lavenderandvanilla:

I know I said back to the first date theme, but sorry this was too good to pass up. Next week, promise, back to the first date and first kiss. 

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“Gregory, darling! Happy New
Year!”

“Mycroft?”

“Apologies for not being
there to kiss you as you deserved to be kissed.”

“My? Are you drunk?”

“No, no, no… Maybe. Yes. A
little. I could have had a bit to drink. To ring in the New Year, you know.”

“Champagne?”

“Yes, of course. How else
would one ring in the newborn year?”

“Champagne goes straight to
your head.”

“Does it? Perhaps it does a
bit. Feels nice though. Feel better if I was with you.”

“Where’s Anthea?”

“I shouldn’t tell you this
but she has been kissing the ambassador to South Africa.”

“Are you in South Africa?”

“No, no, no… Maybe. Yes.”

I want to know where this goes next

mottlemoth:

Three years into their marriage, Greg and Mycroft adopt a baby girl. She immediately takes after her papa, and grows up speaking French, Arabic and Chinese as well as English. (Greg has to pick up bits of all three as well, so he knows what on earth his tiny person is saying to him.) 

When she’s six, their daughter is cast as the Star of Bethlehem in her prestigious school’s nativity play.

Mycroft tells everybody. 

The date is circled in red on the kitchen calendar for weeks. That afternoon, an urgent diplomatic incident kicks off with Russia. Russia are told they can wait until the bloody morning.

As the play starts, Greg realises Mycroft is trembling a little beside him. Their daughter’s costume took Mycroft a week to make. Anthea helped – she taught him how to braid his little girl’s hair, how to thread the silver sparkles through it. Mycroft didn’t sleep last night. This afternoon he smoked for the first time in six years. The last time he smoked, she was being born.

Halfway through their daughter’s solo song, Greg glances across to find Mycroft quietly in tears. 

His parents never came to anything extra-curricular. They were too busy. Mycroft was the ‘easy’ child – the one that could raise himself. They left him to it.

After the play, when the children come from backstage, their daughter flies through the crowd to her papa’s arms. Mycroft catches his star and twirls her through the air, and she laughs and tells him in French that she did well. He hugs her more tightly than he has ever held anyone but Greg – and he tells her, “Mon étoile, tu étais parfait.”

On Christmas Day, Mycroft opens a handmade book of his daughter’s pictures and stories. She and Greg made it together – arranging, trimming, sticking, decorating. Whenever Mycroft was away, this was what they did together to feel close to him. They started it back in March.

On December 27th, Mycroft informs the relevant people that he is to be considered semi-retired – effective as soon as is humanly possible. 

He’s going to spend more time with his family.

He and Greg are adopting another girl.

iwritemystrade:

Snowstorm

Inspired by this doodle from @tuliaart

Mycroft kissed the top of Greg’s head. He brushed his fingers through the silver locks and traced a fingertip down the back of his husband’s neck.

Greg shifted in his sleep and threw his leg over Mycroft’s hip, a low groan escaping his lips.

Mycroft chuckled softly. Mornings like these were rare. It was not every day that they woke up together, limbs entangled, peeking at each other with half lidded eyes, stealing soft, grazing kisses before surrendering to sleep yet again. It was an unspoken promise that neither would sneak out of bed without the other. Not that Mycroft wished to.

He turned his head towards the window, to the heavy skies. Outside, snowflakes had begun to fall. The howling wind caught them mid-descent and whipped them into a translucent flurry. He could barely see anything beyond a foot from the glass, and soon a thin sheet of powder had plastered itself to the fine metal screening.

Mycroft’s leg twitched. Inside their warm cocoon, Greg’s lips pressed against his neck. Mycroft bit his lower lip. As Greg’s fingers slid under his night shirt, Mycroft’s blood ran south. The soothing weight on his chest where Greg had deposited himself now made him restless. Mycroft’s chest shook with silent laughter as Greg began snoring again. He attempted to pry his shoulder out from under his husband, but to no avail.

Mycroft’s skin broke into gooseflesh as he smelled Greg’s hair. He moaned low in his throat. “Gregory”. Mycroft called him in a strangled whisper. His eager fingers explored Greg’s back, the flat of his palm kneading into the lower back, just how Greg liked it.

“Don’t wanna get out of bed”, Greg mumbled and slithered to settle on top of Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled and kissed Greg’s temple. His nails dug into Greg’s sides and he rocked his hips upwards in a strategic move that shook Greg out of his slumber. The chocolate brown eyes widened before they crinkled around the edges. Mycroft’s words nearly evaporated into thin air, so radiant was Greg’s smile. He paused to commit every minute detail to memory, from how Greg’s eyelashes settled on his cheekbones to the rough glide of Greg’s stubble against his own cheek.

“Neither do I”, he murmured and dipped his fingers under the waistband of Greg’s shorts. “Ever”.