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Six months since he had last seen his little brother, and Mycroft was both eager and dreading it. Forced to come home from university for Christmas at his parent’s insistence, when he would have much rather spent the idiotic festivities alone working or with the blessed silence of his own thoughts.
It wasn’t that he was particularly unhappy at home. He just couldn’t stand to be in this house, full of obnoxious traditional cheer, endless chattering and not forgetting his parents who were just so painfully…normal.
Mycroft could not bear another family dinner full of incessant questions about his studies or his parents hinting that they were disappointed he hadn’t found a nice girl to bring home to meet them. Or boyfriend. His mother had already attempted the awkward chat of how they would love him no matter what; they would be just as happy if he brought a nice boy home for Christmas if that is what he preferred. They were trying to be so…reasonable. It was horrific.
He was also eager to avoid Sherlock. They were too similar, Mycroft concluded, too stubborn and too intellectually matched to be anything other than competitive. And where was the point really? Sherlock was the golden child. His parents perfect boy. Never mind that Mycroft was far superior intellectually. But apparently he wasn’t allowed to boast. He spent a childhood with the increasing opinion their parents were trying to make up for all the mistakes with him through a younger, more impeccable, and more beautiful child. Even one as cantankerous as Sherlock still excelled more in social situations than he. And when Mycroft say excelled, what he really meant was did not sit in sullen silence and glare at everyone in the room and retreat at the earliest opportunity. Although his younger brother was taking on the amusing habits of deducing, hence insulting, everyone in the room. Mycroft got the blame for encouraging that habit too.
The violin indeed. If he had to sit through another rendition of ‘we wish you a merry Christmas’ this year he was going to snap the instrument in two and get the first train back to Oxford. And he was not wearing a paper hat!
But the perfect child wasn’t so perfect anymore. He should probably have been feeling triumphant, but was in truth more than a little worried.
Mycroft grabbed a long slender wrist to stop the impending escape. The pulse underneath his fingers was thready and beat like a hammer through layers of skin and muscle. He yanked hard so that Sherlock was spun and forced to face him, eager for a closer look at his features to confirm what he believed he saw at a distance.
Cool green eyes glared mutinously back at him. Pupils as wide as saucers and completely unfocused. A fine film of sweat gathered at his brow and the perfectly sculptured face was a mask of guilt.
The violence in which Sherlock wrenched his grip from his was astounding, sending both of them staggering backwards in the small box bedroom where Mycroft had eventually cornered him.
Now Mycroft knew just why his brother had been pointedly avoiding him for the last few days. Despite arguments and occasional friction they had been close as children. Similarity offering a defence against outsiders but now grated to annoyance as adults.
He promised! He had promised him the last Mycroft caught him. He promised that he wouldn’t do it again! The fool.
‘What have you taken little brother?’
‘Nothing.’ Sherlock mumbled sulkily, making to pull away and attempt to escape the room.
But Mycroft did not believe him. Drug addicts lie. He knew this. The ‘one time’ occurrence the last time he was caught high at only fifteen was only wishful thinking on Mycroft’s part. Hoping that he could bully him into not doing it. Hoping that his brother wouldn’t be so idiotic…
Mycroft made another grab for Sherlock’s wrist. He wouldn’t have normally got away with it, but the drugs clearly made him slow. Managing to clutch his arm and yank the shirt sleeve up, buttons popped and bounced over the smooth wooden floor. Sliding the sleeve as far as he could, the older Holmes saw for himself the delicate needle punctures in the crook of Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock was only minimally struggling against his hold.
‘Oh Sherlock, how could you?’ He couldn’t keep the worry or disappointment out of his voice. This, unfortunately, only fuelled his brother’s anger.
‘Enough, Mycroft!’
‘Do you have any idea what you have done? Do you know what you can do to yourself? Your health, your mind for goodness sake!’
‘Stop it!’ He twisted violently again.
‘How can you throw away the beautiful gifts you have?’
‘It relaxes me.’
‘It could kill you.’
‘Well it would elevate the boredom of this dreary existence.’
Sherlock said it with a shrug and nonchalance. The arrogance of youth who thought they were indestructible. Mycroft could only shake his head in disappointment.
‘Don’t be absurd.’
‘Well you are not here are you?’ The younger man practically screamed, and it seems infinitely amplified in the small quiet bedroom.
Mycroft had never seen him rage, turning all that anger onto him until his face was red and tears threatened from his eyes.
‘You left me there with them! I have no one to talk to, no one on my level.’
So perhaps they were getting to the root of the problem. Did he feel abandoned? Left out? But Sherlock had always had their parent’s attention, their unconditional love. His brother had never hinted that he missed his company the last two years he had been away.
‘You are seventeen, Sherlock. You go to university yourself after the summer…’
‘This occupies my mind until I do.
Mycroft sighed exasperatedly, ‘You may not live that long.’
‘I know what I am doing.’
Ah, the arrogance of youth, or maybe just the superiority of a Holmes!
‘You are acting like a child!’
‘And you are acting like mummy.’
‘Speaking of mummy,’ Mycroft threatened low and dangerously, ‘Just wait until they find out about this. I won’t cover this up Sherlock. Not this time. Not again. I will have to tell them. I won’t sit back and watch you kill yourself.’
Rage. Inexplicable mania shrouded his brother’s features, almost enough for Mycroft to take a step back as Sherlock bucked and wrestled in his grip. His already deep voice menacingly low. ‘Don’t. You. Dare.’
They struggled. And wrestled. Truthfully, Mycroft was no match for his brother. He could never best Sherlock in any sort of physical combat. He always learned to control him through his mind and superior intellect. The drugs however, wiped away the inferiority complex. He was fitter, stronger and generally more prone to physical activity. And the drugs discarded all inhibitions.
Rotating in his grip, Mycroft’s back was pushed firmly against Sherlock’s chest, long arms wrapped tightly around him, cancelling out the leverage he had had as they stumbled and struggled in the small space.
With a violent jerk, Sherlock twisted Mycroft’s arm painfully behind his back, the other worked its way into his short auburn hair with fingernails scrapping his scalp as he found himself forced against the bedroom wall, cheek connecting painfully with it.
Mycroft could feel the firm warm weight of his brother’s body at his back, pushing him flat against the smooth painted surface.
Putting bony fingers in the hollows of his wrists, Sherlock squeezed, causing sharp pains to shoot through Mycroft’s whole arm. Combined with a gentle twist and pressure on the appendage, the older Holmes found himself quite incapacitated.
Bracing his other hand against the wall, Mycroft’s fingers flexing involuntarily, but there was nothing to hold onto. Struggling was of no use.
Long fingers dug enticingly at his scalp, making sure they had a tight grip in his hair. The action sent shivers down his spine that had nothing to do with pain. If there was one thing that Mycroft enjoyed, it was having his hair played with. That combined with the promise of domination and really rough sex…
‘Do. Not. Push. Me. When. I. Am. High. Brother. Mine.’ Sherlock bit out every word through gritted teeth. His warm breath tickled down the back of Mycroft’s collar as he hissed in a low threatening voice. It was punctuated with a firm squeeze of his wrist and Mycroft whimpered.
‘Ahhhhhhh! Please, Sherlock. Stop.’
Gentle pressure continued unheeded on his arm, forcing it up his back even higher. He wasn’t even trying hard, Mycroft knew. If he put his mind to it, his younger brother could probably break him in half. His only hope had been that Sherlock would have been too high and lethargic to provide a challenge. He had been wrong.
‘Sherlock, you are hurting me.’ He tried in a pathetic soft voice. He wasn’t really. Well, not as much as he could have. Not as much as Mycroft had taken before from others. As much as he enjoyed. But he still thought he could manipulate him into letting him go. Even if Mycroft was beginning to enjoy himself. Just a little.
It was more than a little wrong. He knew. His fantasies. Why he had been happy to leave behind for university and ignore the temptation that has been his beautifully developing teenage brother…
Mycroft chided himself. You idiot! Think about something else…not the warm touch of Sherlock’s long elegant fingers on his skin or the firm hot line of his body perfectly cupping his back and arse. Sherlock was practically covering him, bodies fully flushed and pinned fully against the wall. Mycroft could feel the soft curls tickle the side of his neck and he jumped at the sudden warm wet press of lips against his earlobe. Sherlock’s voice was barely above a whisper; Mycroft thought it was incredible intimate, incredibly erotic.
‘You keep your fucking mouth shut. Do you hear me?’
Mycroft wiggled for effect, the zip of Sherlock’s tailored suit trousers dug into this backside.
‘Release me.’
Sherlock’s response was only to lean in more firmly, twisting Mycroft’s arm and causing him to cry out. But the pain was being thrown off by the distracting dig of his brother’s hips firmly against his backside. The point of their argument was quickly losing focus. Mycroft was becoming distracted.
All those years as children. After nightmares, a soft warm Sherlock snuggled into he same bed. The child that thought Blackbeard was coming to get him, or couldn’t sleep, or was simply cold on a winter’s night. They would curl up and both would fall asleep happily to soft rhythmic breathing.
Then becoming older, and snuggling in the same bed was met with awkward body functions and more than one sleepless night as Mycroft realised it wasn’t an elbow of hip or foot digging into him…Sherlock hadn’t complained or drew more attention to his body’s sexual functions than necessary. He never slept well. He still didn’t, Mycroft knew. The odd sleepless night, even as a young teenager, practically and adult, where crawling in bedside Mycroft was the only way to get a few hours’ sleep. Wrapped around him only to wake and find arms tangled around one another, his brother’s nose buried against the crook of his neck and an impressively hard morning erection digging into his stomach. Sherlock never shifted away, even when Mycroft knew damned well he was awake. A few soft kisses, the rub of groin across thigh was usually as far as it went.
Their night time activities ended abruptly the last time Mycroft came home for a holiday and ended up comforting a very ill, very drug-fuelled Sherlock. His brother had wriggled and moaned and squirmed in bed so much so that it brought Mycroft to the brink of orgasm simply by curled around the younger man’s back, erection pressed into the delicate crack of his backside. If Sherlock realised or even did it on purpose, Mycroft didn’t know. But after the embarrassment of a quick morning shower and the evidence of his perversion staining his brothers jammies; he never let it happen again.
Mycroft’s eyes fluttered closed as Sherlock slide his knee between his legs, probably looking to throw him off balance, but only resulting in a rather intimate rub against his groin.
‘Please stop.’ It was more a whimper than a heart-felt request.
He could suddenly sense an unnatural stillness behind him. Sherlock’s body went ridged and stopped moving. The heavy, angry breath ruffling his hair ceased, and there was a sharp intake of breath.
‘You are enjoying this.’
Mycroft’s eyes snapped open sharply. Just out the corner of his vision, he could see over his shoulder, his brother’s partly confused face. Cool green eyes shifting over every inch of him. His brain working overtime processing the right reactions.
‘Let me go, Sherlock.’
His pleadings were ignored.
‘Definitely. Enjoying it.’
‘No.’
He didn’t stop, body leaning forwards, making sure Mycroft had no room to get away. Did he just imagine the more forceful rub of Sherlock’s groin against his arse?
His brother’s voice dropped a few octaves, purring in his ear.
‘What are you enjoying more? The violence of it…or me?’
‘I-I won’t telly mummy about the drugs. I promise. If-if you let me go.’
Mycroft was panicking internally. He had to get Sherlock off this topic now. He had to get away. Out of this small intimate room. Away from his attractive, smart, brother who was currently dominating every inch of his and turning him on something awful.
‘You are lying Mycroft. I can tell.’
Did he mean about the drugs or his reaction? Because right now he was lying about both.
‘I’m not a child anymore, Mycroft.’
He certainly wasn’t. But was that a statement or invitation?
Sherlock increased the pressure on Mycroft’s wrist whilst simultaneously forcing him flat against the wall, causing him to pant in a mixture of pain and arousal and the wonderful sensation of being thoroughly trapped.
The hand Sherlock had balled in his hair was removed, sliding almost sensuously slowly down his neck, between his shoulder blades, the small of his back, eventually resting on his hip. Long pale fingers curling around his waist.
Mycroft’s moan could not have been mistaken for pain. Not by anyone. He could practically feel his brother’s satisfied smirk behind him.
‘I thought you weren’t enjoying it?’ Sherlock’s low drone against his ear was full of evil promise.
‘Please!’
Mycroft no longer knew what he was begging for. For his brother to stop or not stop. Both were horrifying prospects at the moment.
Nimble fingers walked across his hip to his bellybutton. As the older Holmes wriggled his hips furtively against the tight press of those behind, Sherlock’s hand wormed its way between his crotch and the wall.
Mycroft’s treacherous body was giving him away. Fingers teased his ever straining cock through the fabric of his trousers. Sherlock found the hard length of his shaft through the soft material and squeezed firmly…
Mycroft’s knees nearly gave out under him.
With the palm of his hand, Sherlock began rubbing, the friction of the cloth across his cock had Mycroft panting and unable to focus.
‘So. Still not enjoying it?’ A force of hot breath in his ear caused him to shudder all over.
‘Ugh. Stop.’ Mycroft only managed to mumble, almost incoherently, distracted by the delicious sensation in his groin.
‘You don’t want me to stop.’ His brother’s voice rumbled. Lips still pressed against his outer earlobes, cheek flush with his. He began to kiss the edge of Mycroft’s ear, working his way down his neck, warm breath caressing his skin in between chased open mouthed kisses.
‘We can’t.’
‘Why not?’
Sherlock continued his torture. The rubbing of his crotch was building Mycroft up to release and the trail of kisses leaving a wet line down to his collar was chilling in the air and causing him to shiver further in excitement.
‘Because…’
‘No one will find out.’ His voice was a seductive enticement, luring Mycroft in.
They couldn’t. They shouldn’t.
Sherlock sucked a mouthful of skin from Mycroft’s neck and bit down. Hard. It earned a startled cry from the older Holmes and a fresh array of squirming.
Distracted, Mycroft missed his brother’s next move as he deftly unzipped his fly, found the opening of the smooth cotton boxers and slid his hand inside, wrapping around Mycroft’s warm solid cock.
‘Here is the deal, brother mine.’ Sherlock’s voice was low but remarkably even, nuzzling Mycroft’s jawline, all the while his hand stroked and pumped the erection he was curled around, back and forth, distractedly across the velvety textured skin.
‘You don’t tell our parents about my recreation drug use. And I don’t tell them about how you get turned on by your own brother and want to have sex with him.
‘I-I do not!’
‘Your body is giving you away.’
‘I won’t succumb to blackmail, Sherlock.’
‘It’s not blackmail. It’s just…hiding our mutual eccentricities from our parents. I am sure all children lie to their parents. For their own good.’
‘Eccentricities?!’ Mycroft’s breath hitched incredulously as a particularly forceful stroke of his cock nearly sent him over the edge. He could feel the pre-cum leaking from him already, all over his clothing…all over Sherlock’s hand…he tried to think of something else other than the thought of seeing his brothers pale perfect body splattered with his cum.
‘I’m sure there is a stronger word than that for what we are.’
‘You prefer perversion then?’
Sherlock chuckled deeply, biting down on Mycroft’s neck so hard that he had the suspicion there may be blood and his hand contracted almost vice like around his sensitive member.
Mycroft cried out in ecstasy, and collapsed to the floor. Sherlock was forced to let him go or risk breaking his arm. He stood in place, slightly shocked at the display before him as Mycroft curled into a ball on the ground and began sobbing. He had never seen his brother so affected; he was never in tears, let alone the huge earth-shattering sobs now shaking his tale lean frame. Sherlock was a little taken a back.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ Mycroft couldn’t help mumbling through hiccupping gasps.
‘I-I shouldn’t…it’s disgusting, I’m disgusting…’
‘Mycroft!’ Sherlock yelled angrily, grabbing the front of his waistcoat and hoisting him, easily, to his knees.
‘Mycroft!’
Wrestling him to his knees he cradled his brother’s pale-tear stained face in-between large hands. He could see the rim of his eyes had turned red and freckles were standing out in sharp contrast to deathly white skin. Mycroft’s eyes were squeezed shut. He had stopped sobbing thanks to Sherlock’s yelling but was still crying silently; the tears rolling down his cheeks until hey dripped off his chin onto the floor.
Sherlock cradled the dark auburn head almost completely lost in his hands.
‘Stop it Mycroft.’ He whispered softly but firmly.
Mycroft’s eyes fluttered open as he felt the first soft brushing kisses across his tear stained face. Sherlock pressed his mouth softly against fluttering eyelids, the bridge of long aquiline nose. He drank the salty wetness from his cheeks as he worked his way down, hovering just over Mycroft’s mouth for a few moments until their lips finally connected.
It was softer than he wanted, more tender. Sherlock had a suspicion gentle lovemaking was not what either of them sought, given his brother’s reaction to violence and his own tastes for dominance, but he couldn’t abuse him while he was crying and guilt ridden. He would need to push his older brother through his objections so they could both get what they want.
He started kissing deeper, harder. Crushing his lips more firmly against Mycroft’s until the older man was moaning softly and squirming in his grasp. Sherlock darted his tongue out to swipe at Mycroft’s soft pink lips. It earned his an excited gasp and he used that to his advantage to slip his tongue inside.
A small moan of pleasure filled his mouth and Mycroft’s eyes snapped open in shock at his unconscious reaction, blue orbs still partly swimming in more unshed tears. He tried to pull away, but not with much conviction.
‘No!’
Sherlock only held tighter, bent almost double over his kneeling brother. He continued probing kisses.
Mycroft shifted again, dragging his lips away.
‘We cannot.’ But at the same his hands wrapped around trouser clad hips, bunching in the soft fabric.
Sherlock bit Mycroft’s bottom lip firmly as he pulled away. It earned his a longing moan and impossibly dilated pupils contracted.
‘We shouldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘You can’t seriously need me to answer that, Sherlock.’
‘When have we ever done what we should?’ He coaxed.
‘But this-this is…’ Mycroft searched for the word, wrong, perverted, assault?
‘Moral constructs nothing more. There is no abuse of power.’ Sherlock gave a cheeky grin. ‘Well not yet anyway, we are both consenting adults, we are two men so there will be no genetically deficient offspring to worry about.’
‘Sherlock…’
Grabbing a fist full of hair, Sherlock snapped Mycroft’s neck back roughly, enjoying his widening eyes and slight hitch in his breath as his chest began to rise and fall rapidly.
‘You keep my secret, and I will keep yours.’
He nuzzled the kneeling figure, knowing deep down that he had won; Mycroft would not walk away now. Not when he was shivering every time Sherlock’s breath whispered down his neck and long fingers were rubbing small unconscious circles across his suited thighs. His brothers rational mind was telling him no but his body would not leave alone.
‘Come on Mycroft. We can have fun with this. I last much longer when I’m high…’
Mycroft whimpered and swallowed hard. He knew he shouldn’t. The guilt would be terrible. The shame if anyone found out. God, their parents! But they had been so close as children. Friends. Confidants. Closer than brothers, the only two with similar intellect and outlook on life. And Sherlock was such an attractive boy…
Sherlock didn’t even wait for a verbal acknowledgement. The kiss was fierce and possessive, yet practiced, full of potential and promise. Mycroft mind kicked into overdrive at his brother’s effortlessly domineering sexual personality. He had never shown interest in girls or boys growing up. But this was not the kissing of a sloppy, unpractised, virginal teenager. As Sherlock bit down on his tongue and wound his fingers expertly through his hair Mycroft had a sudden overwhelming surge of jealousy against whoever had him this way. He wasn’t his. He had no right. They shouldn’t be entertaining this inappropriate behaviour but still he was disappointed he wasn’t going to be the first to sample his beautiful brother. It was silly and unjust, but the feeling was still there.
Soft lips were removed and the warm overpowering sense of his brother faded. Mycroft watched Sherlock step back and fumble with the button of his trousers and slide the zip of his fly. He memorised every inch of bare glorious skin that was revealed as Sherlock slid the black suit trousers down slender hips and creamy thighs. They pooled on the floor and Sherlock stepped out the garment-kicking it across the room. Mycroft filed away the information that he didn’t wear underwear for future reference.
Shuffling back towards him, Mycroft tried to school his face into passive and calm. He didn’t want to show the naked want as he watched that sensuous porcelain skin getting even closer. As he moved, Sherlock unbuttoned his clean, crisp, white dress shirt. Throwing it open; it was left hanging on his shoulders, framing a lean but defined torso.
Marvelling at the pale smooth flatness of Sherlock’s stomach, the teenage promise of defined muscles to come, broadening shoulders; Mycroft was overcome with jealously. He was reminded of his own constant battles with his looks and weight. Sherlock had been a dark haired cherub of a child and was now a stunningly beautiful teenager. There was no word he had other than beautiful. Not handsome. Handsome was for harsher lines and rugged features. Beautiful in the way a marble sculpture was beautiful. Cold. Precise. Wonderous.
Mycroft wanted him. Just once. Even if he never got to touch again after the drug and guilt-fuelled events that were happening now. He could have just one little taste…
Almost fully naked and only a few inches from him, Mycroft bit his lip, drinking in the revealed cock inches from his face. He studied the darker flesh, jutting out firmly from a dark patch of hair between his legs. It was long and thick and the older Holmes reached out automatically, shaking fingers brushing the smooth velvety head when suddenly the sharp slap of skin on skin filled the room.
Mycroft saw stars, the side of his face tingling in pain where his brother had hit him with his open palm. It sent him reeling from his knees sideways. He only just recovered from the shock, straitening his back when Sherlock did it again.
Mycroft cried out, his cheek was on fire. He could feel the warm red heat radiate from abused flesh. The second, harder slap, had left him sprawled on his side across the hard wooden floor, shoulder numbing in the impact.
Sherlock was suddenly there, over him, hauling him onto his back and pinning him down. There was a brief struggle. Shocked and already on the floor, Mycroft had no leverage and soon he didn’t even want to think of moving as his brother’s naked body was on top of him, covering his own.
The slight weight of the boy say on his chest and his knees dug into Mycroft’s still clothed shoulders. Effectively pinning his upper body, the older Holmes was left staring up at the kneeling Sherlock who had a predatory grin across his features.
Leaning forward slightly, Sherlock allowed the tip of his straining cock to brush Mycroft’s bottom lip. Darting his tongue out, Mycroft lapped a salty-tang droplet of pre-cum leaking from him but that action earned him another violent slap.
He was enjoying this. Mycroft could read it in his brother’s face, the tremble of his muscles, and the exciting quiver of his cock trailing across his lips. Whether the power and domination is what Sherlock truly enjoyed or the loss of inhibitions from drug use, he wasn’t sure. And right now he didn’t really care. He was busy anticipating the next smack and shifting his hips in a way that his restrictive clothing was brushing against his own erection.
‘You don’t do anything until you are told. You understand?’
Sherlock’s voice was firm, dark, erotic. Mycroft only nodded, excitement rising up inside him. He lay still, impassive, watching eagerly every movement his brother made.
With a gentle flex of his hips Sherlock trailed the head of his cock across Mycroft’s right cheek, a smear of sticky translucent cum clinging to his skin. Pulling away again he fisted his cock in his hand, gently tugging and stroking. Mycroft watched, fascinatedly, the slip and slide as the foreskin moved agonisingly slowly up and over the head.
It was an unhurried, teasing pace, designed to entice and torture. Sherlock deep green eyes focused on him, bore into him with a strangely penetrating stare. His eyes never leaving Mycroft’s cool blue ones, daring him to try and move again without permission. Daring him to complain.
‘You want it?’ He hissed, teeth clenched firmly against his own pleasure but never letting up on the gratification of his own body.
Mycroft nodded slowly causing the head of his brother’s cock to brush his chin.
‘Open your mouth then.’
Licking his lips, Mycroft opened his mouth. He almost raised his head from the floor to suck the delicious appendage into his mouth but was careful to do exactly as he was told. He didn’t make a move, he just opened his mouth.
Sherlock entertained himself, running his cock across and around Mycroft’s open lips, teasing and watching him strain for more. When Mycroft’s throat became dry he was forced to dart his tongue out again to lick his lips. The unauthorised contact with Sherlock’s shaft earned him another smack.
His brother was grinning. Mycroft knew he couldn’t win.
‘Stick your tongue out.’ Sherlock finally demanded.
Mycroft did as he was told. No more, no less. It earned him a self-satisfied smirk form his brother. The anticipation was killing him. Mycroft was itching, desperate for his own pleasure, for a released from the uncomfortable confines of his own clothing.
Sherlock began trailing his cock across the pad of his tongue, using his hips to move. Mycroft could see he was being affected, a fine film of swear was covering his brow and his jaw was set in a firm line. He could hear the heavy panting deep breaths and could feel the excited quivering in the muscles pinning him to the floor.
‘Ok, start licking.’ Sherlock commanded.
As ordered, he began trailing the tip of his tongue along the underside of Sherlock’s cock. His brothers eyes slipped closed, fluttering in his own pleasure.
‘More’ He demanded and Mycroft did as he was told. Not taking his eyes off the exquisite, bucking figure in front of him.
‘Good little slut. Lick it. Make it all…wet.’ Sherlock sighed, his voice was becoming strained.
Mycroft continued his steady lapping movements, enjoying watching the shock of black curls bounce and sway as is brother’s head rolled backwards. The angle was difficult and he had to strain his neck upwards but it was worth it to see the look of rapture of Sherlock’s face and hear the soft moans from his lips.
‘Suck it Mycroft.’ Sherlock’s voice purred, ‘Like you tasted the best lollypop in the world.’
He couldn’t use his hands, still trapped under his brother’s legs. Mycroft strained his head upwards running his tongue along the soft malleable skin of Sherlock’s balls, shaft and tip, savouring the thick meaty taste of skin.
Sherlock’s hips were bucking ever so slightly, bare cool arse rubbing across Mycroft’s clothed chest. He wished he could touch him, run his hands over the pale smoothness of his body. Never once did the older Holmes close his eyes. He wanted to burn the image of a naked writhing Sherlock into his retina forever.
The velvety soft prick was shining with saliva as Mycroft sucked on the head and was rewarded with a larger buck of Sherlock’s hips and heavier moans. The flesh slid into his mouth a few inches and Mycroft sucked just hard enough for Sherlock to gasp.
‘More’ He demanded. Mycroft would give him whatever he wanted. He only needed to ask, or demand, or order.
Sherlock stopped moving and fixed his brother with a wide eyed steely gaze. Shifting his hips, Mycroft could only open his mouth wider as his brother placed the head of his cock against his pursed lips and pushed forwards.
He swallowed as much as he could as solid, firm cock filled his mouth with a throaty ‘fuck yes’. Mycroft couldn’t move his upper body, his head now trapped between the floor and Sherlock’s groin.
Angling his hips forward, Sherlock thrust deeper, pushing more of himself into Mycroft’s more than welcoming mouth.
Mycroft was trapped, completely under control. And he loved it. He tried to control his breathing.
Sherlock moved. And not gently. Hips began bucking more violently, fucking Mycroft’s face with abandon. The older Holmes concentrated on breathing between strokes, trying not to gag as a particularly deep thrust threatened to tickle the back of his throat. He covered his teeth and kept his mouth as wide as possible murmuring in his own pleasure as Sherlock used him how he saw fit.
It didn’t take long to finish. A few minutes of desperate intense thrusting and Sherlock’s lithe body was shuddering. Mycroft could hear a deep groan of satisfaction as he lost control. There was the briefest quivering of muscles as the figure above him suddenly stilled.
Mycroft only had moments to prepare before the warm stick fluid of Sherlock’s cum flooded his mouth. He swallowed as much as he could but laying on his back it was difficult and he choked, thick globs of ejaculate running down his throat and nose.
Sherlock pulled away slightly, removing his weight as Mycroft bucked, sitting up coughing and spluttering, his eyes watering. Gasping for air, he could see his brother’s cock dripping with a mixture of cum and saliva and he knew the same mixture was running down his down chin, splattering his clothing.
Sherlock licked his lips; they were already pink tinged from biting as he had been clearly trying to keep control. Naked and panting with his curls messed up he looked utterly delicious.
Where did they go from here, Mycroft wondered? His own cock was still painfully straining against his clothing but he did not know whether Sherlock would take this any further. He licked his lips, savouring the taste of his little brother. He watched Sherlock lean forward, stretch out a slender forefinger and gather up a few drops of cum that had spilled onto Mycroft’s waistcoat. He held it up to his mouth, dark eyebrow cocked.
Mycroft did not need ordered. He sucked the digit into his mouth up to the knuckle cleaning off the salty tang of cum. Rolling the finger delicately around his mouth, Mycroft grazed it gently with his teeth before sucking firmly and pulling away with a soft wet ‘pop’.
Sherlock’s beautiful eyes were wide and bright. Perhaps he was regretting his forceful actions instead of the intense fellatio that Mycroft could have provided. He could have provided him with hours of pleasure. But he was still young and clearly determined to be in control. Mycroft suspected Sherlock didn’t go in for delayed gratification. He took what he wanted, when he wanted it.
Getting unsteadily to his feet, his brother grabbed a fistful of Mycroft’s hair, dragging him to his knees and towards his groin. Fingers dug into his scalp offering no room for escape. His voice was cold, ordering.
‘Clean me up.’
With a deep breath Mycroft set to his task, the soft texture of Sherlock’s flaccid cock was a delightful new sensation as he licked and lapped, cleaning up his evidence of his orgasm.
By the time he was finished, Sherlock was gently stroking his hair and back of his neck. It was sending lovely tingling sensations down Mycroft’s back and towards his groin. He was still painfully aware of his own erection; desperate for attention however Sherlock’s demeanour was not one that suggested reciprocation.
‘You are enjoying this aren’t you? Who new Mycroft Holmes was such a little slut.’
Mycroft could only mumbled his acknowledgement, mouth full. He finished and released his brother’s cock with a soft wet pop, only to be pulled forwards again for a rough, bruising kiss.
‘Take your clothes off and get on the bed.’
The older Holmes had never dreamed of such an order issued from Sherlock’s lips. His eyes that had fluttered closed during the intense kiss quickly opened and were met with his brother’s cool, penetrating green gaze. He was looking at him expectantly, demanding him to comply.
Mycroft hesitated. Unsure of what to expect next and more than a little nervous. It was too late to go back. This had changed their relationship, likely forever. Sherlock’s eyes only narrowed at his hesitation.
‘Don’t make me tell you again.’
Nodding slowly, Mycroft eventually got shakily to his feet, and began the task of stripping himself of his expensively tailored clothing. All the while his brother watching, waiting, silently appraising his every move.
His confidence sank as soon as he was naked, never comfortable with his own body or in his own skin. His particular style of clothing always offered comfort to him. Regiment, order, structure. Defined layers that separated him from the outside word. It was one aspect he could always control and change to his needs. Mycroft expected rebuttal or comment from his brother as he stood there gazing at his feet, not want meets his eyes to possibly see a look of disgust.
However Sherlock only said one word. ‘Bed.’
Dutifully, and with a rising eagerness, Mycroft turned and climbed the small bed. The cool crisp fabric caressed his naked skin as he slid onto it.
Lying on his back, he watched Sherlock bend to the pile of clothing he had discarded.
Picking up his tie, Sherlock slide the silk fabric slowly through his hands, running it through long fingers, eyes fixed on Mycroft’s naked, sprawled body. Wrapping it around his fist a few times, he flexed, testing its strength as he unhurriedly approached the bed.
Mycroft knew what he was going to do. Part of him panicked. Having Sherlock pin him with his lovely body was one thing. But to be tied and helpless? Completely at another’s mercy was another thing entirely. Did he trust him fully? Could he be certain he would enjoy what happened to him once he gave up that last little bit of control?
Before he could voice any protest his brother was there at the bedside, lips on his, tongue sweeping every inch of the inside of his mouth.
Creating a solid loop in the fabric, Sherlock slipped the tie around Mycroft’s wrists pulling his arms up taught over his head before securing them tightly to the headboard.
He was now trapped. Mycroft tugged at the bonds but they were secured tightly, soft silk material digging further into his skin. He fought the internal panic and relaxed, rolling his shoulders and ceasing tugging on the tie that secured him. The knot relaxed against his skin and his breathing eased somewhat.
Sherlock pulled away with a sharp bit to his bottom lip. He grinned, eyes wandering Mycroft’s body. He had never been under such scrutiny as that cool penetrating gaze. He would have said it was undressing him, but Mycroft was already naked. Perhaps his brother was seeing something else entirely.
A warm palm soon followed his gaze, rubbing every inch of flesh, slowly, methodically, until he reached the solid erection that was firmly resting against his stomach.
Gasping in pleasure as the tips of Sherlock’s fingers brushed the length of him, Mycroft strained against the bonds, back arching off the bed. His brother removed his hand, and Mycroft, eager to keep the contact as long as possible, bucked towards him.
Sherlock chuckled at his wanton, straining position.
Without uttering a word, Sherlock turned away from the bed and headed towards the door. Mycroft’s head followed him, watching the dark black curls bounce and disappear, panic rising.
‘Sherlock, where are you going?’
He never answered, just disappeared through the bedroom doorway and leaving him alone. Mycroft flustered, he called after him again, voice desperate, but was met with no response. The bedroom door was wide open and here he was, naked and tied to the bed. Had his brother left him like this? Was it his idea of a joke to arouse him then walk away? What if their parents came back? How could he possibly even begin to explain this?
After several agonising minutes, Sherlock reappeared at the door way, smirk playing across his features. The bastard did that on purpose! Mycroft was partly relieved and partly angry, and was tempted to demand he be released right now. This game was over.
Sherlock approached the bed silently, a long plastic tube running delicately through his elegant fingers. If Mycroft was right, he wondered where on earth he would have hidden it in this house. Somewhere that their mother would not find, which would have been difficult. And why he would need it. Just who else had he done anything with here?
Mycroft watched as Sherlock stripped out his last item of clothing, his already opened shirt. The fabric fluttered to the floor as he alighted the bed swiftly and gracefully, straddling Mycroft’s hips. The older Holmes started up at him in wonder, enjoying the small brush of naked skin against naked skin. Seeing such a lovely naked body so close to his was reward in itself.
A large hand caressed him, rubbing over his collar, down over his ribs, stomach…by the time Sherlock got to his thighs, Mycroft was panting and his cock was straining upwards for attention.
Sherlock smiled a small satisfied smirk down at him, clearly enjoying the torture and Mycroft moaned and writhed against his bonds. So desperate to sit up, use his own hands to touch, caress, explore…
Turning his back to him, Mycroft got a good look at the perfect delicate pale curve of Sherlock’s arse. It was begging to be spanked, or bitten. He was having trouble focusing on anything other than the overwhelming need in his groin and the desire to mark that lily white skin for eternity.
Straining upwards from the bed, Mycroft was eager to see Sherlock’s actions. Kneeling at his feet and facing away from him, legs parted, Sherlock was teasing him, luring him in. He pumped a healthy dose of lubricant form the small plastic tube and worked it leisurely into his fingers.
Sensuously slowly, his brother circled the tight puckered opening of his arse with one lubricated fingertip. Mycroft unconsciously licked his lips as he watched the skin become glistening wet. He was having trouble swallowing, straining in delicious anticipation as he watched every movement of his brothers naked body as he played with himself.
Sherlock glanced over his should, still on all fours, and gave his brother the most devilishly teasing smirk he had ever seen. Lean, defined hips, wiggled as the tip of his index finger disappeared inside of him. Mycroft moaned, straining against his bonds.
‘Let me do that.’ He begged, wanting to touch him, to slide his own fingers into the warm wet hole.
Sherlock ignored him, continuing his torture. His hips flexed back and forth gently giving his brother a good show. He added a second digit and Mycroft whimpered more loudly.
‘Please Sherlock. I could-‘
His begging was cut off by a low sigh from his brother as Sherlock’s two slicked index fingers disappeared right up to his knuckles.
He couldn’t watch, it was too m much. Mycroft was labouring, his own cock throbbing violently and leaking with every passing minute.
But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t tear his gaze away from the site of Sherlock fingering himself right in front of him.
After a few moments of rhythmic thrusting, head bowed and back arched, Sherlock eventually removed his fingers, leaving the pink tinged skin of his arse open and glistening.
Without preamble, he turned and coated Mycroft’s cock delicately with the lubricant smeared across his hand. It was nearly his undoing. The touch of his brother’s hand across his straining warm flesh nearly had Mycroft cum on the spot. Closing his eyes, he counted to ten and breathed heavily through his nose, lest he cum right now and the game be over before it began.
The bed shifted and Mycroft’s eyes snapped opened to find Sherlock’s lithe body squatting above him. Hand wrapped firmly around the base of his cock, he sank down slowly onto him before Mycroft could utter a syllable.
As the head of his cock disappeared slowly inside of his brother, Mycroft gasped at the unbelievably exquisite feeling. The first penetration set all nerve endings tingling and every muscle in his body on fire.
With a flex of his hips Sherlock sank down as far as he could onto the waiting cock until his backside rested against Mycroft’s thighs. Mycroft was unprepared for the sensation; Sherlock’s low moan of satisfaction was met with a much louder cry of pleasurable agony from his brother.
He grinned down at the helpless bound man on the bed, who was muttering to himself as if in reverent prayer.
‘Enjoying yourself, brother mine?’
‘Oh god, yes.’ Was all Mycroft could manage. This was far better than anything he could ever have hoped for, all his fantasies never measured up to this moment. Even their hesitant, chaste, fumbling’s as teenagers never matched up to this.
The instant Sherlock rocked his hips sent a waved of undiluted stimulation throughout Mycroft’s body. He bucked and strained against his own tie but it was never enough. Sherlock set the pace, sliding himself along the full length of Mycroft’s shaft, almost to the tip, before plunging back down. He teased and bucked and rolled his hips, he even ceased movement which caused the man under him to desperately beg for more.
Finally he quickened the pace, hands pushing Mycroft’s thighs firmly down against the bed discouraging any movements. The older Holmes could only lie there and suffer the continued assault, allowing his brother to move and buck and writhe, taking what he wanted from his body. He didn’t mind really. This was exquisite.
Each thrust tore louder and louder moans from Mycroft’s throat. The knot of the tie bit into his skin, his wriggling had tightened it painfully around his wrists but it only added fuel to his pleasure.
‘Please, Sherlock.’
He didn’t quite know what he was begging for. He was already so close to release and Sherlock was driving his body towards orgasm with every buck of his hips. Fingers walked across his skin as he reached back, palms gently fondling his balls. Sherlock squeezed gently.
‘Say it Mycroft.’
He was sweating, panting for air, so close…‘Say what?’
‘Do you want me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you love me?’
‘Of course.’
Sherlock shook his head softly and continued to tease Mycroft’s sack, angling his hips backwards so that his helplessly bound brother got a good look at his shaft rhythmically disappearing in and out his body.
‘But not as a brother.’
Mycroft paused. He would always be his brother. Whatever happened, he would always be there for him. But this…this was more.
‘No, not as a brother.’
Sherlock smirked, satisfied. He squeezed powerfully, along with a particularly forceful stoke of his cock and Mycroft saw stars. Orgasm washing over his body and tearing a groan from low in his throat.
Muscles quivering, his lower body spasmed. He could feel Sherlock contracting his inner muscles around him, giving him the final painful tease as he came, warm jets of cum squirting deep inside his brother’s body.
Mycroft flopped against the bed, unaware of just how tense he had been, neck and shoulders strained as he had desperately craned his head to watch the slide of his own body inside Sherlock’s.
His brother stilled his hips but was still straddling him, allowing Mycroft’s softening cock to remain sheathed inside.
Their actions obviously had some effect on him, Mycroft could see Sherlock’s cock, that had been flat against his thigh, stiffening and was well on its way to becoming hard again.
Mycroft lay on the bed panting, sweat running into his eyes as he tried to regain his breath. That had been…magnificent. He had no other words.
Mycroft groaned as Sherlock moved, sliding off him in an easy fluid movement. He watched Sherlock stretch out his body, marvelling again at how attractive he was.
‘That was fun.’
He laughed a short bark from his lips. So like Sherlock. What they had just done and his first through was his amount of enjoyment.
Sherlock leaned over the bed, long fingers working at the knot in Mycroft’s tie that was securing him. His cock was inches from his brother’s face and Mycroft was tempted to reach out his tongue, just to see what would happen.
Just then, there came a noise from deep in the house. It was the unmistakable screech of their mother’s voice.
‘Sherlock!’ Mycroft hissed in panic.
His brother only smirked lazily, like the fallen angel he was, continuing to take his sweet time in removing the bounds.
The older Holmes struggled a little more, encouraging his brother to move more quickly.
‘Sherlock! Hurry! We cannot be discovered.’
Finally free, Mycroft leapt off the bed, gathering his clothes quickly aiming to get them both dressed before their parents found them. As he collected an armful of clothing, suddenly, a firm hand grabbed the back of his head. Sherlock pulled him closer, mouth seeking his in a rough kiss.
They broke apart panting, Mycroft gazed at his brother’s perfectly sculpted face, eyes still wide and pupils dilated likely from the continuing effect of narcotics and not their lovemaking.
Sherlock leered at him.
‘We will continue this later. After dinner perhaps.’
With that he sauntered out the room, still naked and clothing bundled in his arms. Mycroft heard Sherlock’s bedroom door close and hoped to god that their parents hadn’t witnessed his naked wander through the house.
He dressed quickly as he heard his mother calling him. Checking his appearance in the mirror, Mycroft left the small bedroom hoping that he could get through dinner, knowing full well Sherlock had plans for him later.