Archive of Our Own ^beta

The music crowds around you here. If you were claustrophobic this was not the place to be. However, if you wanted to go unnoticed, unhindered, unlawful into the scene, then this was exactly where you’d want to end up.
At 12 Bar no vice was looked down on. You wanted to smoke and drink and get into a fight, go on mate no one is going to stop you. You want to do some amyl nitrate and get a leg over in the alley, no worries.
Here on Denmark Street, no one knew his name, no one knew his boarding school upbringing, no one knew about Mummy and Daddy, no one knew he was a genius, no one knew where he really came from. Here on Denmark Street, people called him ‘Iceman’, people called him ‘Mike’ and didn’t spell it properly in notes. Mycroft didn’t exist here in this seedy underbelly, he wasn’t even recognizable to classmates if they ever crossed paths.
In the scene, however, everyone recognized him, and how could you not. He stood at two metres of pale long limbs, bloodnut disheveled hair with a pronounced widow’s peak that would recede his hairline with age, he had sharp lips and a leptorhine nose that gave him a striking profile. Freckles dusted his cheeks but were lost to the glint of shining steel he only pressed through his skin on the weekends. He wore tight fitting black denim and ratty band t-shirts or fishnet, baring his hipbones and rib cage. His leather jacket was the right kind of tattered edges, decorated with metal pyramids and spikes, patches sewn on in dental floss and frogged down pockets. But, if you looked closely and were observant enough you’d see it was haute couture nubuck, that his jeans had no label because they were bespoke, not rack bought, his hands were soft and manicured. Lucky for Mycroft, no one here was detail oriented.
He melted into the crowd and was a king among them. Throwing elbows in the pit as some shitty rocksteady band blared out slightly off tempo, out of tune song, Mycroft had never been more alive. This is where he belonged, his sweat mixing with that of strangers; random blows defining the boundaries of his body. He could barely breath and it was perfect. When the music ended he extricated himself from the herd to get a nicotine breather.
As he stepped out into the alley the air chilled his hot wet skin. He leant up against the skip wall, looking too much like James Dean from ‘Rebel Without a Cause’, and held his hands cupped to shelter the flickering lighter from the wind.
“Can I bum?” an unfamiliar voice asked from the dark.
Mycroft turned and squinted to allow his night vision to come into focus and see a moonlit silhouette.
“Yeah, if you buy us a drink.” Myc shook his pack and one long white cigarette fell between his fingers. He redirected it and placed it between the stranger’s lips lightning it in one continuous motion. And though etiquette would require him to move out of the other man’s personal space; this was not the place for manners. Umber met cesious and locked in for ten seconds of continuous gazing. Myc liked this man already, anything over six seconds of eye contact indicated the desire to fuck or murder and knew he wouldn’t be ending up dead tonight.
“Lestrade, and you are?” the question is followed by an all too showy French inhale
“Myc or Iceman, whatever you’d like”
“Alright Michael, I..”
“It’s not Michael” Mycroft insists, trying to school his plummy tones
“So it’s just Mike?”
“No, well…” he trailed off. He didn’t tell people his real name here. Why was he going to correct this man? He couldn’t think logically while his eyes scanned over the red and black leather of Lestrade’s bike jacket. He picked up bits of information from Lestrade without him knowing it. Funny that he had his own cigarettes, not the worst chat up on the planet, but also not the most creative. He wanted to tell this man his name so that he could hear it moaned out later.
“Then what?”
“Mycroft, and if you tell anyone I will end you.”
“Mmm, Mycroft, feels good in my mouth.”
“I’m sure I will.” Myc says coolly dragging on his smoke, bringing ash to filter “Now about that drink.”
“I’ll do ya one better.” Lestrade’s eyebrows raise excitedly as he withdraws a bag of white powder from his breast pocket.
“Please, I didn’t get the nickname for nothing.” Myc withdraws his own similar but much larger bag “Mine’s of higher quality I assure you, Russian, uncut.”
Lestrade’s fingers twitch and tighten around his own stash before he fists it back in his jacket
“Still, I’ll take a whiskey sour”
“On it”
They flick their stubs almost in unison and press back inside to the bar. The barkeep tips his head in acknowledgement, fringe cascading across his eyes. Myc indicates for two and signals Lestrade for the tab. Instead of tending to other customers the mixologist makes Mycroft’s drinks first, and strong. When Lestrade goes to pay a hand is waved over the drinks in refusal, the worker just looks at Myc and winks. It’s good to have connections wherever you go. Myc smile slyly at Lestrade, both of them shake their heads in silent laughter.
It’s too loud to talk so Myc communicates the only way possible and snakes his hand around the nape of Lestrade’s neck and grips. Again their eyes meet and then do not break until they have both, almost angrily, downed their drinks.
A smirk plays across Lestrade’s lips, he rubs under his nose and nods in the direction of the men’s. Myc’s eyes narrow are he turns to walk away, Lestrade’s hands tighten around Myc’s hips to follow him in the crowd. The lame excuse of ‘didn’t want to lose you’ and all other pretenses are dropped as he dips his index fingers under the other man’s denim waistline to swipe across soft skin.
As the bathroom door swings open they are greeted by another man, fixing his hair in the mirror with a fag hanging from his lips.
“Out.” is all Myc has to say.
He slams the door shut, shoots the lock across and turns it.
It’s just the two of them in the black light, the graffiti on the walls seems to vibrate and undulate with the penetrating bass from the stage. It smells like sweat and urinal cakes, and not that Myc is crowding Lestrade against the sink and counter the smells whiskey and smoke and leather. The scent is heady and goes straight to his groin. He inhales deeply along the line of the other man’s neck and growls, cagin Lestrade’s head between forearms and hands against particle board.
Lestrade’s eyes flutter shut and his head rolls to the side, opening his neck, inviting teeth. Myc resists, pushes off the wall and pulls out a pocket mirror, a razor blade and the blow.
Lestrade gives him space, allows him to tap out the lines.
“Got a note?” Lestrade asks altogether too eagerly
“Course” Mycroft says pulling his wallet chain and undoing the trifold of leather. He fishes out the first note inside and begins to roll it.
“Jesus is that £100 sterling?”
“Oh, yes I guess it is. I’m afraid I’ve rather shown my hand.”
Mycroft says no more, he ducks to hoover three lines in quick succession. When he straightens up he falls back against the wall, head thudding harshly against the greasy brick; he offers the note out to Lestrade but stares at the ceiling. Lestrade mimics Myc’s previous actions and then, for a second the room seems silent before brightness sets over everything like a flood.
Myc is on Lestrade in an instant, fingers worming up under his t-shirt to grip at his ribacge, mouth suckign and nipping roughly along Lestrade’s jawline and neck. Lestrade digs his fingers into Myc’s belt loops, closes the gap between their hips - crushing bone against bone. He rolls his hips against Myc’s and the rush of pleasure as their hard pricks rub through hateful denim is electric.
Myc laughs darkly as he presses impossibly closer and knocks the wind out of Lestrade
“What’s your name?”
“I told you, Lestrade.”
“No, Christian not sur.” Myc is aware his speech is relaxing from street into his more natural posh, but couldn’t care less
“Greg” he huffs out as Myc’s hand skims down along the lightly furred plane of his stomach
“Gregory, I’m going to blow you now. Nod if you’d like that.”
The violent affirmation that follows isn’t even over before Mycroft is on his knees, rubbing his face against Greg’s left thigh while he works down the flies.
Greg’s hands fall naturally into Myc’s locks. Mycroft begins to tease Greg’s glans, tonguing lightly over the ridge of his foreskin.
“No, no unh uh” Greg protests and his grip tightens on the back of Myc’s head to push into his mouth.
Myc doesn’t fight it, gives into the control and takes Greg deeper into his throat than anyone with a gag reflex would have a chance of doing.
“Jesus, fuck” Greg moans out
Myc hums and swallows hard around Greg, who’s knees buckle in response
“Oh Mycroft, oh fuck yes” Greg’s hips involuntarily kick forward.
Myc set a punishing pace, withdrawing almost completely before plunging back down to bury his nose in Greg’s sweaty pubic hair. This isn’t just a talent, this is a pleasure, a satisfaction Mycroft enjoys, taking a partner apart with his mouth is his favourite part of sex. Well, almost favourite.
“Hhnng, the way you take it, I’m not going to last,” Greg stutters “oh fuck, yeah just like that, oh fuck me, your mouth.” Greg’s monologue continues and becomes a babble of curses and accolades.
Mycroft is too busy to care that Greg has seemingly lost his mind, he is enjoying the taut silky skin on his tongue, the salt and musk and bitter flavour of precome mixing with his saliva, catologuing Greg’s soap brand. He hollows his cheeks and slows his motions, pulling out a break in Greg’s voice and breath. It’s not a minute before Greg’s thighs tighten and quake.
“Oh shit, shit I’m aahhh” is all Greg can groan and then his come is filling up Myc’s mouth and overflowing his lips, pushed out by the over occupation of space.
Mycroft sits back on his heels and looks up at Greg, self satisfied and pretentiously confident.
He stands, wiping the corners of his mouth like a gentleman after a five course meal.
“I want to fuck you.”
Greg still dazed and half-conscious begins to turn and face the wall, widening his stance as much as the denim on his thighs will allow.
“Not here, I’m taking you to mine.” Myc whispers in his ear, fitting his slightly longer body against Lestrade’s and cupping his hand over one side of Greg’s arse. Greg nods that he’s understood and agrees. He begins, with little coordination , to dress himself.
When they leave the look they are met with a grumbling queue. They smile, Greg’s post-coital state is obvious to anyone who glances at him. Hand in hand they make their way towards the egress.
“I’ve not got another helmet, but you can ride if you’d like, I’ll be careful. “
“Nah. Leave your bike, it’ll be fine. I’ve got a car.”
“It’ll get knicked!”
“No, really, it won’t, I can promise you that.”
“Oh fine, where’dya park?”
“I didn’t. Follow me.”
Greg follows behind Myc, slowed by the reward chemicals mixing in his drug soaked brain. They light up a few more smokes and walk up to the intersection of Charring Cross Rd and Shaftesbury Ave. Myc throws a hand up and waves. A vehicle in the car park starts it’s engine and makes it’s way towards them.
When the Audi A8 stops in front of them and the driver gets out to open the back door Greg is floored.
“What are you on about then?” he asks quizzically
“Mr. Holmes, sir” the driver greets them
“Mr. Tanner” Myc says sliding into the back seat with a nod. Greg smiles at the driver and self-consciously siddles in next to Mycroft.
“No, Myc, seriously.”
Mycroft slips his jacket and taps the glass partition signaling his chauffeur forward. His persona drops and he is suddenly a different person. He is another man, certainly not the same person who put rent boys to shame on his knees in the stalls at the bar.
“Gregory, for some reason, one which I cannot fully explain, I am fodn of you. However, if any of what you see or hear or do with me makes its way to people in the scene there will be dire consequences. Is that understood?”
“Uh, yeah” Greg doesn’t like that he is being intimidated, he doesn’t like that it seems Mycroft is suddenly threatening his life, but he does like Myc and so he waits for more of an explanation before responding further. He is afterall, mostly a patient, well -tempered chap.
“Good. Let me properly introduce myself. I am Mycroft Holmes, of the Sussex Holmes’, sizar of Cambridge and free agent for MI-6 in my spare time. That should do well enough to explain the money and the car, and the flat when we arrive at it. Any questions?”
“Why?”
“Why not? Blame my baby brother for the coke, blames my boredom for the rest.”
“Baby brother?”
“Sherlock, you’ll meet him. He lives with me because Mummy just can’t stand to have him around the estate anymore and he refuses to stay in University. I watch over him. We have an interesting relationship. Don’t be put off by him, he certainly won’t be by you.”
“Ooo-kaay” Greg says cautiously, unsure of what Myc is implying.
For minutes on end they ride along in silence. It is companionable and oddly comfortable, the space doesn’t need to be filled with idle nattering, the men are fine side by side in the dark and the quiet.
The car slows, stops and once again Mr. Tanner opens the door for them.
“Thank you, Tanner. See you in the morning.” Myc shakes the man’s hand and walks towards his home.
Approaching the white painted and columned row of condominiums Greg, a middle class kid from Hackney, instantly feels poor and out of place. He doesn’t belong here, especially dressed the way he is, especially at this time of night, or morning or whenever it actually is. He feels like he looks criminal or worse in dichotomy with the scenery. Mycroft doesn’t notice, this is far less grand than his family’s estate, he doesn’t even think it would impress anyone. This is where is he comes from, from silver service and staff, this is his natural habitat.
He opens the door and hangs hjis jacket. Greg stands in the doorway gaping in awe of the refined decor in the foyer.
“Do come in Gregory. Drink?”
“Yeah, sure, thanks” he says, slowly steps over the threshold.
Mycroft disappears into a small drawing room to the left of the entrance. and glides towards the wet bar at the far end of the room. Peering over his shoulder at Greg he mutters at him.
“Hope you like scotch.” he says pouring two Lagavulins.
“Whatever you’re having is fine by me Myc.”
Greg takes the crystal tumblr and tries to identify the bottle by the label, but it is alien in comparison to the cheap scotch he has bought himself in the past. The burn of the alcohol doesn’t hit until it’s half way down to his stomach and it warms his insides with an unexpected intensity.
There are heavy footsteps overhead and the sound of a book falling to the floor.
“Ah, here comes trouble.” Mycroft sighs before a long pull at his glass
Within seconds stairs are being taken two at a time and then a man in dark blue striped pyjama pants and a dressing robe but no shirt has arrived in the room.
“My, picked up a stray have we?”
“Do behave, brother mine.”
They come together in what would be described as a brotherly embrace until Sherlock’s hand drops to grip his brother’s arse and Myc kisses his brother’s long porcelain neck.
Greg averts his eyes, uncomfortable with the concept but oddly drawn to watching the two men entangle themselves. He is sure now of what Mycroft had meant in the car earlier.
“Gregory, Sherlock. Sherlock, Gregory.” Myc says breaking the kiss and moving his hand to swipe between the men as a bridge for the introductions.
“Hi. Greg or Lestrade is just fine.”
“Hello.” Sherlock scans him from head to toe, picking apart every detail of Greg’s life with practiced efficiency “Don’t worry about the exam for the academy, you’ve passed and they won’t retest you for drugs before you’re first evaluation. .”
“Wha?”
“Sherlock, this is no time to play deductions.”
“Oh, My, it is always time. But fine.”
The eye contact between brothers seems to communicate a myriad of attitudes and warnings. Gregory feels as though he is caught within crossfire between opposing sides of a war with no shelter.
“I don’t understand.” Greg interjects between the silent conversation he isn’t privy to.
“May I?” Sherlock asks Mycroft’s permission
“Just one thing.” Mycroft conceits rolling his eyes
Sherlock launches into an explanation of the things that pointed to his deduction of Greg’s soon to be career; from his haircut to the wear of the soles on his shoes and how all of it says ‘police’ but not quite yet.
Greg is stunned and says nothing in reply.
“We could both tell you a great many things about yourself, more than you think. I am better at it than Sherlock, including my ability to resist voicing my findings. However, social etiquette has never been my brother’s bailiwick.” Mycroft’s eyes narrow to chide his brother for misstepping some invisible line drawn in the sand.
Sherlock doesn’t reply, his brother seems to have gotten him in check. Instead he reached out and steals the glass from Myc’s hand and finished off the expensive amber liquid in one go.
Greg lets out a small laugh at this childish display but is cut short when Sherlock’s eyes stare daggers at him.
“Now, Gregory, this is where the night gets more interesting for you. Assuming you stay , there are options available to you. You and I can retire to my room, or any room in this house for that matter and enjoy ourselves thoroughly. You and Sherlock can do the same, and before you ask, no he does not and will not object, although I’d like to watch if that’s what you decide you want. The final options is that the three of us enjoy each other in whatever way pleases us most.”
“Why would I want to fuck your brother? Why would he let me?”
“Because he is an absolute slut, which I believe answers both questions.”
“And you sleep with your brother too then?”
“I know, it’s a ‘taboo’, but there is no genetic imperative not to and if we are being quite honest he is gorgeous and good in bed. If you’ don’t want it, you and I may continue or you may leave.”
There was an air of business to Mycroft’s tone, like he had been through this negotiation previously and knew all the possible outcomes. He didn’t quite seem bored, but he also didn’t seem overly invested in any of the options he gave. This was calculated interaction, and Greg’s stomach shifted and plummeted to think that some other man had ever been between the two lithe siblings. He wasn’t sure if the idea sickened him or he was sickened by the idea that he wasn’t at all disturbed by the opportunity.
“And you just let him share you?” this question to the younger Holmes
“I am his to share.” Sherlock said affectionately as he tucked his head into the crook between Mycroft’s chin and collarbone.
“So Gregory, what’ll it be?”
Greg paused for a moment, not wanting to seem too eager. He had after all come here with express intention of fucking Mycroft, and Mycroft alone would surely be amazing if the rest of his sexual repertoire matched his skill at giving head. He didn’t want to slight the man he came to the party with so to say. But, Sherlock standing in front of him, running his tongue over his lips and staring at him with heavy lidded bedroom eyes was pretty hard to resist.
“You of course, “ Greg leaned in close to Mycroft, close enough that his breath skidded over the other man’s skin, “and your darling baby brother.” the whisper came out a harsh rasp.
Mycroft’s lips curled up at the edges and he sighed a breath of relief, as though he would have been disappointed to not include his brother in his bed.
Sherlock responded in kind, smiling the type of smile that makes a person look reptilian before crushing his mouth against Greg’s an instant ‘ thank you’ for picking him to join the team.
Greg was only slightly caught off guard as the younger Holmes pressed into him and took him partially off balance. Greg’s hands found purchase in the silk of the deep azure dressing robe, fisting for control, unaware of his moaning at the touch of Sherlock’s fingertips on his neck and jawline. Mycroft took in the sight, Greg gave into Sherlock’s over eager affections and was smothered by the slightly taller man’s ravaging. Myc stepped forward to trap his brother between himself and his new lover. He pulled the dressing gown down past Sherlock’s shoulders and planted a trail of soft kisses between angular blades.
Sherlock shuddered and broke his kiss with Greg to throw his head back onto Mycroft’s collarbone. With his long neck open and vulnerable Mycroft couldn’t help but bite into the taut flesh. Sherlock’s hands left Greg to spread across the fronts on Mycroft’s thighs. Sherlock shifted, rubbing his back up and down Myc’s chest, his robe falling and tangling around his wrists. Mycroft grabs the fabric and quickly, but loosely, binds his brother’s hands behind his back.
Greg is partially unsure as to what he should be doing; however, he is sure that this is the most sexual, dirty, taboo and all together hot thing he has ever seen in his life. His memory of pornography disintegrates as Myc reaches around to run his fingertips teasingly over the waistline of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and elicits a high pitched moan from the younger man.
Greg’s hand finds it’s way to his crotch, rubbing his cock sympathetically through denim. Mycroft looks up at Greg and lock eyes with him, raising his eyebrows in invitation and silently saying’ all of Sherlock is fair game’.
Greg leans into Sherlock and begins to work at his nipples with teeth and tongue and fingertips in concert. When Greg bites down on sensitive flesh the needy gasp Sherlock emits goes straight to Greg’s aching prick.
The younger Holmes, who, moments ago been so calculating and snarky to a fault is now slowly going the way of fallen teacups. Flush has replaced alabaster, run it’s course from cheek to chest. Greg runs his hands up Sherlock’s sides, reveling in the easy way ribs fit into his fingers - almost girlish in their soft fluttering.
Myc’s hand has dipped into Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and his fingers are digging into and tugging at the downy hair above Sherlock’s stiff but neglected cock.
“Someone please just fuck me!” Sherlock whines between the two men.
Myc grips Sherlock’s prick and squeezes harshly.
“Gregory, should we toy with him or give him what he wants?”
“I like the sound of playing with him. He can just be our little rent boy for the night, right?”
“Oh, I’d knew we’d get on.”
Sherlock groans, knowing that his elder brother can be a cruel lover, especially when he is showing off for someone he actually fancies.
“Are you ready to play brother mine?”
“Yes, My.”
“Go and present, don’t you dare touch yourself or I’ll know.” Myc says pushing Sherlock towards the stairs.
As Sherlock leaves the room Mycroft’s attention is turned back to Greg. His smile is devious, eyes blown wide with lust as he pulls Greg into a deceptively sweet kiss. For a moment they just breathe each other’s air, foreheads pressed together, gaining composure and slowly forming a lover’s bond.
“Tell me what you want Gregory”
“I want you balls deep inside me while Sherlock sucks me off.”
“Yes, that can certainly be done.” Myc traces Greg’s face with his fingertips from eyebrows to the short stubble on his jawline before taking his chin between thumb and forefinger and pecking him on the lips.
“Come now, let’s not leave Sherlock to his own devices for too long.”
Mycroft turns and begins walking to the first floor, leading with silent authority. As they pass a bedroom with a canopy king bed Mycroft informs him that the room is where they will sleep later in the night. At the end of the hall there is a shut door with warm orange light seeping through the gap at the bottom.
“Ready?” Myc asks, always cautiously seeking consent
“As I’ll ever be.”
Mycroft pushes open the door and the room is a sight to behold. It is much darker than the rest of the home. Solid mahogany is paired with black and burgundy brocade, the lighting is sent from a fireplace on the far wall all about the room casting shadows that flicker. In the center of the room , the most beautiful detail is Sherlock. Kneeling, head bowed, dark auburn curls of his fringe obscuring his eyes, his pale lithe nudeness perfectly still save for the smallest movement of pulse beat which causes his cock to bob.
Greg’s breath is taken away and replaced with the heat of a furnace. His heart flutters in his chest, beating suddenly far too fast.
Mycroft starts to strip off, shirt first, then boots followed by skin tight black denim. He is unashamed of his physique and has no reason to be; he may not be as wiry as his brother but he is still rather striking. Greg follows suit and soon the three men are nude. Greg and Myc look at each other appraisingly before their mutual gaze falls to Sherlock.
Mycroft approaches his brother and cards his fingers through unruly hair, pulling lightly to tighten Sherlock’s scalp and raid his head. Myc’s other hand slaps Sherlock lightly on the cheek.
“Open up.”
Sherlock’s mouth falls to a open moue and then stretches to a gaping maw.
“Gregory” Myc nods for his approach and invites him to use Sherlock.
Greg closes his eyes and slips the head of his cock into the wet heat of Sherlock’s tongue.
“Don’t be lazy.” Myc says pushing Sherlock forward so his mouth is forced opened so far his nose is buried in Greg’s pubic hair and his bottom lip is tickling against bollocks.
“Go ahead Gregory, fuck his mouth, he doesn’t need to breath, much”
Greg’s hands grasps Sherlock’s head on either side as he starts rolling his hips, barely pulling out because the feel of Sherlock’s throat on his dick is too good to leave for long.
“You weren’t kidding, what a right tart.” Greg mutters over the sound of Sherlock keening and gagging on him.
“Mmhmm” Mycroft hums approvingly, letting go of Sherlock’s hair, sure that Greg won’t be letting up on his vicegrip anytime soon.
He walks behind Greg, running a hand from cervical vertebrae to the small of his back while dropping to his knees.
Once kneeling Mycroft kneads the flesh of Greg’s arse, kissing either side before pulling him open and lick a wet stripe from perineum to the top of the buttocks. Greg’s hip hitch and he moans when Myc’s tongue brushes over his hole. Greg tastes of sweat and cotton, clean all over but with a days heat on him. Mycroft and taste the lightest note of leather, a remnant of his motorbike seat. Myc delves in deep, wiggling his tongue against the tight ring of muscle, enjoying the brush of soft light hair against his skin.
Now, Gregory is falling apart between the Holmes boys, unsure whether to push forward or press back. Electrical impulse is setting his body alight in pleasure so strong he cannot help but tremble.
“Myc, fuck me”
Mycroft halts his lapping with a sickly wet sound
“Gladly. Get on the bed, hands and knees.”
Sherlock sits back on his heels, lips reddened and plumped, almost bruised from giving head so enthusiastically.
Greg scrambles up the center of the plush, large mattress, doesn’t even bother pulling back the eider down. He collapses onto his elbows, head hanging low, knees spread apart. Mycroft positions his knees between Greg’s and spreads them wider. Sherlock has stood and is waiting at the end of the bed.
“Continue boy” Myc snaps at his brother.
Sherlock lies on his back and slides into the triangular space between and under the two older men.
As Sherlock positions himself below them he takes his time to drag his tongue over both of their bollocks. Both of them taste like the club- smoke and sweat, like heat and the heady, acrid musk of arousal. Sherlock took his time to swipe his tongue across Mycroft’s glans before doing the same to Greg. Despite his servitude to these two, he understands the power he holds because he can feel the quiver in their thighs.
Sherlock props himself up on elbows to achieve a better angle then takes Greg to the root and sets a pace so slow it’s just a tease of the sensation he had delivered earlier.
Mycroft traces his forefinger across Greg’s arsehole, still wet from his mouth. His finger dips a bit as he asks-
“Do you need more Gregory?”
“Just fuck me Myc, I don’t care.”
Mycroft doesn’t need to be told twice and doesn’t bother with a verbal reply, he positions himself against Greg and pushes forward. It’s a slow glide, Greg gasps with the burn he feels, like he is being pulled apart, unraveling between the fullness behind him and the outward need below him.
Once fully seated Myc stops, barely stirring his hips to churn Greg’s insides.
“God, fuck Myc, c’mon”
Sherlock stills, opens his mouth into a sloppy soft-set ‘O’. He knows what’s coming- old hat at this game with his brother and any given partner.
Mycroft snaps his hips back and forth, rucking into Greg without concern for gentleness, too eager for the moving heat on his prick. His thrusts force Greg into Sherlock’s mouth and draw gasps and grunts from Greg’s throats. Myc is gripping Greg’s hips with the ferocity of a pitbull bite, his nails mimicking teeth against olive skin.
While Sherlock is a happy recipient of a face fucking driven by his brother, he aches for some sort of touch. He wends his hand down his chest, fingers barely whispering against the sparse hair over his sternum. The heel of his palm presses into his hip and his elbow accidently bumps into Mycroft's leg.
Without stopping his frantic rhythm Mycroft chides “Did I say you could touch yourself?” through panted breath between inward strokes. Sherlock’s hand stills, clenching and unclenching in a silent stifled need to rebel.
Greg raises his head from its nook in his elbows at the small argument. He can look down the line of his body to see Sherlock writhing while he continues to lave his prick with that so pink tongue and heart shaped mouth. The angelic face between his thighs now rubicund from abuse - it’s almost too much, Greg almost comes in the moment.
Mycroft feels Greg fight down the sensation through a quick contraction of his stomach and a stiffening of his spine that runs its course through his legs.
“Are you close Gregory?”
“Oh shit, My, I” Greg doesn’t finish his thought, sentences are far too hard to form when he is this far gone. Too much touch or not enough, he’s going mad by the second.
“I want you to come for me Gregory. Paint Sherlock’s pretty little face.” the last few words are punctuated by particularly cruel thrusts, grinding right over the sweet bundle of nerves deep within Greg.
Greg pulls out of Sherlock’s mouth in time to take himself in hand.
One, two, three strokes and the heat that has pooled in his stomach is streaming sticky rivulets across the boy’s face under him.
In the hurried culmination of his orgasm Greg made no effort to be mindful of where his jism fell. As a result, Sherlock’s left eyelashes are tacked together while the rest of the viscous fluid is sliding the slope of his prominent cheekbones.
Greg hadn’t caught his breath when Mycroft pulled out of him and laid him on his side on the mattress next to Sherlock.
“You haven’t” Greg mutters”have you?”
“Not yet.” Myc says huskily as he straddles the width of his brother’s ribs, leaning forward to brace himself on the headboard with one hand while he tossed off with the other.
Sherlock watches the blur of Myc’s hand over his prick with the one eye left unsoiled. Sherlock opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out like a choir boy receiving eucharist. Mycroft touches the tip of his swollen cock to the soft wet surface, rubbing his foreskin along his shaft. With a throaty moan that resembles creative cursing, his motions still and he fills his younger brother’s mouth with come.
Sherlock gives a wide smile, wriggles his tongue a bit, sloshes the creamy release in his mouth until it frothy.
“Go on then” Mycroft finally gives permission as he moves off of Sherlock’s chest.
Greg sits up out of his stupor to see Sherlock wipe the spunk off his face and spit what he hasn’t swallowed into a messy hand to start masturbating. Sherlock closes his eyes, drawing in quick breaths as his hand flies, slick with come along the length of his agonisingly hard cock.
It is a beautiful sight, Sherlock’s hair is mussed, the cords of his neck straining and every visible muscle gleaming in the firelight. It doesn’t take but a moment before his breath hitches and he whines his brother’s name as he tips over that lustful edge.
Mycroft kisses his forehead sweetly, leans down and licks a strips of come of his chest.
“Good night Sherl.”
“G’night My.”
“Come along Gregory” Myc says offering a helpful hand to his worn out man
Greg follows Mycroft, barely in control of his legs, down the hall to then dissolve into the marshmallow soft mattress in Myc’s room.
As they begin slipping into sleep, awkwardly and tentatively entangled, Myc runs his finger through Greg’s thick dark hair.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like, or leave whenever you’d like”
“Sshhhhhh, I’m trying to sleep Myc. We’ll talk over breakie. I want toast soldiers”
“Oh alright.”
They drifted off, unusually comfortable side by side. The morning would come to soon, as Monday would as well along with the train that would separate them. But here, on Bishop Avenue, the silence held them; they didn’t need their leathers, no need for persona. This was the place to be.