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flowers as an excuse

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The flowers are probably against the rules, just in case someone is allergic or something, but Graham can't bring himself to care, honestly, not when Oliver's the one holding them. Can't really bring himself to deny Oliver anything, most of the time. And he is partial to tulips. With a kiss to Oliver's cheek, he says, "I don't even have a vase for these, unfortunately--"

"Don't worry about it."

Oh?

There's a smile on Oliver's face, the one that precedes initiating something, and it's not like Graham's never thought about it before despite the horrifying idea of being found out (oh, to be the Watcher's little agent, both serving and fearing it... bastard thing), but he'd never dared bring it up with Oliver, preferring (for the most part) the assured privacy of their shared bed at home (a nice little two-storey house, detached). But it's been a more-than-fleeting idea on his mind, the potentially giggle-inducing thrill of doing something like this where one ought not to... Just a little fantasy, is all.

Seems that Oliver's chancing it, with a backpack that seems on the light side, and it's a coin-toss (Graham's idea, and Oliver can't help but laugh -- it's a nice sound, and Graham's glad that Oliver laughs more these days, even though it's been just over ten years since... well, yeah) that decides the order of things.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Maybe I'd already decided--"

"Oh did you?"

"--since you've been a little tense lately--"

"Am I? Genuine question, I swear."

"Yeah." Oliver's voice turns a little softer, although his hands don't stop their work, pulling on Graham's belt and zipper. "You know, new job and all."

"Mmm, yeah, technically a new job and all--"

A tug on the waistband of Graham's jeans, where he's sat on the now-cleared desk. "Are you gonna help me or just lie back like a lazy-ass?"

Graham giggles, pulling Oliver in for another kiss, long and slow. It's not an answer, but Graham's hoping to assuage the minor gripe as he snakes a hand between them, fiddling with Oliver's zipper and button and dipping a hand in to stroke him through his underwear. "Aww," Graham hums, "hard for me already."

"Course I am, you prat, I love you."

"Aww, I love you too."

Oliver snorts and rolls his eyes, tugging again on Graham's waistband as more of a reminder to get him to lift his hips or something, and by some miracle Graham complies, still looking all too smug despite the growing flush. Oliver knows how to deal with that, and he's glad that none of Graham's assistants are around to hear any of this because he does intend on making a noise. Mostly drawing the noise out of Graham.

Typically, Graham turns contrarian for its own sake, moving to shuffle off the desk to try to sink to his knees in front of Oliver, which yeah, he'd be down for if he didn't already have something else in mind. "Get back up, you pain in the ass," he sighs, mock-frowning at Graham's giggling, even when he starts sliding down his underwear, which, you know, helps in the scheme of things. It's a little cool in the Archives, so it's no surprise that Graham shivers a little, but other than that it does little to affect Graham's erection.

"Hard for me already?" Oliver parrots, grinning.

"Of course! I love you."

Ah, still far too smug -- barely, but Oliver has time. Time and a decent amount of lube that takes a little while to warm up because, as much as he'd like to wind Graham up, cold lube is not the way to go. It'd be funny, but not today. The reward of Graham arching his back off the desk when Oliver presses a finger in is satisfying enough in the moment, as is the soft, muffled gasps against his forearm. He doesn't stay quiet for long, rarely does without effort, when Oliver introduces another finger and finds his prostate. Yeah, quite the noise Graham makes -- a sharp inhale, a garbled nonsense cluster of not-quite-words, but he's still trying to keep quiet. Not that Oliver wants to invite anyone's curiosity, either, but he thinks he can extract more out out of his husband.

They're both still giddy about the husband thing.

"D--do you, um--" Graham full-on whines when Oliver stretches him a little wider with a third finger, and grabs at his arm to still the movement. "Uh-hm, condoms?"

"... Ah."

Oh, now at that, Graham raises an eyebrow, his insufferable smugness flooding back into the spaces left between his flush and his panting. "So you want to make a mess in my Archives, do you?"

Oliver could say he wasn't planning on it (he honestly wasn't, he was caught up in the idea and forgot that one thing), but he can play along, too. He plays bashful, lips thinned together in a shy look, and says, "Maybe."

"Well, don't let me stop you." Graham is, in fact, doing the opposite of stopping him, with one leg pushed further to the side in invitation. And perhaps they should think about keeping things clean -- it's knackering having to clean up, sometimes -- and Oliver does at least consider tissues for a moment while he's working Graham open, before his husband pulls him down for another sloppy kiss, and groans into it when Oliver is finally, finally ready.

"By the way," Oliver manages to push through, "a 'mess in your Archives', was that--"

"Oh God, Ollie," Graham half-chokes, his hands grasping around Oliver's upper arms, "th-- no, I was being literal--" He cuts off with a strangled shout when Oliver starts to move again, slow and leisurely but precise. "Y--you-- oh God, Ollie," he repeats, less of the barely-serious exasperation and more of a mantra as he pulls Oliver closer to kiss again, one hand buried in Oliver's locs and the other clinging to his shoulder, almost digging in with the short nails when Oliver picks up the pace. There's a pleasant sort of kick in his veins as Oliver hoists one leg up over his shoulder and coaxes Graham to wrap the other leg around his waist, a push for more, more sensation as he squeezes around Oliver, to hurtle towards the edge.

Oliver catches on, of course, with his own sort of knowing, the kind that comes with knowing a friend and partner for as long as they have. A sort of laugh, caught in a ragged breath that ghosts over Graham's lips. "Don't rush me," he says with a deliberately slow thrust of his hips, "it's not that fun, otherwise."

"'It's not that fun, otherwise,'" Graham mimics, and squeezes around Oliver again.

"Jesus Christ."

Graham lets out a wheezing sort of laugh in response that lasts only for a moment before Oliver kisses him again, a kiss that he moans into as Oliver starts moving again, still bastardly teasing slow but it still pushes against his nerves. Another noise spills out of him, between the cracks of their kiss, when Oliver touches his dick -- a ghost of a touch, teasing, a sort of magnetism that makes Graham arch up to chase after it, but being more-or-less pinned between Oliver and the desk he can't actually move much, aside from the slightest nudge of his hips and the bend of his back. Oliver, of course, laughs at him in his quiet way. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to--" Rudely interrupted by Oliver's hand with a more solid grasp, and the sudden snap of his hips, and Graham dissolves again into another whining moan. His fingernails do cut into Oliver's shoulder, although ultimately shallow and harmless.

"Sorry, you were saying?"

"Knobhead," he manages just as Oliver moves again, picking up the pace. He's not quite sure what to do with his hand, the one that was anchored in Oliver's hair and now grasping at the edge of the desk with vice-like intensity, coherency thrown off by Oliver's all-demanding rhythm. Save for the fact that the hand on his dick has not moved, so much as it is holding still. "C'mon," he snarls through clenched teeth, his body tightly wound and boiling, "c'mon, just--" A just-too-loud whine, but Graham barely has the wherewithal to care about nosy parker colleagues. "Ollie--"

Another kiss to swallow another loud noise now that Oliver's altogether obliging and, now, jerking him off at the same time as he is slamming into him. Not quite enough to shunt the desk across the floor -- it's an old and heavy thing, anyway, Graham would know by how many times he's slammed his knee against one of the drawers -- but Graham can See the slightest of judders in its old frame as well as he can feel Oliver inside him. He's not especially keen on the Watcher, even less so in an intensely private moment -- despite the setting, so yes he knows why it's pressing so prominently right now -- but there are some... advantages, he supposes, as minimal as they are. Such as Knowing how much Oliver loves him, and how Oliver knows in his own way that Graham loves him. Really, a number of little things that Graham doesn't need the Watcher for. But he does, and he may as well make the most out of it.

Oliver hikes up the other leg from around his waist, mirroring the other hanging over his shoulder, and grasps the other side of the desk with both hands. "You can--?"

"Oh--" Graham takes himself in hand and shouts garbled praise into Oliver's mouth, his voice stripped hoarse when he collapses over the edge and Oliver follows suit.

The Watcher is only background static, ignorable, and Graham's content to just lie there for the moment with his eyes slipping shut and both arms wrapped around Oliver's shoulders, bearing in mind the mess on his hand. He grins sleepily at the kiss to his cheek, soft and sweet, mumbling, "I love you. Should probably let me get up unless you like me better in human pretzel form," which Oliver snorts at.

The cleaning-up is easy, after double-checking their clothes weren't stained, but the distinctive smell of sex was something that could only be aired out with open windows, which was annoying and might disturb the paperwork -- as if this little spontaneous thing hadn't done so -- but it was either put up with a light breeze or be perceived as having done 'a naughty little thing at work'. 

Clothed and presentable, Oliver grants another kiss to Graham's cheek, just along one of the long scars from ten years ago, and he melts into it.

"See you later, love," he says.

"See you later," says Oliver, as he picks up the flowers again; they have a vase at home, just by the bed.

When anyone asks Graham why he's grinning that day, he just shrugs and carries on with the sorting out the rest of the statements.