Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s the strange juxtaposition of shivering and feeling hot and sweaty at the same time that rouses Sherlock from his slumber. A squinted glare at the bedside table makes it clear it’s far too early in the morning to be awake and a reminder that he’s in Mycroft’s bed. His brother will make veiled comments all through breakfast – and in all likelihood the entirety of the next day – about how Sherlock had slept on his side of the bed.

Sherlock’s lips quirk into a smirk, even as his face is pressed into the mattress.

His sleep-fogged brain slowly winds into gear. He’s cold because he’s exposed to the cold night air. Sherlock wonders if his greedy older brother has stolen the duvet during the night.

That’s when he feels the hard cock pressing into the crease of his arse and the hot breath against the base of his neck. “Mycroft,” Sherlock hisses. “You’re insatiable.”

“Thank you, brother dear.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Yes it was,” Mycroft replies in a mocking tone. “Just not one you meant.”

“Stop twisting my words,” Sherlock complains. “I was sleeping.” His brother sniggers into his ear and Sherlock feels a slight pressure on his lower half as his brother rests his weight across both him and the bed. He jerks when his brother’s slim fingers brush against his sensitive hole. “Oh!”

“Perhaps you’d like it if I twisted something else then?” Mycroft taunts.

Sherlock scowls and grinds back against Mycroft’s hips, grinning when he elicits a bitten-off groan. “This is what – the fourth time? You’re taking Viagra, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be so harsh about your own aptitude to inspire,” Mycroft chastises before dropping a kiss to his nape.

Sherlock grunts. “Probably a good thing. Wouldn’t want the Viagra to give you a heart attack in the middle of a carnal act.”

“Mmm. That would require quite the creative explanation, don’t you think – if I were to expire whilst fucking you?”

“Dear lord, you really are a pervert, Mycroft. How did we get to discussing necrophilia?”

“You brought up Viagra and-“

“Do kindly shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock interrupts.

Mycroft’s fingers ghost over his hole again and Sherlock squirms. “It’s a shame though.”

“Really, do tell. Actually, don’t. It’s five in the morning, Mycroft. Go to sleep,” Sherlock mumbles.

“That last time in the shower,” Mycroft continues, ignoring Sherlock. He always did that when he had a point to make. Normally Sherlock would make a jibe but his brother’s light touches were igniting little sparks of pleasure up his spine. “But you did moan so.”

“So?” Sherlock grouses. “Next time you decide to wash my hair, try not to upend the entire bottle of conditioner over me. I was as slippery as an eel.”

Mycroft’s finger is now moving in a circular motion. Still too slowly to do anything but ratchet up Sherlock’s anticipation. “We could have had fun with that.”

“I recall we were having fun. Until your fingers slipped and pulled the plug out.”

“It was an accident, Sherlock! And I barely tugged at it when it fell out.”

“Slipped and pulled.” Sherlock opens the eye that’s not pressed into the sheets and sees his brother rolling his eyes.

“Slipped?” Mycroft asks, a hint of a smirk playing at his mouth. “Like this?”

Sherlock hips jerk and he gasps, neck arching as his eyes flutter, when Mycroft’s fingers – two of them, the bastard – slide into his hole. “Fuck!”

He drags in deep, ragged breaths as his brother crooks his fingers, finding his prostate and stroking it. Can’t stop the soft moan when Mycroft leans in and drops wet kisses and soft sucks of skin. Sherlock would twist and turn his body giving his brother better access to him but his brother’s weight prevents it.

“I am not your plaything,” Sherlock protests.

“But you are, little brother. Always and forever.” Punctuated by a kiss to his temple. “Consider the current evidence. Your pretty pink hole is still loose from my cock from last night and look at you. All flushed and lovely. Wanton even. How you push back just to take more of my fingers.”

Sherlock makes an unintelligible noise, much to his embarrassment when Mycroft’s fingers slip from his arse. How he hates it when his brother is right.

“Wanton and needy,” Mycroft mutters into his ear in a dirty tone. “Just for me. No-one else gets to see you like this.”

“Only because my beloved brother, who loves to bugger me, is a possessive megalomaniac.”

“Proof, Sherlock. Evidence,” Mycroft reprimands.

In response, Sherlock takes advantage of Mycroft’s laxness and bucks his hips and twists. In a swift, graceful movement he shifts from being under his brother to straddling him. “Your fingers, and last night your cock, in my arse is proof enough, Mycroft.”

Mycroft pinches his thigh, provoking a hiss. “Do try to behave.”

“You prefer it when I misbehave, brother dear,” Sherlock goads, as he grinds down upon Mycroft’s pelvis. He quickly realises his brother must have slicked up his cock before teasing Sherlock awake if the wet trails on his arse is any indication. Devious. He huffs. “Fine. How many people do you know who would not only have the resources, but also the audacity to take a man off the street and bribe him, because he was considering a flat-share with his younger brother? Hmm?”

Sherlock looks down at Mycroft, who is starting to lose the veneer of serenity as he writhes upon him. “I worry about you,” Mycroft insists.

“Jealous more like.”

Mycroft’s eyes flash just before he reaches out to grab his hands and pulls – Sherlock allows himself to be pulled down. He’s drawn into a hard kiss, teeth and tongues and hot breaths. His brother’s actions saying more than words ever would. Possessive. “Can you blame me? And really. Are you any better, Sherlock?”

Carefully archived memories flash through his mind.

Mycroft’s first boyfriend who turned out to have quite a problematic skin irritation in the most delicate of places. He didn’t return.

The first one to break his brother’s heart – Mycroft had stopped him before he could do too much harm but the man to this day would never be able to borrow any amount of money, his credit rating absolutely junk.

And the imbecile who thought he could get away with cheating on Mycroft. Well best not to think about that when Mycroft’s hard cock was rubbing so deliciously across his perineum, leaving trails of pre-come between balls and cheeks.

Sherlock continues to roll his hips at a languid pace, enjoying how his brother’s pale skin flushes light pink, now clearly visible with the faint morning light streaming through the east-facing large windows. He wonders how much longer Mycroft’s patience will last.

The answer, it turns out, is not very long. Pre-come from his own cock barely smears across Mycroft’s stomach before his brother comments. “Some of us have places to be, evil regimes to overthrow and ordinary lives to ruin. According to you, Sherlock. Perhaps you could tally up. Unless you’re not feeling up to it?”

“Officious twat.”

“Darling boy.”

“Christ, you’re insufferable,” Sherlock gripes. “If only there was a way to shut you up.”

“Perks of being the elde-“ Mycroft chokes before he can finish his retort as Sherlock’s grabs his brother’s slick cock and sinks down on it.

Sherlock’s breath leaves him in a rush as he bottoms out. He doesn’t move, just grinds as he lets himself adjust. Clenches his internal muscles around his brother’s cock until his whole body trembles and Mycroft can’t hold back the guttural moan. “How effective,” he comments between harsh pants. “Although perhaps not quite appropriate to enact in company to quieten you.”

“Heaven forbid,” his brother murmurs but there’s a glint in his eyes that mirrors Sherlock’s. While impossible, the idea still intrigues.

He lets his hips roll, slowly. The pace slow enough to tease his lover, brother. And astonishingly Mycroft allows it. The only sounds accompanying their soft pants is the indecent, wet noises as his brother’s cock slips in and out of his arse and the occasional slap of flesh as his own cock slaps against his thigh.

And when Sherlock shifts his body and his brother’s cock slides against his prostate, all the signals in his brain light up and he makes a filthy sound even as his body tries to find the same angle. His minute movements quicken and Mycroft adds to it with little shifts of his own hips.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s eyes rake over his body and he feels desired. Wanted.

The brush of his brother’s fingers against his cock sends a shudder racing up his spine. “Oh, god!” He wants more. Of course, Mycroft doesn’t oblige. His darling brother wouldn’t dare to indulge Sherlock in this one thing. “Bastard,” he curses.

Mycroft smiles. Not the polite, unpleasant or condescending smiles he reserves for everyone else. This one is the one only Sherlock sees when his brother is about to be truly remarkable. And it makes his breath hitch in anticipation.

His brother’s hands move to Sherlock’s hips, but they only rest there. He doesn’t direct or dictate Sherlock’s movements. “Sherlock, darling boy. You’re going to love this.”

Sherlock can’t help but challenge. His whole relationship with Mycroft – sibling and sexual – is built on their wins and losses. “That’s quite a statement.”

“Indeed.” His brother looks smug. Like he’s already won so Sherlock clenches his internal muscles, eliciting a surprised grunt out of Mycroft.

Laughing softly, Sherlock leans forwards to draw Mycroft’s lovely soft lips into a kiss. “I do hope you deliver then,” he whispers against said lips, as his hands pull at Mycroft’s furry chest and his brother’s hand curls into the short, soft hairs at his nape.

Mycroft pulls him down for another kiss, this one is dirty and debauched. With tongue and teeth and hot breaths. Sherlock’s so distracted by his brother’s talented mouth that he doesn’t realise what Mycroft is doing until it happens.

The sound of an indecently, throaty moan fills the bedroom – he belatedly realises it comes from him – but surely he can be forgiven, Sherlock thinks, since he’s fairly sure he whited out for a long moment. When he finally remembers to open his eyes, he’s looking right into Mycroft’s eyes. Which glitter with affection and are dark with lust.

“Love this,” his brother repeats. Quietly but with authority. His very own dangerous man. Then, as if to drive the point home, almost literally, he moves his hand at Sherlock’s neck to his hip and pushes. Driving Sherlock’s hot, slick arse onto the combined circumference of Mycroft’s cock and finger.

“Fuck!” Sherlock’s nerve endings are alit and he can barely string two words together coherently. He swears again, turning into a noise of pure eroticism when a second finger is added. He feels full, tight and so terribly, delightfully indecent.

Sherlock’s not going to last if the way his body thrums is any indication. His only active thought is to keep rocking his hips, for Mycroft to push him over the edge.

His face must have displayed his base desire because Mycroft speaks up in that dark, lascivious tone he uses to tease and tantalise Sherlock. “I see you’re enjoying my attentions, little brother. Your body, your arse are made for me. Perfect, wanton and depraved.”

“Oh my god.”

“Darling boy, you’re going to come without you or me touching your cock,” Mycroft continues, crooning, ignoring the weak sound of protest that Sherlock barely manages to make. His head is spinning between the sensations and hormones flooding his body and the filthy images his brother’s words evoke. “You’ll come just from fucking yourself on me and it will be glorious. And when I fill you with my come, it’ll just drip out of your slutty, loose hole. Won’t it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock makes to reply, drawing the tattered threads of sanity together but instead all that comes out is a gasp and cry of pleasure as Mycroft’s cock drags along his prostate again. He’s been cresting the wave for a while now and suddenly it’s all too much; Sherlock tumbles into the abyss of his orgasm.

Sherlock falls onto Mycroft’s chest as he comes, his brother’s body dampening his cry of elation as he shudders and shakes. Sherlock feels Mycroft’s arms cradling him as his hips move faster, fucking him ruthlessly as his brother races to his own orgasm. He keens as Mycroft’s hard cock slides against oversensitive skin, dragging out his orgasm until all he can do is tremble.

With a stuttering exhale of noisy air, Mycroft comes. Sherlock’s arse clenches automatically, drawing a pleasure-pained gasp. If asked, the two brothers would deny it but they hold onto each other as they come down from their highs. Light touches of fingers against skin, the ticking brushes of damp, curly hair.

They lie together. Damp, sweaty and filthy. And satisfied.

Until Mycroft trails a finger across Sherlock’s hypersensitive hole. Sherlock jerks and curses, shifting his head so to glare balefully at his amused brother. “What was that for?”

“Just making sure I kept my promise,” Mycroft replies smugly, bringing his fingers up to Sherlock’s mouth. They’re wet, glistening. “My come dripping out of you.”

“Smug bastard,” Sherlock grunts, ignoring the broad smile that stretches his brother’s face as he takes the come-stained fingers into his mouth.

“Only because I have you,” Mycroft replies adoringly and Sherlock blinks before a delighted smile splits his own face.