Summary: Lestrade and Mycroft's interesting Friday night is interrupted by Sherlock, and Lestrade isn't at all happy about it.
Rated: M for VERY MILD sexual content
Taken from my tumblr: someottersmarryhedgehogs
Greg shivered and leaned back into the warm body behind him, desperate for that heat to film him, to consume him. Another shiver coursed through his body; whether it was from the open window, blowing cool air into the large room at a quick rate, or the finger running up and down his spine, he couldn't say.
Mycroft pressed his palm flat against Greg's back, digging the pad of his fingers gently in to warm, tan skin. He moved his hand slowly from one shoulder blade to the other, massaging the tight muscles, working out the kinks that had formed from a stressful week of no relaxation.
"You work yourself too hard," Mycroft whispered against Greg's neck. His lips, barely touching the flushed skin, trailed softly along his shoulder and up his neck. Every few seconds he placed a light kiss to his neck, causing the man to twitch and shiver, push back against his body, his firm ass begging for contact. But that wasn't on the agenda. At least, not yet.
"You're- oh…You're one to talk." Greg pressed his legs together tight, biting back a groan as those soft lips attached themselves to his neck and his warm tongue darted out, tracing along the lines of a sensitive vein.
Mycroft's hand dipped lower, cupped his right cheek and squeezed slightly. He withdrew his hand the second he felt Greg's hips rotate slowly.
"Stop doing that!"
Mycroft chuckled, a low, resonating sound that Greg wanted to hate, dear God did he want to hate it, but he couldn't. It was the sound of victory, the sound Mycroft made when he knew Greg was at his mercy. He had control, and that was how he liked it.
Those strong hands were holding his hips in place, those plump lips dragging over his skin, sucking and biting, and all Greg could do was wrap his fingers in the thick blanket and attempt to mask his gasps.
Mycroft ran his tongue teasingly along the shell of Greg's ear, earning him something between a giggle and a groan. Greg tried to rock forward but his body wouldn't budge; Mycroft's hands kept him in check. He moved one hand away, set it on the man's lower thigh, and caressed, fingers tickling over sweat and light patches of hair.
"My…shit, please…"
"Such language," he chided huskily. He did, however, push Greg's legs apart and slide his hand up even further. Greg's body jerked forward, a moan slipping from his lips, and Mycroft kissed his neck affectionately.
"You're a tease."
"And you love it."
Greg allowed his jaw to fall open when Mycroft's fingers stroked ever so soft over the length of his hardened cock. A small smile played on his lips as pleasure shot through his body, not nearly enough and too much all at once. Mycroft wrapped his hand around Greg's shaft as he pressed his own body closer, and he took up a long, slow rhythm.
"Oh my God, you're amazing," Greg breathed. The rhythm simultaneously set him on edge and relaxed him. He wanted Mycroft closer, as close as possible, on him, in him; he wanted all of him.
Mycroft's free hand circled around Greg's waist; he held him close, stroked just a fraction faster, and pressed his own erection against Greg's firm ass. The other man groaned and threw his head back and Mycroft smiled into his neck before thrusting his hips forward, desperate for some sort of friction.
The two men were pulled from their own little world by the obnoxious sound of Mycroft's phone ringing.
"Leave it alone," Greg pleaded.
"And what if Britain is about to be blown up?" Mycroft asked, only half joking. He actually did get those kind of calls from time to time. Greg groaned and pushed him away. The phone had stopped ringing, but a new text had a frown etching itself in to Mycroft's features.
"What?" Greg asked.
"It's Sherlock. He's in some sort of trouble, it would appear."
"At eleven on a Friday night? Doesn't he ever sleep?"
"He doesn't sleep. He waits."
Greg rolled his eyes at his dramatic lover and reached over the edge of the bed, grabbing and tossing Mycroft's trousers right in his face.
"Go to him, then."
"I will make this up to you," Mycroft smiled sadly. Nowadays, someone was always getting between them and the little time they had to spend alone.
"You'd better," Greg muttered. He turned away from Mycroft, the picture of disapproval, but still smiled when he felt those familiar lips press against his jawline.
"I love you."
"Love you too, My."
He listened to the sounds of Mycroft's footsteps heading to the door, going down the long, winding staircase, and the click of the front door. Then there was nothing. In the silence of the empty room, with only the wind to keep him company, Lestrade made himself a promise.
Sherlock Holmes was going to pay for his cockblocking.