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When Mycroft comes home after nearly three weeks away in the name of queen and country, the flat is quiet and still. Granted, it is past midnight, but Greg is something of a night-owl—Mycroft had expected to find him plunked down on the sofa watching one of those dreadful action films of which Greg was so fond, Molly asleep in his lap. Instead, there is no sign of his partners, just sterile silence.

They must be asleep, he thinks to himself. He sighs, shoulders slumping, and wends his way to their bedroom upstairs.

When he opens the bedroom door, he’s stopped in his tracks by the sight that greets him.

Molly lounges in a large chair by the fireplace, debauched and languid in a deep violet corset and stockings the color of shadows. At her feet kneels Greg, the corset encasing his torso as dark and sumptuous as hers, a band of leather circling his pretty neck. A leash dangles between Molly’s fingers, the other end lashed to Greg’s collar.

Even from this distance, Mycroft can see the hunger in Molly’s eyes, feels the echo of it sitting high and cold in his throat. He sucks in a breath, reeling under the weight of the succubus’ gaze.

Mycroft is stuck in the doorway, too much of his blood shunting to his cock for him to move, so Molly stands, unfolding herself from the chair. Firelight glints off her skin; the rest of the room is cast in shadow. She is towering and regal in a dangerous pair of heels, and her corset is cut low, leaving her breasts bare.

Mycroft watches every rise and fall of her chest as she walks toward him, Greg crawling behind her.

“Welcome home, love,” Molly purrs, pressing her body against Mycroft’s.

With the added height from her shoes, Molly only has to tilt her head to kiss Mycroft, and when she does, it nearly brings him to his knees. It's so rare they see her take charge like this—she's more at home being shy and blushing than as the wanton temptress most people imagine succubi to be—and it's stunning. Her tongue sweeps over his lips, darting inside to tease at his own when he gasps. The light from the fire glints warm and golden off the dark lacquer on her nails, as she clings to his shirt, slowly grinding her hips into his, feeling him hardening in his trousers. She draws his tongue into her mouth and sucks at it, scraping a finger over his nipple through his shirt. They kiss like that for long minutes, slow and dirty and just shy of enough, until Mycroft is the one writhing against her. Her eyes are nearly black when she pulls away, lips swollen, and Mycroft is panting where she holds him. On the floor, Greg whimpers.

"Don't worry, love, I haven't forgotten about you," Molly coos, reaching out to run a hand through Greg's hair. She steps back a bit, putting space between her and Mycroft before looking down at Greg, using the hand in his hair to tilt his face upward. "You can touch now, if you want."

On his knees, Greg shuffles between them, pressing his face against the obscene tent in Mycroft’s trousers, moaning as he nuzzles against the hard flesh hidden beneath expensive fabric. Mycroft sucks in a breath, his hands finding Greg's shoulders as he tries to steady himself, watching Greg mouth at the line of his cock.

Molly just runs a hand through Greg’s hair, stroking, gently encouraging as she watches Mycroft’s lovely trousers become soaked through from Greg's ministrations. Fingers denting the flesh of Greg's shoulders, Mycroft is a panting mess above him and very nearly screams when Greg's tongue works along his tip through the fabric.

Molly gently tugs him away, tilting his head back with a gentle admonishment of, "That's enough teasing for now, love. Why don't you show him his other surprise?”

Molly leans down, deftly unhooking the lead from Greg's collar. "Go on," she encourages, nudging him back toward the fireplace. The dark silk of his corset—blue or black, Mycroft can’t tell in the low light—shifts deliciously as he crawls, hugging his body, giving him curves where he shouldn't have them, making his arse look so much more delectable where it rounds out beneath a cinched waist. Mycroft bites his knuckle, moaning, his eyes roving over their Greg's body, watching his hips sway. Greg takes his position on all fours in front of the fire, legs spread and arse upturned, positioned so Mycroft has a perfect view of the base of the toy that Molly had filled him with.

"Gregory," Mycroft breathes, his throat gone tight at the picture Greg presents. Molly wraps herself around him from behind, reveling in the feel of the fine fabric of his suitcoat against her bare breasts.

"He's been waiting for you," she whispers, and Mycroft’s cock throbs as her lips brush against the shell of his ear. "He was such a good boy while I got him ready, and he looks so pretty...he deserves a reward, don't you think?"

"I don't know if I'd say that, my dear," says Mycroft, trying to keep his voice even. Molly arches an eyebrow at him, smelling his arousal dripping off every word. Mycroft smirks right back at her. "He is so very prone to teasing...rather a bad boy, I'd say."

"Good lips, though," she replies, smiling. She nips at Mycroft's neck and laves the mark she leaves with her tongue, licking the lust off of him. "You can't play coy with me, love. You want him, Mycroft Holmes. You want him so badly I can taste it," she moans into his skin.

Mycroft feels her breath quickening as she slides his jacket from his shoulders, leaving him in a waistcoat and trousers.

"Go on, My," she murmurs, teeth scraping over the tender spot at the curve of his jaw. He swallows hard, slowly extricating himself from Molly's embrace, taking a step toward where Greg kneels in front of the fire. Back turned to Molly, he doesn’t notice her pulling a small remote from the waistband of her knickers, but he does see Greg's body bow, hears him keen when she presses a button on it.

"F-fuck, Molls," Greg hisses, and she pushes another button, the moan she makes at the sound of Greg's choking gasp making Mycroft’s cock pulse as he crouches next to Greg.

"Careful, sweetness," she says. "Remember: noise is fine, talking isn't."

Greg nods, teeth digging into his lip, and he very nearly writhes on his hands and knees when Mycroft’s fingers brush over the toy humming in his entrance. Mycroft looks over his shoulder to see Molly grinning at him, eyes glittering. His eyebrow quirks. "A vibrator? A bit tame for the both of you, isn't it my dear?"

"It certainly would be," she says, "if all it did was vibrate."


"Oh. The first button turns on the vibration. The second does something else entirely. See for yourself." She presses the second button again, and he hears a slight hissing, Greg's body relaxing under his palm. "Here," Molly says, tossing Mycroft the remote. "You try."

Mycroft flicks the first button, silencing the buzzing coming from the plug, the sound of the breath Greg releases loud in the quiet of the room. Flicking his eyes at Molly then back at Greg, he presses the second button.

Greg sobs, his arms buckling as the toy responds to the remote’s signal, his head falling to rest on his arms. Between his legs, his cock twitches, thick and neglected. A bead of precome wells at the tip while Mycroft looks on, dumbstruck at what could cause such a reaction. He brushes a finger over the tip of the toy once more, feeling something on its base suck on the pad of his finger.

"Oh, my dear," he sighs, turning to look at Molly, who is beaming behind him, teeth sunk into her lower lip. "Is this what I think it is?' Swallowing thickly, he wraps his fingers around the plug’s flared base and gently pulls it out, until it's broad, bulbous middle stretches Greg's hole.

Held wide by the plug, Greg trembles, skin painted gold and glistening in the firelight. For a moment, Mycroft indulges in the sight of his hole gripping the toy Molly had chosen before pressing the button again and watching as it hisses out air, its girth shrinking. Greg whimpers at the change in size.

"An inflatable, vibrating anal plug," Mycroft says, smiling at Molly while rocking the toy back inside Greg. "I'm sorry to have doubted your deviousness, my dear."

She smiles back at him, her eyes smouldering, and the smile she flashes at Mycroft is sin itself. "Oh ye of little faith," she says, sinking down into her chair again, one stockinged leg slung over the arm.

Mycroft turns his attention back to Greg, slowly fucking him with the plug, pushing it deep, letting it glance off his prostate. Every motion draws a gasp, a moan from Greg, cock swollen and dark between his thighs. In her chair, Molly breathes deep, eyes fluttering shut as she revels in the taste of her lovers' arousal filling the room. Mycroft gives the plug a particularly rough thrust, and the broken moan it forces from Greg has Molly panting in delight.

"Oh, god, make him do that again--he's fucking delectable when he moans like that," she keens.

Mycroft pushes the plug deep, holds it tilted against Greg's prostate as he turns the vibration on.

"Oh—f-fuck, fuck!" Greg all but screams. On the chair behind him, Molly sprawls, the picture of decadence.

"Mmmmmm like that," she slurs. "And don't forget to punish him for talking."

"Oh ye of little faith," Mycroft quips, fingers of his free hand latching onto Greg's nipple and twisting.

The moan Greg sobs out is a shrill thing, wrecked and broken. The sound is too much for Mycroft—he tugs the toy free from Greg with one hand while the other fumbles open his own flies. Pulling his cock free, he wraps a hand around himself and strokes once, twice and lines up with Greg's slick hole.

Molly's noises grow louder as she watches them.

"Fuck, I wish you could taste yourselves," she pants, running her hands up her thighs, a finger dipping under the waistband of her knickers. "Just before you fuck him, he always tastes like lightning." Her chest heaves as she gasps for breath, nipples rosy and peaked.

Mycroft runs a steadying hand down Greg's back and pushes the thick head of his prick into the detective’s waiting body. Greg’s eyes flutter shut, and the groan Mycroft pulls from him is low and guttural—Mycroft can feel it rumble through him where his chest presses against the older man’s back.

As Mycroft sinks into Greg, Molly sinks two fingers into herself, her walls hot and wet around her. Around Mycroft, Greg trembles, teeth digging into his arm to stifle his moans, and Mycroft fists a hand in his hair, pulling his head up. "None of that, now," he croons. "You know how she likes to hear you."

Greg's mouth hangs open, a glistening O, when Mycroft bottoms out, and Molly presses her fingers deeper inside herself. He whimpers as Mycroft withdraws, leaving just the head of his cock inside before plunging back in, wrenching another moan from Greg.

He sets up a punishing pace, snapping his hips into Greg, seeking that perfect angle. When he finally finds it, Greg screams as Mycroft’s cock scrapes over his prostate, already tender and swollen from the toy. Mycroft kisses him for the sound, lips pressed to the hot skin of Greg’s shoulder. Knuckles white and fingers buried in the carpet, Greg is a shivering wreck, each push of Mycroft’s hips sending him closer to the edge.

Nearby, Molly gives a breathy moan, head fallen back on the chair as she matches them thrust for thrust, three fingers working inside her.

"God, Greg, I could live off just the sounds you make," she pants. Her eyes are dark and hooded as she watches Greg meet Mycroft’s thrusts, their bodies sweat-slick and gleaming in the firelight. With her free hand, she reaches up and plucks at the tight bud of a nipple, watching Mycroft suck a bruise onto Greg's neck. The surge of lust the leaving of that mark shoots through Greg makes her mouth water, and she moans again, long and low.

Sinking his teeth into the delicate skin of Greg's throat, Mycroft struggles to keep his pace, the hot-velvet slick of his lover’s body threatening to overwhelm him. He is usually as controlled in his lovemaking as in other areas of his life, but he knows there will be no holding back tonight, not when Molly is so hungry. He allows himself, now, to be vocal, letting his normally reserved façade crumble at the press of Greg's body around him, the feel of his skin under his hands, and his loud and long and uninhibited. Following the urging of his libido, he moves without thinking, letting his desire rule him, and abandons the plan he’d laid in his mind for Greg for something his cock tells him will be far, fart better. His grin is vulpine and predatory as he licks at the older man’s neck and slowly pulls out.

In the chair, Molly raises an eyebrow, and Greg snaps his head around, throwing his partner an exasperated, questioning look over his shoulder. Molly snickers at the images washing through from Greg's mind to hers.

"If you knew how wrecked you looked right now, you wouldn't even bother with those revenge fantasies, love," she giggles.

Mycroft makes no move to fill Greg again, instead leaning down and kissing the back of his neck.
He indulges himself and leaves a line of wet kisses down the trail of his lover’s spine, teeth tracing over tailbone.

"Delicious," Molly and Mycroft say together. Her eyes drift shut as Mycroft’s delicate fingers spread Greg's arsecheeks apart, holding him open while Mycroft delicately traces his rim with his tongue.

Greg chokes on air at the feel of Mycroft’s tongue where he’s throbbing and sensitive. His thighs tremble as he fights back words, translating his "Fucking Christ, my," into a keening inhalation, his "oh God, oh fuck," into something soft and half-sobbed, his begging "please, oh please My," into a hanging head and trembling shoulders.

"Gorgeous, Gregory," Mycroft says, breath hot and humid on Greg's sensitive skin, before pressing his tongue inside that ring of muscle.

As Mycroft tastes Greg's body with his tongue, Molly tastes their lust and adoration with hers, feeling it slide down her throat, warm and rich as a fine port. She mewls, the fingers inside her moving over her cunt, matching Mycroft’s movements with Greg. Molly feels their desire, their need for release curling high in her throat like hunger.

"Please, My," she whispers.

Mycroft raises his head from where it is pressed between Greg's thighs, eyes liquid and glittering in the low light. He smiles at her, shifting to press his cock into the cleft of Greg's ass once more.


Below him, Greg sighs as Mycroft pushes back inside him. He feels every throb of the taller man’s cock as he seats himself deep and stays there, rocking against Greg's prostate. Head cradled on his forearms, Greg presses back into Mycroft, arse high in the air as he rides him from below.

Reaching his limit, Mycroft’s pace becomes relentless now, his orgasm beginning to coil tight and hot between his legs. He pounds Greg into the carpet, the older man’s nipples rubbing on it with every snap of their hips.

Greg bites his lip hard enough to taste blood, each movement Mycroft makes into his body wrenching a cracked moan from a throat gone dry with want. He pounds a fist on the floor, pushes himself back onto Mycroft hard, and comes, keening, on the rug. Body tense and rippling around Mycroft’s cock, Greg shudders under him as he rides out his orgasm. Trembling and oversensitive, Greg can’t help but let Mycroft’s thrusts push small, breathy sounds from him. His fingers dig deeper into the carpet, knuckles gone white.

Where she perches on her chair, Molly writhes. Her fingers are a blur between her thighs, and the heel of her hand grinds against her clit. Baring her throat as her head falls back, she moans—the taste of Greg's orgasm on her tongue is sweet and syrupy as fresh honey.

"Come for us, my...fill him up," she sobs, breathless. "I wanna see him overflowing with you, wanna taste you when you come in him."

Mycroft groans, fingers digging into Greg's hips—he’d have bruises come morning—and thrusts once, twice more before coming, face buried against Greg's neck. Distantly, he is aware of the sigh Greg lets out as Mycroft empties into him.

"Oh, fuck yes, boys," Molly whimpers, the sight of Mycroft coming, of Greg still squirming beneath him enough to send her over the edge as well, and she bucks onto her fingers as she rides out her orgasm. She catches her breath and watches Mycroft pulling out of Greg, the older man reaching for his hand and twining their fingers together. Grinning, she slides off her chair, crawling to drape her arms around Mycroft’s waist. Mycroft turns his head, slanting their lips together, and for a moment he thinks he can taste the aftershocks of their orgasms on Molly’s tongue when it drags against his.

Beneath them, Greg lifts Mycroft’s hand to his lips, kisses his knuckles before easing himself up. He reaches for the towel Molly had placed nearby and wipes the mess off the carpet and his stomach then lays down, letting his body sink into the plush carpet.

Molly draws Mycroft down with her to where Greg lays, sprawled on the rug. Tugging the blanket off the ottoman, Mycroft drapes it over them as they settle together, warm and satiated. Molly hums her approval as they get comfortable, kicking off her shoes and resting her head on Greg's shoulder while Mycroft snugs up behind her, three sets of fingers lacing together on her waist. Greg kisses her temple, and she can feel him smiling at Mycroft as they lounge together in the warmth of the fire.

"Still hungry, love?" Greg mumbles, running a hand through her hair. Molly shakes her head, too full to talk. He noses along her hairline. "Next time you get hungry like that, take care of it sooner, yeah?"

"Doesn't taste right if it's not both of you," she mutters into his chest, pouting.

"We know, my dear," Mycroft soothes, chuckling a bit and running a hand over Greg's forearm. "And while this was a delightful surprise to come home to, it does seem like you waited a bit too long to eat," he says with all his usual tact.

"'M sorry," she slurs, her voice gone drowsy.

"It's all right, love. Just...try not to let it go so far next time," Greg whispers, drawing the blanket up over her shoulders and feeling her answering nod.

She gets no nourishment from this, the tenderness and affection after climax, from love. Cuddling and pillow talk and care-taking are just empty calories to her kind, things most succubi find disdainful, disgusting, emotions other than lust or sexual desire usually leaving behind a bad taste. But listening to Greg and Mycroft murmur to each other, feeling their sweat cooling even as their bodies were warm against hers, having them hold her, hold each other close after? Molly thinks that just might be the sweetest-tasting thing on earth.