Sherlock lies on the king-sized bed, as naked as the day as he was born. His palm rests on the gentle swell of the once flat planes of his abdomen, searching for the subtle fetal flutters within.
God, he should despise being in such a state, but he is beyond grateful.
He spends his days wandering about in Mycroft’s house – sans clothes. He cannot bear the sensation of fabric on skin these days – regardless of the quality of the material. His transport is transforming; it is adapting to suit the needs of the kit growing within; he hardly recognizes himself when he catches a glimpse of his body in a mirror.
It is amazing that Mummy hasn’t come storming down to London to drag his arse back to the boring manor in the equally boring English countryside. There is still a month to go before the preplanned betrothal and bonding ceremony to Dr. John Watson – and no one, besides his brother and himself, knows about his current status:
Bonded and gravid.
Mycroft had talked to Mummy on the phone; he had cunningly told her that he would look after his wayward little brother and keep him out of trouble till the celebrations – and Mummy had been grateful.
If only she knew what Mycroft meant by keeping him out of trouble.
Mummy trusts Mycroft for some odd reason he cannot fathom.
His fingers unconsciously brush against his bond bite. His phone vibrates, and he looks at the text.
Heading home. I bought you what you asked for. MH
I can only hope I will be well-compensated in return. MH
Alphas… Sherlock sighs – only one thing on their simple minds.
But, he doesn’t mind it at all from his big brother.
No, he needs it.
Mental images of last night flash in his head – such as his alpha’s cock spearing him wide open – these simple sensory memories are more than enough to get his prick hard and his cloaca dripping in need.
His brother walks in, bearing a box of those decadent doughnuts that Sherlock had been craving since the wee hours of the morning. Sherlock extends a lazy arm towards the treats and demands, “Gimme!”
Mycroft tuts, but the box finds itself in Sherlock’s hands anyways. “I suppose it is absolutely useless to tell you not to eat on the bed, brother mine?”
Sherlock doesn’t even bother to dignify Mycroft’s question with an answer. His fingers eagerly open up the white cardboard box and indiscriminately pick up a plump specimen of fried deliciousness. The powdered sugar goes everywhere as he bites messily into it; scattering the white powder all over his torso and onto the quilt of the bed. The succulent and sweet strawberry jam oozes slowly down his chin, and onto his neck. After taking a few more calculated bites, he notices Mycroft is still just simply standing at the foot of the bed.
His brother is watching him with the same hungry gaze that Sherlock had been directing at his treats.
When his eyes meet Mycroft’s blue ones, it breaks the trance that his brother seemed to have fallen into.
“God, brother mine – you look obscene…” Mycroft’s voice is hoarse; his fingers move to divest himself of his usual three-piece suit as quickly as he could.
“You did this!” Sherlock looks at him accusingly – gesturing to – well – perhaps the entire scene. He isn’t quite sure what wrongdoing he is accusing his brother of committing but blaming everything on him seems like a good place to start.
His brother climbs into bed after discarding his shirt and straddles him. Sherlock shudders when Mycroft’s tongue licks at the sweet mess on his neck in slow, short strokes.
“Of course, I did.” Mycroft replies with a knowing whisper in his ear. The tone is completely unrepentant and masterful. “It is indeed, all my fault, little brother.” The carefully enunciated syllables do things – warm tingly things – to Sherlock’s groin.
His brother turns to take a bite of the jam-filled doughnut that remains in Sherlock’s sugar and jam stained hand. Before Sherlock could complain, Mycroft had bent down to kiss him – and he feels the morsel of doughnut that his brother had purloined enter gently into his mouth.
Sherlock chews and swallows.
“All my fault that you are growing plump with my kit.” Mycroft growls – a tad possessively.
Sherlock wants to be offended at the word ‘plump’, but he whimpers when Mycroft cups his sensitive and swollen chest area and sucks on a darkened nipple. He knows that the mammary glands are growing along with the fat deeper within the skin – but on most days they feel tender and sore.
And it is a particularly uncomfortable during a male omega’s first pregnancy – everything had to be grown from scratch.
It is actually a relief when Mycroft plays with them.
“And growing breasts to feed my kit too… mmm…” Mycroft leans over to kiss him again. “You look exquisite – like something good enough to eat.”
Sherlock sighs as Mycroft alternates his attention between tonguing the sweet residue off his body and playing with his chest. At least he doesn’t have to worry about looking unattractive during pregnancy – Mycroft seems to enjoy voraciously everything that has changed about his body in the last three months.
In fact, Sherlock is a little worried that Mycroft might want to keep him this way.
“Fuck me, big brother.” Sherlock manages.
“That is what got us into this mess from the very beginning…” Mycroft replies with a delightful mischievousness.
But his brother is already reaching over for the bottle of lubricant to supplement Sherlock’s own endogenous secretions.
The reality, as Sherlock knows perfectly well, is that he is in great danger of getting spoilt terribly by Mycroft.
“Still want it.” Sherlock’s voice comes out in a needy whine.
It isn’t long before his big brother has opened him up and has breached his needy hole with his massive alpha cock. The process does not take long – considering that they have been going at it almost daily. The pregnancy hormones and pheromones seem to induce a sense of horniness in both Mycroft and him. It feels fantastic, being fucked by his by his brother. The tense warmth deliciously spreads through his groin and abdomen.
The only thing that Sherlock misses are the knots – which tend to happen only during estrus and rarely outside of it.
But it is nice to not have to be on contraceptives for the next little while.
“More!” Sherlock demands just as a doorbell rings from somewhere far in the house – the front door.
His brother immediately freezes – clearly of two minds – either to go to the door or to finish off his omega.
Sherlock levels a glare at his alpha – Don’t you dare fucking stop!
Wisely, Mycroft resumes his motions – but there is a distracted air about him. Sherlock knows the exact reason behind his brother’s distraction when Mycroft’s phone starts ringing from his discarded trousers’ pocket somewhere on the wooden floor.
His brother has a specific ringtone for their mother – in order to give himself some time to mentally fortify his brains for whatever skirmish that lies ahead.
“Oh, dear god, it’s Mummy – isn’t it?” Sherlock gasps as Mycroft speeds up his thrusts.
“Sherlock, please kindly do not mention her while I am still in you.” Mycroft pants between the syllables.
“Never mind, keep going!” Sherlock breathes noisily, “I am so close, brother!”
There is something deliciously dirty about this; having delightfully messy sex with his brother while Mummy waits (impatiently) outside the front door. When Sherlock comes, his orgasm hits him like a brick wall and is followed by the sensation of Mycroft’s seed being ejaculated deep into his cloaca. He goes absolutely limp in his brother’s embrace.
Mycroft detaches himself from Sherlock’s limbs after a few minutes of post-coital cuddling to go fetch his phone from the ground. His brother shows his phone screen to Sherlock. It displays a video feed from the hidden camera at the front door.
It features Mummy and Dr. John Watson – dressed in his supposedly nicest clothing – standing. They are both looking more and more irritated by the minute – however.
Mycroft’s phone buzzes – and Sherlock sees the text notification from Mummy.
Myc, I know you are home! Open the door!
“Well, we both knew this day was coming, brother mine.” Sherlock says with a smidge of dark humour, as he watches Mycroft wince at Mummy’s liberal use of nickname.
“I do not think there is a diplomatic approach to this matter.” Mycroft runs his fingers through his sex-rumpled hair.
“There is going to be an awful lot of screaming…” Sherlock predicts in a grim fashion. “And, not of the pleasant kind…”
From the railings of the second-floor landing, Sherlock can see his brother approach the front door as if steeling himself for a meeting with an unpleasant dictator that he has to play nice with for the goodness of political peace. There really is not much that they could do in terms of clean up – it is either take longer and let Mummy’s temper simmer or show up disheveled to the door and – well.
Scratch that – Mummy is going to be angry anyways – so Sherlock is only clad in a luxurious white towel wrapped around his privates. Mycroft had put on his trousers and shirt and had attempted to comb his wayward hair with his fingers into some semblance of his usual neatness while heading down the stairs.
The entire look does something to Sherlock’s loins, leaving him wanting to drag Mycroft straight back into the bed.
Hang Mummy and John bloody Watson!
His brother throws open the door and exchanges pleasantries. Mummy is fighting hard not to be displeased with the wait, while Dr. Watson looks eager to see his supposed promised mate.
“We are here to fetch Sherlock for the preparations of the bonding ceremony.” Mummy finally gets to the crux of the visit. “I know how difficult he is, and I am very grateful that you have kept him out of trouble during these months, Myc. It will be a relief when he is finally bonded and bred.”
His brother almost sounds gleeful, “Well, it has been my pleasure. But… good luck getting him to leave, Mummy.”
Mummy walks into the house with her hands on her hips and her lips in a frown. “Sherlock! Come down here this instant – you naughty boy! Your alpha is here – and it is bad manners to keep him waiting!”
Sherlock snorts, which catches Mummy’s attention. There are twin gasps when both Mummy and Dr. Watson both realize what had happened over the past months, while his brother looks exasperated at the whole tableau.
Sherlock has deliberately posed in a way that shows off his bond-bite and his gravid abdomen. Also, he had made no attempt to clean up the sticky mess of doughnut that Mycroft had not licked off him, or the dried semen on his belly nor tried to tame his own hair which screams that he had just engaged in coitus within the last ten minutes.
He knows he looks absolutely debauched.
“Mycroft Holmes! How could you!” Mummy’s voice is shrill. “You knew Daddy and I signed a contract!”
Mycroft suavely grabs Dr. Watson’s wrist just before a punch could be landed.
“He was mine!” Dr. Watson’s face is currently an unattractive shade of red, bordering on purple; from anger and embarrassment – Sherlock deduces.
“This is absolutely unbelievable –“ Mummy begins to start one of her famous rants, but his brother seems to have regained control of his faculties and levels an icy-cold glare at Mummy.
Mummy is left opening and closing her mouth, but no sound comes out; she reminds Sherlock of a goldfish.
“Has it ever occurred to either of you to ask Sherlock what he wants before signing a contract?” Mycroft asks with a surprising amount of passion. “He is –“
“An omega – therefore it is our job as alphas to find a mate –“ Mummy begins to say but is immediately quelled again by another one of Mycroft’s furious looks.
“No, Mummy, it was your job to find someone that Sherlock would potentially like as a bondmate and not force him onto the first alpha that could deal with his idiosyncrasies.” Mycroft interrupts coolly.
“I would have been good to him!” Dr. Watson says – which earns him a scathing glare from Mycroft.
It is terribly amusing to see Dr. Watson wilt under his brother’s scrutiny.
“Clearly not, or he wouldn’t have asked me to be his alpha. My brother is an excellent judge of character.” Mycroft is still grabbing onto Dr. Watson’s wrist. Once again, his brother fixes his full attention at the smaller and struggling alpha – asserting his dominance. “You have a short temper Dr. Watson. I know alphas like you. Inevitably, one day when my little brother does something to rile you up, it might end up as a domestic incident. And then I would probably have to end you.” Mycroft has an evil smile on his face as he says his threatening sentence with a feigned tone of sadness. He finally drops Dr. Watson’s wrist from his grip and straightens his spine to stand at his full height. He orders, “Now, I want you both out of my house! Immediately!”
Sherlock could feel the authority oozing from his brother’s syllables – the Alpha voice. Mycroft has never used it on him – but he could see that both Mummy and Dr. Watson are visibly affected. They both stumble back out the door as Mycroft continues in that sexy dangerous tone, “And leave my pregnant omega alone, or else!”
It is music to Sherlock’s ears.
His brother slams the door after them. The hard façade that Mycroft wears as a mask drops, and it is his weary alpha and lover that climbs back up the stairs. Sherlock extends a hand which Mycroft takes reflexively. His brother tugs him closer so that he could wrap a possessive arm around Sherlock’s waist.
“Thank you, brother.” Sherlock buries his face into Mycroft’s scent gland which is located at the superior trapezius.
“No, brother – thank you for choosing me.” Mycroft presses a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “And having my kit. It is a bit more than I had ever envisioned.”
“You never considered bonding before because –“ Sherlock asks as they both slowly made their way back to the bedroom.
“Because I made that promise to you all those years ago – little brother.” Mycroft replies with raw honesty. “And, I have always wanted to be your alpha – ever since we shared your maiden heat together all those years ago.”
“Mm… My – make love to me again.” Sherlock nuzzles affectionately at the gland as he issues his demands. “And feed me another doughnut!”
“Whatever you want – brother mine…” Mycroft allows himself to be pushed down playfully onto the bed for the second round.