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Why is it definitely an MI-5 forgery, Sherlock?” Greg has watched the detective rambling all over his scene for a full ten minutes, occasionally bursting his thoughts at the nearest tech, none of whom are providing him with whatever answers he wants.

“Design. Obvious.”

Greg sighs. “Fine. Sally, can you get in touch with our MI-5 liaison-“

“Don’t bother. Entirely unconnected to the murder. They’ll just push you off the case for nothing.” Sherlock stands suddenly, looking at Greg with an alarmingly analytical expression. Greg has never been more certain that he’s up to something. “You should take it to Mycroft.”

“Mycroft? Your brother? Lurks in warehouses and likes casual abductions, that one? No, thank you.” The elder Holmes is someone Greg has primarily communicated with only as a last resort, when Sherlock has been in serious danger or suffered a relapse, and Greg’s always found him… a bit intimidating.

It’s the suits.

It’s probably the suits.

“You don’t have any plans tonight because your girlfriend- sorry, is it ex-girlfriend now?- is off with a football- mm, no, rugby player- you can’t stand the sight of your own flat right now and you love a good drive in the country.”

Greg glares, but conceding that Sherlock is, of course, irritatingly correct, he finds himself spending his Friday afternoon driving out to the secluded manor that apparently serves as Mycroft’s weekend retreat. Rookridge Hall. Sherlock had been somewhat insistent that he ought to drive it out right away, it would be tempting the ire of Mycroft’s people to wait longer.

He had been right about the drive- it’s glorious outside of the city, the first fall colors weaving through the trees. Definitely worth the trip, even if nothing else of interest happens. He’ll have a slow ride back into the city around sunset, and that should be a perfect lead-in to a few beers- possibly more than a few beers- and a leisurely night of meandering through whatever’s on the telly.

The gate to Rookridge is very discreet- the drive barred and the walls high and ivy covered, with obvious security cameras aimed toward the path. He pulls up, finding a neatly shielded panel with a keycode and a buzzer, which he presses, suddenly wishing he’d bothered to call ahead. Mycroft obviously has this place locked down within an inch of its life, if Greg steps out of line he’s liable to get shot by some sort of MI-5 assassin guards and never returned for burial.

“Yes?” a smooth woman’s voice answers.

“Ah- dropping off something for Mycroft Holmes?”

“You aren’t a delivery service.”

He hopes the cameras can’t see the stupid face he must be making. Fucking Sherlock. Should've mentioned it’s a bloody fortress. “It’s from his brother. Or, well... it’s a police matter. DI Greg Lestrade, New Scotland Yard.” Digging out his badge, he waves it in the general direction of the cameras he can see. “He knows me. Just- if you could send someone out, I can leave it with them, even.” He feels more awkward than he’d anticipated, surrounded by all this surveillance. God, and he lives with this all the time. No wonder Mycroft always carries that aura of dramatics about him. He must always be performing.

After a long pause, the gate simply swings open. Greg breathes a sigh of relief as he pulls into the long drive toward the large manor in the distance. The drive is long, but the trees surrounding it are spectacular. If he had any artistic bones in his body, he’d be getting out of the car right now to pause and take some pictures to try and capture the colors of it all in some extravagant painting later.

At the end of the drive there’s a circle- he supposes he’s just meant to pull up and hike up the steps to the front door, so he does, leaving his car parked below. The door opens before he gets there, revealing a younger man who must be a butler, as he’s wearing a crisp black tie and white gloves.

….and absolutely nothing else.

“Inspector Lestrade?” Greg makes a small noise in the back of his throat that the butler must take for an affirmative. “Master Holmes has asked me to take you through to the lounge. If you will follow me, please.”

Greg follows, his feet working where his voice has utterly failed. Nude staff. Nude staff? Was it… some sort of security protocol? No one can attack you if you can see quite thoroughly they aren’t armed?

It also gives him a fair view of the butler’s arse, which he can’t quite seem to stop looking at, though to be fair he’s not precisely used to seeing any nude folk outside of his own bed or a decent porno. He certainly wasn’t expecting to find any out here.

There’s more, too- as they pass through the hall, Greg spots a naked woman dusting an enormous bookshelf, and another man carrying a tray up a staircase.

Maybe they’re all nudists? That seems plausible. Weird, but plausible. He shouldn’t judge, to each their own and all, he’s just… a bit stunned.

The butler leads him to a comfortable lounge complete with a piano and a full sideboard of liquors that likely cost about ten years of his salary, if not more. He’s invited to make a selection, but he demurs, remembering that he has to drive.

After that, he’s left alone.

Greg feels a bit like when he was younger and tried weed for the first time, like everything around him is just slightly off and he is no longer entirely sure of his place in reality.

“It’s a long way to drive, inspector, just to run an errand.”

He turns- Mycroft is at the sideboard, having somehow snuck in without being heard, and Greg finds himself again struggling to bring words to his lips as Mycroft presses a glass of amber liquid into his hand. He ought to be saying no to that- driving - but he finds he really needs to drink it.

Mycroft is not in a suit. He’s in shirtsleeves, which is jarring enough by itself, but that’s not the real source of Greg’s now slightly flushed skin and abortive measures in gathering his thoughts into a single coherent string.

No, that’s all down to the fact that Mycroft Holmes is wearing leather trousers.

There’s a strained noise emitting from his own throat that he can’t stop, and he’s definitely blushing. Fuck. He’s never going to be able to look Mycroft in the eye again. Or Sherlock. That git had to have known. Greg’s going to have to find a way to get one back at him. Perhaps a nice “accidental” dip in the Thames.

“He was trying to embarass me, inspector, but my brother refuses to believe I don’t experience shame.”

Greg chances a glance up. Of course this Holmes can see straight through him just as well as the other one. Mycroft has one brow half-lifted, quietly amused. “Er- sorry, I- I don’t mind what anyone- gets up to, you know, just- bit of a shock.”

“Of course. Why don’t you sit down, inspector?”

He does, having another long sip of his drink- it’s good, whatever it is- and extricating the ID from his pocket in its little evidence bag.  “It’s, uh- just this, really. Sherlock said it’s, you know, your territory.”

“Did he.” Mycroft takes a look at it, turning it over. “Well. He is not entirely wrong, though I think he took some advantage of the opportunity. His sense of humor is a bit juvenile at times.”

“Oh- no, it’s, you know, your staff. Whatever- is fine.”

“Ah, he told you this is my home, did he? Misleading, that.” Mycroft wanders back to the sideboard, pulling out a drawer and extracting a slim, black card that he hands to Greg. Rookridge Lodge and Specialty Hotel Services. “I do own the property, but I do not live here. I merely visit from time to time to… check on things.”

“It’s an inn?” Greg asks stupidly. An inn full of… naked people. “And specialty services are….”

“It’s not a brothel, Gregory. That would be illegal.” Mycroft smiles thinly. “No one here is paid for sex, as payments are made for rooms and dining hospitality only. The staff here have signed certain contracts with regard to their treatment, and are offered generous compensation as full-time employees, complete with benefits.”

“But they’re….”

“They are nude, yes. That is generally part of the contract.”

Greg has the feeling Mycroft is being very patiently indulgent with him as he stares at the card. He’s going to need another bloody drink to get his head around this. “Um. So what are... specialty services?”

Mycroft smiles. Definitely indulgent. Greg feels himself blushing again and looks down, but then there’s those blasted leather trousers and that makes it worse , so he inhales deeply and looks pointedly out the window. Trees. Clouds. Anything but sex. “A certain list of acts are permitted at any time with any working employee, upon verbal request and agreement. That young man who brought you in here? Bent over wherever you like. Or on his knees.” Greg flushes more, remembering the pert curve of the butler’s arse. Jesus Christ. “More complex needs are coordinated as a part of room service, with employees who have authorized their participation in whatever the client has requested.”

“It’s… a sex resort.” Greg’s voice has gone a bit high. Oh my god. Why is this so embarrassing? He’s going to kill Sherlock for tossing him into this without warning. Mycroft is entirely unmoved- he even seems to be enjoying watching Greg squirm. Goddamit, Lestrade, pull yourself together. “You own a sex resort.”

“Mmm. It’s a sound property investment, and I assure you the market for such things is quite robust. Quite a lot of people are willing to shell out considerable coin to discreetly fulfill their needs.” Mycroft swirls his glass, the amber of the liquid spinning gently, catching the dimming light. “Why don’t you stay for dinner, inspector? Our kitchens are superb, and I can give you a tour.”

Greg swallows. He should drive home, where he can have about six beers and try to delete this entire experience from his brain.

He is, however… just a little bit curious.

“Alright,” he hears himself say. “Should I pull the car round first? Just left it out front since I thought I’d be, uh. In and out.” He flushes again. Fuck. No more potential double entendres for the rest of the evening.

Mycroft smiles again. It makes Greg feel fidgety.

Ten minutes later, after he’s parked himself in what used to be the barn- apparently they don’t have a valet for that as patrons have expressed a distaste for someone else’s naked arse in their cars, a complaint which he can understand- he’s walking back to the side door when he hears the distinct sound of fucking. He can’t help but look- it’s a reflex, really.

The couple is out in a field, the woman in a full riding costume, save the britches that have been lowered to her knees, and the man behind her is nude save a kerchief about his neck.

It’s only when she looks up and smiles at him that he has the sense to keep bloody walking , scurrying red-faced back into the manor.

“You know quite a lot of our patrons have an exhibitionist streak,” Mycroft says, startling Greg as soon as he comes through the door. He’s standing by the window, openly watching the proceedings outside without even a flicker of shame. Greg’s not sure if he envies him that level of… comfort.

“Do they?” Greg jams his hands in his pockets, trusting that his coat is keeping the threat of a bit of interest in his pants from being visible.

“Mm. Voyeurs and exhibitionists… quite common, really.” Mycroft turns and starts down the hall, Greg following just behind. “There was even sufficient interest in patrons acting as staff for recreational purposes that we have specific weekends dedicated to it.”

“In acting as….” Greg blinks. “They want to- just- let anyone…?”

“Oh yes. On those weekends we have the staff pretend to be patrons- the patrons themselves sign up for certain types so we know who to have ‘pursue’ them, of course. It’s all well laid out in advance.”

A affirmative noise is all Greg manages to make, something high in the back of his throat that sounds like an “Nnnnnhn.” How does he make this sound like just another casual job? Paperwork for the sex hotel. Christ.

They’ve stopped by a large glass door through which, Greg realizes after a moment, is a standard, if rather posh, hotel gym. “This is our gym- functional, of course, but I assure you we maintain a high cleaning standard on the mats.” Greg lets out a low heh that he hopes does not sound as awkward as it feels. “And our pool. Whirpool tubs are en suite, but there’s no communal hot tub- too much of a medical risk when no one respects the required time limitations in the water.”

“Right.” Greg swallows. The pool has a very handsome lifeguard, sitting casually on a chair with his legs spread and spinning a whistle while watching a couple lazily drift around the water on inflatable rafts. How is this normal? It all feels a bit out of body, especially since the sight of the lifeguard’s decidedly fit figure and rather generous endowment has made his cock jump. Again.

He crosses his hands in front of his coat, trying to keep everything looking casual. It feels safer to hide it.

“And the dining room.” In here, Greg has the sudden feeling he’s underdressed, but at least that is a more familiar form of embarrassment than everything else he’s experienced today. Everyone here is in finery, save the waitstaff, who are all in little aprons, and the woman who appears to be serving as a buffet board for… sushi?

Oh, Jesus. He doesn’t know if he can actually eat off a person. That seems… unhygienic?

“Don’t worry, we’ll be dining privately.” Greg does not fail to notice the pleased little curl in Mycroft’s grin. Don’t think about how much he can deduce. Just… don’t. If Greg thinks about it too hard he might just become so mortified that he just dies. Possibly for the best.

Privately apparently means a small table right by the kitchens, separate from the rest of the hall by what seems like a one-way glass window. The cooks are all dressed as normal cooks, at least, which gives Greg a sense of relief. Mycroft chuckles, a musical sound Greg has never before heard. “Of course they’re dressed, Greg, there’s fire and oil. Never cook naked. Goodness.”

Greg lets out another little awkward heh . “Do they not, um….”

“No, the chefs are here for their culinary skills and nothing else, though they are all exceptionally discreet.”

The food is quite good. Mycroft had not been exaggerating that. Greg lets him pick for both of them, his mind still a bit too anxious to fully focus on the menu. “So’m… Sherlock knows about this place?”

“Oh yes. The entire concept horrifies him, of course.”


“Not that he has any idea what the experience is like. And what about you, inspector?”

“Hm?” Greg looks up from his steak and finds Mycroft’s steely eyes studying him in a way that feels just a bit greater than mere friendly interest. Don’t suppose most friends have a pleasant chat at the sex hotel that one of them owns. Of course, if he didn’t know better, it might sound like Mycroft is asking him about his own experience.

“You don’t seem horrified.” Mycroft doesn’t break eye contact as he sips his wine. It makes Greg fidget for reasons he’s not inclined to overanalyze right now. “If you’re interested, I would be happy to set you up with a room.”

“Oh god.” Greg must go red in an instant, he can feel the heat of it on his cheeks. “I, ah- I’m sure it’s all out of my-”

“Complimentary, of course. You deserve some rewarding relaxation after all your work managing my brother. It’s the least I can offer.”

“I,  uh. Heh. I don’t-”

“Whenever you like, inspector. You have my number.”

Greg manages to squeak out an assenting grunt.

After dinner, Mycroft walks him to the barn, passing the library where a woman in the scantest suggestion of a maid’s uniform is being rather lovingly tended to against a stack of books by a woman in a full evening gown.

Greg worries he’ll never be able to see posh clothing without blushing again.

“Do consider it, inspector. We can tailor any experience. I’m happy to help.”

“I’ll. Uh. Think about it. Thanks.”

He drives home with half a persistent erection, barely able to concentrate on the brake lights of the vehicles in front of him. Fuck. He can’t stop playing it over. The shameless sounds of sex, people just fucking in the open- and if that’s the public side, what the hell must they get up in the rooms?

As soon as he gets through the door to his flat he can’t get out of his clothes fast enough. He has to take himself in hand now, get this urge under control and dealt with so he can relax and just watch the telly. A normal Friday.

He falls onto the couch with his trousers open and shoved past his arse, his cock jutting out like a needy mast. There’s no need for subtlety, not with Becca off fucking whatever man she’s holding over him now. There’s always someone with her, always some comparison she needs him to be better than so she’ll deign to come back.

Maybe that’s why it’s mostly the men he’s thinking of. The butler and his pert arse. The lifeguard and his casually swinging whistle. The stablehand.


Take them anywhere. Oh, fuck, the possibilities. Sex whenever and no judgements at all. No wonder Mycroft is so fucking calm all the time. Bet the man has never been pent up in his life.

His mind wanders on him, drifting through variations of Rookridge as he strokes until he finds it landing on the idea of leather. Mycroft’s trousers. He’d never seen that coming.

He can’t help wondering what Mycroft was getting up to in an outfit like that. He shouldn’t- he should resist it- they’re acquaintances, maybe friends, it’s best not pull him into sex fantasies, but there he is all the same. Was he with someone before Greg got there? Private office, maybe, and someone obedient and pliant- his mind substitutes the butler, that strikes him as potentially Mycroft’s type, though he’s not sure why that matters.

Mycroft’s voice drifts through his mind. “Bent over wherever you like. Or on his knees.” Greg swallows. God, what kind of power would that be. Run a hand through the butler’s hair and push down, have those soft lips wrapping his cock....

“Oh, fuckkkk-”

He splays, legs straining against the band of his trousers as he comes with a shout.

Jesus. Fuck.

When was the last time he came like that? Sure as hell hadn’t been with Becca.

He lies there, panting, cock spent all over his work shirt. “Jesus.” That was… what it was. Fuck. It’s just to get it out of his system. That’s all. He needs a beer. A nice cold, beer. Bit of cleaning up and he can just… watch something. Something mindless.

And definitely not think too much about how he just came picturing Mycroft’s cock in someone’s mouth.


He rubs his face, dragging his nails through the scruff of his two-day beard.

Just the once. Done with it now. Normal weekend. Back to the grind on Monday.

Peeling himself off the couch, he stumbles to the bathroom with his pants sinking over his thighs and held up with one hand, cursing.

Fine. Fine. This is all… normal. Normal reaction, that’s all. Startled into it.

Still, when he lets his mind wander later on the pleasant rocking waves of pre-sleep, it’s leather he’s thinking of, and that smooth voice telling him he deserves a reward.


Chapter Text

Greg wakes up with a throbbing erection.

He can’t remember the dream, but there must have been one- something he hadn’t experienced since his youth, when he’d wake up sticky. This one nearly got him there, but the sunlight and a kid practicing the clarinet next door make sure he’s up, as always.

Morning wood usually means a quickie, when Becca’s agreeable, or sneaking off to have a discreet wank in the shower. He can’t take too long with it, ever, because whenever she’s figured out he’s had a wank at all she sets in on him for cheating by even thinking about anyone else, and god help him if she decides to go off on a tear about how watching porn is the world’s greatest betrayal.

Funny, considering she’s the one that likes to pick up men in bars.

Still, it means that he can take his time today while she’s still elsewhere. Indulge a bit. Clearly a single wank hasn’t cleared Rookridge out of his system, maybe something a bit more elaborate will.

He digs into the closet, into a shoe box of old newspaper clippings and things he’s buried his old life under. Cleaning is a must, as they’ve been stranded there amongst the dust for an age, but when it’s done he has a mid-size prostate massager and a cock ring at the ready.

Taking his time is easy. He relaxes into his own fingers, slick with lube, feeling his way through old habits from a more hedonistic time.

I was more fit then. More flexible. His arm isn’t used to reaching back like that any more, his shoulder aches, but the pleasure of the stretch makes it all worthwhile.

The ring goes on easy, snug in a comfortable way that makes him feel much more keenly aware of his own hardness. Careful positioning and a few pillows lets him pretend he’s riding the massager as it grinds into him, slow and steady. His mouth falls open in a long moan, and he finds himself wondering what it would be like to trace his tongue up leather, mouthing at the bulge until it grows hard for him.

The fantasy is so easy to fall into. Hands in his hair as he drives them wild, makes them fall apart- he’s always loved that part, watching his lovers tip over the edge and lose themselves to pleasure.  Sounds are always the best part, though, and that’s not something his fantasy can fake for him, even if he remembers the good ones.

“Oh, god-”

He rocks slowly, dragging it out, mind playing out the fantasy for him. The leather… a part of him knows who he might be picturing, but he convinces himself it’s nothing- it could be anyone in leather. Just focus on the leather. He’d been skilled at blowjobs in his day, and though it’s been a while the technique can’t have changed that much. S’not like upgrading a phone.

In the fantasy he looks up, and it’s Mycroft’s hand in his hair, Mycroft staring down at him with those intense stormy eyes.


No- no , he can’t be thinking about Mycroft. God, every time he comes to a crime scene it’s going to be weird. Worse, Sherlock will know, and Sherlock is physically incapable of keeping his thoughts to himself. Who else would suit?

Greg trades in the lasciviously spread lifeguard- there are a ton of scenarios in that. Any variation of position he can imagine- even with others joining, watching- Mycroft had said that was common, even if it’s not something Greg’s ever thought much about before-

“Sh-shit-” There’s Mycroft again, and Greg has to force him away. No- lifeguard. That maid, maybe. The butler.

Anything. He could have anything at all.

He drags it out for what feels like hours until he comes, shouting and sobbing freely. Spent, he only bothers with the most minimal of cleanup before he tucks himself back in for a nap. One weekend of indulgence. That’s it. Keep it for fantasies only.


He could try it. Once. Just the once, since apparently wanking it out of himself isn’t working. Just… trying it. S’all discreet anyway, right?

Who’s gonna care?

Becca sure as shit won’t. Oh, she’d pretend, but it’s not like she’s got much leeway to moan about it, not when she’s running off with her latest fancy every other month. He should really just change the locks and be done with her. He doesn’t need the drama. Just something… easy. No commitment, no emotions.

Fuck, maybe a weekend at Rookridge is exactly the right call.




He manages through the rest of the weekend, feeling a bit jittery by the time he returns to work, like there’s an itch he hasn’t quite scratched. Fortunately no one notices- there’s paperwork for him to be doing while the sergeants and constable run around, and everyone leaves him alone for that lest they find some of it on their own desks.

When his door opens sometime after lunch he doesn’t even bother to look up. “If you didn’t bring coffee, I’m not interested.”

“Oh my god.” Greg looks up, finding Sherlock staring at him with an expression of mild horror. “You liked it.”

“Sherlock. Please, barge right in.”

“You went into that- nest of filth- and actually enjoyed-”

With a sigh, Greg gets up and closes his door, telling himself it’s for the benefit of his fellow coppers who are already weary of Sherlock when he’s in a good mood. In this case, he might be leading up to a fairly epic strop. “It’s just sex, Sherlock. I don’t find sex alarming.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Not entirely true. You were- caught off guard. Same as alarmed.”

“I was surprised , which is not the same thing. And the only reason I was surprised is because you thought you’d play a little trick on your brother and put me in the middle of it. He wasn’t bothered at all, if you’re interested.”

The younger Holmes snorts, crossing his arms. “That you saw.”

“Yes, Sherlock, that I saw. But considering everything going on there, I believe the man when he says he doesn’t experience shame.” Greg sits down again, propping his legs up on his desk. “Now, did you just pop by to see if your little plan worked, or were you planning to actually contribute to the paperwork for once?”

“Hmph. I think your lot should be able to manage that, considering that I do everything else.”

“Right. Well, shut the door on your way out, then. Some of us have work to do.” Sherlock, however, does not leave. He hovers, bouncing gently from one foot to the other. Greg waits, slowly lifting a brow. “Was there something else, then?”

“You… truly enjoyed it.”

“Bit of a stretch. I got a decent dinner out of it.” And an entire weekend of sexual fantasies. He’d prefer Sherlock not know about that bit, though.

Sherlock sniffs. “I- do not understand the fixation. A body is- transport. It makes no sense to indulge in such… frivolities.”

“Well, Sherlock, some people like frivolity. Maybe give your brother a fair shake, yeah? He can like what he likes, it doesn’t affect you at all.”

Who he likes.”


“Nevermind. Enjoy your stay, Inspector.”

Greg drops his feet off the desk as Sherlock ducks out. “Sherlock-” The door closes without further interjection and Greg leans back once more. Enigmatic bastard. He still has the vague feeling that he’s caught in some brotherly rivalry, but that’s alright. He’s not planning on playing into it.

No, whatever he does when next he visits Rookridge- if he visits Rookridge- it will be entirely for himself. He’s not planning for either Holmes to play into it at all.




It takes him a fortnight to muster his courage and actually call. The woman who books his appointment has a sultry, smooth voice, professional but somehow titillating. Fuck, maybe he’s hired phone sex operators too. It would make sense.

She assures him, once she has his name, that his stay will be entirely complimentary and he is welcome to choose anything from their extensive list of amenities once he’s arrived. It makes him feel very… VIP. Pretend to be posh for a few days. And if this is how Mycroft intends to repay him for babysitting his brother, well. He’s happy to take the gift as it is offered.

And just in case of… a need to adjust back to the real world... he’s booked himself more holiday time than he actually plans to spend at Rookridge. Frankly, he has no idea what he’s actually going to do when he gets there, but if he overthinks it he’s worried he won’t keep up his nerve. That’s half the reason he’s going up on a Wednesday. Nothing too exciting ever happens on Wednesdays, and he’s not really sure he’s ready to handle Rookridge when it gets really exciting.

At least in the intervening time he’s managed to change his locks and deposit Becca’s remaining possessions with her roommate. She threw a fit outside his flat about it, yelling and demanding that take her back, but he just kept turning up the volume on the telly. It’s insanity, in a way. A month ago he’d have taken her back in an instant. Hell, he’d been planning to propose, always ready to forgive every betrayal, but now….

For whatever reason, it’s occurred to him that he deserves a bit better. Letting himself indulge in something like Rookridge is just a part of that.

On the appointed day, he pulls up, parking his car in the barn as he did before. The same butler as before opens the door, and Greg bites the inside of his lip, hoping nothing on his face betrays him in a I have had sex dreams about you sort of way. “Welcome back, Mr. Lestrade. May I take your bags?”

Greg follows as he’s led up the staircase and into the residential wing. It’s conspicuously silent. Suppose they didn’t skimp on the soundproofing. “Here you are, sir.” Room 12, the slim gold placard says. It’s spacious. A large, posh bed with dark covers and well-fluffed pillows sits just off one wall, the posts at each corner a smooth brushed metal with smaller bars along the headboard and footboard. He’s familiar enough with the concept to recognize the utility of such a design.

There’s a private bath as well, easily large enough to fit two people in the whirlpool tub or the separate shower. Christ. Next to the bed there’s even a bottle set next to a pair of glasses- the same high-end whiskey Mycroft offered him before. He lets out a low huff of air. Of course he knows I’m here. Owns the place, doesn’t he? And he’s paying for it.

“Is there anything else I can get you, sir?”

Greg turns, finding his eyes wandering the butler a little speculatively. He could- that is what they’re there for, after all- but no, he’s not ready for that yet, even the thought just makes him blush and look away.

Christ, get it together. It’s a sex hotel. Have sex. You can do this.

“We do have a menu, sir, if you’d like some time to consider.”

“Yeah, actually, that- should help. Ta.”

The butler opens the top drawer of the nightstand and Greg swallows. Lube. Handcuffs. A sleep mask that he very much doubts is meant for sleep and a set of silk ties. “Here you are, sir.” Ah, fuck. The butler is right there. Right there and naked.

Greg doesn’t want to think about how red his face must be. “Thanks. What’s your, uh. Name. By the way.”

“Jamie, sir.”

“Thank you, Jamie. I just, ah- call down when I’ve- made a selection?”

“That’s right sir. Do feel free to call us for any of your needs.”

When Jamie leaves, Greg falls onto the bed, feeling a bit shaky. God, what the fuck am I doing. He has to run his hands over his face a few times to settle himself, staring at the ceiling. Alright, first things first. He needs a scotch before he can even look at the menu, and he takes a long sip, letting the burn ease into his blood, before he tries it.

The menu is not so simple as a basic list of services he can order. It’s more like… categories or suggestions.

Traditional is first which he supposes is a polite way of saying vanilla. “Enjoy an enthusiastic partner and the benefits of traditional sex.” From the following paragraphs, he’s fairly certain they have a wider definition of traditional than most: any manner of penetrative or non-penetrative sex without bells and whistles beyond an option for some manner of roleplay or costumes. Alright, so… what he’d had with some of his prior partners, more or less. Fine. That’s not terribly intimidating.

Next is BDSM. Greg fidgets slightly just looking at the pictures of leather and rope, and it’s only once he moves that he realizes he’s already a little hard. Shit. An erection is what he’s here for, but, fuck, he didn’t think just reading the menu would start to work for him.

Take a breath. Don’t even need to pick off the menu right away, right? Mycroft said some people just go around… feeling it out.

Maybe that’s what he should try first. Just… walk around. Get used to the idea.

He downs the scotch, walking out and leaving the menu on the nightstand for now. A smooth voice awaits him before he even reaches the stairwell landing. “We do have some non-sexual options, Inspector.” Mycroft is in a suit this time, lean and sharp. Just come from work?

Greg tries for a smile and hopes he doesn’t look too embarrassed. “That obvious?”

“Many of our guests are used to having things their way, Inspector. I have the impression you are not typically so fortunate.” He opens his hand, beckoning Greg to join him as they walk down. “You should take your time with it. Experiment. Find out what appeals. And in the meantime….” He leads Greg to an area that seems to be a small spa and gestures at the service listing. “You really ought to relax.”

“A massage?” It’s not something Greg had considered, but actually… sounds pretty lovely.

“You’ll forgive me saying so, but… I believe you might have a more enjoyable experience if you acclimate to having… foreign hands on you, first.”

It’s a thought. A clinical, analytical thought, but Greg’s used to those. “Yeah, that’s- you’ve probably got a point.”

Mycroft smiles in that indulgent way he has. “I’ve taken the liberty of requesting Carlo for you- very strong hands. I expect you’ll need it, with the stresses of your work.”

“That what you do?”


“See Carlo, when work gets stressful?” He’s not sure why he’s asking- it’s certainly not his business, but….

“When the mood strikes.”

Greg grins, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels. “S’long as it’s a personal recommendation, then.” Mycroft leads him into a massage room- it looks like the same sort he’s seen in other spas, though admittedly not often as a client. Massage table, oils, that sort of thing. “Shall I, uh….”

“Undress, yes. There’s water here- hydration helps, of course.”

“Right.” Greg starts pulling off his shirt only to pause in realization that Mycroft is still in the room. Why is that awkward? Shouldn’t be awkward, right? Just… blokes. Blokes at the sex hotel.


“Mycroft, is, ah… does he….”

“Yes, he can offer a more intimate servicing. If you like.” Greg thinks he’s getting used to Mycroft’s smiles when they’re directed his way. Shit. “Just tell him what you prefer. If you say nothing, it shall remain a traditional service only. We maintain a firm policy of verbal consent, unless a specific desire for a roleplayed alternative is requested.”

“Uh. Alright. Sounds… smart.”

Mycroft leaves him after directing him to the towel across the table. Greg strips down and covers himself as he crawls onto the table, trying in vain to be less self-conscious. Just a massage, right? Doesn’t have to be anything else unless I say so.

Carlo turns out to be a firmly build man with tan skin and fingers that could wring knots out of marble. Greg hadn’t known how tense he was until Carlo dug in and pulled it out of him. Though he still gets nervous when Carlo’s hands get near his arse or upper thighs, the massage itself is relaxing, and Greg doesn’t even get that hard. Mostly, it’s just relaxing.

He’s not sure why he thought Carlo would push the issue. Just because it’s a sex hotel doesn’t mean they’ll force sex on him, apparently.

Suppose I have to ask for it.

It makes sense. Rookridge won’t want to risk a lawsuit for any unwanted attentions. Everything has to be documented and approved.

Greg’s mouth opens, ready to ask for it, ready to cheekily inquire if he does happy endings, or whatever the terminology is, but nothing comes out. In the end, it’s just a massage. His muscles might be thanking him but he hardly feels relaxed at all.

At this point he’s not surprised to find Mycroft waiting for him outside the spa area. Fuck. He’ll know I didn’t.

Would that be such a bad thing, though? Mycroft might be in the business of sexual satisfaction, but Greg has to be the one to engage his people. As the proprietor he probably sees loads of people suffering from… nerves.

“How did you like him, inspector?”

“Carlo? He’s, ah, great. Yeah. Strong hands, like you said.”

“Mmmm.” Mycroft’s head tilts and Greg has the distinct feeling that he’s being analyzed. “I do hope you’ll forgive my directness, Inspector, but I have the feeling you have not yet engaged any of our special offerings because you are yourself unsure of what you might like.”

Greg’s mouth opens and closes, and he can feel himself blushing. Again. Going to be doing that the entire holiday at this rate. “Yeah, ah… maybe. There’s- well, most of anything, like, specific, that I might be into… I never did with anyone I didn’t already know.”

“A matter of trust. Of course. There are certain things for everyone that cannot be done with a stranger. However, it is in your interest to discern what we might offer you that you would be comfortable with.”

“Yeah, I know. S’just… looking at the menu felt a bit….”

“Overwhelming?” He nods, earning another considering look from the elder Holmes. “How would you feel, Inspector, about some experimentation? Nothing egregious,” he corrects as Greg immediately makes a noise of protest. “Think of it as a… thought experiment. To assist in determining how your interests might best be served.”

“A thought experiment?”

“Sometimes it helps to be a bit clinical. Maintain some… distance, so you can better assess your desires.”

Distance. Yeah, that sounds like it’s be good for Greg in this state. Especially when everything feels far too close. “Alright, yeah.”

“And would you mind viewing any activities? I realize on your last visit you saw a few things without expecting to- this would be a bit more… deliberate, but you may think of it as… live-action pornography. Everyone we might view already has the expectation that they are being watched.”

Greg blushes, biting the inside of his lip.  It’s not like he doesn’t watch porn. And the staff here… they’re basically actors, right? “Would they, um-”

“They would not be able to see you unless you choose to be seen.”

He nods, acquiescing to his fate. Whatever that might be. There’s no better time, right? S’not like he’s getting any younger. “Alright. Show me what you’ve got.”


Chapter Text

Going into the basement is… interesting, to say the least. There’s dark panelled wood, and red curtains. Mycroft pulls one of them aside that leads to a hallway flanked on both sides by one-way windows. It almost reminds Greg of work, and he isn’t so sure that’s a good thing for his libido, nervous as he is already.

“Do all the curtains lead to, um….”

“Variations on a theme, Inspector. This is the tamest selection of our offerings. The Playroom and Dungeon are also popular wares, both for observing and participating, but I thought we ought to consider the more… mundane, before we explore anything else.”

This is mundane. Fuck. Well, to the people that are here, maybe it is. In his world you can’t just look through the first window you pass to see an- actually extremely enthusiastic blowjob. Fuck. He’s never going to stop blushing.

He jams his hands into his pockets, still self-conscious about the threat of an erection. Mycroft, of course, doesn’t seem bothered at all. Greg wonders if he gets desensitized to it, all this… on display, all the time. Does it even tantalize anymore?

S’pose he’s not here all the time… just weekends and when the government doesn’t need him.

Something pings in the back of his mind about that… but Mycroft steps up to a panel a ways in and gestures for Greg to look. There are buttons on the side with small lights, like the outside of an interrogation room. Controlling who sees what. Let them know you’re watching… or let them see you directly. “Not all of the rooms are occupied at the moment. We have fewer guests on weekdays, and therefore less staff. Things pick up on the weekend, of course. Offerings are tailored to the desires of our guests- assuming that we know them well enough to do so.”

“Repeat visitors?”

“Oh yes. With some frequency.”

“I s’pose if the service is good...” Greg breaks off as his eyes focus on the interior of the small room. There are two men there- both broad and strong and on the hairy side, and one of them is getting the most thorough and lavish rimjob Greg has ever seen. His mouth clicks audibly shut, his cock registering its approval of the view with a throb that rings through to his core.

It’s entrancing. Memories of his younger years surge through him, all the times he’d wanted a man and couldn’t act on it- or got a man who only wanted a fling, something short and half the time one where names weren’t even involved. Real dates were few and far between, dwindling off to nothing as soon as he’d decided to become a cop in a time when gay men were rightly still very wary of the law.

And just look at these two. Joyously, enthusiastically caring for each other, every stroke of the tongue tenderly administered and received with open delight. They look so happy to be with each other that Greg would even believe they were in love.

“They are,” Mycroft murmurs. Greg shoots him an incredulous look. “You were wondering if they are in a relationship. They are.”

“God, one day you’re going to explain to me how you can read my mind like that.” He glares at Mycroft more out of principle than anything else, but the man doesn’t seem fazed. Holmeses. Fuck. Even when it comes to sex they can deduce anything. Though it seems that level of insight is more Mycroft’s domain than Sherlock’s. “How can they manage being in a relationship and still….”

“Working here?” Mycroft shrugs. “I can pay them as performing artists, they can perform what they choose. It is mutually beneficial.”

“And they… like to perform sex?”

That slow smile creeps across Mycroft’s lips. It makes Greg bite down on his own, stalling the urge to trace the shape of Mycroft’s with his eyes on some pure, biological level. “As I stated before, a desire for exhibitionism is more common than you might think.”

“Are- are you?” Greg doesn’t know why he’s asking. He shouldn’t be asking. It’s really- absolutely, actually- none of his business. But the question has caused a slight shift in Mycroft’s features, one that Greg does not quite know how to read.

“Am I… what, Inspector?”

Greg’s tongue flicks out, wetting his lower lip. Fuck. He shouldn’t care. But he does. Oh god, he does. “An exhibitionist.”

“In the wider scope of things… not really.” Mycroft steps closer, the dark colors of his suit making him nearly blend in to the relatively shadowy corridor. It makes his face stand out.

Greg doesn’t seem to be able to look away from his eyes.

It’s odd, seeing as there’s fucking occuring right beside him, and more in other windows, couples of all types, everything he could ever be interested in seeing.

Yet somehow only Mycroft claims his attention.

“I might be better classified as a voyeur, between those two categories- but I believe you’ve guessed that, Inspector. Sherlock says it often enough, in jest- but that type of voyeurism offers me no pleasure. It’s merely work.” There’s something about his bloody voice that snakes into Greg’s belly and settles there, rippling out to his- Ah, shit. Greg is hard again. Hard and staring at Mycroft, not even thinking about the people getting off on the other side of all these windows. “I prefer it when someone knows I’m watching. That their pleasure be… offered for me, exclusively.”

There’s a pressure in Greg’s chest. Has his heart just stopped beating? He doesn’t seem to be able to move, to do anything at all other than notice how much closer Mycroft has drawn, how those long fingers seem to be hovering just a hair away from touching him.


“Greg,” his throat responds hoarsely.

“Gregory,” Mycroft murmurs in turn. Greg’s eyes are transfixed by his lips- so close, oh my god, so close -  “You are struggling, Gregory.”

He can only manage a noise of agreement in turn, a low squeak, really, something that should embarrass him, but he’s too horny to be embarrassed. Too horny to think, really, to do anything other than need desperately-

“Would you like me to help?”

Greg nods vigorously, not trusting his mouth to make any sounds other than something incoherent and pleading. Mycroft, somehow, seems to know- as he always does. He stands close enough that their thighs brush, and Greg lets out a pent up breath in a shuddering exhale.

“You must tell me what you want, Gregory.”

“Touch me.” The words spill out of him. “Please. Please- anything-”

“Ah.” Those delicate fingers brush over Greg’s shirt, trailing down, pressing cotton against his chest. It feels like lightning. His skin is on fire. “Anything is dangerous, Gregory.” Mycroft leans closer still, the heat of his breath on Greg’s cheek, searing into him. “No one ever truly means anything.”

Mycroft’s hand slides down further still, meeting the hard length trapped in Greg’s trousers, and Greg shudders again, an entirely undignified noise slipping out. His heart is pounding, a rush of blood in his ears, and he’s already convinced his knees might buckle. God. When he feels Mycroft begin to squeeze, gently, fondling him like ripening fruit, Greg wonders if he might actually die.

His shoulders fall back, meeting the glass window, followed swiftly by the back of his head as Mycroft slips into his trousers and strokes through his pants in one slow, deliberate pass from root to tip, sending his bollocks from the precarious arousal he’s had all day straight to the tightening edge. Greg’s never heard himself make that kind of noise before, certainly not this keening and desperate when he’s scarcely been touched. His eyes flutter shut.

“Gregory. Look at me.”

Greg does, his breath ragged. His hands have found their way into Mycroft’s lapels and he hadn’t even noticed, he was so desperate for something, anything to hang on to- but Mycroft’s eyes are arresting, especially this close, and once he is looking he doesn’t want to look away, because he could lose himself so easily there.

“Come, Gregory.”

His knuckles go white as his vision shatters. It feels like fireworks, like every part of him has exploded into the universe itself.

He doesn’t think he’s ever come so hard. Nor so fast, though the blood in his body is still rerouted enough that the thought doesn’t make him blush. “Fuck.”

“Mmm.” Mycroft extracts his hand from Greg’s trousers and Greg sinks further against the wall, eyes fluttering closed as he realizes his pants are now very damp. Too pent up, I guess. Should offer him a tissue or something. Christ. Sod the embarrassment of simply being at Mycroft’s sex hotel- how is he ever going to live down that he got off on Mycroft Holmes giving him half a second of a handy because he got too damn over-excited watching what amounts to live action porn?

That is why, isn’t it? Mycroft has been trying to help him loosen up the entire time he’s been here. He likely didn’t intend for it to end up like that, but… it probably counts as work for him.

Doesn’t it?

“Do you feel better, Inspector?”

His eyes flutter open. Mycroft’s expression is unreadable, but watching his tongue slip out and wet his lip- Greg swallows. It’s work for him, right. Just- odd work. That’s all. Oh, fuck, he’s gawping. Right, words. How do words work? And, actually, why is his mouth still so dry? Standing there blinking like an idiot running his tongue over his lip while watching Mycroft’s tongue doing the same- “Yep!” he squacks out, finally. “That’s. Uh. Yes.”

“Good.” Mycroft plucks his pocket square out and Greg feels his brain short again, all sparks and noise, as his any trace of his own come that seeped through his pants is rubbed off on red silk. “Join me for dinner?”

His head is nodding, his mouth is saying yes, but his brain isn’t quite there yet. Just had his hand in my pants and he’s, what. Hungry? Well, he did do most of the work, a quiet part of his mind adds. Greg flushes. “Right. Yeah.”

“We have excellent laundering services on site.”

Greg huffs. M’bloody sure you do.

Mycroft’s eyes drift low again, and Greg is made conspicuously aware of the mess still in his pants, seeping out onto his trousers. “You can of course come to dinner as you are… or you may wish to change first.”

“Yeah. Eh- I’ll just. Do that.”

His host ushers him out and back up the stairs. Greg flushes further every time they pass anyone, wondering if they can tell. It’s an odd mix of anxiety and… excitement. Something about it oddly reminds him of slipping into the backseat of parked cars when he was younger, hoping no one would know, but getting to have that sort of secret knowledge all for himself. It’s… thrilling.


Mycroft walks with him all the way to his room. “Shall we say an hour? You can ring down for laundering services, if you like.”

The corner of Greg’s lip quirks up. “You lot do a lot of laundry, don’t you.”

“I assure you the staff can remove stains from nearly anything. They have quite a lot of experience.” Mycroft’s smile is a little softer than the somewhat predatory grin Greg has typically been offered. It reaches his eyes. Prettier when he smiles like that.

No- that’s- probably a very bad idea. Just hormones or something. Post-orgasm hormones.


“Um,” Greg fumbles for his key. “Should say thank you, I think. Not sure what the etiquette is on- uh.”

An auburn brow arches. Mycroft’s smile deepens with quiet amusement.  “You are quite welcome, Inspector.”

“Leave off with the title though. S’just Greg. ‘Specially when I’m here and you’ve, ah-”

“Brought you off?” If anything, Mycroft is smirking more, with an added touch of smugness that makes Greg grin in turn. Git.

“Yeah. Messed up your nice pocketsquare for me.”

“Mmm, you did.” He’s grinning, and Greg’s grinning-

Ah, shit.

He has to avert his eyes. It’s too- something. Mycroft saves him from his awkward blushing and staring at the floor with the return of his calm and cool veneer, the smile he’d had only still visible in his eyes. “I think you could do with a bit more unwinding, Gregory. Would you mind if I made special arrangements for dinner?”

Greg lifts a brow. Bit like a date, innit? Or, well, it would be. If Mycroft weren’t- working. Or. Whatever this is. “Sure. Would guess you’ve got better taste anyway.”

“Excellent. We shall reconvene in an hour.”

Greg watches him go, finding himself unsurprised to realize Mycroft has apparently placed Greg next to his own suite- or office, maybe. Possibly both. Keeping me away from your posh guests, hm?

He considers as he strips down, shedding his mussed trousers and pants and cleaning himself up. Now that he’s not in a near-constant state of arousal, he can actually think for a bit before his cock inevitably takes over again, and he thinks, just maybe, that Mycroft has been… flirting.

Does a handjob count as flirting?

Alright, maybe slightly more than flirting. But flirting is familiar territory, even within these hedonistic halls. Greg can work with flirting, even if he hadn’t really considered Mycroft before, because of work. Because of Sherlock. Because they call Mycroft the Ice Man.

Except he’s not, is he? Not when he’s fondling someone in a corridor. Not when he’s making them come.

Greg wets his lower lip, pulling it into his mouth. Bet he burns a lot hotter than people think.

Now that he’s letting himself really think about it, and not just get crushed by cripplingly nervous horniness, Mycroft is… attractive. Not just in that posh way, that sort of aloof power that’s attractive in its own right, but… he’s handsome. Pretty, even, if Greg was to compare him to the blokes he used to go with. Bet he’d clean up nice at one of the old clubs. Eyeliner and an earring. He’d pull better than Greg used to, that’s for sure.

Is he actually interested, though? Or is it… just that he likes sex? Or that he wants Greg to like it?


Okay. Well, he didn’t go into this weekend thinking about trying to pull Mycroft. So he doesn’t need to let it affect him either way. Just fun in the end, right? Relaxing, right. Trying something new.

After a quick shower Greg calls down to the front desk to ask about laundry, and when a soft knock comes a few minutes later he’s pleased to find Jamie at the door. “Just these, sir?”

“Yeah, just those, thanks Jamie. Oh- actually, since you’re here- last time I visited the dinner I attended was very formal. Is it always like that, or...?”

“Ah. No- not quite so formal as that. Our guests that evening favored a black tie setting, but the dining room has no dress requirements.”

Greg huffs. “At all, I take it?”

The smile he gets in return has just a hint of mischief in it. “Correct. Mr. Holmes has suggested casual attire for this evening.”

Of course he’s already bloody arranged it. Don’t know why I would ever think otherwise. “Think casual’s most of what I’ve got, compared to your usual lot.”

“Never fear, sir. Every lot is unique.” Jamie has that slightly cheeky grin on again. It’s the sort of thing that someone might take the wrong way in any other hotel, but here Greg has no doubt the hint of sass and flirting work very well indeed in this… particular environment.

That or... someone else thought he’d appreciate a cheekier bastard.

“Did Mycroft assign you to me?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“Only- you were on the door, the first time I came.”

“Ah. Well, we do rotate what we call the main floor positions, sir. But yes, I am in effect your… concierge, for your time with us. Or butler. Or valet. Whatever you like.” It’s quite clear that whatever Greg might like is in fact quite enthusiastically on offer. There’s a vain swell of pride at that- that he might still ‘have it,’ even with the much younger and fitter crowd.

But at the same time… like Mycroft, it could just be work. Acting.

“Everyone get one of those, then? A concierge?”

The edge of Jamie’s like quirks up. “Hardly. You’re a VIP, sir. Mr. Holmes doesn’t invite just anyone to visit him here. You’re close friends with him, aren’t you?”

That makes Greg think. Are they? It’s not conventional by any stretch, but…. “I suppose we are.” Might be an odd friendship, all these considered- the handjob especially- and it’s not as if they know everything about each other, but… it is one.

“I thought as much. If he’s staying here we usually don’t have anyone in this room.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

That slightly mischievous look returns as Jamie glances up impishly. “You shall have to ask him, sir.”

“Right. Thanks, Jamie.”

“Of course, sir. Your clothes shall be returned tonight while you are busy.”

Greg can’t help but grin back at him. “How do you know I’ll be busy later?”

Jamie only smiles wider as he tucks his discrete little black laundry bag under his arm. “Enjoy your evening, sir.”

Deciding to honor the suggestion, Greg does go casual: jeans and a black t-shirt he hasn’t worn since his clubbing days. He’s just barely still fit enough to wear it, and the body beneath isn’t quite what it was, but he told himself when he was packing that he might as well try it all out. That’s the point of Rookridge, isn’t it?

A gentle knock announces Mycroft, and when Greg flings the door open to tease him about assigning an entire staff member to the old dregs of Scotland Yard the words die in his mouth as he takes in what the man is wearing.

Fucking. Leather.

The trousers have made a reappearance. Greg swallows. “Think we’ve got different ideas of casual.”

If he didn’t know Mycroft as well as he does, he might’ve missed the brief, lingering glance skimming over his own outfit. It’s… appreciative, Greg’s almost certain. A thrill ripples through him.

Maybe not entirely just for work, then.

That’s nice to know. He’d have felt bad if Mycroft was just ensuring he has a good time out of obligation. Knowing he can draw even Mycroft’s eye….

“You’ll do,” Mycroft murmurs, and Greg blushes as he realizes they must’ve just been ogling each other for a minute too long without speaking.

They don’t head to the dining room this time. Mycroft leads him to a space that must have been a ballroom once, converted now to include a stage and cabaret tables and booths. The corner of Greg’s lip twitches. “Dare I ask what sort of shows you put on?”

“I’m sure whatever you are thinking of is close enough. Perhaps even a bit mild.” Mycroft smiles quietly, gesturing to a cabaret table where light appetizers have already been set out. “It’s not a performance night, but they are having a rehearsal.”

“I’ve heard the joke about practice makes perfect, but does sex actually require rehearsal?”

Greg would swear he sees Mycroft’s lip twitch even further upward. “If one intends to do it well, perhaps. In this case, however, it is not just sex. There is in fact a performative element, somewhere between a burlesque and a strip club, though of course we permit much more freedom between the audience and the performers than either conventional venue would.”

“Is this another part of your… thought experiment?” Greg has to admit the idea seems to be working. He’s acclimating to the idea of what’s on offer, even if Mycroft’s direct- intervention- was perhaps something not on the traditional menu.

“If you like. Once you see the routines, if you’d like anyone to come closer we can arrange that. A lap dance, perhaps. Something your mind already understands that will not seem like such a drastic shift.”

He has to hand it to Mycroft, the man thinks of everything. Though we might’ve already stepped over the ‘drastic shift’ line. Greg isn’t sure if the idea that Mycroft might… help… again is tantalizing or nerve-wracking. “Even if it’s just a lap dance?”

“Even so. Comfort and desire are the rule, Gregory. It shall only ever be what you allow.”

“Alright. Suppose I’ve seen a few pole dances. Can’t be that different, right?”

Chapter Text

It isn’t like any pole dance he’s seen before. The routines are stylized and beautiful, the performance elements far from any club he’s been to. Dance and song and athleticism and joyous sex- though as they’re rehearsing not all of them follow through on that. Some of the acts seem derived from circus bits, things with rope and silk and hoops that can yield positions Greg hadn’t thought were possible. The couple he’d seen downstairs is one of the pairings, and they seem to take some pleasure in having an audience, even of two.

Greg is through his dinner and dessert before he knows it. It’s not quite as overtly tempting as the sex rooms in the basement, but… they’re all beautiful, in their own ways. Stimulating without being… tactless. “That’s brilliant. How do you find them all?”

Mycroft lifts a brow. “I am fairly well acquainted with locating information, Gregory.”

“Fine, yeah, but- are people that open about it? I would think, like, the ability to, ah- for example- deepthroat while suspended upside down isn’t something you’d find on any online search things, even yours.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. There’s plenty of forums for kinks of all sort now. And Rookridge is quite popular for those who wish to perform.”


“Mm. We have a reputation for treating our people quite well.” Mycrofts eyes sharpen as he looks at Greg, that slow smile creeping up, and worse, Mycroft leans back and Greg is very suddenly reminded what set of trousers he’s wearing. A blush erupts across his cheeks- s’getting almost Pavlovian, really. “Now. Did you want anything?”

Greg’s gaze flicks to the trousers and back up involuntarily, and he pulls his lower lip between his teeth as his cheeks redden further. Shite. Mycroft must’ve seen that. He must’ve. I don’t even have a thing for leather, I think- just- I kind of want to lick them.

Is that weird? That’s weird, isn’t it?

But he can’t ask Mycroft that- he can’t, that would definitely be a bridge too far, whatever happened between them in the corridor notwithstanding, and besides he’s meant to be thinking about a lap dance. Or something. “Uh. I s’pose… maybe not a dance, exactly….” A dance would feel too odd, especially with no other crowd in the room to keep him from feeling like everyone is watching.

“May I make a suggestion? I could invite someone over, just to dance near you, and you can see if you are inclined to take it further. Would that be helpful?”

“Yeah- yeah, that’s- I’ll try that.” Greg chuckles awkwardly. “M’sorry I’m being so bloody indecisive about all of this, Mycroft, I know you’ve put yourself out of your way to help-“

“It’s no trouble, Gregory. I assure you.”

Mycroft lays a hand over his shoulder reassuringly as he rises to go fetch someone, and Greg has the vague sense that it lingers there just a moment longer than a friendly mate would do. It draws his eye to Mycroft as he walks, focusing in on how absolutely incredible those leather trousers look taut on his arse.

His otherwise quiet cock twitches.

Greg lets it. He’s meant to be hard for- whatever Mycroft has planned, isn’t he? Probably? That’s sort of the object of the week. Doesn’t really matter what starts him off.

Mycroft returns with a pleasant looking woman, curvy and brown-skinned and in most ways diametrically opposed to Becca, which doesn’t escape Greg. Probably trying to get my mind off it. It’s not necessary- Greg hasn’t thought about Becca since she stopped banging on his door to yell at him about why he should want to take her back immediately, even though he ‘doesn’t deserve her.’ If there’s anything she’s truly mad about with their breakup, it’s really only that he hasn’t cracked and gone back to beg for her forgiveness and tell her he’s made a horrible mistake just so she can kick his heart in and keep telling him how much fun she’s been having with other blokes.

Obviously it didn’t take.

“Gregory, this is Anya.”

She smiles, gorgeously pretty not just in form and feature, but in how happy she looks. It’s one of the greatest aspects of the hotel, as far as Greg can tell, that every single person he’s met seems genuinely happy to be there. Not one of them feels like they’re just doing it because they feel like they have to. It’s not coercive, not at all, and it lacks any of the vague sense of desperation he’s seen in other venues, albeit ones he’s usually been in ‘cause someone’s done something foolish that requires the police to show up. Here there’s just… cheerful hedonism. “Hi there, darlin’.”

“Hullo,” Greg grins at her, though inside he actually feels a bit nervous. He’s not had a stranger writhe around in his lap for years, and honestly it’s been a bit since anyone he did know tried it either.

“Stop worrying,” Mycroft murmurs behind him. His voice is close, his breath just near enough to heat the hair behind Greg’s ear. “Anya is a consummate professional. She won’t even touch you if you don’t wish it. Watch.”

Anya stands astride him, gliding closer, but as Mycroft says, she doesn’t actually touch him. It’s like she strokes the air around him, just shy of making contact, keeping him intrigued without going straight for the direct nerve lines of his cock and the things that would force him to be more erect.

He doesn’t engage either- it would feel weird to, when Greg finds he doesn’t know what she’s comfortable with either.

“May I?” she asks after a while, her hands floating over his shirt. Cautiously, he nods. She doesn’t try to disrobe him, instead her hands slide over him, shoulders and chest and fingertips gliding over his nipples. He exhales through his nose, biting his lip so he doesn’t make any unseemly noises. Why is it so hard to talk? The power of speech does not normally abandon him when it comes to sex, but since he’s been here it seems to be a struggle to get his mind to hook up with his mouth at all.

“Do you want to put your hands on me?” Her lips are plush, her enthusiasm palpable. She’s… enjoying this too? He’s always had the impression that strippers must not really like their work, but… he could be wrong about it. He blushes a little, nodding again. “Go ahead. Right here.”

She guides his hands to her hips, setting them on the curve of the bone so he can feel the way she moves. There’s a little more negotiation, gentle leading questions and brief assents, and then she’s in his lap in full, the curve of her arse and warm pressure shifting in a beautiful rhythm that slowly, steadily interests his cock. She takes her time about it, there’s no diving right in and grinding- it really is a dance.

Her hands find his neck, the ends of his hair, and he finally makes a noise when she laces her fingers through it, not so much a groan but a breathy sigh, and it’s only then that he hears a shift behind him that reminds him that Mycroft is still there. His cock reacts, whether it’s just the memory of the basement corridor or the idea that the man who is the British Government is watching him, but- something is there, something that makes him ache.

“Follow me, love,” she breathes, smiling coyly.

He’s not sure what he’s being guided toward, but he’s willing to let her lead, to be lifted into dancing with her, steadily shifted back, and-


He hears a quiet exhale behind him as he is unmistakably deposited into a lap.

A lap with a noticeable bit of interested hardness nudging his arse.

Greg lets a soft moan out, pressed as he is between Anya and Mycroft. His mind is absolutely buzzing, happily purring in satisfaction that he feels so wanted.

S’like bein’ drunk. But with sex.

Didn’t know that was a thing.

Anya dances around him, her arms slipping under his, and Greg thinks that now it’s time, now she’ll start working him up in earnest- but it’s Mycroft’s hands she draws around him, planting those long fingers against his pecs. “Gregory,” that posh voice murmurs in his ear. “Is this alright?”

Greg’s exhale feels like he’s released a thousand breaths he had no idea he’d been holding. “Holy fuck, yes.”  

There are hands, hands everywhere, stroking over him, making him part of the dance as his hips shift in Anya’s hands, making him keenly aware of what he’s grinding into below. He doesn’t care about motivations, or jobs, or what the hell Mycroft’s intentions are, not when he can feel it .

And, god, it feels amazing.

Anya’s hand laces through his hair, pulling him back slowly, tilting his head, and he swears he can feel the soft brush of lips against his neck. Greg leans back further, his shoulders meeting Mycroft’s chest, and there’s a soft, surprised huff of air in his hair. “Gregory?”

Greg’s tongue feels fat in his mouth. “Myc-”

“Tell me.”

“I-” He wets his lip. How does he even ask when he doesn’t even know what it is other than a need he can’t explain and barely understands? “I want- will you?”

“What precisely are you permitting, Gregory?”

God, why does Mycroft’s voice have that effect on him? It should be illegal for him to go all low and sultry like that. “Can I- give me your hand?” He’ll be able to show Mycroft, even if he can’t quite manage to say it.

He feels those long fingers slide lower, working around his waist, and he grasps Mycroft’s hand in his, pulling it across his belly and lower still, brushing against his terribly strained section of his trousers. Greg just needs touch , something- some connection, amplified by the gorgeous woman gyrating over his thighs. “More?” she asks, and there’s more shifting with his assent as she spreads his thighs apart and gets Mycroft’s knees between them, dancing seamlessly all the while.

Mycroft’s second hand joins his first, drifting lower still, wrapping around him even through his trousers and offering a bit of relief as Anya finally starts to dance against them, using her thighs and arse to force Mycroft’s hand to add greater pressure and greater movement.

Oh holy actual fuck-

Greg has no idea when he starts to moan in earnest, one hand on Anya’s hip and one that has somehow wound its way into Mycroft’s hair, cupping surprisingly soft auburn locks and curling his fingers into them, feeling a thrill shiver through him when a gentle, barely perceptible kiss touches just under his jaw.

He gasps, a throb of desire racing through him as Anya grins, watching him- watching them- almost like they’re providing the entertainment for her.

It’s so bloody hot.

Fuck- Mycroft-”

Those lips are right next to his ear, soft skin brushing against them, every quiet touch lighting his nerves on fire. “Ask me, Gregory.”

Greg breathes. He’s too horny to be nervous. “Touch me?”

He can feel the curve when Mycroft smiles. “I am touching you.”

“You know what I-” he breaks off into a wretched, frustrated gasp as Mycroft pops open the button on his jeans and works the zipper down excruciatingly slowly.

Greg should be more self-conscious. Even though this is not-quite-public, there’s still the chance people might see him, and if he were really in public there’s no way in hell he’d risk it. He’d be taking his fucking career in his hands, trying that. But here- here feels safe. Mycroft would never let anyone tease him over it, would never make him regret it. Greg can’t explain why he trusts the man so much, but… he does.

Good thing, too, because he’s about to see your prick, his mind whispers helpfully.

Part of him does realize that Anya is helping as well. Her dance is tight against them, and there’s no judgement in it, but she is, in a way, shielding them from anyone else who might come in the room, even if it’s just the other dancers.

That said, in this case… the idea that someone might catch a glimpse, however brief, is kind of a turn-on.

He curses, arching against Mycroft as he finally feels those deft fingers wrap him and draw him out. Greg’s never been worried about his size, though he hasn’t ever thought of himself as anything other than average, but both Mycroft and Anya make a chorus of pleased, appreciative noises that do wonders for his ego.

Anya bends down, kneeling to let her mouth hovering tantalizingly close, but she doesn’t go further- Greg realizes what she's about a few seconds later, when the wetness of saliva joins the existing dampness on his cock and Mycroft’s fingers circle, spreading it down, turning and twisting and stroking.

“Jesus fuck-”

He shifts restlessly in Mycroft’s lap, seeking more and more as his hips instinctually try to shift in time with the hand stroking him. The hard length under him hasn’t been forgotten either, in fact, every time he rocks against it and hears Mycroft’s breath catch it gets him even closer, just knowing that he’s not the only one getting something out of this.

“I’m- ah- fuck - I’m close-”

“Go on, then,” Anya murmurs, smiling, watching him like she’s so genuinely interested in his pleasure.

He pants, feeling everything pull tight, the pressure so very, very close inside him. His fingers curls where they’re still hooked back in Mycroft’s hair.


That’s all it takes. One low breath in his ear, one name, and he loses himself to it, toes curling and back arched. Anya hangs onto his hips, keeping him steady, and he doesn’t realize til his mind reboots and the white spots vanish from behind his eyes that’s she’s produced a cloth from seemingly nowhere to catch all his spill in.

Of course, his brain chimes in, like this is all perfectly normal, they’d want to keep their costumes clean.

“I like you, Greg,” she smiles, running a single finger under his chin and tilting his blissed out face up. “Come back and see our real performance, won’t you?”

He nods as she vanishes, still reconnecting his brain cells with his current reality. Hand job, yes, absolutely insane orgasm, yes, threesome- sort of? That one might require a bit more thought, but there’s Mycroft still behind him, and-

Still hard under him.

Greg blinks. Right. Lap. Still in. Okay. He supposes they are officially well over whatever line of conventional friendship was there, but he feels like he’s not supposed to- just sit there, catching his breath while Mycroft remains- untended.

He unwinds his hand from Mycroft’s hair. They’ve sweat together at their shirts, and he’s grateful he didn’t have his trousers lowered or he’d have been at risk of sticking to Mycroft’s leather ones. Dragging his original chair closer, Greg unsteadily topples from Mycroft’s lap into that, turning so he can finally face the man who’s now gotten him off twice.

Mycroft looks- rumpled. Greg add that immediately and without shame to his small but growing list of recently discovered things he very much likes about Mycroft. His hair is scattered, the curls he normally restrains freely shifting along his forehead, and there’s a soft rosy tint on his cheeks.

“Mycroft, that was… incredible.”

For a beat, Mycroft is silent, looking a little surprised- though Greg doesn’t understand how he can still be surprised, not when he’s taken so much trouble to ensure Greg’s happiness. “I’m glad you think so, Gregory- Anya, is, of course, one of our best-”

“She was fine, Mycroft, but you were- stellar.”

“Oh.” He blinks, pales eyes skimming over Greg’s face like he’s not quite sure of what he’s hearing, but as he does so a very small smile lifts the corner of his lip. “Thank you.”

“Can I....” Can I help you get off? Greg trips on his words, his mind still trying to find the ‘done thing’ when they’re obviously long past any effort to maintain a level of typical propriety. “Can I get you a drink, Mycroft?”

“How lovely of you to offer, Gregory,” Mycroft says with a perfectly neutral tone, as though they’ve just been to the theater or the symphony. Berk. You know what I mean. “We do have a fine bar offering-”

Greg’s not planning to let him get away with nonchalance, not after getting him off in a lap danced threesome, or whatever that might be called. “Meant in my room, actually. You put out all that nice liquor and m’rubbish for knowing the right way to drink any of that.” He smiles back, feeling a spark of growing confidence as he looks over Mycroft’s not-quite-successful attempt at studied ambivalence. “Come up and show me?”

Show you?”

“Mm. Get the feeling you have a lot of showing me things planned, Mycroft. M’just adding to the list.”

Mycroft’s brow visibly twitches. “A very educational holiday trip, Gregory.”

Leather trousers brush quietly together as Mycroft stands, the slight tenting in them still just visible. Greg lets his eyes linger there before drifting up, far more open with his appreciation than he’d been earlier. Even sated, his mind stokes a low fire about that damn leather. “Yeah, think I’ve learned a thing or two already, actually.”

Chapter Text

Fumbling a little with the heavy key to his door, Greg realizes he’s not really sure what he’s doing. Mycroft has yet to say what he’d like, what he’s interested in. He’s only ever asked about Greg’s interests. He hasn’t even tried to get Greg to bring him off yet. But there was that nice hard cock against his arse- and god but Greg wants to do things to those blasted leather trousers-

“Do you, uh- you do actually want to come in, yeah?”

Mycroft lifts one delicately inquisitive brow. “Yes, Gregory. Should I not?”

“No, it’s, ah- I want to be sure I’m- reading things right, if I’m being honest.” He gestures to the bed- assuming that his gut is right, he’d like not to have to walk that far to be comfy whilst getting into Mycroft’s pants. “You haven’t really- I don’t want you to think this is all about me, really. Doing whatever I want. M’not… m’not really one of your guests, you know. Some kind soul let me stay for free, and I didn’t even sign up for any special services,” he adds cheekily, blushing again as he turns away toward the little sideboard.

“No, I suppose you didn’t.” Mycroft’s voice comes from just behind him, the warmth of his breath close enough to start an electric tingle through the hairs on the back of his neck. Oh, that’s hardly fair.

Greg turns slowly, licking his lips. “Is that alright?”

“I am making a number of exceptions for you already, Gregory,” Mycroft exhales, his eyes difting to Greg’s lips. “What’s a few more, in the long run?”

“Might be rather a lot.”

“I know you are.” There’s a very subtle, smug smile lifting Mycroft’s lips as he glances meaningfully downward and Greg feels himself flush to the tips of his ears.


“Merely honest.” Mycroft steps closer, somewhat deliberately crowding Greg against the sideboard. The cups clink softly when his arse makes contact with the polished wood. “Did you really invite me up here to show you how to drink my liquor, Gregory?”

“I might’ve had some ulterior motives.” Fuck. He shouldn’t feel this heady about it, not when he’s come so recently, but. Fuck. Mycroft just… does things to his mind.

“Developing your hedonistic side?”

“Think so.”

Mycroft’s hand brushes over the soft fabric of his t-shirt, fingers sliding over his pecs, his clavicle. Cupping his face.

Greg wants. He’s also terrified. How does angling for a kiss feel more important than having my cock out? Mycroft’s leaning forward, and there’s an oh fuck yes please flutter in Greg’s belly-

He meets Mycroft’s mouth eagerly.

Greg leans into him, pressing their lips together. He has the run of things for a span when Mycroft must be too surprised by Greg’s sheer enthusiasm to react. He’s firm about it, craving more and trying to wrest it from Mycroft’s lips, parting his own to offer a deeper exploration, nipping down on Mycroft’s lower lip-

And it must be the bite that brings his lover back to himself, because suddenly Mycroft meets him in earnest, pressing him back against the sideboard until his arse is resting on it and snogging the sense right out of him. The cups softly clink as a warning as they pull into each other. Mycroft’s hands work under his shirt, feeling the lines of his hips, and Greg hears himself actually fucking whimper when one of them slips into his jeans and strokes over his cock. He’s not meant to go this many times in a day, he’s sure of that, and even thinking about getting hard again even sort of hurts, but there’s a flicker of interest there all the same.

Mycroft’s mouth slides sideways, meeting his jaw, his ear. His neck. Teeth drag on his skin but there’s no pause to mark him, it’s just roving stimulation.

Greg whimpers again. He just can’t quite seem to catch his breath, not with Mycroft’s lips and hands on him, and definitely not with those damn trousers at his fingertips reminding him of every leather-focused wank he’d had since the first time he saw Mycroft in them. “F- fuck, Mycroft-”

“Show me what you would do to me, Gregory.” There’s the slightest bit of pressure on his shoulder, pushing down, because he must know, he has to know exactly what been on Greg’s mind, all leather-mouth-tongue, and Greg’s heart kicks into triple time at the thought. “I give you my permission.”

Greg sinks to his knees almost without thinking.

His palms meet leather. Warm leather, stretched over Mycroft’s thighs, the scent of it filling his nostrils. Oh god yes. Greg wants this. Desperately.

Slowly, looking up with wide eyes, still somehow shocked that he’s been allowed, Greg tilts forward until his lips meet the dark trousers. Even the scent of the leather so close is enough to make his eyes flutter. He presses one soft kiss against them, steadying himself.

Then he draws his tongue up Mycroft’s thigh.

Greg is gratified to see Mycroft actually shudder in response, the taller man’s hands working their way into Greg’s hair. He noses upward, and in, mouthing over the bulge that draws the leather even tighter as he takes hold of Mycroft’s hips, pulling himself even closer.


It doesn’t sound like a plea, not yet, but it’s not far off. Mycroft’s hand tightens in his hair and Greg smiles, his confidence expanding rapidly. He wants me. He does. Me. Especially me.  “Have you thought about it before? My mouth on you.”

“I-” Hearing Mycroft’s voice stutter, shaky and even a little needy, is very nearly enough to make his cock try and take an interest again. “Yes.”

Greg walks his fingertips inward, slipping the hem of that posh buttoned shirt out of the way to trace the line of heated skin where the trousers meet Mycroft’s waist. He’s certain, now, but he wants to hear Mycroft say it. “How often?”

Mycroft’s eyes are nearly black with desire. It’s a testament to the man’s endurance that he hasn’t caved to the desire to pull himself out and begin to stroke. “With some frequency.”

“Before I ever came to Rookridge?”

The fingers in Greg’s hair flex. “Yes.” A quiet shift in the hips signifies Mycroft’s weakening control, as the man just barely stops himself from thrusting against Greg’s attentive mouth. It’s a thrill Greg hadn’t expected. He wants to do this. He wants to see Mycroft fall apart, not just now, not just in service of some debt for a handjob. M’gonna take you apart proper, if you let me.

For now, though, he concentrates on the cock in front of him, clearly straining against its confines. He noses against it, familiarizing himself with Mycroft’s scent, the outline of the prize that awaits him. His mouth trails over it, tempting and tantalizing. He could make Mycroft come in his leather trousers, Greg’s certain of that, but that’s not what he wants right now. Not if he wants to really blow Mycroft’s mind. And get him in bed later.

He unzips Mycroft slowly, freeing him and listening to the man’s breath catch as his cock brushes against Greg’s lips. He’s pleased to find it’s a good size, the perfect sort of fit for his mouth with a nice, heavy lie across the tongue, where it settles nicely as he begins to work his magic. God, why did he go so long without bedding a man? S’ridiculous, is what it is. Denying himself for years. Well, never fucking again, that’s for damn sure.

Tongue lapping and sucking, Greg keeps his rhythm variable, not wanting to end things too soon- and if he’s also showing off a bit as the patterns come back to him, things remembered from distant lovers past, who could blame him?

When he hears Mycroft swear softly above him he smiles, slowing enough to draw his bollocks out and suck those too. On anyone else it might be a bit of a gamble- he’d met some men who didn’t go in for that- but he has the feeling Mycroft is open to a wider variety of pleasures than Greg has even heard of. Bollocks are probably tame by comparison.

He presses a finger further back, right behind the bollocks, in the soft but taut span of flesh there. Greg knows what it can do when stimulated just the right way.

A firm grasp of his hair stops him, and for a moment his heartbeat shifts from contented, open joy to worry, thinking he’s fucked it up-

Then Mycroft’s thumb strokes down his cheek. “You are quite talented, Gregory. Keep your hand just there. That’s perfect.” His eyes are so dark they’re nearly black, and Greg feels himself already slipping into a yes for whatever Mycroft is going to suggest. Doesn’t matter what. Yes, yes, let me, please-

He doesn’t realize Mycroft is easing his head back until it hits the sideboard and Mycroft’s cock is touching his lip instead of his tongue. “I’d very much like to fuck your mouth, Gregory.”

Greg’s free hand tightens on Mycroft’s still leather-clad thigh. Other than parting to free his cock the trousers scarcely come off at all, but that’s alright. Greg loves touching them- they feel grounding, somehow. Keeping him from losing his mind entirely to lust, maybe. He licks his lip and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, do. Please.”

“Just tap me if it’s too much, yes?” Mycroft’s thumb strokes over his jaw again, and Greg lets himself relax, his mouth falling open, just ready to take.

Mycroft starts slow. Greg can’t stop watching his face , watching that fragmenting control still hard at work. He has the feeling Mycroft is figuring out exactly how much he can take, exactly how far he can push and remain within the limits of Greg’s physical ability.

Greg just focuses on his face, the feel of leather in one hand and the sweat-dampened skin of Mycroft’s body in the other, where he’s still applying pressure. He doesn’t really have to do any of the work, not with that firm grip in his hair holding him in place, he can just- relax, and experience, and it’s-

Fuck, he’s getting hard again.

“That’s it, Gregory. Just like that.” Mycroft’s thrusts pick up speed and Greg’s eyes flutter. He never thought he’d be so comfortable like this, but he is, even when Mycroft pushes a little further in and makes his eyes water. His fingers hook into a leather belt loop, his thumb stroking the smooth softness of it. He feels- almost a bit floaty, truth be told, and when Mycroft asks in a panting voice if he can come down Greg’s throat, he nods, blinking up at Mycroft’s contorted expression as he feels the hot release seconds later, swallowing the lot.

He almost feels sadly empty when Mycroft withdraws, unsure of what to do now. He’s never seen Mycroft have to compose himself before, but there he is, hands braced on the sideboard, shuddering as he draws in air.

I did that, Greg thinks in a haze so pleasant he may as well have just come himself.

“Gregory.” Mycroft extends a hand down, a curl unfurling over his sweat-damp forehead. Greg’s legs are jelly as he tries to rise, and it’s only Mycroft’s strong grip that sees him all the way up, arse resting against the sideboard. He looks into pupils still blown wide, lips reddened where Mycroft has been biting down.

God, he’s fucking gorgeous.

He cups the back of Mycroft’s neck almost without thinking. “D’I still have your permission?” His voice is a touch rougher than it was, but his throat doesn’t hurt.

Mycroft nods, his lips parting-

This time it’s different. Less desperate for contact, more… passionate, even though Greg’s cock is still displeased at being hard again while already so damn drained.  

Mycroft must not care about any taste of himself he might catch, he seems happy to wrap Greg up- really holding him up, because his legs are still jelly and his knees are protesting.

Slowly, gently, Mycroft turns him, helping him toward the bed and easing his trousers down over his arse. “Gregory….” Greg makes a noise, something exhausted and pleading. “Shh, I know.”

“Myc-” Greg actually whimpers when Mycroft lowers his pants, because, fuck, his cock wants to go again but he’s so wrung out already-

“Do you want me again, Gregory? Shall I help you?”

How Mycroft manages to sound so put together- albeit a little rough around the edges- after fucking his mouth like that, Greg will never know. He reaches out, crashing their mouths together. Mycroft’s hands wrap around his waist, his arse, squeezing and separating. It makes him feel exposed, but also like he’s in secure, confident hands.

Greg thinks he’s probably got a thing for confident.

Somehow Mycroft eases him back, getting him on the bed with his legs off the side, pants and trousers scattered somewhere on the floor. It takes his sex-addled brain a little more time than usual to figure out why Mycroft isn’t coming up on the bed with him- but then he clocks it that Mycroft Holmes is about to apply his posh tongue to Greg’s cock.

Oh fuck fuck fuck-

The first touch of soft and wet around his cock is enough to make him wring the sheets in his fists. Thank fuck there’s soundproofing in this place. He hasn’t ever heard himself make noises like that before. It’s a keening, animal cry, desperate and pleading. Coming back to the brink is a mix of pain-pleasure, too-much and oh god more.

Mycroft is gentle at first, lapping, easing him into it, but it doesn’t take much before he’s sucking Greg like he means it . Greg’s hips jerk, entirely out of his control, Mycroft’s hands pin them down. Greg doesn’t trust himself not to do unconscionable things to Mycroft’s hair if he fists that, so in a desperate bid to alleviate the pressure he arcs them over his head where they can wrench the pillow.

And Mycroft keeps sucking him.

“Oh god- oh god Mycr-”

He can’t even get Mycroft’s full name out before the orgasm rips through him, like lightning crashing into a tree. Greg feels himself shatter, a moment of explosive radiance before his vision temporarily goes white.

When his body hits the bed again it almost feels like he’s in pieces. It’s almost all he can do to remember to fucking breathe. “Christ. Fuck.”

“That’s a bit of a different kink, but it can be arranged.” Mycroft has crawled up beside him, still looking pleasantly dishevelled and irredeemably smug.

“Git. You know what I mean.”

He breathes until his head feels like it’s back on straight, and his arms and legs all feel like they’re working. Christ. What’s the etiquette on this? If this were a normal hook-up, or even just a really good date where he’d brought someone back to his flat, he’d ask if they wanted to stay over. But this is a hotel. A hotel Mycroft owns. Would he want to?

Greg sort of thinks he’d maybe like Mycroft to. That maybe waking up to Mycroft might be fun.

His chest churns in a fluttering sort of way, happy and affectionate.

Aw, shite.

He swallows.

“Let me help you clean up,” Mycroft murmurs, shifting off the bed before Greg has time to think about how he’d even ask.

“That’s alright- I can get it in a minute-”

“It’s already taken care of.”

There are wipes in the drawer by the bed, apparently, something soft and gentle. Greg watches Mycroft tidy him, chewing his lower lip, debating with himself. “D’you want to- would you want to sleep here?”

He winces inwardly. S’not the smoothest proposition. But Mycroft’s hand pauses, briefly, his eyes glancing up and studying Greg’s face in that deep, penetrative Holmes way.

“Gregory… as much as I might like to, you are inundated with pleasant hormones at the moment, as am I.” Greg frowns. That feels like a rejection- maybe he hasn’t read this right after all- maybe it’s just the sex Mycroft is after- “But if you feel the same tomorrow, and you see fit to offer such an invitation when your mind is fully clear… I would like to.”

A wide smile broadens across Greg’s face. “You would?”

“Yes. Now- your body is no doubt exhausted, Gregory. You should sleep.”

“I will, but c’mere first.” Greg rolls closer to Mycroft, hand cupping his cheek and drawing him in for a very slow, full kiss. Mycroft’s skin is pink-tinged when they part, his eyes soft and warm. “Thank you. You’ve been- this is really incredible.”

“I am glad, Gregory.” Mycroft hesitates, then kisses him back gently. “Sleep well.”

“Oh- before you go,” Greg props himself up on his elbows as Mycroft gets his clothes sorted into some semblance of order. “Is there a- connecting door or summat between our rooms?”

He can see Mycroft run his tongue over his teeth. “Why do you ask?”

“Cause if there is I want to know if I can come be a nuisance to you. Also because Jamie said somthin’ that made me wonder.”

“Hmph.” Mycroft walks toward the curtained wall and draws the fabric back. There’s another great, dark window there, like the ones from the basement. “I haven’t had it active, obviously.”

Greg sits up. “Goes both ways?”


“Turn it on, then.”

Mycroft lifts a brow. “You’ll be asleep.”

“Yeah, but you can keep an eye. Go on. I don’t mind.”

With the tap of a few buttons, Greg can see through to Mycroft’s suite, with the large desk right in the center. It gives him some quiet sense of pleasure that even if Mycroft won’t sleep with him tonight, he’ll sort of still be around, in his way.

“Alright. Go on. Know you’re going to be doing work or something at all hours because you Holmes lads don’t sleep.”

Mycroft quietly huffs a laugh. “Good night, Gregory.”





Greg rolls in his sheets, stretching out in the morning light. They’re ridiculously soft. He’s going to absolutely ruined on his cheap thread count discount sets. Lifting his head a little, he checks the wide window. Mycroft is working at his desk, head bent over a stack of paper. Rookridge business or national security business? He imagines it’d be hard to do the latter here, but maybe all the security protocols in place to protect the guests makes it a reasonable place for Mycroft to engage in his nebulous running of the free world.

His shifting does not go unnoticed. Mycroft’s pretty eyes flick his way, a brief twitch in his lip marking his appreciation, even if he otherwise pretends not to notice.

“Hmph.” Greg stretches again, trying to draw Mycroft’s eye again. When that fails, he extricates himself from the sheets and stalks over to the sound controls on the two-way glass. “G’mornin’, Mycroft.”

There must be a control station at the desk, because Mycroft doesn’t rise to turn his side on. “Hello, Gregory.”

“You up to doing breakfast? Or are you in the middle of saving the free world n’at?”

There’s another tiny flicker into a smile. “Far more mundane, I assure you. And though I did eat when I first woke, I am amiable to lunch once I finish this.”

Greg glances at the clock. Yeah, lunch might be more accurate. He’d slept a damn long time. “Alright, yeah. Sounds good.” He drifts into the loo and pops on the shower, scrubbing himself down- in certain areas far more thoroughly than he usually does.

It never hurts to be prepared.

Mycroft is still working when he comes out, though Greg doesn’t miss the very appraising glance cast over his towel-clad form. Greg quietly preens. S’right. I can distract you.

He’s patient for a little while, daring to read through the Rookridge brochure again. There’s just so many options, and that’s only the things they’ve listed. S’probably a million other things I could never think of. A page in the back mentions sex toys available in all the rooms- sort of like a mini bar, the kind where if you break the seal you’ve bought it.  

Greg glances at Mycroft, wonders for about thirty seconds how much his “complimentary” stay covers before he decides that if he has to he’s gonna be absolutely fine paying for this. Locating the drawer the toys reside in is easy, and the sort of thing he’s looking for is just on top- a mid-size toy, something that won’t require a great deal of work to ease in.

Lube is, of course, very readily available.

Greg pops open the packaging, keeping an eye on Mycroft’s very studious ignoring of his antics. It’s nice to feel so… playful. Doing what his whims suggest is terribly freeing.

Bet I can get a rise out of him, for once. Maybe even surprise him.

He slicks up his fingers and picks a position on the bed that will offer a very good view. Greg teases himself, breaching slow. There’s no need to rush. He’s free with his moans, trusting the sound to carry, but as he starts he doesn’t bother to keep an eye on Mycroft other than a few occasional glances, marking the decrease in frequency of Mycroft’s page turns, the slow easing of his pen until he’s barely writing at all.

Greg smirks, reaching for the toy. It’s a plug not terribly different in size from the prostate massager he’s got at home, so the feel of it is already comfortable. It’s shaped differently at the base, a little longer so it can sit nicely and nudge the skin just behind his bollocks, stimulating his prostate from both sides. It feels absolutely blissful. It probably costs as much as his monthly grocery bill.

He already loves it.

Especially when he sees Mycroft finally rise, give him a dark and predatory look through the window, and head for the door. He walks into Greg’s room seconds later, not that his presence stops Greg at all. “I thought you wanted lunch.”

“Mmm.” Greg wriggles, letting the toy settle into him fully with a breathy sigh. “I do.”

“Of the food variety, or something else?” Mycroft stalks over slowly, and Greg can feel him savoring the view, taking in all of Greg with those great clever eyes. It doesn’t make him feel like he’s under a microscope, it’s more like- what being a piece of art must feel like.


Greg grins, feeling a quiet surge of fondness. “Food.”

“And yet you resorted to this.” Mycroft crawls over him, kissing him hard and pressing him back into the bed. “Are you attempting to provoke me?”

“Succeeding, I think.”

“Hmph.” Mycroft’s hand slips lower, caressing his belly and hips and dipping further, into the cleft of his arse. Another set of fingers meeting the toy and pressing it slightly is heady- Greg moans and Mycroft claims it with another kiss, his eager tongue delving inward. “Do you require an orgasm to begin your day, Gregory?” he asks when they part again, his voice just a little rougher than usual. “Are you being greedy?”

“No,” Greg nips Mycroft’s lower lip, unable to stop his hips from rocking into the gentle pressure Mycroft is applying. “Seem to remember you saying you prefer it when someone knows you’re watching.”

Mycroft pauses, drawing a soft breath, his eyes widening briefly in surprise before they narrow right back into his usual deadly confident gaze. “So attentive.” His fingers slide around the base of the toy and shift it, easing just a little back and forth, just enough to make Greg gasp when it rocks against just the right spot. “Can you come like this, Gregory?”

“Not usually. Not- not just this.” Though he’s never taken into account someone else working it in and out of him, and that’s adding a dimension Greg was not expecting. He might need to revise his idea on the subject.

“Hmmm.” Mycroft draws it nearly all the way out and slowly slides it back in, earning another moan. “In that case… I believe it is time for lunch.” He smirks as he pulls back and adjusts his clothing back to its usual immaculate form.

Greg runs his tongue over his teeth, trying not to chuckle in amused horny frustration. Well, that’s fair play. He’d been teasing Mycroft, it’s only fitting that Mycroft tease him back.

At least no one will mind if he’s got half a hard-on while he eats his eggs. He shifts, angling to remove the toy. “Fine, fine, just let me-”

“Oh, no.” Mycroft catches his hand, drawing Greg’s knuckles to his lips. “I would much rather you leave that where it is.”

Greg’s brain temporarily stalls. He can feel the rush of blood to his face. Showing off for just Mycroft is one thing, but-

“You can still be dressed,” Mycroft continues, looking excessively pleased with himself. “No one need know unless you let them.”

“Except you.”

“Oh yes.”

Greg rolls the idea over. Anywhere else he’d be terrified, but this is Rookridge, and part of him… part of him wants to give Mycroft the same pleasure he’s been offering to Greg. “Can I… can I take it out if I need to? I haven’t tried to wear anything for that long-”

“Oh, goodness, of course, Gregory.” Greg feels a little of Mycroft’s commanding sex god side slide off in favor of a sort of gentle tenderness as Mycroft softly squeezes his hand.   “You needn’t feel obligated if you don’t wish to try it. But if you do, and if you are at all uncomfortable, you should remove it at once. Your comfort is paramount.”

“Ehm….” He weighs his confidence against his instinctive anxiety about trying something so daring. Mycroft would never hurt me. He only ever seems to want to… make me feel good . And, despite Mycroft’s icy reputation and aloof exterior in his mundane life, that actually tracks with Greg’s experience. He might hide it well, but the man cares deeply about his brother and apparently about Greg as well, which sends another pleased little ripple right through his heart in a bursting increase of self-assurance. “Alright, then. I’ll try it.”

Mycroft smiles. “Excellent. I believe you will enjoy yourself.”

Chapter Text

Walking with the plug in is an interesting prospect.

Despite its relatively comfortable design, Greg is keenly aware of it whenever he moves. It only grows more distracting when he sits, because every little shift risks brushing the bulbous end of it against his prostate.

He’s blushing before the food is even served.

Mycroft looks irresistibly smug about it. “Are you still comfortable?”

“For now.” Greg tries to focus on his meal and not moving his hips too much, but at least the rhythmic motions of eating are enough to keep him from getting too hard. Still, there’s a consistent sort of near-arousal filtering through him like the buzz from a couple drinks. Part of him wonders if anyone else can see it- if any other diners can just look at him and know. He’s not sure if he’d mind if they did.

Then again, another part of him is thrilled to think of this as something he is only sharing with Mycroft.

“Do you feel quite… exposed, Gregory?”

Greg can’t help a shy grin, eyes low on the table. “Yeah. S’that obvious?”

“You aren’t used to it.” Mycroft smiles back at him, all bedroom eyes and a hint of that dominant predator’s gaze Greg suspects he’s only gotten a small taste of. Greg likes how in-control it makes Mycroft look. It’s not the same sense of control he carries for work. That aloof, icy cover has nothing on the dark, alluring flame that Mycroft is here.

“Yeah, well. Someone keeps encouraging me.” Greg twirls his fork, just playing with his food, really. The fare is light and healthy and he eats enough of it, certainly, but he’s too distracted to focus on it. Every taste of sweet and savory almost feels like it’s seeping into him, adding to the layers of arousal and hormones and sensation.

When he comes later he’s going to come hard, he’s certain of that.

“Do you like it?”

He doesn’t have to think of it for more than a second. “Yeah. It’s… different but I’m, uh. I don’t need to worry about anyone, like. Catching me an’ thinking it’s weird, or anything.” A quiet smile crosses Greg’s lips. This weekend so far is probably the most he’s talked about sex ever, and it’s much less weird than he expected. With Becca, and with the handful of women that had preceded her, sex wasn’t so much discussed as... just a thing that happened. The men he’d had long ago were never much more than flings, and they hadn’t been much better. There was no time to ask about preferences if you were just trying to get a leg over in the alley behind a pub. 

It’s kind of nice to be able to just talk about it.

“S’pose if anyone caught me here I’d have to be showing off a bit. Wouldn’t stand out otherwise.”

A little flash of interest crosses Mycroft’s face, and Greg feels a soft throb of arousal in his own core in return. God. That thinking of me makes you look like that. “Is that something that intrigues you?”

“Being caught?” Greg meets Mycroft’s eye and very, very deliberately lets a much more sly grin cross his lips.  “M’not sure yet. But I think you’d like it a lot.”

“Hmph.” Mycroft cants his head in acknowledgement. “Especially if I were to catch you.”

God. Greg squeezes his thighs together to quell the feeling of his blood rerouting to his cock. “S’pose that might be fun.”

Mycroft’s eyes glint with pleasure. “Oh yes.”

Greg very nearly drops to his knees right there. Good god, that look is dangerous. It makes him want to strip down and offer all of himself, anything Mycroft could want. 

He settles on wiggling in his seat. Just a little bit. 

The plug feels very, very good when he wiggles.

Greg clears his throat. There’s still a bit of a meal to finish. He shouldn’t go indulging himself yet. “Have you ever… um, y’know. What I’m doing right now?”

Mycroft lifts a brow. “Have I ever… discreetly played in public?” Greg nods, blushing. Sometimes he’s terrified by how well Mycroft can ready him, but other times it comes in damn handy. “I suppose that depends on what you mean by public. Here, certainly, but I’m afraid Whitehall must remain rather free of such concerns.”

“I bet.” Greg chews the inside of his lip. It feels too much like prying, but Mycroft seems to be very open about all of it. And he’s been so encouraging of Greg being open about it too…. “What, um- what all have you done?”

A slow smile creeps across Mycroft’s lips. “ All is a fairly large question, Gregory.”

“What’s your, um, favorite, then. That you’ve done- somewhere else. At home, or. Wherever.”

Mycroft idly stirs his tea. Even that’s a little hypnotic, as on-edge as Greg already feels. “Sometimes I enjoy simply being aware of something that would not be readily apparent to others. A pair of leather riding boots or a belt might have… other associated fond memories that the mere presence of the item would not indicate to an outside observer.”

Fuck. Riding boots. He probably looks fucking posh in those, and Greg is not going to ruminate too hard on the concept of Mycroft Holmes holding a riding crop. “But have you ever…”

“Worn something out that’s more particularly stimulating?” The corner of Mycroft’s lip curls further up. “A time or two.”

Greg’s stomach flips mildly. He can’t picture Mycroft like Greg is now, working way too hard to keep from grinding his arse against the chair. Christ, what would that be like? His heart thuds in his ears, wondering if Mycroft has ever spoken to him at a crime scene with a toy up his arse, just waiting until he can get back into one of those black cars and come behind the privacy screen. Greg bets he could get away with it.

Has he? God, he said he used to think about me. Is that what he did? See me at a crime scene, then go get cheeky in his car?

His cheeks heat as he chews the inside of his lip.  His fork has long fallen to the side, his lunch more or less done and his stomach too preoccupied by other things. 

Mycroft looks at him under long, dangerous lashes. “Oh dear. Have I distracted you?”

“M’not sure you come with a non-distracting setting.”

“Only fair play, seeing as you were terribly distracting this morning.” Mycroft takes one long sip, draining the rest of his tea. “Should we adjourn upstairs?”

A familiar ripple of want drifts through Greg’s core. “Yes, please.”

Mycroft takes his hand as they head up the stairs, and Greg feels a compulsion to kiss his knuckles.

So he does.

There’s no good reason for it, he just wants to. In his normal life he spends so much time not doing things because he has to be cautious and safe and set an example. Greg sees so very much of the worst humans can do to each other. He doesn’t quite know when that made him start keeping to himself. To stop taking risks. Even Becca, maybe, was emblematic of that mindset. Maybe he knew, on some level, that there would never be anything real there to invest in. He liked her, sure. But he probably didn’t love her. And that barrier felt safe too.

But the fire he feels when Mycroft pauses, surprised, his eyes dark when they meet Greg’s, doesn’t feel a thing like that.

Neither does Mycroft pushing him into the wall and snogging the life out of him.

Greg’s lips are probably bruising, his hands curling into Mycroft’s shirt. God, he could tear Mycroft’s clothes off right here. It doesn’t even matter that they’re on the landing where literally anyone could see them when he has Mycroft’s lips on his, tasting of tea and berries.

Mycroft might have the same idea, because Greg feels a hand slip inside his trousers and cup him about the arse….

And then deft fingers slide into his cleft and press the base of the toy, shifting it on the inside to nudge right against Greg’s prostate.

His head hits the wall as his back arches. “Oh fuck- Mycroft-”

“You have utterly no idea what you do to me, do you, Gregory?” Those long elegant fingers wrap the edge of the toy, shallowly drawing it out and back in and making Greg whimper and cling. His lips trace over Greg’s throat. “I want… to do so much to you. With you.”

Greg bares his throat further, letting Mycroft have his way. “Yes- yeah, I- god, Myc, I want you to.”

“Are you certain you’re ready?” Those lips brush over him again, this time including the sharper drag of teeth, just enough to make Greg moan from the added stimulation. “What would you have me do? What would make you happy?”

“Fuck-” His lips stay parted with a gasp as Mycroft’s teeth close briefly, low on his neck. “I want-” The instinct hits his lips before his mind, base desire taking the reins. “I want you to fuck me.”

He feels Mycroft’s hand still momentarily and a soft exhale of breath on his neck. “You are certain?”

“Yes. God, yes.” Greg’s never been more certain of anything in his life. He wants. Desperately.

Mycroft kisses over his throat softly, back up to his jaw until their lips meet again, less desperate this time as the fingers toying with him slowly cease. “Come with me, then, Gregory. Let me take care of you.”

As soon as they enter Greg’s room he loses himself in the movements of imminent sex: Mycroft gently removing his shirt, his own fingers working their way through Mycroft’s buttons. The tie loosens and trails slowly across his shirt when it’s pulled free, each revelation of bracers and cufflinks and the other secret little baubles posh boys like him favor feeling like it’s something special he’s granting just to Greg.

Somehow they never quite seem to stop kissing.

Hands explore his back, spreading warmth with each caress and finding their way toward Greg’s hips by the time he finally frees Mycroft from his suit. The skin beneath is soft, the scent of whatever cologne he’d put on in the morning, something like leather and cedar, wafting off with every shift of fabric. He sighs happily. “Thought you’d be trying to rail me through the headboard by now.”

“Oh, there’s still time for that.” Mycroft’s fingers drift up, tracing the line of his jaw. “But as I believe it’s been some time since you’ve been railed, I am not inclined to make this anything less than absolutely pleasurable.” When his mouth meets Greg’s his lips are soft and his kisses languid. “Will you permit me the boon of ensuring your comfort?”

Greg runs his hands through Mycroft’s hair. How did I get so lucky? “Think m’getting a boon just havin’ you here.” He might’ve been at home alone in his pants, spilling pizza grease on himself if it weren’t for Mycroft’s invitation. If he didn’t have the encouragement to do something daring for once. 

“Indulge me.”

One of Mycroft’s hands slips down, following the line of Greg’s spine into his cleft. Greg can feel it as the toy is slowly wiggled, easing in and out. His lips part as Greg rests his head against Mycroft’s collarbone, instinctually pulling himself closer. He’s never noticed before that he enjoys hanging on to his lovers, but then again he’s never had one like Mycroft. Sex isn’t just something that scratches an itch for him. It’s something far more.

“Just relax.”

The toy comes out smoothly, marked by a quiet gasp and a flex of Greg’s fingers. Mycroft sets it aside, gently kissing him once more, soft but for such a long time that Greg still feels breathless. Mycroft’s fingers circle his entrance.  “Do you still want this? Do you want me, here?”

Greg exhales, shifting his hips to try and gain more of that sweet, delicate stroking, but having no success. “Yes- yes, please-”

“Then you will have me. But I do not employ half-measures, and I prefer not to rush.” Mycroft’s head dips to kiss him along the collarbone, his words entrancingly soft. “Will you lay down for me? On your belly, please.”

Greg is happy to comply, though it does deprive him of those wandering fingers and all the promises they hold. He sighs into the sheets, utterly content as Mycroft slides his trousers and pants off, taking his time to remove his socks and shoes with something that feels a lot like reverence.

And so is the show he’s getting after, as Mycroft extracts himself from his own trousers.

Mycroft makes stripping out of his trousers an art form. It feels like a show just for Greg, like no one else in the world will ever have the chance to see him unzip his trousers or free his thickening cock. It makes his blood sing just to think of it.

“Have you espied something you like, Gregory?”

“Mmhm.” He grins slyly. “Someone keeps letting a handsome man into my room. Terrible security here, really.”

It’s nice to see he can get Mycroft’s lip to quirk with his teasing. “Oh, I see. Shall I ask him to be removed?”

“Nah. Think I’m getting a little fond of him, to be honest.”

“Are you now.” Mycroft is a glory even stripped down of all his tailored armor, confident and gorgeous as he hangs it up and strides all that lovely creamy skin toward the bed. Greg can feel a gentle ache within himself, the void left by the toy craving something else. His wishes are granted swiftly, but not as he expects, when Mycroft leans into the span between his legs and drags his tongue from his bollocks all the way up.

Greg’s cock throbs into the expensive sheets. “Holy fuck.”

“A holy fuck...” Mycroft’s breath is hot against his cleft, his fingers firm where he holds onto the cheeks and parts them. “ a different sort of kink, Gregory.”

“Git.” He sighs into it, spreading his legs further.  “You know what I- oh fffff-” He loses the thread entirely as that same tongue circles him, toying with his entrance and softening him even further.


He stretches his hands out, flexing his fingers into the sheets. God. Had anyone ever done this for him before? He doesn’t think so. It feels so luxuriously worshipful that Greg is sure he would remember if someone had. 

The tongue darts into him and he makes an incredulous noise into the air, turning his face into the soft cotton. His hips instinctively tilt, rutting his cock into the bed, but Mycroft holds him in place and prevents him from chasing his own pleasure further than the scarcest bit of stimulation. 

“Oh, fuck, Mycroft- that’s- that’s fucking incredible-“

He loses himself in the gentle stroking, the pattern of licking and pressing turning him into a pliant mess, cock hard and so, so desperately craving more. “Please, Myc- I need- I need you-”

He feels a gentle kiss on the base of his spine. “Almost. Give me one moment.”

Greg watches with one eye up as Mycroft slips into the bathroom. He returns a moment later smelling of peppermint- mouthwash, which is particularly courteous of him- and carrying a small bottle Greg has no doubts about the purpose of, even if he doesn’t recognize the posh label. One long, deft finger swirls the lube on and into him, giving one purposeful long stroke to his prostate that makes him moan so loud that if he was anywhere else he’d probably be embarrassed.

Hands stroke up the back of his thighs. “Are you ready, Gregory?”

“God- please, yes.”

The hands draw up and down once more, teasing him with their featherlike stroking. “May I have you on your back?”

Greg blinks. Do people not normally like that? More fools them. Choosing not to be able to see Mycroft’s face sounds like pure idiocy. “Yeah, ‘course.” He rolls over, adjusting to keep Mycroft between his legs. His cheeks heat with anticipation, looking up at Mycroft’s face. 

Something there gives him pause. Mycroft’s usual quite in-control demeanor is there, sure, but there’s also something else- something in his eyes that Greg thinks rather looks like Mycroft can’t quite believe this is real.

“Hey.” He reaches a hand up to Mycroft’s cheek. “Is this what you want?”

Mycroft crawls over him, studying his face. Greg lets him, just stroking his cheek. He’s seen those incredible Holmes brains at work before. Sometimes they need a second.

“More than anything.” 

Greg pulls him down, kissing him as he wraps his legs about Mycroft’s hips. “Go on, then.” They shift against each other, rutting together, any wane in interest quickly remedied by the slide of skin on skin and endless sighs into each other’s mouths as they kiss. “Want you,” he breathes as the ache within craves more attention. “God, I want you.”

“I want to have you,” Mycroft intones back in the roughest, huskiest voice Greg has ever heard come out of those posh lips. His hands glide to Greg’s hips, angling him up enough for Mycroft’s cock to brush his entrance. “Breathe for me, Gregory.”

He breathes. 

This isn’t his first time, but it feels so vastly different from his hazy memories that it might as well be.  He vaguely recalls a burn with his past experiences, a sort of rush of adrenaline that countered any possible pain for the brief liaisons, and, yeah, usually some degree of alcohol deadening the sensation. 

With Mycroft, it washes over and through him, like feeling the pulse of a bass reverberate through his ribcage. He exhales through the initial press more in a moan than a sigh, resisting the urge to let the feeling overtake him entirely. He can’t let it, because he’d shut his eyes, and he wants to see Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft is gorgeous. Utterly and completely gorgeous. And his lust-darkened eyes remain on Greg’s in turn, closing only to mark each pause in his deepening push with a kiss. Greg hangs onto him, wrapping his hands about the lines of Mycroft’s shoulder blades in tandem with his legs hooking more and more over Mycroft’s hips. He can feel himself being filled, so much deeper and wider than with the toy, but the burn of it is more pleasurable than anything else. 

He sighs with contentment when Mycroft sinks all the way home, hands flexing on his back and feeling Mycroft’s heart racing against his own. “God, fuck, Myc-”

“Are you- are you comfortable?” The skip in Mycroft’s voice sends a pulse of something primal through him. That’s for me. Just for me. Only he has the privilege of seeing Mycroft come unbound and undone, all the tight-laced trappings of his position and power falling away.

He wishes he had something more eloquent to say about it. “You’re perfect.” Greg sinks his shoulders into the pillows, half-bracing with anticipation. “Just fucking perfect.”

They linger like that, simply feeling each other, adjusting to the sensation of being so closely intertwined. It’s heady having Mycroft’s weight press into him, the heat of them blending. He savors it until he can’t quite resist the urge to roll his hips. Just a little. 

The thick sliding within him makes his eyes flutter. Holy shit.

“Myc, m’gonna need you to- need you to move-”

The sigh Mycroft offers in return sounds palpably relieved. He shifts his own hips in turn, just shallowly. It’s still enough to make Greg gasp. 

“Don’t hold back,” Mycroft murmurs. “I want to hear you.”

It’s not as though Greg really needs the encouragement.

He hangs on to Mycroft, falling into the sensation of it all. It feels like Mycroft is everywhere, surrounding him, within him, guiding him toward the highest crests of pleasure. The rocking into his hips is slow and deliberate, each long thrust allowing a full sensation of the cock filling him. Greg doesn’t even know what noises he’s making anymore, and Mycroft’s whispering encouragement in his ear that he can only process as tone. The words can’t get through his delirious mind. 

His back will probably hate him later for curling up so much to manage to kiss Mycroft, to lace his fingers into the soft hair that’s started to curl from the sweat and heat. But why would he not? How could he see Mycroft Holmes looking so disheveled and sex-flushed and not kiss him?

Greg might be an idiot about some things, but that’s not one of them. 

He cries out as Mycroft’s pace accelerates and his lover- his lover?- pushes him back down gently and wraps a hand about his cock. After such a thorough fucking one stroke of Mycroft’s hand is nearly enough to set him off, like being knocked by a tidal wave into a riptide, but he hangs on even as he begins to throb and ache from both sides.

“I am- quite close, Gregory-” Even Mycroft sounds exerted, his free hand brushing through his hair and knocking one errant curl over his forehead. “Will you- will you come with me?”

Fuck. Fuck, yes. Anything. He’d come on command if he could manage it. “Myc-”

Mycroft’s eyes flash dark, his lips parting in pure pleasure. For me. For me saying his name. “Gregory, you are…. I would- listen to you all day like this. I’d watch you. You are… radiant.”

“Myc-” Greg can’t help pressing the button, now that he knows it’s there. Knowing he’s making Mycroft come apart makes him smile. It feels like there’s joy pulsing through him along with the physical pleasure, radiating out of him and filling the entire room. “Mycroft, you feel- god, Myc-” He feels it as Mycroft’s core begins to tense. He cups Mycroft’s cheeks, blissfully looking up. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft inhales, shaking, his grip on Greg’s cock tightening and pulling faster, if more erratically, as he crests with a broken cry. Greg can feel the heat of it within him and it only takes a few strokes for his own peak to follow, spilling over Mycroft’s hands and his own stomach, shouting Mycroft’s name.

They pant together for a while, just breathing with their hearts still racing, before Mycroft sprawls over the bed beside him. Greg doesn’t care that they’re sweating and his skin feels too hot, he rolls to rest his head on Mycroft’s shoulder and take that delicate posh hand in his own. 

Mycroft’s fingers wrap his own, squeezing softly. “Gregory, are you-”

“That was amazing.” He nestles his cheek in closer. “God, Mycroft. D’you know you’re amazing?”

“I- admit I am not so used to effusiveness, Gregory.” Despite the flush of exertion, Greg would swear a second blush crosses his cheeks.

“Don’t know why. Should effuse about you all the time. All of them.” He presses a kiss against the dip in Mycroft’s clavicle, still riding the high of- so much. Everything. 


“Yeah, I know. M’a romantic idiot.”

Those grey-blue eyes turn toward him, so thoughtful and clever and yet, thoroughly surprised. “Romantic?”

“A bit.” 

Mycroft blinks, then cautiously reaches out a finger to adjust some wild lock of Greg’s hair. “Is it- not just the intercourse?”

“S’not just the sex, Mycroft.” He lifts a brow. “Though that’s a strong selling point. Nah, I do- you’ve given me a lot more than sex, Myc. A lot more.”

“Oh.” His hand slides to Greg’s cheek, drawing him closer and kissing him ever so softly. “You would… still like me to stay the night, then?”

“Yeah.” Greg smiles. “Might be a few hours early on that request, but yeah. I want whatever time you can spare me.”

Mycroft smiles back, not his predatory gaze but something far gentler and warmer. “I am entirely at your disposal, Gregory.”

Chapter Text

“Holy Christ, is it evening already?”

“I suppose we have been malingering.”

“’Ey, I’m on holiday. I’m meant to be malingering.”

“Quite right.” Mycroft smiles at him, drawing his fingers across Greg’s cheekbones. Greg leans into it. God, yes, please. This, all day and all evening, thank you. “Can I interest you in continuing your malingering by the pool?”

“Is there food by the pool?”

“Tapas can be arranged. Shall I feed you as you float by?”

God. Mycroft Holmes, treating him like an emperor. 

He really ought to have it recorded for posterity.

“Sounds lovely.” Greg’s eyes narrow as they drift toward his closet. “I think I even remembered to pack swim trunks….”

“If you think you need them.” Mycroft lifts a speculative brow, indicating that he certainly doesn’t think Greg has any need to cover himself up. “Either way. Let’s get you fed.”

As promised, Mycroft ushers Greg onto one of the floating rafts and sends him drifting about the pool. He procures a tablet from somewhere, conducting a bit of work from the side of the pool as they wait for their food and smiling smugly whenever Greg drifts by and flicks him with water.

Greg catches glimpses of other couples heading to dinner in various combinations of dressed and not, formalwear and not. He thinks one of them might even be some sort of Downton Abbey costume, but all those formal tails look the same to him, really, even if they’re draped over an otherwise bare arse.

A nude waitress glides in a little while later with a tray of tapas, winking cheekily at the lifeguard on her way by. “Your dinner, sirs.”

“Thank you, Melody,” Mycroft purrs, already glancing from the selection to Greg with a discerning and anticipatory eye. 

“Can I get you anything else?”

“One of the pool wines, Melody, thank you,” Mycroft asks as he leans forward to pluck a bit of fruit up for himself.

Greg watches from the edge of the pool, chin resting on his forearms as his legs trail off into the water. “Pool wine?”

“Wine in a plastic bottle with plastic cups. Glass is not ideal for a pool environment.”

“Oh. Sure, that’s sensible.” Greg watches as another couple lands on the pool deck, this pair in something that looks a bit more like bondage gear than swimsuits. The woman catches Melody’s attention, and they exchange a word that ends in a nod and the soft drag of fingers along one arm, and Melody scurries onward toward the restaurant kitchens. 

Greg’s eyes drift back to the tray just as Mycroft plucks one of the hand-held tapas and holds it out, waiting for Greg to bite before he lets go. 

“So you really are planning to hand-feed me?”

Mycroft huffs. “Gregory, whilst our offerings may be primarily carnal in nature, there are other ways to be hedonistic. Let yourself be taken care of.”

It’s a bit silly for Greg to try to snatch bites from the edge of the pool- it puts him too much in mind of a trained dolphin. So he plants himself in one of the lounge chairs, with Mycroft sitting beside him and insisting he do nothing more than open his mouth and chew, and Greg can’t help his giggling every time he tries to swipe something from Mycroft’s hand and Mycroft deftly anticipates the move, parries, and then feeds it to him anyway. “Gregory,” Mycroft chastises, draping a towel over Greg’s head so he can’t see. “I will teach you how to relax and let go if I have to tie you to this chair to do it.”

Greg smirks. “That a promise?”


It’s a wide array of offerings. Cheese and little savory pastries, all in tiny bites. Mycroft does have a point about relaxing- the more Greg lets himself get lost in the flavors, especially with his eyes covered, the more he finds himself appreciating the tiny details of each morsel. Melody brings the pool wine, which is a light fruity white that seems to gently compliment everything. After a while there’s a transition to what must be the dessert selection, fruits and chocolate and fluffy cream. He makes a show of licking the excess off his lip, enjoying the quiet sigh from Mycroft in response. “I see. You cannot relax because you are too busy teasing me.”

“Mmm. Enjoying it?”

“I am certainly not going to protest.”

He slides the towel off, smiling at Mycroft. His hair must be atrocious, but he just scruffs it into some semblance of order, watching Mycroft quietly grin. “What?”

“I prefer that hairstyle on you when it is borne of relaxation and not your thirty-sixth hour awake.”

Greg laughs, broad and open. “Well you’re in luck, it’s attached to my head for the duration.” Still chuckling, his eyes are drawn across the water by the sort of open moans that always mean sex emanating from the other side of the pool. Melody and the couple have settled into whatever arrangement they’ve come to, with Melody slowly rocking with her legs spread over the man’s face, kissing the woman who’s planted on his cock. Perfect triangle. My maths teacher would be horrified. “Holy shit.”

“Mmmmm.” Mycroft leans across onto his lounger, wrapping up their legs together and unabashedly watching the proceedings. He doesn’t seem titallated, really, just interested. “Does that catch your interest?”

“Well, yeah.” Even if none of them are really his type, it’s still… pornographic. Mycroft, on the other hand, looks like he’s browsing the wares at an art gallery, intrigued but not excited. Greg’s not sure he’ll ever be able to be that… casual about seeing open fucking out in the wild, not that this is really the wild . Still. It’s very… overt.

“I could set up a- date- between you and Anya. If you like.” 

Greg glances askew at Mycroft with a lifted brow. “Still trying to get me to take you up on your special offerings?”

“Well, you did seem to get on.”

“Got on better with you.” He flashes a grin at Mycroft. “Aren’t you worth double all of your VIP offerings?”

“I suppose that rather depends on who is willing to pay.” A hand glides across his chest as Mycroft slides further into his lounger- a hand that drifts slowly and steadily lower. “But are you intrigued by… multiple partners, Gregory? They are performing a lovely demonstration of the offering.”

Multiple partners. Christ. Like it’s just an option, like most of his mates wouldn’t get a jab in the kidney for even bringing up the idea. He shifts to let Mycroft have more room, practically laying across him as much as the chair. “You wouldn’t be jealous?”

“Perhaps I am making the assumption that I may be permitted to watch.”  Mycroft’s breath is hot on his ear. “Anyone else offering you pleasure provides me with another vantage to see you descend into bliss. I assure you the view is very, very nice.”

“You’d be participating, ideally.” There’s no other way he can imagine it. Why would he fuck any number of other people without Mycroft in the room, his hands on Greg, guiding him along. He extends his neck, lets Mycroft’s lips graze across it. Want you. Want you there with me. 

It feels like such a lovely, intimate moment that Greg very nearly forgets that on the other side of the pool, Melody is coming, hard and loud. All things considered it’s not the worst view, especially with Mycroft’s voice in his ear. “Youthful enthusiasm.”

“Not sure I had that kind of enthusiasm even in my youth.”

“Do you want to try her?” Mycroft murmurs, soft and gentle. There’s a note in his voice that Greg would even call encouraging. “It would be easily arranged.”

Greg thinks it over. She’s conventionally pretty, athletic, expressive… but she doesn’t really interest him, not like that. The idea of a menage a trois , however- that feels like a bucket list item. One of those things worth doing, even if it’s not perfect, just to have the experience of it.

And there’s nothing to worry about here, is there? No jealousy, no confused expectations. “Maybe a bloke would be better. F’you’ve got one you like… can’t promise I won’t be nervous about it, but as long as you’re there I… I think that’d be better.”

Mycroft’s nose glides along his neck. “As long as I’m there?”

“Mmm. Wouldn’t be as interesting without you.”

He can feel a puff of breath on his skin, and then a soft press of lips, very gentle. “I believe I can find someone amenable.”




Greg isn’t really sure he needs the blindfold. He giggles as Mycroft puts it on him, vanishing the world around him into dark. “Bit theatrical, innit?” 

“You’ll be more relaxed if you just think of sensations, and not who is offering them.” Mycroft’s lips graze his shoulder as his fingertips trace the length of Greg’s spine, just light enough to set all his nerve endings on alert. “Stay right there, Gregory.”

He chews the inside of his lip as Mycroft steps away, his copper’s instincts unable to turn off as he follows the sound of footsteps to the door. Another set comes back with the first, and Greg feels his mouth dry a little in anticipation, moreso when he feels the gentlest brush of skin as someone kneels in front of him. Mycroft’s voice rumbles in his ear, authoritative but not commanding. “I recommend you place your hands on the wall.”

Greg swallows. “Yeah?”

He can feel it when Mycroft smiles against his shoulder. “Bracing yourself may be necessary.” Reaching out, Greg finds the smoothness of the wall and leaves his hands there- understanding why it was recommended a moment later as Mycroft sinks down as well, his hands trailing down Greg’s back and over his arse. 

Fuck. Oh, fuck.

The person in front of him runs their hands upward, skimming his thighs, and Greg gasps when the first lap of a tongue traces up his cock. The tongue is slow, almost teasing- no one here is in any rush. 

“Think of sensations,” he said. Greg won’t have any trouble there- without being able to see his sense of touch goes entirely through the roof. Each breath, each stroke, feels amplified a hundredfold.

It only escalates when Mycroft’s nose trails up behind his bollocks, teasing gently there for a while before his tongue joins in and begins to lap steadily back and up. “Oh, Christ,” Greg groans. No wonder he needed to brace- with two tongues on him his knees want to buckle. The sensation is dizzying. Both of them are taking it slow, teasing him, even more so when Mycroft laps up to his hole and begins to swirl his tongue tenderly, darting in as he relaxes into it. 

Greg’s probably moaning shamelessly, but he can’t really hear himself, not when he’s being toyed with on both sides. “Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck-”

His legs nearly give way, but there’s hands on either side of his thighs, holding him steady. His cheek meets the wall, desperate for stability, desperate to ground himself some way from the too-much-too-good sensory overload. He whines helplessly when Mycroft’s tongue finally leaves him, and Mycroft rises to make soothing, shushing noises in his ear. “Let us take care of you, Gregory.”

Something thick and hard and warm presses against him and Greg is not too proud to beg to have it. “Yes, yes, please, fuck, yes-”

Hands wrap around him, holding him, caressing his ribs, his chest, as the mouth before him continues kissing and stroking and teasing. “Breathe,” Mycroft exhales in his ear, and he does, but he still cries out when he’s breached. It feels amazing, enough that a part of Greg is certain he’s actually passed out and this is all some sort of fever dream. He can’t even be sure he’s really standing of his own accord anymore, not with Mycroft slow-fucking him and someone else sucking him off at the same time. A sobbing noise flies out of him as Mycroft grazes his prostate, the sensation electrically pulsing every fiber of his nerves.

He can feel the start of a climax building, the steady pressure winding through his core. “Oh fuck, fuck, Mycroft-”

“Getting close, Gregory?” Mycroft purrs in his ear. “Let us make an adjustment. There’s much more to experience.”

He nods, gasping out something that may or may not make a mewling sort of sense. Hands caress him again as the mouth and cock leave him, and he loses track of which ones belong to who as he’s guided onto the bed. Someone reaches up and undoes the blindfold, and he blinks as he takes in the rearrangement- Mycroft, still the same comforting force behind him, and below him, arse up and sprawled out in the sheets looking ever so tempting, is Jamie.

Mycroft’s lips graze his ear. “I know you admired him when you first came here. He’s very industrious with his mouth, isn’t he?” His hand reaches around, cupping the gentle curve of Jamie’s arse and squeezing. “Would you like to fuck him...” Teeth clasp Greg’s ear and pull gently. “... as I fuck you?”

“Oh, Christ.” Mycroft is unreasonably good at making him feel like sex has become some sort of out-of-body experience where he’s somehow ascended to another plane and everyone treats him like a god. 


M’never gonna be able to pull in pubs again. There’s just no way to top this. His eyes rake over Jamie’s form, visually caressing the lines of him. He’s a bit slimmer and younger than Greg would ever try for in real life, but Rookridge is hardly real life, is it?

“Words, Gregory.”

“Yes.” He exhales, reaching out to stroke a hand over Jamie’s back. Now that he can see, speaking is like breaking the seal on some part of him he didn’t even realize he had, the part that wants and takes what it needs. His own voice is roughened from all the crying out he’d done, darker than usual, and it seems to have a noticeable effect on Jamie, who’s already squirming into his touch. Like he needs it. Like I can give it to him. “Did you already agree to all this, Jamie?”

The younger man tilts his arse up invitingly, already slicked- probably arrived like that . All nice and prepared for the evening.  “Yes, sir.”

“Good lad.” He reaches out, parting that lubricated cleft and dragging his thumb over Jamie’s hole just to hear him moan. Mycroft’s mouth worries along his neck, teeth grazing him and hands caressing his hips. Greg takes his time about lining up and sinking in, savoring every enveloping millimeter. Jamie’s sounds are delicious, open and earnestly yearning, no trace of reserve or shyness in him. Greg can see why Mycroft picked him. “Feel nice, Jamie?”

“Ohhh, yessss….” The lad glances back, some of that ever-present cheeky mischief glittering in his eye. “I thought you probably had a nice cock, sir.”

“Did you now?” Greg turns his cheek into Mycroft’s affectionate mouth, smiling. “Has Mycroft been telling tales on me?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes is ver- very discreet, sir,” Jamie pants, holding himself open for Greg to work his way slowly deeper. “But I could tell by looking at the two of you.”


“Of course, sir.” There’s a quiet smirk hidden in Jamie’s sex-flushed expression. “I don’t think Mr. Holmes would ever be so happy without a nice cock in the picture.”

“Cheeky boy,” Mycroft purrs in Greg’s ear. “But quite right, as it happens.”

Greg’s heart swells. It feels deeply, intrinsically right to have Mycroft holding him, murmuring to him, if he’s going to be fucking anyone else. He could have tried it when he arrived, sure, but it probably wouldn’t have been nearly so perfect. “Flatterers, the both of you.” 

“Let him have your nice cock ,” Mycroft murmurs. “I think you’ll enjoy listening to his response.”

He slides home, letting the lad relax for a breath or two around him before drawing his hips back and letting the slide of oiled skin take him in again. 

Jamie does, in fact, moan very, very prettily.

Greg fucks him slowly, weaving his hands over skin and hair, caressing and pulling as he feels so inclined to do so. Somehow as he’s been focused on the depth and heat of it, Mycroft has slipped another supply of lube onto his fingers, which begin steadily stroking and teasing into Greg. It gives him another rhythm to work with, rolling his hips forward to further the sensations on his cock, and back to fuck himself on those long deft fingers that seem to have far too good an idea where his prostate is.

Mycroft’s other hand wraps about him, drawing lines with his fingers along his chest. “I wish you could see yourself, Gregory. You are a marvel.” Inside him, the fingers curl, drawing out a long groan from Greg’s very core. “That’s it. Are you ready for me?”

“Oh, god.” Greg exhales, feeling Mycroft’s hardness pressing against him, toying him from the outside. “Yes. Fuck yes.”

Being filled while inside someone is one of the single most intense sexual experiences Greg has ever, ever, ever had.

He’s entirely lost to sensation for a while, aroused so deeply that he feels like he’s risking going boneless and falling apart and shattering all at once. Mycroft keeps him just on the right side of grounded, murmuring praise in his ear and holding him steady, carrying the rhythm for all three of them. “Oh god, oh fuck, Mycroft-” 

It’s amazing, being sandwiched between two sources of heat and slick and so much delirious stimulation. His back rests against Mycroft, safely held, one hand bracing on the soft curve of Jamie’s arse. Oh god, how did I get so lucky?

“You look lovely, Gregory. I wish I could enjoy you both ways at once myself, but this is a close second.” 

Greg’s moaning shamelessly, feeling the start of another building crest, when Mycroft’s hand wraps the base of his cock, keeping him from tipping over the edge. He sobs out a cry of desperation and Mycroft soothes him once more, tongue teasing his ear. “Are you up for one more experience, Gregory, while we have Jamie’s company? He has a rather special skill, and I promise you that you will not need to lift a finger to enjoy it.” His lips brush over Greg’s cheek. “And then we shall come together, yes?”

He nods, letting Mycroft direct him. Feeling his lover withdraw from him is enough to draw out a displeased moan at the sudden absence, but Mycroft, as always, has a plan- the plug Greg played with previously is close at hand, and though it lacks the warmth and comfort of skin it does fill the need he has for something within as Mycroft guides him keep inside Jamie as he rolls over, resting the lad’s weight on top of his own chest. 

Jamie must know what to expect: his knees pull up, and he asks in a slurred, sex-softened voice for Greg to hang on to the backs of his thighs. It’s strangely comfortable- Jamie’s not too heavy, and Greg kind of likes having something to grip.

Above them both, Mycroft moves between their legs, eyes dark. “Ready?” Jamie nods, hands arching back to grip the covers. Greg’s sex-addled mind works out what’s about to happen just before it does- he can feel it when Mycroft’s cock slides against his own, held tight and together in a way no fist could manage. 

Greg’s mind feels like it’s aflame. “Oh, fuck- fuck-”

“There we are.” Mycroft’s voice is breaking and breathy, and now that Greg is facing him he can finally appreciate the view. Chestnut hair falling out of place, his cheeks flushed pink. God, you’re gorgeous. Still, he’s well in control of himself, enough to check in on their very accommodating third. “Good, Jamie?”

Jamie whimpers as he nods, but from what Greg can see he loves it. Must be incredible, being filled like that. He’s not sure he’d want to try it himself, but god, Jamie looks like he’s going to expire from sheer bliss. It makes something in Greg want to praise, want to nurture. “Oh, you’re such an adventurous lad, aren’t you?” he purrs, watching Mycroft’s face. “Well done, taking both of us.”

A smile flashes across Mycroft’s face. “Say thank you to Gregory, Jamie.”

“Oh, god- thank you, sir- thank you-”

Mycroft’s hips snap, and Jamie breaks off into a cry. Greg savors the unique feel of it, like nothing else he’s done before, like he’s connected with Mycroft and they’re working as one to fuck Jamie through it. Slowly, steadily, he starts to get close again, bucking his hips up to offset Mycroft’s pace, rubbing back and forth against each other. Mycroft has his hand wrapped about Jamie’s cock, making him moan, the pitch steadily rising. 

“Look at you both. Beautiful.” Mycroft’s voice is the lowest Greg’s heard it, though there’s a quiver in it that lets him know Mycroft’s not immune to the pleasures at play here. As the tension in Greg’s core builds Mycroft must be able to sense it, because he leans down over Jamia and covers Greg’s mouth with his own. 

Oh god- oh god-

He can’t resist the precipice again. Greg is awash in it, and despite holding onto Jamie with both hands all he can see is Mycroft above him, so strong and even passionate, in his own way. You burn so hot. He reaches out, winding his fingers into Mycroft’s hair and pulling him down again into a rough kiss. “C’mere, gorgeous- want to feel you let go-”

Jamie shudders in his grip and Greg can feel him tighten down on them both. He cries out into Mycroft’s mouth as he’s pulled over the edge, Jamie’s hand lacing into his hair with one clutched to Mycroft’s chest as Greg calls Mycroft’s name, one explosive union of tensing muscle and tidal hormones. The shattered, breathy iteration of “Myc- Myc- fuck, Mycroft-” must pull him over as well, and Greg can feel it as the heat floods around them both.

All three of them lie panting for a while, Mycroft still finding and claiming Greg’s mouth around their eventual slow separation and Greg winding his arms around his lover, curling into him. Jamie sprawls beside them, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. 

Mycroft runs his fingers through Greg’s hair. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Mmmhm. Yeah, that was- fuck, I dunno that I’ve got words. That was incredible.” He glances over, putting his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” Jamie exhales, a smirk creeping over his lips. “I was right. Nice cock.”

“Cheek,” Mycroft mutters admonishingly, though Greg notes he is half-smiling as well, arm wrapped around Greg’s chest. 

“Cheek is why you hired me, sir.” He rises slowly, easing his way out of the disarray of pillows and sheets. “Just gimme a sec, I’ll get out of your hair.”

Greg’s eyes flick to Mycroft, questioning. “If y’need time to-”

“Don’t worry about me, sir.” Jamie stretches and rolls off the bed, winking at both of them. “I’m a professional. And I need to go drink a barrel of water. You’re quite vigorous for men in their, ah. Advanced years.”

“Oi!” Greg laughs. “Fine, shoo then. See if you get any sympathy from us.”

Jamie winks again, walking a touch carefully to the door. “Good night, sirs.”

“Night, Jamie.”

It’s quiet for a while after that, with only the sound of their breathing filling the space. Against Mycroft’s chest, Greg listens to his heart beat as it slowly calms. “We’re going to have to clean up, aren’t we?”

“Well. I suppose we are not required to do so, but it may be less sticky if there is a touch of tidying accomplished.”

“You’re too responsible, you realize.”

Mycroft huffs a laugh. “There is no such thing.” 

“There is. Trust me, m’a copper.” He rolls over, holding out a hand to help Mycroft from the bed. “You’re staying again, yeah?”

“If you will have me.”

Greg pulls Mycroft close, cupping his cheeks with both hands and kissing him deeply. “I will.”

Chapter Text

There have been enough early hours of the morning phone calls in Greg’s career that he knows the tone even through the haze of sleep and Mycroft’s hushed voice. He snakes an arm over as the call ends, nuzzling his nose into Mycroft’s spine. “Work?”

“Mmm. I’m sorry to slip away on you-”

“S’fine.” He inhales, cataloguing the scent of Mycroft and linen and the lingering traces of last night’s exploits in the sheets. “D’you have to, like, fly off somewhere, or s’it a phone call?”

“Just a video conference. Probably several, really.”

Greg’s lips press softly against warm skin. He knows this drill from the other side. It’s strange to be the one left waiting, and he can see why it always irked his partners, but the thing about knowing it so well is that he also knows why it’s so necessary. “Go on then, go save the free world. You know where I’ll be.”

Lips meet his forehead in the dark, and fingers rake through his hair. “I shall return to you as soon as I am able.”

“Alright, but if you miss breakfast I’m telling them to give me the most expensive shite they have and charge it to you!”

“Good.” Lips meet his forehead again, then drift down for one soft press against his mouth. “You deserve to indulge.” 

The absence of Mycroft’s heat beside him is strangely… disconcerting. Greg finds himself rolling across the pillows, trying to steal whatever warmth remains. Shouldn’t miss him, should I? Only been- fooling about, I guess- for a few days. But it’s harder to sleep without Mycroft beside him. Got used to it, I guess.  

At some point he must manage it, however, because when he next rolls over the room is bright with sunshine. His eyes lift, meeting the darkened window on the wall. Must not have wanted to wake me up. That was thoughtful of him, even if Greg kind of wished he’d left it open. Maybe he can’t. Maybe it’s high security or something. So much of what Mycroft does has to be kept secret, Greg knows that- respects it, even. His own shit can’t always be public either. Different level, though. Different playing field. His shit has never alleviated world wars, certain assertions of Sherlock’s self-importance aside.

A gentle knock on the door, far too delicate to be Mycroft, precedes a cracking of the door and a blonde head of hair peering into the room. “Mr. Lestrade, sir? Mr. Holmes wanted to ensure you were offered breakfast in bed, if you’d like any. He made particular suggestion that you may enjoy the fruit crepes.”

Greg grins into the sheets. He’s gettin’ soft about me. “Sure, thanks. Whatever he recommended should be fine.”

“Of course, sir.”

The door closes and Greg chuckles to himself. Crepes. He’s still smiling when she comes back a little while later bearing a tray of crepes stuffed with fruit and cream and accompanied by both tea and coffee. “Ooh, that looks nice. Thanks- it’s, ah, Melody, yeah?”

“That’s right, sir.”  It’s an odd juxtaposition in his head, this bubbly, cheerful woman and the woman who he’d seen so enthusiastically playing with the couple by the pool. Odd, but something he’s getting more and more used to. Doesn’t make her different, does it? Not really. Just two different ways of being happy. And she does seem quite happy, in either role, which in his experience is fucking rare for hotel staff. “Do you need anything else, sir?”

“Nah, this all smells amazing. Compliments to the chef, n’thanks for bringing it up.”

“Of course, sir.” She pauses by the door, glancing briefly at the closed window to Mycroft’s office. “If it’s alright to say so, sir….”


“We’re all, ah- we’re all right pleased with how much Mr. Holmes has been enjoying your company. It’s a real joy to see him so happy. And if you need- really anything at all, sir, any of us would be pleased to help.”

Greg lifts a brow. She sounds earnestly thankful, and he’s done- well, not a lot, in the grand scope of things. It’s not like they’ve eloped on a whim, or anything. Would the staff really be so invested in a simple weekend of- well, whatever it is he’s doing with Mycroft? They see a different side of him than everyone else, sure… a freer side. Maybe a more honest one. But if they’re excited…. “Melody, is he… and you don’t have to answer this, if you feel like you shouldn’t, but… do you not normally think he’s very happy?”

“Well….” She shifts her weight ever so slightly. “He’s a serious man, as I’m sure you know.”

“Sure.” Understatement of the year, that. Before Rookridge, Greg hadn’t thought he was capable of loosening up, let alone cracking a smile.

“I- I’m sure we all believe he is more relaxed here than he is at home, but he is usually still very… reserved. We’re all like that, in our ways. One person here, someone else when we’re out in town. That’s part of the appeal of working somewhere like this, though, there’s no… hiding.” Her smile gentles. “I don’t think he hides so much with you.”

Is that true? Greg knows Mycroft is different at work, of course, different with Sherlock. But he’d never really thought of it as hiding. Am I the only one who’s really seen all sides of him? It makes his heart squeeze. “Huh. Thanks for mentioning, Melody. I appreciate it.”

“Sir, um- if you wouldn’t mind not-”

He grins. “I shall protect the anonymity of my source, f’it comes up.”

She smiles back. “Thank you sir. Enjoy your breakfast.”

There’s time to think over his crepes. Mycroft has been so attentive to his needs over the last few days- everything has been about what Greg might like, or what Greg could experience for the first time, and other than a few little glimmers he hasn’t really gotten an idea of what exactly would be Mycroft’s version of indulgence. 

He can make some educated guesses, though. And he’s got time to plan.

That evening, he texts Mycroft to ask if the various crises of the world would allot him a dinner break. He’s already made the arrangements either way, but it still shoots a ripple of pleasure through him when Mycroft says yes.

His outfit’s not black tie, more working-detective-on-a-budget,  but it’ll pass for a nice night out. Knocking on Mycroft’s door, one marked not with a number but as Owner’s Suite, Greg is unsurprised to find Mycroft working at one of his large wood desks- it’s not that dissimilar from his actual office (at least the one Greg knows about), save the large mirrored window that he’s already quite familiar with. “Ready? Thought you might not remember to eat f’you were left on your own.”

“Indeed. I appreciate the gesture.” Mycroft doesn’t seem to have shed his work personality yet, there’s still an edge of his aloof coldness in him. Might take him a while to shake it. Greg can understand that, he has trouble turning off the detective if there’s been a hard case. Saving the world on a daily basis likely only makes it worse.

“Are you off for the whole evening now, or just a little while?”

“I believe the crux of the issue has been dealt with- my team should be able to manage the rest, though I am afraid I shall obliged to carry my phone with me, just in case.”

Greg smiles, warmth unfurling from his heart. You don’t want to bring it. You want to focus on me. On us. “You’re forgiven for the phone. Hope they can bear letting you get back to your proper weekend. S’it going to be crowded down there again, do you think?”

“Doubtful. Weekends tend to be busier, but… in the rooms, or downstairs in the play areas. It’s a bit of an opposing mentality to your traditional restaurant schedule. Besides, there are no specific public events today, and I expect those that do not call in for room service will be dining alone. ”

“D’they have to? What if someone wants, like, just company for dinner? Seems like you could arrange that too.”

“Companionship is just as commonly requested as sex, yes. An escort for the full weekend- the experience of a partner, really- is something we offer.”

The experience of a partner. Christ. It does make some sense, though. Other people like Mycroft, people who always put work over everything else… would make it hard to meet someone. “Bit more high end, I imagine.”

“Mmm, you might be surprised. We have a young patron, someone in line for a decent title, as it happens, who simply requests a video gaming system and a partner of either gender to keep him company. He isn’t looking for the typical sort of escort- just someone to speak kindly to him, play games with him, and share snacks with. He has enough of the high society life, the expectations put on him, in the outside world, so his preferred escape is far more mundane. Others are simply looking for a quiet meal without the pressures of carrying on a conversation with someone they do not know.” Mycroft smiles softly toward Greg as he opens the door to the dining room. As he’d said it’s a quieter night tonight, and most of those present seem more interested in their fine meals than getting up to anything. They sit in the main portion of the restaurant instead of the private chef’s table. It’s still a bit fancy for Greg, but he’s starting to let himself enjoy the VIP elements of it. More importantly, it’s what Mycroft would want. 

He lets them get through the appetizers before he slips his foot free of his shoe and finds the curve of Mycroft’s ankle. A gingery brow steadily lifts as he strokes upward, under the pant leg, finding warm skin with his sock. Fond looks are exchanged over the entrees- Greg can almost feel it when the last of Mycroft’s burdens of work slides away, and leaves only the man himself, relaxed and fed. “So... you don’t indulge, really, do you? I mean- you’re the owner, or shareholder or whatever, and you give people what they need when they’re here- but you don’t go for what you like, do you?”

“Gregory, I have indulged in our offerings, I assure you.”

“I think you’ve scratched an itch. S’you that’s been showing me it’s not really the same thing as giving yourself what you want.” Greg rather deliberately bites his lower lip as the dessert is delivered, something light and fruity. 

Mycroft’s eyes darken over a spoonful of cream and fruit, watching him closely. “I see. Am I making a philospher of you?”

“Of a sort.” Greg licks the cream off a cherry. He’s rather enjoying this, especially watching the little flickers in Mycroft’s expression. You don’t get to be a detective without being quite a bit observant and Greg, despite the occasional outbursts of certain Belstaff-clad prats, is actually quite good at his job. “Mycroft… d’you consider yourself staff, when you’re here?”

Now that seems to have actually taken his tall, handsome man off guard. Greg feels his lips edge upward but tries to keep himself from looking openly smug as Mycroft clearly just stops himself from choking on his wine. “Do I what?”

“Act as staff. ‘Cause I know you said something about how you can do, you know, whatever you like… with the staff. Within reason. S’long as you ask.”

It’s glorious, watching Mycroft’s eyes shift, his pupils expanding, darkening- it goes straight to Greg’s cock in a pulse of want . He licks his lips, that smooth voice deepening into a low purr. “I don’t believe anyone has ever inquired, Gregory. Do you have something in mind?”

“I do.” Greg rolls a piece of pineapple around his mouth, getting a little deliberate with how he cleans the juice from his lip with his tongue. “Can I show you?”

Mycroft nods, still watching him with a mix of curiosity and arousal. That’s fine. Mycroft’s a clever boy, he’ll catch on.

With a smooth motion and a sly grin, Greg shoves his chair back and drops to his knees, vanishing under the tablecloth.

Crawling under the table, it strikes Greg how fun this is. He’d never do this at a real restaurant. None of Rookridge’s special assets- nor their particular rules for interaction- can be found at a normal hotel. But the playacting of it… that’s a treat.

He can’t see Mycroft as he clambers under, but he’s certain the man has figured out his intentions well before he reaches Mycroft’s legs and crawls between them, especially since Mycroft has to spread them wider to accommodate him. He sets his cheek on Mycroft’s thigh, his fingers brushing over Mycroft’s ankle in the same repetitive motion he’d stroked earlier with his foot. “Can I?”

There’s cloth between them, but Greg can hear Mycroft’s breath catch, imagines that he’s nodding before murmuring the word. “Yes.”

His hands slide up, brushing over the soft fabric. He can feel it as Mycroft’s thighs tense, startled even though he must know the touch is coming.  Dipping closer, he runs his nose against the inseam right up to the growing bulge.

The smirk that rises when he hears Mycroft drop a fork against his plate doesn’t need to be held back at all. “Keep eating, Mycroft. Bet you skipped lunch, didn’t you?” He’s very slow about it, letting the gentle rub of his nose and the heat of his breath do much of the work. 

He listens for Mycroft’s soft exhale. “I did.”

Greg exhales, feeling Mycroft squirm almost imperceptibly as the heat washes over his prick. “Did you skip breakfast?”

“There was- toast.”

“Mmmhmm. Then keep eating your fruit and cream, please.” His hands glide higher as there’s a gentle scrape of metal and porcelain above. He’d feed it to Mycroft himself, but he can only do so many things at once, and he’d much rather have his entire attention focused down here. Oh so slowly, he traces the lines of the fabric and steadily shimmies Mycroft’s shirt upward. “Have people noticed yet, do you think? Anyone wondering what I’m getting up to?” 

Mycroft clears his throat. “The wait staff are aware. A few of the tables, perhaps. No one is paying any mind.”

“Good.” He knows Mycroft’s said he’s more a voyeur than exhibitionist, but Greg’s cottoned on that there’s more to it than that. Mycroft likes the idea of people knowing Greg is here with him , in all the various connotations that means. So Greg’s happy to let them see it. Yours. Yours to show off. He slips the trouser button open and slides the zip down. He mouths against cotton, teasing, keeping his attentions tantalizing and slow. He’s got plans, after all. 

The pants slide aside, and he kisses against soft, heated skin, his tongue lapping out in gentle sweeping strokes. There’s no rush to drive things onward, and Greg is happy to just keep Mycroft fully hard from mouthing with only a little but of sucking. Pleasure without intent

Intent will come later, if he has anything to say about it. 

Eventually, a hand slips beneath the table, finding his hair, and Greg licks a strip up the underside of Mycroft’s cock to pull off. “All done with your dessert?”

“I am, but I am starting to wonder when you might finish yours.”

“All in good time.” He tucks Mycroft back in gently, with more kisses, and eases back on his arse to get back in his chair. It’s not the most graceful process in the world but he doesn’t mind, even if he must look a bit rumpled and flushed, his hair askew and his knees likely to ache tomorrow. “Come with me upstairs?”

Mycroft brow lifts. Greg is pleased to note his Iceman looks decidedly rumpled himself, at least compared to his usual standards. “You are being very decisive this evening, Gregory.”

“Am I?” Greg takes his hand as they walk, squeezing with earnest affection. “Do you like it?”

“I do.” Pale eyes glance sideways at him, almost a bit shy. “I did hope you might- see yourself more clearly while you stayed here. Take a bit more for your own benefit.” A flush spreads up his neck. “And I may have maintained some hope of still being included in your thoughts, after.”

“Oh, you’ve done well there. You are in quite a lot of my thoughts, Mycroft. Think you were before, really, I just hadn’t taken the time to look.” He smiles back, walking so close that their shoulders occasionally brush. It means he’s close enough to savor the moment a look of genuine surprise crosses Mycroft’s face.

“This is not the way to your room.”

“No, it is not.” They wind up another stairwell, this one metal and gothically dramatic, and end up on what was one a rooftop garden, now enclosed into a fine conservatory. The windows are one-directional, apparently, so it offers all the feeling of the open air with all the protection and discretion of Rookridge’s cloister walls.

The stars are out, bright above them, still visible in the soft candelit glow. Anya’d agreed to arrange it for him, and she and Melody and the other performers she’d enlisted might’ve gone a little overboard- there’s flower petals scattered on the pathway, and the candles blink at them through small lanterns set on tables and benches. It’s terribly, stupidly romantic, and Greg couldn’t be happier. 

Mycroft’s feet stall as they get into the heart of it, looking on at the broad expanse of fabric that’s been strung from two of the columns. “Gregory, what… what is all this?”

“This is me taking care of you, Mycroft. Now, I don’t know what you had to rush off to today, but I know you wouldn’t take work out here unless it was serious, so I figure you need to remember to treat yourself too. Not just me, much as I’m enjoying that.” He guides Mycroft toward a chaise. There’s champagne in an ice bucket and glasses beside it, chocolate dipped strawberries, and ample pillows. There’s likely some other supplies beneath the chaise as well, given exactly how enthusiastic Anya was about this entire plan. Supplies in excessive numbers, volume, and girth, in all likelihood. 

“Now, you have a simple choice to make here.” He plucks two cases up from the table. “And they’re very different options, ‘cause I wasn’t sure if you were more of a de-stress with laughter or a de-stress with smut type.” He wiggles the cases in the candlelight. Rookridge doesn’t have a massive stock of films in hard copy, but they did have Princess Bride, Moulin Rouge!, and Magic Mike on hand. “I usually do an action movie, myself, but I figure that’s probably a little close to, you know. Your whole saving the world thing.”

Mycroft is failing to suppress a smile as he looks at Greg askance. “As I’ve said, you have much too high an opinion of my position.”

“And as I’ve said, I have an accurate opinion. Now, choose.”

Mycroft lands on Moulin Rouge! . “I enjoy the music.”

“S’good, isn’t it?” Greg loads up the projector, liberating from one of the rooms where apparently they usually play pornography in the basement, and makes sure it’s nicely aimed and focused on the sheets hung above. Once it’s running he plants himself across the chaise, opening up his arms so Mycroft can lay across him and Greg can alternate popping strawberries into both their mouths. The champagne is a nice bubbly accent to the chocolate, making each sweet note burst further. He catches Mycroft idly humming along to the first big medley and smiles into that auburn hair. “Do you want to sing along?”

“I- do not believe my singing voice is so favorable, Gregory.”

Greg is not so shy about his, and he sings along quietly into Mycroft’s hair. “ My gift is my song… and this one’s for you. And you can tell everybody that this is your song. It may be quite simple, but now that it’s done. I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words… how wonderful life is, now you’re in the world.

He’s rewarded by Mycroft snuggling further into his embrace as he continues, and further when, in the next section, Mycroft’s soft voice chimes in on the Nicole Kidman parts, hesitant, but just as smooth as Greg suspected.  “ You’d think that people would’ve had enough of silly love songs.”

He wraps his arms more close about Mycroft, offering a soft kiss to his cheek. “Well I look around me, and I see it isn’t so, oh no.”

They get through the entire number together before Mycroft succumbs to giggles, a sight Greg didn’t even think was possible. “You would be a good Christian, Gregory. Endlessly optimistic.”

“Dunno about that, but I’ll take a favorable comparison to Ewan McGregor any day.” They keep singing along, loudly and with much more intent as things get progressively sillier, and Greg isn’t surprised when, as the more tragic elements of the film begin to weigh in, Mycroft restlessly rolls in his arms to focus far more on kissing him than watching the movie. “Mmm. Having a nice time?”

“You have prepared quite a lovely evening, Gregory.” Mycroft nips at his lip. “But I seem to recall other promises made earlier that have not yet been made good on.”

Greg grins. Mycroft is definitely at least half-hard again, pressing against Greg’s leg, and he hasn’t had any shame about encouraging things in that direction. “Oh yeah? What sort of promises were those? You know my mind’s going in my older years-”

Mycroft grabs both of his wrists and pins him back against the chaise. “You are a tease, Gregory Lestrade.”

“Guilty as charged. Is the British Government going to throw the book at me?”

Lips and the drag of teeth find his neck and worry the skin down to his shoulder. His hands flex in Mycroft’s grip, but he doesn’t make any real effort to break out of it. “The British Government is of a mind to do many things to you, but few of them at this moment involve books.” 

The movie is ignored entirely after that. Hands and mouths find their way to skin, and Greg eventually coaxes Mycroft over onto his back, yanking his trousers down so he can lap at that gorgeous cock once more. He could listen to Mycroft moan under the stars for hours, but all he wants for now is to make him nice and wet and absolutely diamond hard, which doesn’t take long.

Then he pulls back again. Mycroft groans, trying to pull him back down. “Gregory-”

“Uh-uh.” Gregory pushes him gently back down, straddling him to keep him in place. “Wait your turn, love.” Anya had given him a few pointers for the most tantalizing way to remove his shirt, and Greg summons every ounce of stage presence from his inner twenty-two year old who’d layered on the eyeliner and sang in bars to pull it off. 

As far as he can tell, it works. Mycroft looks absolutely fucking enraptured, moreso when he manages to get his own trousers and pants off with out leaving the seat. 

His eyes turn to saucers when Greg guides his hand back to find the plug. He exhales. “Oh, Gregory. You’ve exceeded yourself.”

“Yeah? D’you like that I got all ready for you?”

“Very much.”

Mycroft’s enjoyment doesn’t mean that he rushes removing the little bulb from Greg’s arse- instead he plays with it, rocking it in and out, fucking him with it. Greg gets wanton with his moans. After all, they’re alone up here, and he supposes it’s fair play for sucking Mycroft off without finishing during his dessert that he get teased so mercilessly.

“Such lovely noises, Gregory. Do you think you can sing along like this?”

“Ooh, you bastard. Stop fooling about and let me ride you already.”

It turns out Mycroft Holmes does, in fact, comply with orders. When they work in his favor, of course.

Riding Mycroft where he can see the stars is amazing. Both of them seem to have the same idea- slow at first, taking their time to enjoy it. Greg picks up the pace after a while, driving them closer to the edge with his hands flexing against Mycroft’s chest, but they finish with Mycroft’s hands around his waist, pulling him down into a matching thrust from Mycroft’s hips.

It’s heaven. Simply heaven.

They lie together for a bit, breath and heat slowly calming, before a  modicum of tidying is accomplished- enough that nothing’s going to end up stained, anyway. Greg curls into Mycroft’s chest. They ought to shift to a bed, but he doesn’t really want to move, and he has the feeling Mycroft doesn’t either. 

“Shall we put on another?”

Greg glances up. “You don’t need to go check on your crisis?”

“I am sure if it was continuing to be a crisis, Anthea would have been in touch.” His long arm reaches out and switches the film over to Princess Bride. “I would much rather remain here with you.”

“Me too.” He drags a blanket over them, snuggling in. Greg doesn’t want to go anywhere. Not to bed, not back to London.

Crap. London.

He shoves the thought aside. Not yet. Not now. For now he has everything he wants right here.

They’re both asleep before the credits roll, holding each other in a glow of stars and candles.

Chapter Text

Sometime in the early morning they wake and make their way blearily back to Greg’s room for a few additional hours of sleep. Someone must have been through in the night to put out the candles, but apparently- and unsurprisingly- Mycroft’s people can be very sneaky when they want to. Greg certainly didn’t hear anyone. Points for fire safety, though, good work.

They go downstairs for brunch, which is actually far closer to the hour usually allotted for lunch, grinning stupidly at each other over slices of orange and grapefruit. Mycroft vanishes for a while after to check in on whatever it was he’d been dealing with the previous day, strongly suggesting that Greg use the time to indulge in the most decadent bubble bath his body has ever experienced. He’s got to get his own tub clean more often and try this. Jesus. 

So he’s already pleasantly warm and comfy and amenable when Mycroft returns, looking like he has also taken some time to clean up....

...and put on those damn leather trousers again.

Greg’s heart stutters. The heat rising in his cheeks is getting a little Pavlovian where dark leather and Mycroft’s long legs are concerned. “Oh.”

“Yes.” Mycroft looks terribly fucking smug, damn him. “I thought we might explore something particular today.”

His eyes drift to skim the trousers and the flattering way they hold and highlight everything within them. Oh, Christ. Greg pulls at his lip. “You have my attention, though there’s only so many ways I can strip you out of those.”

Mycroft chuckles. “Eventually.” He holds out a hand and Greg takes it, feeling a little fluttery. “Accompany me downstairs?”

Downstairs, in this case, is all the way down, into one of the opposite corridors from the “private show” area he’d been in before. The rooms here are a little darker- mood-lit, he supposes. There’s windows here too, though most of them are closed. The one that is open- no sound, though- contains someone he’s fairly certain he recognizes from something on telly. “Is that…?”

“Best not to ask.” 

Mycroft opens a door to one of the closed off rooms. The walls are covered with racks and racks of toys and implements, some of which he doesn’t even recognize.


“Yes, there’s quite a lot of options.” Mycroft circles behind him, dragging his fingertips along Greg’s spine, and that’s enough to make him start to flush under his ears. Lord knows why, they’ve effectively been fucking for days on end, but something about looking at all these things with Mycroft in those blasted ( amazing ) trousers makes him… nervous, in a fun way. “Do another thought exercise for me, Gregory?”

He presses his teeth against his lower lip. “Alright.” 

“I’d like for you to go to each of the racks on the wall. They each have a curtain that can be pulled across them, do you see that? Good. Go to each and look at what’s on there. If the items make you uncomfortable, or concerned in any way, close the curtain over them. Just go with your instincts, and we’ll deal with specifics later. Yes?”

“Okay….” Greg moves to the one to the left of the door- clockwise seems like a nice, straightforward way of managing this. That one turns out to be some of the things he doesn’t recognize- some of them look sharp, so that’s a no. He closes the curtain. The next rack does have some things he’s familiar with- long whips and hard-looking paddles, but they all look- a bit too serious-minded. He wouldn’t want to get hit with these, or hit anyone else with them either. He closes that one too. And the next, and the one after that. He casts a nervous glance back toward Mycroft. “I hope you’re not trying to lure out some deep-seeded kinky side, ‘cause I don’t think it’s going that well.”

“This is about preference, Gregory. What speaks to you on a primal level. Don’t worry about expectation. Go with your instincts.”

Fine, fine. The first rack he leaves open is one that seems to be mostly plugs. Some of them look, ah, adventurous , but at least he knows what they all are, and some of them even look decidedly interesting. He also leaves open a rack of milder looking crops and paddles and things that don’t make him feel immediately threatened, a rack of what looks like leather restraints of various types, though he’s not quite sure at a glance how all of them would work, and a rack of various lengths of rope and leather cord and things in that vein. His eyes drift back to Mycroft as he chews his lip again. 

Mycroft grins confidently as he steps closer, running his hand along Greg’s back. “Very good.” Greg shivers. God, if that purr doesn’t get him every time. 

He watches as Mycroft skims over the remaining options, a smile on his lips. “Do I pass your test?” Greg asks cheekily.

“No test, Gregory, merely confirming something I already suspected.” Mycroft lifts a wide band of leather from the rack, some sort of belt, maybe, or a cuff? The length seems too middling to be either. “I did not bring you down here because I thought you might have an interest in whips and chains, although that would have been fine as well. I brought you here because there is a surplus of leather, and you, my dear, have a definite leather kink.”

Greg swallows audibly, his mouth already opening to protest, because he’s not really kinky- even all the fun he’s had with Mycroft this weekend he wouldn’t really think of as kinky-

Only there was that time he thought very, very hard about whether he might like to run his tongue over those leather trousers. And he still does, actually, very much want to do that. Badly enough that the suggestion that he might be allowed specifically to do that has redirected a fair bit of blood from his brain to more interesting places below.

His mouth closes with a definitive click.

“Um. Er. Say that’s… even if we’re saying that’s true-” Mycroft’s lifted brow suggests that he’s graciously permitting Greg to continue implying there’s any chance it’s not. “-what would that mean, exactly.”

“That’s the fun part, Gregory.” Mycroft smiles, holding out the length of leather and beckoning, and Gregory only processes as he steps closer what it must be with the little ring attached to it in the front and all the water evaporates from his mouth. “We get to experiment until we find out.”

We. Greg’s heart squeezes. Yes. His eyes shift back to the leather, then up to Mycroft’s eyes, which still glitter with self-satisfied amusement. “Is that. A collar.”

“Yes, Gregory.” His hand strokes across the leather and Greg finds his eye drawn to the motion and the soft clink of the metal ring. “Would you like to try it?”

 His mouth feels a little dry. Christ but he’s going to need to work on his desire to just drop to his knees and suck Mycroft off if he’s ever supposed to see Mycroft at a crime scene ever again. “Is it… is it tight?”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Mycroft steps a little closer, holding out the collar for Greg to touch. “Some people prefer that, but it may not be to your taste.”

Greg’s fingers feel warm against the leather, and it smells so- fucking perfect, actually. He can tell the gear down here is well-maintained, that supple fresh leather scent in the air, the collar itself smooth and soft on the inside, lined with something closer to suede. It’s thick, compared to- well, compared to ways he’s seen people strangled, which is probably why other than the feel and the scent he’s not really too keen on the idea of having something around his throat.

And he’s allowed to say that, right? Mycroft keeps telling him this is about figuring out what he wants, so….

“Don’t think having something around my throat is for me, but… it feels nice. Smells nice.” Greg looks up, smiling as he hands it back, his mouth working a half-step faster than his brain. “Think you might look nice with one on, actually.”

There’s a ripple of something Greg hasn’t seen before across Mycroft’s face, and-

Oh. Oh. 

He feels a slow smile crossing his lips as Mycroft takes an exceptionally long time to inhale and blink. Once. Slowly. “Yeah?”

“I enjoy the aesthetic,” Mycroft murmurs, looking a little flushed. 

Greg shrugs, stepping a little closer. “The aesthetic’s nice. Wear what you like.” He plucks the collar back out of Mycroft’s grip and holds it up, taking in the contrast of the dark leather and Mycroft’s pale skin and-

Yeah. Alright. He’s got a small kink.

“Can I see it on you?”

Mycroft’s tongue wets his lips as he nods, straightening to give Greg access to as much neck as possible. Greg’s careful as he places it, running his little finger along the inside to make sure there’s room and pausing with the buckle half done. “This too tight?”

There’s a little shift as Mycroft tests it. “I think that’s perfect for me, Gregory, thank you.”

Greg closes the buckle and steps away to get a view.


It might be a large kink, actually. Rapidly expanding to include a few adjacent topics as well.

“That looks- real nice, Myc.” Mycroft’s eyes are lusciously dark, and Greg can’t help reaching out and curling his finger through the loop of metal on Mycroft’s throat. Mycroft makes a quiet noise that would sound a little like he’s gotten punched if Greg hadn’t heard him make it before. In bed. While orgasming. 

He pulls, and Mycroft follows his hand. It’s so easy just to pull him close like this, to press their lips together and kiss him like it’s a new way of breathing. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

“You like this, don’t you. Me in a collar.”

“S’pose I do, yeah.”

Mycroft’s slow smile returns as he nips into Greg’s lower lip. “I’ll keep that in mind. We’ll let you be entirely in charge some time, hm? I’d be interested to see what you do.”

Greg would swear he actually goes unconscious for a moment at the suggestion of him bossing around Mycroft in bed- that Mycroft has enough confidence in him to think one day he could try. He doesn’t even mean this weekend, does he? Some other time.

Some time in the future.

Fuck, you want to see me again. 

He’s still getting his own brain back online from that, feeling like he’s floating somewhere in the stratosphere, but Mycroft always recovers quicker and it’s not terribly surprising once his brain starts working again to find Myc slipping out of Greg’s grip to go back to one of the walls of toys. “Let’s try this on you, then.” He’s holding something complicated looking, and Greg’s brow furrows at it, unsure where to start. Fortunately, Mycroft must be able to see his confusion. “First- do you want to try this over your shirt, or against skin?”

“Skin,” he answers. He doesn’t need to think too much about that, his fingers are already pulling his shirt off. “How does it…?”

“In this case, I think it’s best if I show you. Hold your arms out?” Mycroft takes his time laying the straps across him, all wide bands of leather dyed not black, as he’d originally thought in the soft light of the room, but a navy blue. One band lies across the top of his pecs, and he can feel a matching band across his back. Metal loops connect it to the straps that go over his shoulders and across his sides. 

It feels… nice. Secure and comfortable, with that same oiled-leather scent and the sturdy feel he likes under his fingertips. There’s a little display to it as well, a feeling that he’s showing off, somehow, just for Mycroft. It’s probably the same way Mycroft might feel in the collar, only this harness doesn’t hold any of the rough connotations Greg would have if he tried to wear one of those.

Fuck, I like this.

Mycroft draws back one of the curtains to reveal a mirror. Greg looks… good. He knows he’s not in awful shape, but he’s a bit past his prime all the same, a little soft in places he didn’t used to be, and- 

He still looks great. The leather makes him look- kind of strong, actually, kind of like he’s- like he’s comfortable with himself in it. With this and his jeans, he looks like he could stroll into Pride Parade and pull whoever he likes. 

The thought makes his eyes drift to Mycroft. Mycroft, who’s staring at him like he’s just realized some of his favorite sweets have just come out from the oven.

Mycroft, who hooks one of his fingers through a metal loop in a mirror of Greg’s earlier gesture and pulls.

Greg goes, stopping a hair's-breadth away from Mycroft’s chest. His fingers flick out, brushing the leather over Mycroft’s thighs. “This is working for you, isn’t it.”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s voice has gone low and a little rough, and it sends a ripple of need down Greg’s spine. “Is it working for you?”

“Mmmhm.” It is, really. He feels- held, sort of. Restrained, without really being restrained. The rings linking the straps of leather together seem to be a good place for Mycroft to hang on and direct him from, and that’s something he thinks he could enjoy at length. 

Maybe he also feels a little powerful, standing there confidently in Mycroft’s hands. Like he deserves the things he wants. 

And he knows damn well what that is.

“Mycroft,” he purrs, leaning close and pressing his fingers more firmly into Mycroft’s thighs. “Can I put my mouth on these? I mean, really put my mouth on them.” Greg smirks, demonstrating the sort of open-mouthed kiss he means by running his tongue up the side of Mycroft’s neck. “Seeing as I was much too focused on your cock the last time to give them the appreciation they deserve.”

A soft noise stifles in the back of Mycroft’s throat. “You may.”


Greg sinks down easy. His knees are getting used to this, even if he still thinks they’ll protest as soon as he’s back in his own flat or chasing some criminal down the street. He has no intention of simply lapping at these trousers, no. 

He’s going to fucking worship them.

Hands, mouth, any part of his skin that Greg can get against those damn trousers, he does. Neither leg is neglected as he mouths, dipping almost to the floor before he comes back up again, pleased to find that his ministrations have Mycroft tenting the thick fabric and white knuckle grasping his own hands behind his back. “I love these things on you,” Greg growls as his mouth passes over the trapped bulge. “Love how they look, love how they smell.” He presses down into a kiss, smirking when he hears Mycroft’s quiet gasp above him. “Love you in them.”

“Really?” Mycroft’s voice is just a little broken, which makes it damn near perfect in Greg’s ears. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Cheek.” Greg pinches Mycroft’s bum, feeling damnedly fond. “Honestly, you going around like this is a crime. Public indecency at the least. Christ knows what sort of thoughts you’re putting in men’s heads.”

“That’s quite alright, Gregory. I’m only concerned about one man’s head.”

There’s a soft squeeze in Greg’s heart. You adorable sap. Getting soft about me, aren’t you?  “Yeah?” When Mycroft nods, Greg crawls up his body until he can bring their mouths together with passionate force. One hand works into the soft strands of Mycroft’s hair, the other takes his hip as Greg pushes them closer to the padded bench at the center of the room. When they hit it, he lets his hands wander further, from Mycroft’s arse back up to the collar and that silver ring. 

“We can use any of those toys, yeah?” 

“Of course.”

“Can I use them on you?”

Mycroft looks up, his eyes darkening as Greg fingers the ring of his collar. “What do you have in mind?”

“I want to plug you.” Greg finds the words come easier, now that he feels free to say them. There’s no use in being cautious of his own desires, not with Mycroft, and watching the way Mycroft’s pupils start to blow wide only eggs him on. “Want to lick you first, just pull these gorgeous trousers down just enough to work my tongue in there, then fill you up so you feel it while you fuck me.” He listens as Mycroft makes that same noise, stilted as he nips his teeth into the soft flesh above the collar. “That alright with you?”

Fuck .” He feels it as a shiver races through Mycroft. “Gregory, I fear I’ve been a terrible influence on you.”

“Terribly helpful, maybe.” Greg grins cheekily. “Just needed a little nudge to realize how much I’d enjoy your cock.”

A soft growl rumbles through Mycroft’s chest. “When you are finished I am going to plough you through this bench, Gregory.”

“Yeah, you will. But you’re gonna be nice and let me tongue fuck you first.” He rolls, pushing Mycroft down into the padded leather and leaving him with one firm kiss before stalking toward one of the many walls of playthings.  “Now. What sort of toy do you normally like? There’s a lot here.”

“Hmm… there’s one with a slim base, just two narrow bits- yes, that one.” Mycroft’s smile is soft and a little predatory. “I’ll need something I can move in if you’d like to be properly fucked.”

“Oh, I would.” Greg slides a condom on it- while he’s certain everything in here is sterilized to the nth degree, there’s no point in risking it on toys that aren’t his. “Now be a good boy and roll over.”

Mycroft makes a quiet scoffing noise as he complies, but Greg’s sure he doesn’t mean it. He only tugs the trousers down to the very base of Mycroft’s arse, enough to free his arse and cock. It’s been ages since Greg’s done this for a man, but there’s something particularly heady about doing it when the man in question’s skin still smells like warm, soft leather and the natural sort of sweat that comes from wearing it.

He takes his time with it. Kitten licks to start, just little tastings. Greg wants this to last, and he’d prefer to see Mycroft get a little hot and bothered and desperate first. Gentle licks and soft kisses turn to firmer strokes and more deliberate circles until he feels Mcyroft start to go a little loose and pliant, relaxing enough for Greg to tongue-fuck him. When Mycroft moans in a deliciously wanton sort of way Greg chuckles into his cleft, lubing up a finger and tracing that around his hole as well. “Yeah, Myc? This nice for you?”

Gregory-” Mycroft’s hands flex into the leather padding, looking for purchase. Greg presses in a finger, making a point of brushing over Mycroft’s prostate just to hear him make a truly yearning sort of sound. His cheeks are red, hell, he’s even flushing down to the base of his spine. “You- Gregory, you should fuck me.”

Greg’s finger pauses for half a breath as he makes sure he didn’t hallucinate that. “Yeah? You want that?”

“Yes, yes- god, yes, Gregory.” He sounds so desperate for it that Greg feels insatiably emboldened.

“Yeah? Want me to fuck you, fill you up and then put this plug in you? Keep you nice and full, but you can’t come, alright? Cause you’ll still need to fuck me after.”

Mycroft shudders out a “ please” , and Greg drinks in the sight of him with his eyes closed, his mouth open and ready to cry out, demanding to be fucked. 

He’s never been harder in his life.

“Yeah- yeah, whatever you want, love. Anything you want.” He almost stutters, catching himself on the endearment, but it just feels right. Greg would probably rip his own heart out and present it if Mycroft asked him right now. It never occurred to him before how much affection could be wound up in wanton, kinky sex- or sex at all, really. Sex, for most of his past partners, had simply been a gratification. Sex with Mycroft is intimate, another form of closeness that keeps finding new ways to deepen. Slicking his fingers up and fingerfucking him feels very nearly devotional by the time Mycroft’s ready, every little moan and whine he earns like praise from on high. “Don’t you worry, love, m’gonna fill you up and then you can take all that pent up energy out on my arse. And I want to hear you, so don’t hold back on me.” 

There’s something like a dark chuckle beneath him, lost as Mycroft turns his face against the bench. “Gregory Lestrade, if you do not get inside me this instant-”

Greg cuts him off with the blunt press of his cock against his hole. 

Neither of them are much for talking this way- Greg’s too overwhelmed by the encompassing feeling of Mycroft tightening around him, and Mycroft looks lost to it, grunting helplessly with each thrusting push. It’s the sight of Mycroft burying his teeth in the leather of the bench that finally sends Greg over the edge, his vision whiting out in a haze of bliss and racing heartbeats.

Even before he comes back to himself, his hands have found Mycroft’s back, stroking in little circles. “Mmmhm. That’s nice, Mycroft. Gonna get this in you now, alright?” He reaches for the plug, exchanging it with his softening cock. “Gonna look so perfect with this in you, aren’t you? Just lovely.”

Greg ought to be shocked at the things coming out of his mouth, but he’s not. In fact, he feels fully confident in them. Nothing about them feels taboo at all, nothing feels- wrong. It’s like a dance that has settled into his bones and now he knows the steps, and most of them are praising and reassuring Mycroft. He rocks the toy slowly into Mycroft, teasing him with it, only gently pressing and tugging until it’s fully seated. He’s gratified that Mycroft has taken his- order? Suggestion?- to heart, and Mycroft doesn’t hold back with vocalizing his appreciation. None of it’s coherent words, just grunts and moans, but that somehow makes it even hotter compared to Mycroft’s normal handy control of language. “There we are. Feel good?”

Mycroft’s mouth is eager for his as Greg helps him up, demanding and bossy in all the ways Greg likes. He can tell Mycroft is catching his breath, in a way, switching from whatever mode he’d slid into back into his comfortable command of the situation, pulling at Greg’s harness to keep him close until he can find his words.

Gregory .” Mycroft’s voice is a growl and a command in one, and Greg goes easily when it’s followed by a rather firm exchange of their positions, his cheek pressed to the leather as Mycroft tugs his jeans down. 

“All yours, love.” Greg’s body feels lax after his own orgasm, he’s pliant as his mouth finds the same spot in the leather that Mycroft bit, kissing it with an open mouth. The bench’s leather has been heated by Mycroft, its scent stronger and mixed with Mycroft’s sweat, and Greg fucking loves it. 

Mycroft kisses up his spine. “I am going to give you something to hold onto, Gregory.” His voice is rough and low and Gregory nods blissfully, happy to let Mycroft draw his arms up. There’s soft leather being drawn through a ring at the end of the bench, and Mycroft wraps it around his wrists, not quite tying it but leaving the ends in Greg’s hands. He grips it happily, enjoying the tension in it, the idea of being tied up but not really- he could escape this whenever he likes if he just lets go, but he doesn’t want to, not if Mycroft wants him there. 

His trousers come all the way off so Mycroft can have him spread his legs apart, forcing his weight to rest against the bench. When he’s breached Greg cries out into the padded leather, his recent orgasm making everything feel heightened and more visceral, each brush against his prostate feeling ten times more potent than usual. “Oh, fuck- fuck, Myc-”

It’s fast and forceful and Greg’s happy to just hang on and let Mycroft try and fuck him through the bench. “God, yes, Myc- fuck me, love- fuck-” He’s probably drooling onto the bench but he doesn’t care, not when there’s leather against his cheek and chest and cock and wafting into his nose and gorgeous, powerful Mycroft Holmes having his way with Greg’s arse.

When Mycroft finally comes with his hands pressed so firmly into Greg’s hips that Greg almost hopes he’ll have a few fingertip-shaped bruises, both of them have to just lay there and pant, collapsed into each other. 

“Fuck,” Greg exhales eventually.

“Not for another several hours, dear,” Mycroft responds, his face nestled into Greg’s chest.

“Would your people mind if we borrowed one of your fancy dungeon rooms for a nap? Cause I can’t see doing the stairs right now, to be honest.”

Mycroft lets out a quiet chuckle. “I’m sure they’ll live.”

Greg exhales. “Okay. I’ll clean us up, then we’re napping, cause even though you make my cock think it’s twenty again, the rest of me does not agree.”

For once, Mycroft doesn’t protest that he ought to be in charge of any tidying. Greg finds some wipes and sorts them out, figuring out the harness on his own and gently easing the toy out of Mycroft. He traces the edge of the collar gently, reminding himself of how gorgeous Mycroft looks in it, before he slides it free. “There we are. Feel alright?”

“Yes. Ehm. Gregory….” Mycroft’s voice is soft, even a little nervous, but Greg has the feeling the man rarely beats around the bush. “You called me ‘ love.’

Greg wraps his hands around Mycroft’s waist. Neither of them are properly dressed and he doesn’t care. “I did.”

“Is that- in the colloquial sense?”

“It is because I am fond of you.” Greg beams a smile at him, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Mycroft, love. Is that alright?”

Mycroft smiles back. His hair’s gone curly at the edges, it’s the most disheveled Greg’s ever seen him, and he’s bloody gorgeous. “It is.”

Greg nuzzles into the span of soft flesh under his ear, grinning from ear to ear. “Then m’not gonna stop.”

Chapter Text

After the new and exciting realm of the playroom, Greg half-expects dinner to feel tame. Mycroft requests them a table in the corner of the room where they have a good view, both of them still relaxed and smiling over their wine. It’s another formal night, this one specifically leaning toward Interwar fashion and an “upstairs/downstairs” aesthetic. Mycroft has a perfect 1930s era suit, of course, but Greg just wears his own.  Quite a lot of the women are wearing glittery, loose dresses, and Greg has a guess that most of them have elected to forgo brassieres. The staff have been adorned in modified maid and valet costumes, keeping them mostly nude according to Rookridge’s standards while still making it clear what their role is in the elaborate setting they’ve staged for the evening.

A string quartet stands in one corner, though like the cooks they must be special hires, as they do not share the nudity of the rest of the staff. They’ve made some concessions to the venue, however, as the men are shirtless and the women are wearing very slinky, low-cut and form-fitting gowns.

“What song is it?” 

Mycroft’s eyes flick over, one brow lifted. “I’m flattered that you assume I know.”

Greg’s foot nudges him under the table. “Bet you do.”

“You realize I do not actually know everything-”

“Not everything, sure. But classical music? Pull the other one.”

He watches as Mycroft fights to look serious and loses, instead rubbing his own shoe back against Greg’s as he hides his grin in his wine. “Vaughan Williams. Quartet number 1, second movement.”

“Knew it. God, I’ve got to get you into pub trivia.”

“A dangerous prospect, Gregory,” Mycroft notes with a wry grin. “I was barred from pub trivia for most of my university years.”

Greg snorts. “No one willing to deal with good competition?”

“They assumed I was cheating.”

“What? Really?” He leans closer, their knees touching along the corner they’re sharing. “But that’s just normal facts, it’s not like- you know, what Sherlock does, where he tells people things they’re trying to keep secret.”

“Apparently knowing too many normal facts invites suspicion. Even in the days prior to an easy internet search”

“Tossers. You’re coming to trivia with me, and we’ll trounce the lot of them.” Greg reaches over, linking his fingers in Mycroft’s.  “No one will recognize you with a pint in your hand, anyway.”

“Is that… a date, Gregory?” There’s the briefest skip in his words, the scantest little pause that gives him away. Mycroft is… nervous about it.

Not me, though. It’s strange how much confidence Greg has in that- Mycroft’s nerves are not because he doesn’t want to be seen with Greg, it’s simply his lack of confidence with ordinary socializing. Even Sherlock has that, for all his faked confidence when Greg’s seen him playing a part in some club. The Holmes brothers can do all the “normal” parts of socialization when they don’t have to be themselves. Gives them distance, maybe. Doesn’t have to be real.

Kind of like here, his mind adds. Rookridge is a glorious fantasy catering to every possible whim, and inside it Mycroft is all confidence. But he’s willing- hopefully, he wants - to see Greg outside of it in the real world where they’re both just ordinary men. Or as ordinary as a Holmes and a DI can get, anyway.

“Yeah. It’s a date, Mycroft.” Greg squeezes his hand. “I’ll even take you for a nice fish and chips dinner beforehand. Proper pub meal.”

“And dessert after?” A touch of that mischievous glint is back in Mycroft’s eye, and Greg’s got a fairly good idea of the many wonders that dessert might entail.

Ah, cheeky now that you know I’m a sure thing, aren’t you? Greg grins slyly. “If you’re good. I make a decent Eton Mess. Or a Cambridge Mess, if you prefer,” he adds, running his thumb slowly over Mycroft’s palm. 

“Oh?” Mycroft strokes his hand back, their fingers intertwining. “I fear I am not familiar with that variation.”

“You’ll like it. It just needs strawberries, bit o’ whipped cream, and a naked Cambridge man.” A faint flush heightens the lines of Mycroft’s cheekbones. Ah, you like that, don’t you? “That work for you, posh boy?”

“I believe that will work very nicely for me, Gregory.” Mycroft is quiet as their food arrives, though the warmth of his fingers never leaves Greg’s. “I feel I ought to tell you… it has been some time since I have… engaged in anything resembling a traditional relationship.”

Greg nods. He’d suspected as much. With his job alone dating must be a big ask for Mycroft, and add in that he owns a venue that would set the faint of heart to clutching their pearls, and he can see why it probably hadn’t been worth the effort. “I don’t mind. What’s traditional these days, anyway?”

“It’s not still outdoor walks in the rain while ignoring the impropriety of a lack of a chaperone? Heavens, Miss Austen has lied to me.” Clearly reluctant, Mycroft finally releases Greg’s hand so they can both eat. “Jests aside, it will be difficult. My position is challenging enough merely in terms of the time-”

“So’s mine.” Greg shrugs. “Listen, f’I have to go run down a murder or f’you have to save the world, we’ll make it work.”

Mycroft huffs. “I’ve told you, I do not-”

“Yeah, you do. S’alright. I’ll keep it a secret.” Greg winks across the table. Of course he knows why Mycroft has to keep up the pretense, but it’s silly to pretend he has no idea what sort of power Mycroft wields. “There might be some days where we end up meeting up in bed at 3am and that’s all we get, but both of us know that going in. M’not gonna be mad f’you have to run off in the middle of the night either.”

“It will happen, Gregory.”

“It will for me too! And it’ll probably be your brother’s fault at that.”

That gets him a brief chuckle. “True enough. I do also feel I should say… I have not engaged in any sexual relationships outside of Rookridge in quite some time. ” Mycroft glances down at his plate, stirring some morsels around aimlessly with his fork. “The structure here, the rules- I am aware the ‘real’ world does not function in that way, but it… has proven useful to me. Everything is clear and consistent.”

Greg nods. He can see that, especially for someone like Mycroft. “You like knowing where you stand. I like the same. We can do that, all we need to do is keep talking. Set expectations and be honest.” His hand slips back over to Mycroft’s, his fingers curling into the warmth of his lover’s palm. “I think you’ll be great at it, for what it’s worth.”

“And you would be my… paramour, Gregory?”

His smile broadens. Paramour. It seems formal for such an early relationship, but maybe that’s right. Mycroft seems like a man who’d find boyfriend too informal . “Mycroft, I want to take you out to dinners and have you over for films that we don’t watch ‘cause we’re too busy kissing. I want to romance you, if you’ll let me. So, yeah. Paramours.”

Gazing into Mycroft’s hopeful eyes feels a bit like looking into eternity. 

Oh, shite. I’m falling for you, aren’t I?

Realizing it is far more exciting than it is terrifying. Greg’s lived long enough to have loved before, to know what the feeling’s like in his chest when he can sense that maybe this person is his person. With Mycroft, that pull feels far more clear and tangible than it’s ever felt before, like a rope that’s tied itself between them, just out of view.

A few days and just like that I’m gone on you.

Somehow it doesn’t feel so short. It feels like just enough time to catch the connection, the possibility that this is exactly what’d he’d always wanted. 

Over dinner he can’t stop falling into Mycroft’s eyes, smiling like a sap until Mycroft starts blushing and asking him what he’s looking at. 

“Just you, love. Just you.”

Toppling into bed later there’s no experimentation, no guests. They kiss for what feels like hours before Greg even gets his hands near the buttons of Mycroft’s vest, lips exploring every inch of skin as it’s slowly revealed. He loves how it feels having Mycroft beneath him, savoring all the parts of him Whitehall will never see. “F’I mark you a little… just here….” Greg nips at Mycroft’s collarbone, eliciting a quiet moan. “...would that be alright? Just- I can’t stand the thought of us back at work-”

“And treating this all like a pretty dream?” Mycroft nuzzles back up at him, his teeth caressing the slope of Greg’s throat. “It’s not a dream, Gregory.”

“No.” The confidence in that fills him almost as much as his arousal. “We won’t let it be.”

Their eyes meet in the dark, specks of moonlight reflecting in deep pools. “Yes,” Mycroft murmurs back. “Of course you can.”

It’s just a little thing, a small bruise that will fade in time, but they’ll both know it’s there. Even when Mycroft must go back to his suits and Greg to his cases, when the real world calls them away from Rookridge, they’ll know. “You should- on me too.”

“Where?” Mycroft’s breath is heat in his ear, and Greg wants to sink into it like one of Rookridge’s luxurious ensuite jacuzzi tubs.


Mycroft huffs a laugh. “I do keep telling you that’s a dangerous mindset.”

“Maybe I don’t mind if people see, Mycroft. I’ve just been on holiday, haven’t I? They ask, I’ll tell them I had a very nice time, thanks.”

“I see. And what if I prefer it to just be mine?”

Greg smiles in Mycroft’s hair. “Then it’ll just be yours, love.”

Mycroft hums contentedly as Greg’s lips close on his clavicle, sucking a little dark mark just under the bone. It turns into a moan as Greg drags his kisses lower, down the line of Mycroft’s sternum to his belly, soft and promising of more as he reaches the vee line of Mycroft’s hip. “Gregory-”

“Want to taste you, Myc.” He nuzzles into the thatch of hair, lapping his tongue out to the hardening member he’s been seeking. “Can’t get enough of you.” 

Greg laps slowly, taking his time to lick every inch before he closes his mouth over that delicious cock, taking it into the warmth of his mouth and sucking his cheeks in. Mycroft’s hips buck, but Greg’s broad hands are the perfect size to hold them down while Greg has his way with him. He’s not aiming to get Mycroft off, not yet. This is all foreplay, and Greg could do this all night.

He keeps at it for a while, until the shudders beneath him and Mycroft’s moaned pants tell him he’s drawing close enough, and then he kisses his way back up, pausing to mouth over Mycroft’s nipples and make him moan from that touch as well. 

“You are- getting a taste for this, Gregory,” Mycroft murmurs, words just a little shaky. 

Greg catches his mouth in another kiss, firm and passionate. “A taste for you, I think.”

His hand wraps them both, cocks spit-slick as he slowly strokes. Mycroft’s hands roam his skin like he’s planning to make a sculpture, like he needs every inch of Greg affixed in his own memory. Maybe he does. Greg knows about Sherlock’s memory palace, and though Mycroft says he doesn’t keep one Greg wouldn’t mind living a second life in the art exhibit of Mycroft’s mind. 

He keeps them both on edge and wanting, panting into each other’s mouths and hair and ears, until finally he can’t take it anymore. “Want you. Want to ride you. That alright with you, love?”

“You may have anything you could ask of me, my dear.”

Greg takes a nibble of Mycrof’s ear as he shifts, straddling over his lover’s hips. “Thought you said ‘anything’ is dangerous.”

“It is.” Mycroft runs his hand up Greg’s stomach, caressing until his fingers can cup Greg’s cheek. “But I trust you.”

Reaching between them, Greg finds Mycroft’s hardness. There’s little need for additional lubricant, not after the time Greg’s spent sucking him off, and Greg is pleasantly open after all the fun they’ve had this weekend. He bears down, gasping and pressing his fingers into the bones of Mycroft’s hips. It doesn’t matter how often they’ve done this- and god willing, there’ll be even more once they’re back in London- every time he’s absolutely certain that Mycroft is filling him the perfect amount, like they’re perfectly built for each other. 

His hips rock, sure and steady. There’s a power here, in riding Mycroft, in watching that lithe, clever man come apart beneath him. Because of him. Greg’s not new to it anymore, and he sinks into it, embracing it. There’s so much trust in making someone come. He’d never really thought of it like that before this, before Mycroft. But being given that, so freely, it’s better than any high. Let me have you. 

Let me love you.

His heart expands even in letting himself think it. Yes, he could love Mycroft, fully and truly. There’s potential here that he never had with Becca or anyone before her. 

Maybe. Just maybe.

You could be everything.

He cants his hips harder just to listen to Mycroft moan, taking that well-put-together man apart in just the way Greg likes. No one else has that power here- or anywhere. Not with Mycroft.

“You gonna come for me, love?” he purrs, eyeing the glisten of sweat beginning to collect along Mycroft’s brow with a serious consideration as to whether he should just lick it off. “Fill me up just right, just like I like?”

“Fuck,” Mycroft grunts, and Greg smiles, tossing his head back. He can feel the throb of Mycroft within him, deep and pressing just where he likes, and the constant whisper of mine, this is mine, in his head.

It builds as he listens to Mycroft gasp and pant and Greg rides the crest of it, losing himself to the heady bliss of possessing his lover. “That’s it. That’s it, love, come for me- come in me-”

As soon as Mycroft cries out, Greg’s done for. It’s an even more intense orgasm than usual, the burst of white and stars behind his eyes sending him to another galaxy as he arches, his only tether to this reality the heat of Mycroft’s climax within him.

When he does come back to himself, he collapses down onto Mycroft’s chest, burying his face in sweat-slicked skin. “Fucking hell.”

“Quite.” Mycroft’s breath is heavy under him, his lungs pressing against him with every deep inhale. “I’m afraid I’ve corrupted you quite thoroughly, Gregory.”

“Nah.” Greg presses his lips against a nipple, kissing softly. “Y’just let me off the leash, is all.”

They lie there for a while, just breathing. Greg drifts to the sound of Mycroft’s heartbeat, his fingers idly tracing patterns in delicate, pale skin. “You’ll be back in London on Monday, yeah?”

“Mmmhm. A long weekend is usually all I can spare.”

“Come to mine.” Greg looks up from Mycroft’s chest, studying those gently flushed cheeks, the angular nose he’s become so fond of. “I’ll make you a roast. You can spend the night. F’politics allows, that is.”

“That… would be very amenable to me, Gregory.” His arms fold around Greg’s shoulders, pulling him into a kiss. “Shall I be able to try your ‘Cambridge Mess?’”

Greg laughs. “Only if you’re good.”

“Very well, Gregory.” Mycroft kisses him again, slow and lingering. Promising. “Then I shall endeavor to be quite good indeed.”


One Year Later

“Couples massage, is it?”

“Mm. There’s a new masseuse, and I really ought to be familiar with her services as an owner.”

Greg reaches across the console and rubs his fingers over Mycroft’s knee as he listens to Rookridge’s security system open the gate. “You should see Carlo, love. I’ll see your new girl and give you a full report.”


“See Carlo, and the knots in your back from the last time you had to deal with the Americans can thank me later.” Carlo is a known quantity, and Greg knows too well that after Mycroft’s had to deal with some manner of political nonsense (apparently saving the world is easy, so long as one can keep politics out of it) he’ll get a massage, a good dinner in him, and promptly pass out for ten hours. It’s one of the major benefits Greg’s come to value about Rookridge: when Mycroft is there his team is far more likely to leave him alone and let him rest, and that’s something Greg’s been good about enforcing himself in the last year. 

Besides, one can’t really enjoy all of Rookridge’s offerings if they’re exhausted.

“Anything else you’re particularly looking forward to, love? Anya’s got a new routine, doesn’t she?”

“Mmm, she’s come up with something delightfully hedonistic involving aerial ribbons. I fully expect the new show will be keeping our rooms busy for a while.” Mycroft’s hand closes over Greg’s, warm and affectionate. “And what are you looking forward to?”

“Having you all to myself.”

Mycroft huffs a laugh. “Gregory, you have me all the time.”

“I do, love. I do.” Greg lifts Mycroft’s knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against them after they pull up and park at the front door, waiting for the valet. “But here I get to have you even more. Even when I’m sharing you with someone else for a little while, I get to see all of you, and I like that, Myc. Even if all the suits are a turn-on, we both know which set of trousers suits you best.”

“Ah, speaking of.” Mycroft reaches into the back and pulls up a ribbon-wrapped parcel that Greg has dutifully pretended not to be staring at in the rearview for the entirety of the drive. “I think you can have your present now.”

“Mycroft, you’re spoiling me.” It’s true, they’d done their one-year anniversary gifts before they took off for the weekend, and Greg had been gifted with a luxurious suit and set of coordinating shirts and ties from Mycroft’s tailor that hardly seemed to match up with the subtle leather and platinum cufflink and tie clip he’d gotten for Myc. 

“Perhaps. But I do so enjoy spoiling you.”

Greg smiles, slipping his finger into the loop of the ribbon to pull it open. The scent hits him even before the box is open: leather. Fine leather, recently oiled. He lifts a brow. “Sure this isn’t something I should open inside?”

“It may be something you would like to enjoy tonight.” Mycroft’s grin is a little smug, but Greg likes that about him. “And we both know that if you smelled that anywhere near a bed you’d be terribly distracted.”

“True.” Greg lifts the lid, his fingers landing on supple navy-dyed leather, smooth and finely tailored. He unfurls it slowly, smiling wider as he finds the zip and the picture falls into place. “Trousers?”

“Mmm. Do you like them?”

“I love them.” He reaches over, stroking his fingers along Mycroft’s jaw and pulling him closer for a thorough kiss. “And I love you.”

“I love you too, Gregory,” Mycroft murmurs back against his lips. “I love you too.”