@lmirandas here it is, lovely! Sorry for having to re-upload, but I’ve searched everything I can think of on my blog and can’t find the bloody thing…
Warning: this ficlet is NSFW under the cut! Even though there is enthusiastic consent on both sides, Greg is drunk, so if that’s something that is likely to trigger you, please avoid.
Mycroft does not find out about the party until it is happening. The one and only downside of never talking to your housemates, he thinks. I could have vacated the premises until this festival of raucous drunkenness had passed.
Doubtless the house will be unlivable for the next week.
He puts his noise-cancelling earphones firmly on and works for as long as possible – an essay due the following week for his political participation module. By two in the morning, however, he’s starving, and the increasingly loud thump of the bass from downstairs has given him a tight, angry headache.
Nothing on Earth would persuade me to go down there, he thinks crossly. Best to get to sleep, and hope that this headache passes by morning. He shuts his laptop with an angry snap.
He tries, and fails, to sleep. He can hear someone – or rather, two someones – next door in Hannah’s room. There is a lot of drunkenly exaggerated moaning, and – is it possible to die from giggling during sex? He wishes this unlikely fate on the girl, whoever she is, and presses his pillow over his ears.
He doesn’t have time to react when his door ricochets open, slamming back against the wall. There’s a dull thud that sounds like a kick, the door closes again, and a heavy body thumps down onto the mattress next to him with a huge, beery sigh of relief.
“Jesus Christ, I’m pissed,” mumbles someone, from behind their own hands. “Fuckin’ell. C’n hardly walk straight. Quiet in ’ere though. Jus’ need a minute of – quiet…”
The voice is strongly-accented Estuary English, and Mycroft realises with a jolt of adrenaline that the boy who’s stumbled into his bed is Lestrade, from the Social Problems module he’s been auditing alongside his own scheduled lectures.
Oh, fuck.
Improbably beautiful Gregory Lestrade – no, Greg. He’d told the lecturer to call him Greg during the first register. Mycroft squeezes his eyes closed, trying not to think about the boy’s cut-glass jaw or lively, mischievous brown eyes.
“Get out,” says Mycroft, coldly and clearly.
“Oh Jesus fucking mother of Christ fuck,” swears Lestrade, sitting up suddenly. “Fucking hell,” he adds, dizzily, letting himself fall back onto the bed again. “Christ. Fuck. Don’t. I nearly had a heart attack.”
“Yes, well, you are in my room – and my bed – entirely uninvited. Forgive me if your heart health is not my most pressing priority,” snaps Mycroft.
“God. Sorry,” mumbles Lestrade, starting to laugh. “I didn’t – didn’t know anyone was –” he puts both hands over his face and giggles uncontrollably.
“Perhaps if you could try getting out –” hisses Mycroft. Lestrade snorts slightly through his giggles. “Why are you laughing?” snaps Mycroft.
“’M’sorry, ’m’sorry, I just…” Lestrade has to pause to fight down a fresh attack of laughter.
Probably finds it ludicrous that you sleep, thinks Mycroft, pressing his lips together in the darkness. He is well used, by now, to his classmates’ view of him as something akin to an automaton. Perhaps he expected to find you in a coffin with your arms crossed over your chest.
“Just,” mumbles Lestrade,“’ve been trying to get the courage to talk to you f’r’ages an’ now I’m…in your bed…” he giggles again, but there’s an edge of nervousness to it that hadn’t been there before.
Mycroft blinks, several times. “Talk to me?” he says, blankly.
Lestrade takes a breath in the darkness. “Yeah,” he says. Mycroft can see movement; the outline of him running one hand through his long brown hair.
Talk to me? About what? Is he having trouble with his coursework?
“About – y’know. Going out, maybe.” Lestrade takes a breath. “Somewhere. Together.”
The world seems to tip slightly. Mycroft is suddenly very aware of the texture of the sheets against his skin. “Out,” he says, voice neutral.
“Yeah. Like, um.” Lestrade clears his throat. “Like…a date. If you wanted to. God, I mean, sorry, I know you might not be gay but –” he sounds panicky now.
Mycroft’s heart seems to be trying to climb out of his chest. “I am,” he says. He hadn’t meant to speak.
Shut up. Just shut up.
There’s a short silence, during which Lestrade doesn’t actually seem to be breathing. “Good. Right, I mean – not that that means – I know you still might not want to – with me –”
Mycroft has no idea what to say, and doesn’t trust his voice in any case. He bites his lip.
Lestrade turns onto his side, staring down at Mycroft. Mycroft can see the gleam of those dark eyes in the street light that filters around the edges of his curtains.
When Lestrade kisses him, Mycroft discovers that – though he hates beer – the taste of it on Lestrade’s tongue is quite divine.
It’s not Mycroft’s first kiss, but it’s the first that’s ever made him see what all the fuss is about. He lies very still, hardly daring to breathe, just in case Lestrade remembers who he’s kissing, and decides to stop.
“Mycroft,” murmurs Lestrade, and their lips brush as he speaks. “’S’this – this is – alright? Yeah?”
Mycroft curls his toes into the mattress and tries to breathe normally. “Yes,” he manages, at last, in a whisper.
Lestrade kisses him again, more deeply this time, and Mycroft has to fight back a moan of pure, disbelieving need. He feels Lestrade’s hand come to rest gently on his cheek, thumb stroking along the line of his jaw.
“Wanted to kiss you the first time I saw you in our lecture,” mumbles Lestrade, pressing his lips against the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, trailing kisses down his neck. “Y’gorgeous, y’know that? But y’not in any of my other classes, an’ you always seem really – focused…” he licks the dip at the base of Mycroft’s neck. “Like you don’t want anyone t’talk t’you. So I wasn’t sure.”
Mycroft keeps his eyes closed. Perhaps if I don’t open them, this won’t turn out to be just a dream. He’s hard, aching. “I am just –” he clears his throat, “– just auditing the lectures. Not attending seminars.”
Lestrade strokes his cheek and nibbles at his earlobe. “Yeah? What d’you study then?”
“PPE,” murmurs Mycroft. This is surreal. Lestrade is kissing my neck – no, make that collarbone, oh good lord – and we are…chatting. He feels Lestrade smile against his shoulder.
“An’ you’re takin’ extra classes. ’Course you are.”
Mycroft, viciously mocked for intelligence from age nine, turns his head away. “Yes,” he says, flatly.
“Wish I was as organised as you,” sighs Lestrade. “C’n barely seem to get all my essays in on time as it is.” In the gloom, Mycroft can see the lighter glint of his grin. “Don’t say I should go to less house parties.”
“Fewer,” murmurs Mycroft.
Lestrade laughs, and bites Mycroft’s bottom lip. “Yeah, yeah. Okay.”
Mycroft wants to run his hands inside Lestrade’s t-shirt; touch his tanned, soft skin. He lies still, unable to believe what is happening.
“Listen, are you – I know I’m hammered – this is okay, right?” asks Lestrade, and suddenly he sounds rather young and unsure. “I barged in and now – I don’t want make you uncomfortable, or –”
Mycroft tightens his hand into a fist on the mattress, squeezing his eyes closed. “I am aware that you are drunk,” he says, blankly. “Perhaps it would be best to stop, lest you regret this in the morning.”
Whatever he’d been expecting in response to that, it wasn’t that Lestrade would rest his head on his chest and start laughing again. “Regret it? Christ, Mycroft, I just hope I c’n remember it. You got a pen? I’ll write it on my hand so I see it when I wake up. ‘You kissed Mycroft Holmes. Call him, you twat.’” Lestrade’s arms sneak around Mycroft’s waist, pulling him close, onto his side.
Mycroft, uncomfortably aware that he’s hard and Lestrade is about to realise that fact, makes a slight noise of protest –
His pyjama-clad cock meets the answering hardness of Lestrade’s erection. There’s a half-moment of breathless silence between them.
“God,” groans Lestrade, on a sharp intake of breath. “Mycroft –”
“Lestrade,” whispers Mycroft, pushing gently at his shoulders. “Lestrade –” his heart is pounding, a heady, dizzy rush as strong as any alcohol or drug could be – he wants me, he wants me too –
Lestrade is kissing his neck, his jaw, his face, frantically, breathing hard –
“Lestrade,” says Mycroft incisively. “Enough.”
Lestrade freezes. “Mycroft?”
“We should – stop.”
Lestrade blinks; pulls back a little. “Yeah. Yeah – sorry, I –” he clears his throat. “Sorry.”
Mycroft’s heart squeezes in his chest. “I simply – perhaps it would be best to…postpone this.”
Lestrade nods, then looks searchingly into his eyes in the darkness. “You still think I’m going to regret this, don’t you?” He strokes his thumb along Mycroft’s cheekbone. “Regret that it’s…you.”
Mycroft twitches a half-smile. He will not remember tomorrow what I say tonight. “Perhaps.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Nonetheless. You are drunk.”
“First time I saw you in th’lecture hall, I wanted to kiss you.” After a moment, Lestrade huffs a laugh. “Well. ’F’you’d let me, I’d show you what I actually wanted to do to you.”
Mycroft’s stomach flips with arousal, and he closes his eyes. “Lestrade.”
“Want you,” murmurs Lestrade into his ear. “Want you so fucking much, Mycroft Holmes.”
Mycroft groans quietly. “Lestrade –”
“Greg,” whispers Greg, lips brushing Mycroft’s collarbone. “Call me Greg, gorgeous.” He presses his hips forward slightly, and their erections rub insistently together through layers of restrictive fabric.
Greg’s lips are at Mycroft’s nipple, now. Shocks of arousal run low in his stomach at the sensation and this is new, it’s all new, and does it always feel this good?
“Your skin,” murmurs Greg. “You feel perfect.”
Mycroft puts his hands on Greg’s shoulders, fingers bunching in handfuls of t-shirt fabric. “Gregory,” he whispers, as Greg begins to kiss his sternum, his stomach. He is blushing in the darkness, terribly aware of Greg’s proximity to his erection, edgy and afraid that he could come at any time, from any touch.
“Let me,” moans Greg. “Please. I need to.”
“Oh dear god,” mutters Mycroft. “Gregory –”
“D’you want me to stop?” says Greg, kissing Mycroft’s stomach. “I will. If you really want me to.”
Mycroft hesitates, and in that moment of hesitation, Greg giggles.
“Don’t make me stop,” he whispers to Mycroft’s hipbone. “Please.”
Mycroft cannot help a quiet huff of laughter too, and he sees the black gleam of Greg’s eyes in the darkness. “I do not wish to – take advantage,” he says, tentatively. “Of the situation. Of – you.”
“I want you,” says Greg. “So fucking much.”
Mycroft’s heart is thumping, and he is afraid that Greg might be able to hear it. “I want you too,” he says quietly.
Greg groans, and his fingers tuck under the waistband of Mycroft’s pyjama bottoms. “C’n I?”
“Yes,” manages Mycroft, throat dry. Oh god.
Clumsily, Greg pulls Mycroft’s pyjama bottoms down, pushing them towards his feet, where Mycroft kicks them off. “You’re so pale,” he says wonderingly, quietly. He runs his hand down Mycroft’s side, to his hip, kissing his stomach.
Mycroft stifles a moan as Greg takes him in his mouth, licking, tasting, and sucking by turns; flicking at the frenulum, lapping hard at the underside.
Mycroft mouths Greg’s name silently to the ceiling, eyes wide.
“Mmm,” hums Greg happily, dipping his head lower, testing how deeply he’s able to take Mycroft in.
Mycroft’s fingers wind tighter into the fabric of Greg’s t-shirt. Christ. I shall come if he continues to – I must not –
“Gregory,” he pants, stomach twisting with shame at the naked desperation in his voice. “Stop – I – stop –”
Greg pulls back immediately, hands gentle on Mycroft’s hipbones. “Gorgeous?” he asks, voice soft, blurred with concern and drink, “’re’you – you okay?”
Mycroft feels the fiery heat of his own blush spreading across his face. “I – it is – too much,” he whispers.
Greg takes a deep breath. “But it’s – it’s okay, yeah? Alright, I mean?”
“Oh god, Gregory,” murmurs Mycroft, and the tone of his voice must convey enough, because he can feel Greg smiling against his stomach.
“I want to keep going,” says Greg, and his voice is deep, full of truth and need. “I – don’t mind. If you…come. I mean – I want you to.”
Mycroft takes a gasp of air. “I – I need a moment –”
Greg’s palm is warm and comforting, curving to Mycroft’s ribs, but his voice is rough with lust. “Will you turn over for me?”
Mycroft’s heart lurches. As he turns onto his front, Greg slips a pillow under his hips, and the temptation to rut against it, to find the satisfaction of friction, is almost overwhelming. “Gregory?” he murmurs, cautiously. “What are you –?”
He feels Greg move behind him, kneeling, he thinks.
Mycroft’s stomach clenches. “Lestrade,” he says, more urgently. “I –”
The kiss at the base of his spine is reverent, almost. He can see in his mind’s eye how Gregory must be kneeling behind him, hands gentle on his hips.
“Trust me,” murmurs Greg. “Trust me – I’m not going to –” his palm soothes across Mycroft’s lower back. “Just my tongue, I swear.”
“Oh, god,” pants Mycroft. “No, you do not have to –”
Oh Christ. I want it though. I want – that. What is wrong with me?
“I know I don’t have to,” murmurs Greg, kissing Mycroft’s shoulders. He’s still fully clothed, erection brushing Mycroft’s buttocks, jeans fabric rough and teasing on the sensitive skin. “I just really fucking want to.”
Mycroft covers his face with both hands; attempts to get his breathing under control.
Greg’s kisses are moving lower again, following the line of Mycroft’s spine. Mycroft presses his throbbing cock into the pillow and stifles a groan.
Greg kisses the base of Mycroft’s spine. “Let me make you feel good.”
“Yes,” whispers Mycroft, behind his hands.
“Yeah?” asks Greg.
“Yes. I – yes,” groans Mycroft. “If you really…”
“Fuck yes.” Mycroft feels Greg grin, and then his hands are on Mycroft’s buttocks; Mycroft thrills with yes and no and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck this is happening –
Greg’s thumbs pull his cheeks gently apart. As his kisses tease lower, Mycroft feels his knees nudged further apart. The openness, the vulnerability of his position fizzes down his spine. He catches his breath short, shaking with the attempt not to simply come here and now.
When Greg licks him for the first time, he can no longer stifle the moan that has been building in his throat; he tries to stay as quiet as possible, only too aware of how easily sound travels in this house.
“Mmm,” hums Greg. “Yeah, gorgeous. Love hearing you.”
“Fuck,” whispers Mycroft, into his hands. “Oh, fuck.”
Greg’s tongue swipes and swirls, winding Mycroft higher until he shifts, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth, biting down, clinging to the pain as his only reference point in the dizzying, desperate arousal sweeping through him.
Mycroft is trembling, and he feels Greg’s hands push him slightly, urging him –
“Move for me,” whispers Greg. “Against the pillow.”
Mycroft whimpers, low in his throat. “I – I can’t. I shall –” he gasps.
“I know.” Greg licks at him slowly, deliberately. “I want you to.” His voice is full of warmth. Gently, he pushes at Mycroft’s buttocks again and this time Mycroft shifts, slightly, grinding down against the pillow –
Mycroft groans, the noise tearing itself from his throat. “I –”
Greg’s tongue is flicking at him now, flirting with an invasion that never quite comes; Mycroft bites at his own wrist, grinding down harder, panting, trying desperately not to moan –
I’m going to come, fucking this pillow while Gregory Lestrade rims me and there’s nothing I can –
“Oh Gregory – Gregory – fuck, fuck, oh fuck –” Mycroft moans and his voice is not his own, shredded, raw-sounding; he presses his eyes closed in the darkness feeling only overwhelming pleasure, thrusting, rutting, opening himself wantonly to Greg’s tongue – coming, soaking the pillow beneath him in spurts –
“Lestrade!” someone yells, and they’re banging loudly on the neighbouring door; it hits the wall as it opens, and there’s a yelp of surprise, an angry cry heard through the wall; and then Mycroft realises what’s about to happen.
“Christ, fuck,” hisses Greg; he grabs a blanket and throws it over Mycroft, and then his weight leaves the bed just as the door opens.
“Lestrade,” yells a boy.
“Jesus, what, Tom?” snaps Greg in return. “What? Fucking hell – you don’t need to scream, I’m right here.”
“’S’Lee,” slurs the boy. “Throwing up everywhere. Need you to help me get him home.”
“For fuck’s sake. For fuck’s sake,” growls Greg, and Mycroft can hear real frustration, real anger in his voice. “Gimme a minute, Tom. I’ll just be a minute.”
“No. Come on,” insists Tom, crossly. “The fuck you doing in here anyway? You got a girl in here or something?”
Greg’s laugh sounds slightly hysterical. “Fuck you Tom. Fuck you, you fucking bastard.”
“Hurry up. Twat.”
“I’m following you, alright? I’m fucking following you.” The door slams shut, and Mycroft takes a breath. He doesn’t dare move for a minute, chest rising and falling with panic and the aftermath of an absolutely blinding orgasm.
Finally, he rolls onto his back, locates and pulls on his pyjama bottoms, and wedges a chair under the doorknob. He peels off the pillowcase, throws it in the laundry and sits down on the edge of the bed, entirely unsure what to do with himself.
Gregory Lestrade just rimmed me, and now – now he’s gone.
I can never go back to Social Problems, can I, after this?
Mycroft falls back onto the bed, curls onto his side, and stares at the door. His heartbeat calms, slowly. As he slips into sleep he thinks, I don’t know if I’d rather he remembers this in the morning or not.
*
Mycroft gets up just after dawn. He picks his way through the debris downstairs and walks to the 24-hour laundrette at the end of the road. The pillowcase gets a machine of its own.
He tries to pass the time in reading for his essay, but the thoughts are hard to switch off. It is entirely possible that I can avoid him for the rest of my time at Cambridge, as long as I no longer audit any modules from the Criminology department. It is a small city, yes, but there is no reason our paths should cross again.
Once the washing machines have finished, he dries and carefully folds everything he has laundered.
He drags the bag of washing back up the street, replying to a text from his mother. He sets the laundry down outside the front door, fishing for his keys.
“Morning,” says Greg. He’s sitting on the garden wall, wearing jeans and a grey hoodie.
Mycroft’s head snaps up, and immediately he can feel a furious blush spreading across his cheeks. “Gregory,” he stammers, and curses himself for it. “I – apologies. Lestrade,” he adds, more coldly.
Greg looks at him, biting his lip. There are dark shadows under his eyes. “Nah. Greg,” he says, with a slightly uncertain smile. He looks very young in the bright morning light. “Or – Gregory. If you want.”
Mycroft looks down at the floor, then away, at the bright purple buddleia in the front garden across the street.
“I – I can’t stop or anything,” says Greg. “Just – wanted to say I’m sorry about last night. Check you’re – y’know. Okay.” He takes a deep breath, and Mycroft steals a look at him from beneath his eyelashes. “Maybe – get your mobile number? If you still want to go out sometime?”
Mycroft feels suddenly slightly dizzy. He tightens his hand around his keys, clinging to the cold, clear press of jagged metal into the centre of his palm.
“What d’you think?” asks Greg, and Mycroft realises he’s been silent for too long. He looks down, stupidly, at his phone, still in his hand.
Greg takes out his own phone and opens the call function; hands it over. Mycroft blinks, and types in his number.
“Thank you,” says Greg, with a lopsided, slightly worried smile. “Listen, Mycroft, are you sure you’re – I know it was a bit – at the end, with my mate yelling and everything –”
Mycroft looks down at the floor. “Quite well, thank you.” Then, because he knows that’s not enough, “is your – friend – the one who was ill –”
“If the hangover doesn’t kill him, I’ll do it myself,” says Greg, with grim humour.
Mycroft looks up. Greg’s face creases into a grin, and suddenly Mycroft cannot hide his own smile either.
“Listen, I’ll text you. Soon. Later. Today, I mean,” says Greg, sounding relieved. “And we’ve got Social Problems on Tuesday, ’f’course.”
Mycroft nods. His heart squeezes in his chest. “Thank you,” he says, and immediately feels stupid.
There’s a moment of hesitation, and then Greg steps just a little closer. Mycroft can hardly breathe.
“’M’glad I saw you,” says Greg, and his eyes are deep, dark brown. Tentatively, he puts his hand on Mycroft’s arm, and leans in to kiss Mycroft on the cheek. “Text you later.”
Mycroft takes a breath, and nods.
As he closes the door, he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.
This counts as later, right? Greg x
Green Violin Bow 
