Chapter Ninety-Seven: I'm Gay

Beta: sofienolongerexists

Chapter Title: I'm Gay by Bowling For Soup

Warnings: Explicit sexual content

Author's Note: Um... sorry for over two months of not updating? I'm a bad, bad author! You all have my sincerest apologies. Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long. Thanks for all the reviews, I appreciate them :)



The day started normally enough. It was the 7th, meaning Greg and Mycroft had school again. Greg wasn't amused; his tie was strangling him, and wearing a stiff shirt and blazer after the holidays was really weird. Mycroft kept glaring at him because Greg had been complaining since they woke up, but Greg ignored him in favour of his coffee. Both had slept in, meaning they were a bit rushed over breakfast.

And that was when Maggie walked into the kitchen with the mail. 'You both have letters,' she informed the teenagers and handed them over.

Greg frowned, wondering who was sending him a letter; Mycroft got all kinds of things from business associates and the actual businesses he owned, while Greg's few letters were usually from Baker Street Academy.

Mycroft was already pulling his open- and the letter looked exactly like Greg's- so Greg took a sip of coffee before tearing his own open.

It was from Oxford.

Oxford University.

Greg's mouth dropped open as he read over the letter, Mycroft doing the same beside him. Greg couldn't believe this. He'd applied as a joke back in October, he and Dimmock both had. He hadn't actually thought... but they wanted... this was a mistake, right?

'Greg?' Maggie frowned, growing concerned over her son's behaviour. 'What's wrong?'

'They...' Greg had to clear his throat and try again, 'I have an interview.'

Maggie blinked. 'What?'

'At Oxford; the Institute of Human Sciences,' Greg clarified. 'They want me to do an interview for the course I applied for.'

Beside him, Mycroft jolted. 'You applied at Oxford?'

'Yeah,' Greg nodded slowly, still staring at his letter, 'as a joke, you know? Dimmock and I were considering doing some sort of sociology course, and I applied for the Human Sciences one, 'cause you need to do an undergraduate course to later do a Criminology course at the Centre of Criminology. I... I didn't actually think that I'd get an interview.' He was still having a hard time believing this. But no, there was his name; Mr Lestrade, we'd like you to attend an interview from January 13 to January 15... WHAT?! 'I can't believe this,' Greg muttered again.

'Greg, wow, that's amazing,' Maggie grinned. She was the first to recover, of course; she'd always known that her son was a smart boy.

'Yeah,' Greg murmured.

'When do they want you there?' Maggie asked.

'Uh... the 13th to the 15th,' Greg answered.

Maggie nodded. 'So you'll be having three days off school,' she hummed before turning to Mycroft. 'And what about you?'

Mycroft blinked rapidly before looking up at her, then Greg. 'Oh, uh... I have interviews at Pembroke College from the 14th to the 16th.'

'What course do you wanna do?' Greg asked.

'Mathematics & Philosophy,' Mycroft said with a slight smile. 'I've always loved maths, and I wanted to study something else along with it.'

Greg frowned. 'I thought you wanted to do Politics?'

'That was more of a back-up if I don't get the marks for a Mathematics course,' Mycroft admitted. 'I like Politics, but I don't love it.'

'So you can both drive down together,' Maggie suggested, 'either the night before or the day of Greg's first interview. When do you have to be there, Greg?'

'Uh...' Greg consulted his letter, 'by ten am. There's a list of where I have to be and where I'll be staying while I'm there.'

'Night before, then, so you're refreshed,' Maggie said.

'Christ,' Greg muttered, 'I don't know anything about Oxford interviews! What the hell am I supposed to do? And take? And say?!'

'Calm down, Gregory,' Mycroft said, reaching over to pat his arm. 'I've researched the process thoroughly; I can tell you all about it. We have a week until we have to be there; you'll be fine.'

'Yeah,' Greg muttered, 'right.' Oxford. Well... he had an interview, that didn't mean he'd actually get in. First they had to offer him a place, and then he had to get the marks. That'd never happen, right? He'd end up with some shitty job in Oxfordshire while Mycroft studied his smarty-pants degree.

'Gregory,' Mycroft said, and when Greg looked at him the red-head was scowling. 'I can hear you putting yourself down. Don't. You'll do fine.'

'You can't know that,' Greg murmured.

'I can,' Mycroft retorted. 'You're smart and charming; you'll do very well.'



'I'm just being realistic!'

'You're being an idiot.'

'Oh, I thought I was smart and charming,' Greg retorted.

Mycroft scowled; Greg knew that look. Oh, no...

'No, Myc, I was joking,' Greg said as his boyfriend stood, taking his coffee and letter with him. Maggie watched in amusement as Greg rushed after the younger boy, shouting, 'Don't cut me off!'

'And he wonders why I know so much about his sex life,' Maggie sighed, shaking her head. She cleaned up the boys' plates before grabbing Greg's letter.

She read it over, and couldn't keep the smile off her face. Greg had always been clever and bright; he'd just never applied himself properly. Oh, he had when taking the exams that would decide if he got into Baker Street Academy or not, and Dimmock always managed to convince Greg to study for their important tests or exams, but before Mycroft... Greg had just been adrift; it was the best word Maggie could think of. He'd never bothered, hadn't thought getting great marks mattered, hadn't decided what to do with his life.

And now he did his homework on time, came home with As and A*s, and had applied for Oxford. Greg had said it was a joke, but Maggie knew it was more than that. He and Dimmock had probably never considered that they might get accepted, but had tried anyway, because... well, why not?

Maggie bit her lip as she folded the letter, slid it into the envelope, and put it away for safe keeping. She hoped that Greg's interview went well, and that he got in; he had the ability to get the marks needed, she knew it.

Maggie didn't just want her son getting in because Oxford was a great school; it was where Mycroft was going. That boy was a genius, he was going to get in. And Maggie didn't want something like that- one getting in, one getting rejected- to tear Mycroft and Greg apart. They were too good for each other.

There was a crash from outside; the door hitting the wall, and Maggie huffed as she stalked out of the kitchen. If Greg had put a hole in the wall again...

She sighed and rolled her eyes when she caught sight of Greg and Mycroft snogging against the door-frame.

'You'll be late!' she shouted.

The couple tore themselves apart, Greg blushing and Mycroft looking at his shoes.

'Er... right,' Greg hummed, clearing his throat. 'Right, ah... where's my bag?'

'In the car,' Mycroft rolled his eyes.

Greg pouted. 'You make me forget stuff!'

'You're an idiot.'

'And you love me; what's that say about you, huh?'

'Boys...' Maggie prompted.

'Right!' Greg repeated and beamed at his mum, his nervousness about Oxford apparently forgotten. 'Seeya, Mum!'

'Have a good day,' Maggie replied, while Mycroft waved, pushed Greg out the door, and shut it behind them. Maggie shook her head and went back into the kitchen to enjoy her breakfast in peace.


'I'm dying!'

Mycroft sighed as he climbed out of his car, slamming the door shut. 'You aren't dying.'

'I am,' Greg insisted for what felt like the twentieth time that morning. He was pulling at the collar of his school shirt again, and Mycroft rolled his eyes when his partner said, 'My neck is swelling up, I can feel it!'

'No, your neck hurts because you keep moving it and scratching at your skin,' Mycroft told him. He rounded the car so that he could slap Gregory's hands away from his neck, making the shorter boy huff and fidget. 'Stop playing with your tie; you'll get used to wearing one again.'

'Will not,' Greg pouted, ''cause it's-'

'Strangling you,' Mycroft interrupted. 'Yes, so I've heard.'

'Then why aren't you freaking out?' Greg demanded. 'I thought you loved me.'

'I do love you,' Mycroft groaned. 'But you're not dying; your tie isn't strangling you; your neck isn't swelling up. You're just cranky because you're tired and didn't get to finish your coffee this morning.'

Greg frowned. 'Why couldn't we stop at McDonald's?'

'Because we would have been late.'

Checking his mobile, Greg said, 'Myc, we have twenty minutes until classes start!'

'And if we'd stopped at McDonald's, we would have had three minutes,' Mycroft replied. He smoothed down Greg's collar- and his hair, which was truly appalling this morning- before tugging on his sleeve. 'Come on, I want a cigarette.'

'Oh, so we get to do what you want,' Greg grumbled but followed along anyway, still touching the knot of his tie, the collar of his shirt and blazer.

They walked towards the smokers' corner and found a fair few people already there; Joe and BJ were chatting, Sally was on her phone, and Dimmock was talking to... Anthea?

'Anthea?' Mycroft frowned.

'Mycroft!' the girl grinned and threw her arms around the red-head, squeezing the life out of him.

'Anthea,' Mycroft spluttered, 'can't... breathe...'

Anthea didn't seem to care, just squeezed him more, but eventually let him go when Greg reminded her that she'd lose her best friend if she strangled him to death.

'What are you doing here?' Mycroft wheezed when he was finally let go.

'I got a letter from Oxford this morning,' Anthea beamed. 'I have an interview!'

Mycroft grinned. 'That's fantastic, Anthea!'

'So?' she demanded. 'Did you get a letter?'

Mycroft smiled and nodded, making Anthea squeal; Greg wondered if she'd ever made that noise before in her life.

'Yay!' she beamed and hugged him again; at normal human-strength, this time. 'We're totally gonna go to Oxford together and show those smart arses who the real geniuses are!' Anthea declared.

'We have to actually get in, first,' Mycroft reminded her and pulled his cigarettes out.

Anthea waved a dismissive hand. 'Please. Have you ever failed a test in your life?'

'Well... the ones I missed when I was in rehab,' Mycroft reminded her.

Greg glanced down at his shoes. Mycroft was clean now; that was in the past.

Anthea's smile softened, becoming a bit warmer, a bit sadder, then before. 'Oh,' she hummed, before moving on. 'Well, guess who else got a letter?'

Mycroft's eyebrows rose and he glanced at the group, eyes resting on BJ, seeing as he was the closest.

BJ laughed. 'As if I have the marks to get an interview! I'm at Baker Street 'cause I'm good at football. I'm hoping one of the local universities lets me in to play footy for them.'

Mycroft moved onto Dimmock.

'Nah,' the brunette smiled. 'I applied, but no letter for me; not that I expected one.'

Greg shifted uneasily. Right... he had to tell Dimmock that he had an interview.

'Not me,' Joe shook his head, too. 'I'm working for the old man when I finish school. Though Dad reckons I should get a business degree.' He rolled his eyes at that, so Mycroft moved onto Sally.

Sally beamed. 'Last choice, finally!'

'I didn't know you'd applied at Oxford,' Greg commented.

'I applied fucking everywhere, Lestrade,' Sally replied. 'Just so happens that Oxford realised how truly awesome I am.'

Greg snickered.

'So four of us could possibly be going to Oxford together at the end of the year,' Mycroft mused.

Anthea frowned. Sally blinked.

'Four of us?' Dimmock echoed.

Mycroft turned to Greg, who sighed and blew smoke above his head. 'I got a letter,' Greg admitted.

Dimmock's mouth dropped open. 'Seriously?' BJ asked, and even Joe looked gobsmacked.

'Hey, don't look so shocked!' Greg huffed. 'I'm smart!'

'Never said you weren't,' Joe threw his hands up. 'You've always got better marks than me.'

'And me,' Dimmock commented. Greg eyed his best friend wearily, but after a few seconds he realised that Dimmock didn't look upset, or pissed off, at all. He was just... smiling. 'Seriously, Greg, you thought I'd be pissed?' Dimmock laughed. 'I don't care! If you get into Oxford, that's awesome! And it'll be 'cause you deserve it!'

Greg blinked. 'Oh.'

'Do we need to hug this out?' Dimmock asked, holding his arms out.

'Get lost,' Greg laughed, and Dimmock smirked. Still... Greg was glad that his best mate was being so cool about it. It almost made Greg forget that he had to go all the way to Oxford and answer questions and... seriously, he had no fucking idea what he was supposed to do!

'Gregory, stop freaking out,' Mycroft ordered.

'You stop freaking out!' Greg retorted. Mycroft just raised an eyebrow. 'Shut up,' the older teen mumbled and drew back on his smoke.

'Don't worry, Greg, we'll coach you,' Anthea smiled. 'Mycroft's known all about Oxford and Cambridge interviews since he was five.'

'That was when Siger told me what was expected of me,' Mycroft said with a roll of his eyes.

Greg scowled. Yeah, he still hated Siger Holmes. Always would.

The bell rang, and Greg and Mycroft both put their smokes out, while Anthea and Sally hugged goodbye, and Joe and BJ wandered off to class. Dimmock waited around for Greg and Mycroft, and the three of them walked through the school together, Sally still with Anthea.

'Seriously, Greg,' Dimmock said after a few minutes, 'I'm happy for you.'

'Yeah,' Greg smiled. 'Thanks, Dimmo.'

Dimmock smiled back.


Greg's mood fluctuated over the next week. Sometimes he was silent, studying over the very detailed notes Mycroft had made for him; sometimes he was on Oxford's website, trying to find out as much information about his upcoming interviews as possible; other times he freaked out and declared that he was too stupid for Oxford, and was gonna screw up and never get in. in those moments, if they weren't in public, Mycroft would calm Greg down with a few soothing words, some kisses, and maybe a blow job. Okay, usually a blow job that led to some very fantastic sex; not that either of them was complaining.

It was one of those nights. It was the 10th, just two days before Greg and Mycroft would pack up and head to Oxfordshire for their interviews. Greg was, of course, panicking. He'd barely eaten dinner- just picked at the chicken and vegetables Maggie had made- before escaping into his and Mycroft's room. Mycroft had sighed but finished his dinner, helped Maggie clean up, and then followed Greg to their room.

The brunette was on the internet, laptop about to fall off their shared desk, a notebook of Mycroft's notes in his one free hand. His hair was sticking up on end (he'd obviously been tugging on it again) and he was muttering under his breath.

All in all, he was very close to a panic attack. And while Mycroft knew how to handle one, they weren't pleasant for anyone.

'Gregory, please calm down,' Mycroft said as he shut the bedroom door. He flipped the lock that they'd finally purchased, guaranteeing the two some privacy.

'I can't calm down!' Greg snapped.

Mycroft sighed. 'Really, you're hardly going to be able to calm down if you shout things like that.'

'I'm not trying to calm down,' Greg retorted, eyes flicking between his laptop and notebook.


'Mycroft, I'm gonna fail!' Greg interrupted. He brandished the book at his boyfriend, eyes now completely focused on his laptop. 'Seriously, why the hell did they contact me?'

'Because you're an intelligent young man full of promise,' Mycroft replied, like had the last few times Greg had asked, 'and they're considering helping mould you into an intelligent man.'

'But why?'

'Gregory,' Mycroft groaned again, stepping further into the room, 'they wouldn't have contacted you if they didn't feel you were Oxford material. Whatever you wrote in your application, as well as your school marks, clearly made them believe that you could have a future at Oxford. Yes, Oxford is very difficult to get into, but some people do. Why can't you be one of those people?'

'Because,' Greg responded shortly. But he paused, notebook dangling by his side, hand paused on the touch-pad of his laptop.

'Because...?' Mycroft echoed.

'Because,' Greg repeated, head down, 'I'm not smart, Mycroft. Not like you.'

'Not many people are,' Mycroft said, a note of humour in his voice.

Greg finally looked up, but rolled his eyes as he did so. 'You and Sherlock are the kind of people who get into Oxford, Myc. Not kids who fuck up over and over again who come from a single parent household.'

'You think you don't deserve to go to Oxford because, what, you're poor?' Mycroft asked.

'I know I'm not poor,' Greg shook his head. 'I mean, yeah, me and Mum are when compared to your family, but Mum's got a job, we can pay our bills, Mum sends me to a good school, and I've always had a bed to sleep in, a roof over my head. I've got it better than a lot of people.'

'But?' Mycroft asked, knowing that there was a "but".

'But people like me don't go to good schools like Oxford,' Greg repeated. 'It just doesn't happen.'

'Why not?' Mycroft questioned.

Greg laughed. 'Good things don't happen to people like me.'

'Why not?' Mycroft repeated. Greg looked at him. 'Why can't, every once in a while, good things happen to "people like you"? Why not, Gregory?'

'Because,' Greg repeated a third time, but had no other argument to offer.

'Sometimes good things do happen,' Mycroft said. 'I've seen your school marks, Gregory. I've seen how passionate you can get about things you enjoy. I've heard about how you practically helped raise yourself, how you and your mother recovered from an awful few years to become warm, kind people. You got into a good high school because you were intelligent, and you'll get into Oxford because you're intelligent. You have a good head on your shoulders, as some might say, and you deserve to go to Oxford.'

Mycroft had been closing in, getting closer and closer, until he and Greg were nose to nose.

'Don't convince yourself that you don't deserve this opportunity, Gregory,' Mycroft said. 'You obviously wanted it enough to apply, even if it was just a joke. Don't downplay yourself so much that you screw up these interviews. Go in there, answer those questions, and be yourself. If you don't get in it should be because Oxford isn't the right fit for you, not because you didn't even try.'

Greg blinked rapidly at him, having no idea what to say in response to all that. Mycroft had never called Greg an idiot with any truth behind the words; it had always been when Greg had done, or said, something stupid. He'd always smiled and praised Greg when he got good marks on his homework or tests, had always told Greg that he could do better because he was smart enough.

And words like that, coming from someone as brilliant as Mycroft Holmes, was... Greg honestly had no words. Mycroft, who thought that the world was full of goldfish (Mycroft and Sherlock's words, not Greg's), thought that Greg was smart enough to get into a school like Oxford. Never mind that Greg was sure that only truly brilliant people got in, because... Mycroft thought that Greg was one of those truly brilliant people.

And Mycroft, well... he didn't say those kinds of things just to make someone feel better. He always told the truth in situations like this; he always told the truth when it mattered, no matter how hard the truth might be to hear.

'Fuck,' Greg gaped, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow, 'fuck, I love you.'

He pounced, and Mycroft stumbled back with the force, but his arms easily wrapped around Greg's waist to pull him closer as Greg sealed their mouths together, licking eagerly against Mycroft's lips.

When Mycroft opened up, let Greg's tongue in, both groaned as they fell into the familiar rhythm, no less intense when the first time they'd kissed. Greg didn't think that it'd ever change.

'I really didn't say all of that hoping for sex,' Mycroft gasped when Greg pulled back for air.

The brunette chuckled. 'Yeah, I know,' he said. He dragged his lips along Mycroft's jaw, up to his ear where he nibbled, and Mycroft groaned softly. 'I know,' Greg repeated, pressing a kiss to Mycroft's cheek. 'Love you.'

'I love you, too,' Mycroft said, because he liked saying it back whenever Greg did.

Greg liked it, too. Fucking loved it, if that made sense. He'd never said those words to anyone but his mum, and sometimes Dimmock when the two were drunk, or after Greg had come out and Dimmock had just said, "I don't care, you're still my best mate". Mycroft was the first (and hopefully last) guy that Greg would ever say those words to. Because Mycroft made him the happiest fucking seventeen-year-old in the world, and Greg seriously had to ride Mycroft into the mattress because of that.

So he wrapped his arms around Mycroft's neck and tugged, mouth going back to Mycroft's as he did. The two kissed- or tried- as they stumbled over to the bed, Greg going down first but dragging Mycroft right after. Their kissing stopped long enough for the couple to shuffle up the bed, get comfortable, but started again quickly after.

Mycroft was on top, in both their favourite position, and Greg moaned as he arched up. His hands had fallen down, trailing over Mycroft's back until he could grab his arse and squeeze. He moaned again when Mycroft licked his neck.

'Shh,' Mycroft hissed and drew back, Greg making a noise of annoyance. 'Your mother's still in the house.'

'So put the TV on,' Greg retorted.

Mycroft rolled his eyes but did as asked; as long as neither of them shouted (and really, it was more likely to be Mycroft), Maggie shouldn't be able to hear them. Mycroft had to lean over Greg and the bed, reaching towards their desk where Greg had left the remote the night before. He finally wrapped his fingers around it and pressed the power button, watching as the TV flickered into life on the dresser.

Some late night news programme was on, but Mycroft ignored it and dropped the remote over the side of the bed. He went right back to Greg and groaned when their crotches came back into contact. Greg bucked up against him, trying to find relief for his straining erection, and Mycroft wasn't much better. They pushed their bodies together, practically humping each other, like... Well, like the horny teenagers that they were.

Greg tugged on Mycroft's t-shirt as he sucked on Mycroft's neck, making the red-head hiss every time Greg nipped at his flushed skin. 'This needs to come off,' he ordered.

Mycroft chuckled against Greg's ear. 'I will if you will.'

'You're an idiot,' Greg laughed, but Mycroft sat up and Greg followed, the two scrambling to get their shirts- or, in Greg's case, his jumper- off. They fell back on each other, even though sex usually meant they'd have to remove their jeans. Greg didn't care; he loved having Mycroft's warm, freckled skin pressed against his own. He liked running his fingers over Mycroft's shoulders and surprisingly toned chest. The skin was so smooth, smoother than Greg's, usually hair free, and his flat stomach was the same.

Greg hooked a few fingers under the waistband of Mycroft's jeans, but just used his grip to tug Mycroft that bit closer, their groins firmly pressed together, their legs tangled and pressing into muscle as they tried to find better positions.

It was all very rough, sloppy, and passion-filled. Greg liked when he and Mycroft started slow; when they kissed and nipped and touched until they removed their clothes and slowly proceeded further. But he also liked this; liked Mycroft sucking at his neck, hard enough to leave a very noticeable hickey come morning; liked when Mycroft dominated him, held him down with his body weight, used his hands to grip Greg hard enough to bruise; liked when Mycroft would finally grow too horny to care and wrestle Greg out of his jeans and pants, then proceed to fuck him into next week.

Oh, yes; Greg definitely liked that.

When Mycroft shifted to attack the other side of Greg's neck, Greg managed to shuffle about until he could wrap his legs around Mycroft's waist, his arms around Mycroft's back. He dug both his heels and fingers in, arching up as he did, and grinned when Mycroft growled against his skin.

'Come on,' Greg moaned, 'fuck me!'

'If you'd hold still-'

'None of your excuses, mister!' Greg interrupted. Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'Just get naked and stick your cock in me!'

'Ever the romantic,' Mycroft muttered, but was smiling as he pulled back. He ran his fingers from Greg's chest, down his stomach, and to the waistband of his jeans. Greg shivered and lifted his hips off the bed when Mycroft popped the button free, then tugged the zipper down. Another shift of his lower half and Mycroft was peeling Greg's jeans and boxers off, leaving them in a messy heap somewhere at the end of the bed.

Greg still had his socks on, and he tried to remove them, but was sidetracked when Mycroft slid off the mattress to take his own jeans off. Greg didn't think that he'd ever tire of naked Mycroft. Naked Mycroft was his favourite Mycroft. Well, that and sleepy Mycroft, who was an adorable bastard.

Mycroft was half-hard, cock still twitching as it hardened, and Greg licked his lips as the red-head climbed back onto the bed. One of Greg's socks was still on, the other caught on his toes, but he forget about them quickly when smooth, flushed skin pressed against his own.

He groaned and arched up, and Mycroft let him. He buried his face in Greg's neck, breathing already becoming laboured, and Greg heard the familiar sounds of the bedside drawer opening, the large bottle of lube they'd bought only a few days ago being pulled out.

The pop of a cap was enough to have Greg's dick twitching eagerly, and the muffled laugh from Mycroft told the brunette that his boyfriend had spotted it.

'Don't laugh,' Greg huffed.

'I'm not laughing,' Mycroft denied and drew back, a smirk on his face.

'Hey, he's eager for you,' Greg reminded the taller boy. 'You should feel privileged.'

'Oh, I am,' Mycroft drawled, one eyebrow cocked.

Greg groaned and let his head drop back onto the pillows. Of course Mycroft was a master of teasing. Honestly, his voice alone and various facial expressions were enough to have Greg hot all over.

'Oh, I'm sorry,' Mycroft mused, voice perfectly pleasant as he squeezed lube onto his hand, 'did you want to tease me some more?'

'You're an a-hole,' Greg muttered, though there was no heat behind the words. 'If you can't laugh with the person you're fucking... uh...'

'Go on,' Mycroft said. His smirk widened.

'Fuck you is what,' Greg retorted. Which made absolutely no sense, but Mycroft was now kneeling between his legs, slowly warming gel between his hands. Was Greg supposed to have his head on straight when he was about to have super hot sex with his super hot boyfriend?

Hell no.

A slick finger slid into him with no warning, and Greg tensed momentarily before relaxing, his body accepting the intrusion thanks to years of practice. Mycroft had nice fingers, Greg mused as Mycroft slowly stretched him, first with one finger, then another two. They were long, pale; delicate, Greg supposed. Piano hands. Piano fingers?

Ooh, that was his prostate.

'Fuck, feels good,' Greg moaned, now actively rolling his hips onto Mycroft's hand.

Mycroft smiled as he watched, his gaze flicking between Greg's face and where his fingers disappeared into Greg's body. When Greg looked up it was to see Mycroft's free hand stroking his erection, pre-come gathering at the slit whenever Mycroft squeezed the head. God, Greg kinda wanted to blow Mycroft, now. But the fingers felt good, working him open for something bigger, and Greg really wanted a damn good shag.

But Mycroft's cock was delicious.

Decisions, decisions.

Mycroft eventually took the choice away. Suddenly his fingers were gone, applying more lube to his dick for a smooth entrance. Greg shifted a bit, lifted his hips, and looked up as Mycroft leaned over him, hips lining up...

'Fuck,' Greg moaned again as Mycroft slowly but surely pressed into him. Even when they fucked hard, Greg had found that Mycroft still liked to give him a few seconds or minutes to adjust. Mycroft wasn't exactly small, and Greg could only take so much pain with his pleasure. 'M'good,' he murmured after a minute or two, and leaned up to press his mouth against Mycroft's jaw, his neck, then his lips when Mycroft moved closer.

'You're always so tight,' Mycroft sighed.

'Should do this more often, then,' Greg replied.

Mycroft snorted and snapped his hips, burying himself deeper and effectively making thought impossible for Greg. At least for a while. 'The human body doesn't work like that, Gregory dear.'

'S-Still,' Greg gasped as Mycroft ground against him. God, he'd never felt this full with anyone else. Mycroft was fantastic. 'Should- ah- practice,' Greg got out through a hiss of pleasure.

'Mm,' was all Mycroft said, and rolled his hips again. Greg glared at him. Seriously, Mycroft's cock was rubbing deliciously against Greg's prostate, Greg's legs were near his chest, and his dick was trapped between both their stomachs... Mycroft was a fucking tease.

Greg smirked when an idea popped into his head. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft's back and tugged him closer until he could press his lips against Mycroft's ear. 'Baise moi tout de suite.'

He felt more than one part of Mycroft go stiff at the words, and then Mycroft growled low in his throat, which made Greg go stiff, and oh, yes, now things were getting truly awesome.

Mycroft drew back slowly until their eyes met. Mycroft's were almost black, and Greg didn't doubt that his own matched. 'Oui, Monsieur,' Mycroft purred, and Greg bit his lip, waiting, just waiting-

Mycroft pulled out, only to slam back in, making Greg almost bite through his lip to hold in the scream. Mycroft's hips pistoned back and forth, cock stretching Greg, filling him, hitting Greg's prostate to send white hot pleasure dance through his body.

Yes, yes, yes, Greg inwardly chanted, trying to keep from shouting. But oh, shit, it felt so good. Mycroft's hands were on his shoulders, pressing Greg hard into the mattress. Greg knew that he could get out of the grip if he wanted, but he found it ridiculously hot when Mycroft held him down. So he just tried to wrap his legs firmly around Mycroft's waist and take the pounding his boyfriend was giving him.

'Oh, merde!' Greg moaned after a particularly hard thrust sent him jolting up the bed. The entire frame moved with them, and Mycroft growled again.

'Fils de pute.'

'Merde,' was Greg's reply. In his defence, he was getting thoroughly fucked- and rather well, too.

Mycroft groaned long and loud and drew back, grabbing Greg's hips with both hands and lifting him off the mattress.

'Yes!' Greg hissed as the new position changed the angle of Mycroft's thrusts, making his pushes smoother, his cock seeming to fill Greg that much better. The only thing better, really, was Greg riding Mycroft, and... Wait, he'd wanted to do that. 'Lève-toi,' Greg said as he pushed at Mycroft's chest, 'lève-toi, Myc.'

Mycroft groaned, but his thrusts stopped. 'Oui?'

Greg couldn't help but laugh a bit. Seriously, he'd never spoken French during sex before Mycroft.

'Get up,' Greg repeated in English. Mycroft moved back, and Greg pushed until his boyfriend was on his back, pale body flushed pink, cock standing proud against his stomach.

Greg licked his lips as he climbed aboard. He grabbed Mycroft's dick with one hand and wasted no time in sinking back down, both teens groaning as Greg was once more filled.

'Putain!' Mycroft near shouted.

'Shh,' Greg hummed as he rolled his hips.

'Shut up,' Mycroft replied and grabbed Greg's hips. He thrust up harshly, and Greg moaned again, bouncing on Mycroft's cock a few times before establishing a rather harsh rhythm.

Mycroft had planted his feet on the bed, and used his grip on Greg's hips to fuck up into him. Greg groaned and moved as best he could, his hands splayed on Mycroft's chest, knees either side of him. Fuck, it felt so good, and Greg quickly lost himself to being filled over and over again, moving about every other thrust until Mycroft was hitting his prostate every time.

'Putain,' he echoed Mycroft, followed by, 'fuck, fuckity, fuck.'

Mycroft laughed breathlessly beneath him, but the sound was quickly swallowed when Greg bent forward as best he could to seal their mouths together. Their kisses morphed into harsh breaths and nips, the two breathing against each other as they fucked. Greg managed to get a hand between them and wrapped it around his dick, trying to pull in time with Mycroft's rhythm.

But really, he never had any form when Mycroft was fucking him, especially this fast and hard. It was all brutal thrusts and grunted moans, their skin slapping together, Mycroft's cock squeezed beautifully and Greg's hole abused in the best way possible.

Mycroft had started hissing things in other languages, ones that Greg didn't understand but that told the brunette his boyfriend was close. So he squeezed harder than he would naturally, flesh dragging against Mycroft's cock with every push. Mycroft moaned and threw his head back, his nails digging into Greg's hips. But Mycroft always wanted Greg to come first, and Greg didn't see any reason not to indulge.

'Mycroft,' he moaned, 'fuck, right there, love. Bit more, so close...'

He trailed off, muttering and grunting and generally making noises that would be embarrassing if anyone other than Mycroft was around to hear them. Mycroft just fucked him that much harder, the TV barely drowning out the noises they were making.

'Fuck!' Another hard jab at his prostate had Greg coming, his hand milking the climax for all it was worth. He made sure to bring Mycroft with him, and after a few more thrusts Mycroft was growling Greg's name amongst broken sentences in French, Chinese, and what Greg thought might have been Russian.

Greg coated Mycroft's stomach in come, while Mycroft emptied into Greg's body. Their movements slowed until they stilled completely, and Greg fell forward, barely managing not to squish Mycroft under his weight.

The sheets would need changing. And Greg really hoped that his mum hadn't heard any of that. He was too fucked out to care, though, and just smiled as he closed his eyes, enjoying the way his body hummed and ached in all the right places.

'You're pretty good at that,' he eventually commented after about ten, fifteen minutes. 'We should do it more often.'

Mycroft chuckled.

'No, seriously,' Greg said, the grin audible in his voice, 'we should do it all the time. Like, five times a day. Or six. Hell, make it seven; seven's a lucky number.'

'You're ridiculous,' Mycroft muttered. But he rolled over far enough to give Greg a soft kiss before he settled on his back, body hot and sticky, but sated.

Greg was silent for a minute, apart from breathing in and out heavily. After a while he shifted a bit, stretched his legs, and murmured, 'Thank you.'

'For what?'

'Calming me down,' Greg said. Mycroft shifted to look at him, and was met with a soft, warm smile. 'You always know just what to do.'

'Sex usually calms people down,' Mycroft quipped.

Greg snickered. 'Yeah,' he agreed, 'but when that won't work, you don't use it. You always seem to know just what to do.'

'I'm observant,' Mycroft half-shrugged.

'Yeah,' Greg agreed, 'but you also know me pretty well, so... ya know, thanks.'

'Believe me, it wasn't a problem,' Mycroft said.

Greg laughed again and nudged Mycroft with one hand. There were a few more minutes of silence before, 'Wanna go again?'

Mycroft groaned and closed his eyes. 'I'm tired.'

'Want me to do all the work?'

Mycroft's eyes snapped open at that, memories of Gregory fucking him flashing through his mind.

'Gotchya covered, Mycroft darling,' Greg grinned and nimbly climbed atop the younger teen, hunching over him to give him a dirty kiss.

'Well,' Mycroft mumbled against Greg's mouth, 'I suppose, if you need some more calming...'

'Oui,' Greg grinned and rolled his hips.

Mycroft groaned. This was turning out to be a very pleasurable night.

The French roughly translates as:

Baise moi tout de suite – fuck me now

Oui, Monsieur – yes, sir

Oh, merde! – oh, shit!

Lève-toi – stand up/get up

Fils de pute – son of a bitch

Putain! – translates to "whore", but is used as if to say "fuck!"

Author's Note: Before anyone gets up in my business; I'm taking some liberties in regards to Oxford's interview process. Because, being the idiot that I am, I only just started really researching the thorough process of applying at Oxford. Because of this, I learned that Oxford conducts its interviews in November and December. This story is currently taking place in January; ergo, Mycroft and Greg both missed the interview process. However, because I REALLY want them to study together, I'm changing it so that Oxford conducts its interviews in January. I'm sorry if this annoys anyone- it's annoying me- but I really screwed up when I didn't research thoroughly and am now using artistic licence as my excuse. So hopefully you can overlook that and still enjoy the story.