeat when his blood was flooded with dopamine and epinephrine. There was keeping track of the thousand little things he knew he could do to Greg already, the reactions he could illicit. Cataloging each new moment in every sense. Collating each of those things into the growing and incredibly filthy file in his mind that encapsulated every sensual encounter they'd ever had. Christ, the mental stimulation alone could easily undo him far too soon if he let it.
"God, God... Fuck, My," Greg breathed, pressing his back hard into the headboard, his head lolling against the wood. His eyes were hooded and heavy.
Mycroft leaned in for a rough kiss in response, biting at already cherry-stung lips.
"S-so... so full of you. Unh..."
"Christ..."
The material between them rasped at Greg's bare chest and his hands snuck upwards, pressing slowly up the damp planes of Mycroft's back under the shirt. That fucking shirt, the minx. The thought had Greg pressing his mouth into the gap between the loose ring collar and that swan-like neck, his nose dove-tailing under Mycroft's adam's apple as he sucked and bit, wanting to mark him.
Mycroft squirmed, rolling his hips more, thrusting against the ache and pleasure, groaning. Admittedly, the plan was certainly paying off far better than he'd anticipated. There had been possible outliers, of course. Mycroft had noted that they by far preferred to both be nude when engaging in coitus. Also, while he knew Greg derived pleasure and stimulation from Mycroft's wardrobe, and there were certain anomalies amongst Greg's apparel that titillated him - Greg's black leather jacket had been something of a revelation, honestly. However, none of it had featured as much more than window dressing. It was wrapping; at the most clothing was an aid to foreplay, at the least it was all just in the way.
This was proving to be somehow different, however, and once it was all over Mycroft might be able to analyse why, but at the moment he couldn't be brought to do more than simply revel in it.
Greg's fingers dug into the cloth, crushing numbers, gripping it tight in both hands below the somewhat faded letters of his own last name. His hips snapped up under them, using his upper body and the jersey as a trap to hold Mycroft still as he fucked up into him with a growl, panting hotly against his neck.
Mine, mine, mine, Christ, all mine...
Greg’s thoughts were quickly spiraling away from him. He'd never though it was something he wanted. The idea of possessing Mycroft was almost abhorrent in a way. It was the same way he felt about birds - the idea of keeping something so gorgeous and free, even as a pet, was simply wrong. Perhaps it was alright for others, but not for him.
Similarly, entertaining the idea that any part of Mycroft could be kept and caged was almost terrifying. It was different to be able to love him, to comfort him and be with him. Care was different. But owning anything of a Holmes, that Mycroft might think he could hold him back, the thought almost terrified him. He would never want to be a stone around the ankle of someone so brilliant. Surely such a limpet would be rejected, and Greg could never let that happen, he would never let that be the reason he might be cast aside.
When Mycroft had appeared in the doorway wearing Greg's old uni rugby jersey over his pyjama bottoms, his grey eyes searching for approval, the air had been almost knocked clean from Greg's lungs as he sat in bed. They'd spent the afternoon filtering through what of the leftovers in the boxes from Greg moving in needed binning or storing. Mycroft must have come across the shirt somewhere along the way and hid it from Greg, because he'd not mentioned it, or that he'd thought of it this way when he saw it.
Now, it made Greg's blood heat.
It hung somewhat loose on Mycroft, a shape that would've been almost tight on Greg's youthful and muscular frame. Greg's shoulders and chest had been wider and a bit thicker, and it made Mycroft look younger somehow, as the neck slipped sideways to expose some of his collarbone and shoulder. Greg could feel himself automatically folding his book away and gripping the duvet. A decided beat of want dropped in Greg's stomach like a stone as his love shifted forward, an arm wrapping around himself self-consciously.
"Unreasonable, perhaps. But I... I wanted to wear it. Your name."
"L-looks good on you." The words were rough, almost sticking in Greg’s throat.
"You don't mind? Would... would you've let me wear it? If you'd known me back then?"
Mycroft felt delicate, fragile in that moment. He could hardly look at Greg and his face was burning. It was ridiculous. It was the most irrational need he'd experienced in years. Greg tried so hard to be easy, to be the one thing in his life that had no demands. If Mycroft desired anything about Greg, even this important piece of his youth, he knew Greg would give it him and far more. While he felt desired and wanted, he could never claim he felt appropriated or owned. And he'd never, ever felt like he'd wanted that, or anything like it.
Until he'd opened yet another moving box on an ordinary day and revealed an apparently earthshaking piece of Gregory's past.
Mycroft had seen the pictures of a youthful, rugby-playing Greg, pasted in albums and hung on walls in his parents' home, in places of pride. Anyone would be proud of such a triumphant and beautiful youth. Hair dark and eyes bright, covered in mud and grass. He'd run and sweat in this jersey. He'd fought and won. He'd conquered against other fit, young men in the smell of spring sunlight. The multidimensional mental picture nearly bowled Mycroft over. He'd carefully folded and tucked the shirt away, for re-examining later, when he could spare the time to prod at the emotions he was suddenly buffeted with.
Later that night, his hands shook as he'd slid it on. It was surprisingly loose, and when he turned to look at himself from behind in the vanity mirror, the sight of that name on his back made him shiver in delight. He'd never wanted to wear a ring on his left finger, or be particularly paraded on someone's arm.
This, somehow… This was different.
Different in a way that, when he asked that question of Greg and watched the other man swallow hard, his heart squeezed with uncertain nerves, his confidence deserting him.
Watching as Mycroft crossed the room, Greg couldn't imagine anything more beautiful or uncomfortable.
"’Course. I’d’ve been floored if you’d asked… You would've destroyed me, at that age. ‘Specially if you'd worn that. God, I would've been so gone."
Mycroft made a small, almost hysterical noise of disbelief, kneeling up onto the bed next to his detective.
"I can't imagine you would've wanted anything to do with me, back then. Much less destroying you."
"Christ-" The word broke in Greg's throat as Mycroft pushed a palm up his partner’s bicep and teased his fingers under the white cotton of his sleeve. "Pretty, smart and posh, and throw in ginger... You've always been a recipe for my destruction, gorgeous."
His hands shook with the restrained urge to grab and take, hands hovering. Shaky. Uncertain for the first time in years.
"I was far more ginger back then, that is certain."
Mycroft pressed close enough that Greg couldn't stop himself from finally placing his hands on Mycroft's hips, that long familiar cloth bunching under his fingers. Pulling his lover closer, so that he had to straddle Greg in the process.
"If you'd put this on, back then... Fuck, My, I'd've never wanted you to take it off. ‘Less you wanted to, that is."
"All your teammates, all the people who followed your team, women and men who watched you, saw you tackling and touching all those other players... They'd all know."
"Know I'm yours?" Greg murmured, eyes searching for Mycroft’s, reaching up to caress his cheek, cup his jaw. His lover’s face was suddenly earnest and fierce.
"That I belonged to you. Yours. I would have worn it until forced out of it. I- I'd have wanted to wear it, and only it, in whatever dorm room, flat, bedsit, hovel you inhabited, for unhealthy amounts of time. Stretched out, lazy in your bed, curled around you, unable to study, unable to think! Oh Gods, Greg-"
He could not continue, absolutely could not, not just because his words were driving Greg insane, but because that mouth was finally being crushed by desperate lips, hands and arms drawing and desperate to hold him. Then there were two pairs of hands that were just as desperate for closeness. Shedding everything between them but the jersey, and then there was slick, and begged for pressure and penetration.
Now Mycroft’s hair was nearly as wild as Greg’s, his eyes blown dark with a ring of silver in the lamplight, his lover suddenly turning him onto his back and rejoining him, pressing over him and into him. It left Mycroft gasping in the wake of the onslaught, and he curled around him indulgently, his teeth to Greg’s ear, one of his more sensitive spots.
“W-would you have… fucked me in the showers? Behind the pitch? M-made me b-be quiet so… so your teammates wouldn’t hear?”
“Fuck, I would’ve let ‘em all hear, if you wanted… God, love how you sound, moanin’ for me,” Greg’s voice was nearly a lilting growl. He tried to take a deep breath and panted it out as his ear was teased beyond reason. Hips snapping in an incessant rhythm, he chased bliss, simply taking. Mycroft let one of his hands fist in the hair at the back of Greg’s head and didn’t hold back a single whimper, delighted as his lover practically breathed in every tone.
Greg normally never thought of himself first in bed. Unless Mycroft took the lead, his first instinct was always, always to care for his partner, and while Mycroft obviously enjoyed and benefited from that, there was something about this… Something about take, about own. At least, in the way that Greg did it, which somehow still made him feel like he was loved, that he was precious. It was simply more. And the bit of extra aggression that seemed to come along with it, when wielded in this way… Well, Mycroft definitely did not mind.
Especially as a large palm found his cock and began to work him expertly in time. All thought was near impossible at that point, save to perhaps catch the half-growled, half-swallowed litany pouring from Greg’s mouth.
“Can’t believe… you’re mine. Mine. So fucking perf- Christ, My, I… Ah… Love this… Fuck, I want… want you to come, gorgeous. I’m… You’re gonna come. Come for me. C’mon.”
Mycroft could do little but obey, his back arching off the bed as he folded under the onslaught of sensation. His fingers gripped into Greg’s back desperately, catching at shoulder blade and digging at the wide plane of muscle. A long whine punctuated by gasps and Greg’s name fell from his lips, practically swallowed by Greg as he forced their mouths together hungrily, his hand and hips working his lover through.
His own orgasm caught him off guard, drawing his body practically to a shivering halt, his hips giving a few abortive thrusts as he came, groaning and pleading against Mycroft’s lips. His lover, still shaking from his own release, held him tightly, thighs locked around him as if to protect, his hands now soothing on his back and arse, gently encouraging a few more shuddering thrusts, making them both moan.
In the ringing quiet of aftermath, their breaths seemed incongruously loud, as did the duet of their thundering hearts.
As Greg shifted slightly, Mycroft’s hands stilled him, wordlessly asking for him to stay, just a little longer. Greg felt the strange pulse of possession thread through him again, and he shifted only enough to press their foreheads together, lips brushing as they breathed in the silence.
“I…” Mycroft’s voice was raspy when he finally found it, “I have never wished… There is no one to whom I have ever thought belonging to them… That is…”
“Don’t want to own or keep you,” Greg breathed, pushing his nose into Mycroft’s cheek. He could hardly bear to look at him, his heart felt fit to burst. On one hand, he felt he’d just been given the most amazing gift. Alongside that, though, he was trying to keep the little voice that wanted to make him guilty about simply taking quiet, because Mycroft had started this, and that surely made it alright. “You’ve always been so much your own person, love. ‘S something I’ve always admired about you.”
Mycroft could hear the unspoken things, of course, and in the gloaming he could admit the truth of them to himself. Greg knew Mycroft was terrified of losing control in so many situations, emotionally and physically being a decent part of that. Greg had always been so cognisant of that, and so caring, always making him feel in control and independent, yet still equal as partners in a loving relationship. But there was something he’d realised tonight, something Greg needed to hear.
“I know you don’t, my darling. But also… you do. At least, to a small extent.”
Greg lifted up to look at him, dark eyes questioning in the low light. Mycroft smiled softly and reached up to caress his cheek, making those eyes flutter close momentarily. When Greg opened them again, Mycroft drew his hand away and placed it over his chest, across his heart, between patches on the old, worn jersey. Then he pressed it up, into Greg’s bare chest, leaving it warm and solid against his sternum, and swallowed hard, unable to find the words to voice something so sentimental.
Greg could hardly breathe, much less talk.
“Me, too, sunshine,” He managed to choke out before rolling slightly so he could completely envelope Mycroft in his arms. “God, love, me too. ‘M yours, if you’re mine.”
“Yours, always,” Mycroft whispered into his neck, his arms tightening around Greg in return.
The jersey was relegated to a small box in the back of their shared closet, and was brought out only on very special occasions. After all, it was a catalyst of not just fantasy, but sweet memories of all kinds, and greatly treasured by them both, always.