Work Text:
The last thing John sees is a very large fist hurtling towards his face. The last thing John thinks is, for fuck’s sake, Sherlock.
He wakes an indeterminate length of time later, and almost shrieks in a very unmanly way at the sight of a pair of dark eyes peering closely at him. Mycroft steps back hurriedly (if Mycroft could ever be said to do anything hurriedly), and drops to his knees. John coughs, and spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor next to him.
“John. Are you-?”
“Fine, fine.” He worries a little at a tooth with his tongue, tasting iron. Sore, but not loose.
Mycroft is silent.
John is just about to ask him what’s wrong, where Sherlock is, what the fuck is actually going on, when Mycroft lets out a long breath, an odd expression on his face.
John opens his mouth. And Mycroft is kissing him. Desperately. His hands are on either side of John’s face and John can feel them trembling. Mycroft wrenches himself back, and John can only gape. Then he’s standing up and brushing off his knees, and mutely holding his hand out so that John can pull himself upwards. He’s just about to turn and walk away when John stops him, licking his thumb and drawing it wetly over Mycroft’s mouth where there’s a bright smear of John’s blood. He feels dazed, muddled, like he’s dreaming; he’s probably concussed. Mycroft licks his lip.
They find Sherlock slumped unconscious against a concrete pillar, bruise on his cheekbone already purpling, and John doesn’t have time to think about anything else as the ambulance arrives and the police turn up. It’s not until he practically falls through the front door of 221B at 4am that he finally touches his fingers to his mouth and thinks, huh.
-
Sherlock has an enormous black eye and a worse concussion than John, and he refuses to leave the flat for a week, spending most of his time brooding in his room, occasionally emerging to eat biscuits and drink tea. This gives John ample time alone with only his thoughts for company.
It only takes him until the end of the week to admit to himself that he can’t stop thinking about pushing Mycroft to his knees, his lips smeared with red.
-
He feels completely out of place, but not at all nervous as he ascends the steps to Mycroft’s office.
“Do you have an appointment?” says the young man at the desk.
“Tell him it’s John,” says John.
“I’m sorry, sir, but-”
The door to Mycroft’s office is flung open suddenly. The young man jumps and glances back, then quickly looks back at his laptop, head down. Mycroft beckons for John to follow him, and as soon as he’s crossed the threshold Mycroft is on him, pushing him back against the door with his entire body, hands fluttering up and down John’s sides as if he doesn’t know where to put them. His mouth is hot and desperate against John’s and he makes little frantic noises as John’s tongue sweeps out across his lip. John slides his hand up to the back of Mycroft’s neck and tightens it in his hair, slowing the kiss until it’s deep, languid and filthy and they both pull away, gasping.
“Not here,” says Mycroft, and John can’t stop staring at his mouth. It’s pink and wet.
“Later,” John rasps, and steps back with a hitched intake of breath as Mycroft slides his thumb up underneath the hem of his shirt. He wants to writhe and whimper, wants Mycroft to pinch his nipples and twist them until he’s sobbing. He presses a quick, soft kiss to the corner of Mycroft’s mouth and lets himself out of the office before he can give into the urge to just wrap one of Mycroft’s long legs around his hip and squirm against him.
The young man at the desk watches him as he leaves, eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline. John smirks at him.
-
Mycroft, being Mycroft, doesn’t knock, or call ahead. He merely arrives, managing to elegantly shed his jacket and shoes before John has backed him against the wall and is nosing along the line of his throat, pushing hands slowly under his shirt. Mycroft makes a tiny breathy noise as John’s fingers trace the curve of his ribs.
They’re half way up the stairs when John turns and presses them together; he can feel how hard Mycroft is already, and it makes something in his abdomen twist hotly.
“You’re so turned on,” he murmurs pointlessly, but it still makes Mycroft swallow with an audible click and squirm a little in his grip.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard.”
Mycroft’s cock twitches against his leg. He draws a finger gently up the line of it, giving Mycroft’s neck little licks as he does.
“Bedroom?” says Mycroft, voice a little hoarse.
John pulls himself back with no little effort and drags them up the final few steps, flinging the door to his room open and twisting to push Mycroft backwards onto his bed. Mycroft lies sprawled, flushed pink and obviously hard and gazes up at him, tongue sliding out over his lip.
John leans over and tugs suggestively at his belt before toeing his own shoes off and unbuttoning his shirt at the same time. Mycroft moves agonisingly slowly, but it’s almost worth it for the way the flush spreads gradually down his lightly furred chest as he flicks open his buttons. He drops his shirt carelessly to the floor and somehow manages to elegantly remove his trousers without standing up.
Christ, he’s a sight. The flush has spread down his neck to his chest, and his lips are bitten pink and damp. His nipples are soft little peaks, and his cock curves upwards to rest on his belly, tip glossy and red already. John crawls on top of him. He reaches up and pins Mycroft’s arms lightly above his head before leaning down until their cocks brush together and they are lip to lip. Mycroft opens his mouth and they slowly lick delicate, sensation-filled kisses from each other. The room is quiet apart from little wet sounds, until Mycroft lets out a soft, broken noise against John’s mouth, and John thrusts forward a tiny bit, just feeling him. He glances down at where they’re sliding together.
“Christ, you’ve got a pretty cock,” he says, rolling his hips so that the little well of precome beading in the slit dabs wetly against Mycroft’s glans.
“Ah,” says Mycroft unevenly, and Jesus if that isn’t hot.
He presses his open mouth over Mycroft’s again and hovers, just barely touching, until his arms are aching and Mycroft is kissing him like he’s trying to come just from the slide of John’s tongue against his. John draws back, petting down Mycroft’s sides and gently encouraging him to roll over.
“Let me,” he murmurs, sliding his hands indulgently up over the backs of Mycroft’s thighs and pushing them slowly apart; Mycroft drops his head between his stretched out arms and lets out a slow breath. John leans back a little, gaze greedily drinking him in as he’s sprawled on the duvet, hands tightening in the pillows, legs spread. Tension is visible in the tight lines of his shoulderblades. John lightly trails the pad of his thumb down the damp-warm crease of his thigh.
“Ah,” says Mycroft breathlessly. His hips lift from the bed a little, and on instinct John gives him a very light smack to still him.
The reaction is unprecedented.
Mycroft goes completely boneless and moans, the sound pooling deep in John’s belly and prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. Jesus.
“Oh, you like that,” he says, and gives another quick slap, the noise as loud as a gunshot in the otherwise quiet room. Mycroft sounds like he can’t quite work out how to breathe; he’s gasping wetly, the sounds muffled by his arm. John works his hand softly over the slightly pinking skin of his arse, a little tentative. The sounds Mycroft is making are going straight to his cock, and the idea of spanking him. Spanking him like a naughty schoolboy. John’s not even ashamed of how utterly, ridiculously hard he is at the thought. He leans down until his breath is fluttering the hairs behind Mycroft’s ear.
“More?”
Mycroft draws in a quiet breath, and John can see the flush on his cheeks is even more pronounced than before.
“You want me to spank you, Mycroft?”
He waits, hand hovering. The silence is tense, anticipatory.
“Yes,” the word ground out, almost inaudible.
His hand comes down lightly: a tease. Mycroft shifts on the bed, burying his face deeper in his arms so John can only just hear the way he’s gasping. He pets a little with a trembling hand before drawing back and giving him two viciously hard slaps, one after the other. The sound of each one reverberates in the room, both leaving a slowly emerging pink handprint; he traces the outline with a fingertip as Mycroft ruts and twists into the sheets, in between squirming away and asking for more.
“Oh,”
John gives another teasing smack just at the juncture between his thighs and his arse, a soft sound escaping Mycroft’s lips as it connects.
“Oh,” he says again, sounding a little helpless. “Oh,”
The next smack is harder again, and Mycroft shivers visibly.
“More,” he rasps, then “fuck,” as John complies.
Mycroft’s usually soft voice wrapping itself around the word makes heat pulse unexpectedly in his belly.
“God, yeah. Say it again,”
He brings his hand down hard, three times in a row. The skin of Mycroft’s arse is bright pink now, and radiating heat in waves. He scratches his nails across it.
“Fuck,” Mycroft groans, “oh, God.” He sounds wrecked already. He spreads his legs a little more, then closes them again, clearly still unsure whether he wants more or less. John decides for him with a powerful slap, the crack of connection satisfyingly loud as it precedes a breathy gasp. He leans back a little, breathing hard.
“Is this,” he says, a little unsure for the first time because fuck this is intense, “is this still OK?”
Mycroft draws in a shaky breath, and says something quietly into his arm.
“What was that?”
“More,” comes the rasping answer. John bites his lip. Jesus.
His hand is soon tingling and painful, but he can’t bring himself to stop. Every time he delivers a solid hit, Mycroft squirms in the most delicious way, and during the last few he’s begun to choke out moans quietly into the sheets. The duvet has been flung to the floor along with the pillows and Mycroft digs his fingers into the mattress, spreading his legs and rolling his hips in shivery little pushes as if he can’t help himself rutting into it.
“These last few,” says John, feeling suddenly daring, “I want you to count them for me.”
Mycroft stills, but his entire body is taut, quivering, and it’s certainly not with the cold. John pets the blood-hot skin of his arse with one warm hand, feeling a little thrill of satisfaction at the stark prints of his own hands there. He strokes and pets for a while, not giving any warning before drawing his good shoulder back and delivering a solid smack to that gorgeous reddened skin.
“One,” Mycroft chokes, then “Two, ah--” as John follows up with nothing more than a teasing flutter of his fingertips. He sucks two fingers of his free hand into his mouth to wet them, and just as he brings the other down again with a loud crack, he gently slides one cool and gentle over Mycroft’s opening.
“Three,”
It’s a bitten off moan that barely constitutes a word. He pushes the tip of his finger just slightly inwards.
Smack
“Four,”
He presses Mycroft’s legs apart and watches breathlessly as the finger slides deep. Mycroft pushes back.
Smack.
“Five, oh God,” and John’s twisting Mycroft around and pulling him up onto his lap, panting and sliding his hand back down to slip his slick fingers back in, two this time.
“Can I fuck you? Do you want me to fuck you like this?” The skin of Mycroft’s arse is scorching against his thighs; he jerks up hips upwards, the smooth head of his cock nudging cool against it.
Mycroft slides his hand up to the back of John’s neck, wrenches his head sideways and kisses him, moving as much as he can to fuck himself on John’s hand. God, yes, yes.
There’s a slightly clumsy scrabble for lube with both of them unwilling to stop kissing, but eventually John’s liberally slicked up his cock and Mycroft is growling “come on, like this” in his ear.
He teases a little, at first, grasping his cock and sliding himself smoothly up over Mycroft’s hole and marvelling at how hot he feels. Mycroft drops his head to John’s collarbone for a second, panting, before scenting along his jaw and sucking his earlobe softly.
“Are you going to fuck me, or are you going to be a filthy little tease, John?” he murmurs, breath gusting warm against John’s ear. John slides two slippery fingers in and out quickly, making the end of the sentence trail off into a soft groan.
“I’m going to be a filthy little tease,” he says, biting Mycroft’s tempting looking collarbone gently and stroking his free hand over hot, spanked skin. “And then I’m going to fuck you until you can hardly breathe.”
True to his word, he slip-slides the head of his cock back and forth until they’re both trembling with effort and arousal. When he eventually pushes in, the desperate noise Mycroft makes has him biting down on his lower lip as hard as he can to distract him from the sudden rush of heat that sweeps deliciously over him.
“Fuck--” the word is pushed out almost involuntarily, and he’s surrounded, tight and hot and sweet. He can feel the heat of Mycroft’s arse as it settles on his thighs, and everything is hot, overwhelming. Sweat beads on the back of his neck and drips down his spine as he rolls his hips upwards, sliding deeper. Mycroft spreads his legs as far as he can, mouth falling open as John slips in just a bit more.
“Until I can hardly breathe, wasn’t it? gasps Mycroft, squirming impatiently on John’s cock. John pulls him down and grinds up into him leisurely, then thrusts hard and deep once, oh, twice, before twisting them both over until Mycroft’s on his back gazing up, dark eyed and red mouthed. Gorgeous. He slides out and back in achingly slowly, leaning down to lick Mycroft’s neck. He can feel as Mycroft tightens irregularly around him as John slides over his prostate.
“Does it hurt?” he says, moving a hand down to push one long leg up and over his hip.
“Yes,” hisses Mycroft, his head falling back.
“What does it feel like now?”
“Like my nerves are on fire. Hot.Harder.”
John braces his arms on either side of Mycroft’s head and gives in to the coiling pressure that’s been spiralling inside him, the one telling him to fuck as hard as he can, as deep as he can. The headboard smacks against the wall, the only noise apart from harsh gasping breaths and the slick wet sounds of their fucking. He stays deep; short precise strokes that have Mycroft arching underneath him as he scrabbles for purchase on the sheets, each smack of his thighs against Mycroft’s arse reminding him hotly of the sting of the slap on his hand.
“Like that,” groans Mycroft, “like that; make me come.”
Oh Jesus, he hasn’t even got a hand to his cock and John can see it swelling and threading pre-come onto his belly. He thrusts in as deep as he can and circles his hips slowly; Mycroft makes a desperate noise against his mouth, and he’s tensing up, God, he’s coming like this. John lifts himself up to look down, not wanting to miss the way Mycroft’s cock jerks and spills hotly in long, thick pulses all over his sweat-slick stomach.
“Oh God,” he says, “God, that’s so fucking hot.”
His own orgasm coalesces suddenly at that, and without much warning he’s doubled over and is coming helplessly hard, unable to stop himself gasping Mycroft’s name. Mycroft is shivering beneath him, hands painfully tight on John’s ribs as they arch against one another.
His arms give out and he drops onto Mycroft’s chest, still inside him and uncaring of the mess. The pounding of Mycroft’s heart is loud and steady against his ear, coinciding with little twitching pulses of his softening cock against John’s stomach.
They lie for a long time in the dark, until they’re stuck together awkwardly and he’s sure his weight on Mycroft’s arm must be verging on painful. He’s loath to slide himself soft from Mycroft’s body – something about being inside him like this is almost unbearably intimate and he wants to bask in it for just a little longer, cocooned in warmth and the smell of their sex. He brushes his mouth against Mycroft’s collarbone, and Mycroft’s hand tightens a little where it rests cupping the back of his neck.
He could happily stay like this, but he has a sudden thought that, were he not completely fucked out, would make him stir with interest.
“Can I see?”
Mycroft hums agreeably and they squirm apart, John slipping free with a soft sigh. Mycroft turns onto his front and the sight makes John’s stomach drop.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says, half wondrous, half horrified. Horrified mostly because all he wants to do is sink his teeth in. The outlines of his fingers are there, pink and hot against pale skin, but what really makes his mouth dry is the slightly purpling bruise almost directly in the centre of one of his cheeks. It’s one of the places he struck the hardest and, oh, it’s beautiful. From the colour and size of it he thinks it’ll take about a week to fade, and the idea of Mycroft going to work and sitting in meetings with terribly boring diplomats and being unable to stop feeling where John spanked him is headily arousing. He draws in a shaky breath, helplessly hard again.
“Don’t wear any underwear this week,” he murmurs without thinking, then bites his lip and turns his head away. Shit, he shouldn’t have said that. For all that Mycroft clearly likes being pushed around a little in bed, he’s not a man to lightly order about outside of that. John really, really doesn’t want to push his luck with a man like Mycroft. He’s had the illusion of dominance, but that’s all it really is, and fuck it, Mycroft is twisting around to leave. John quietly curses his own idiocy.
The soft press of lips against his neck is unexpected; the brush of tongue on his mouth doubly so.
“If you want that,” says Mycroft, breathing into his mouth, “then you want everything.”
It’s not a question. John’s pulse gallops at his throat.
“Yes,” he hisses, and the sudden arch of Mycroft’s neck as John tugs sharply on his hair is a work of art.