fic: close our eyes (and we make believe) (benedict/martin + mark)
Title: close our eyes (and we make believe)
Rating: nc-17
Pairing: Benedict Cumberbatch/Martin Freeman + Mark Gatiss
Word Count: ~2,500
Summary: "Ah. I wouldn't want to see John bugger Sherlock," Mark corrects, and Martin raises his eyebrows almost appreciatively, and something passes between the two of them, something that Ben's not quite privvy to, as Martin curves his free arm around Ben's waist, beneath his jacket.
"What are we promoting tonight?" Martin deadpans, knocking back the rest of his red.
"Yes, yes," Mark says, archly. "We get it. You're big movie stars, now."
"Now?" Ben echoes, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder, but he breaks, quickly, and Martin grins at him. "Another?" he asks Martin, nodding at his empty glass.
"Cheers," Martin says, with a jerk of his chin, and Mark's gaze is a little too amused as Ben slips away to the bar, and he's not gone for long, he can't have been gone for long, but when he returns, two glasses in hand, Martin and Mark are starting at each other, the silence between them heavy with -- something intangible.
"No," Mark says, without looking away from Martin. "Never."
"Alternate ending," Martin suggests, startling a genuine laugh out of Mark before he can catch himself.
"Alternate universe, maybe," he allows.
"Wrong show," Martin replies, with a quick grin that fades as he turns to Ben, stepping into his space as he takes his glass, fingers curling around Ben's on the stem. "Thanks," he murmurs, licking his lips almost absently, in a way that's so John Watson that Ben might not understand why, but he knows exactly what they're doing.
"This is tedious," he complains, quietly, ducking his chin a little, holding eye contact with Martin, who swallows, noticeably.
"I'll make it up to you later," he promises, just as softly, lifting his chin a little, and Ben clenches his teeth until he knows a muscle in his cheek jumps, and Martin breaks away to face Mark again. "Nothing?" he asks, normally.
"Nothing," Mark agrees, with a funny little smile.
"Oh, fuck you," Martin says, pleasantly, "We're both fucking gorgeous," but he can't keep a straight face.
Mark gives them slow once-overs. "Beauty is - so subjective," he murmurs.
"You wouldn't like to see me bugger Ben?" Martin asks, offended, and the corner of Mark's mouth curls slightly.
"Ah. I wouldn't want to see John bugger Sherlock," he corrects, and Martin raises his eyebrows almost appreciatively, and something passes between the two of them, something that Ben's not quite privy to, as Martin curves his free arm around Ben's waist, beneath his jacket.
*
"I thought method was beneath you," Mark teases, lightly, from the armchair.
Martin glances at Ben, then over at Mark. "Ben's beneath me, right now," he replies, and Ben pushes at his chest, pretends he wants to get up.
"No, sorry, that was terrible," he says, and Mark murmurs his agreement.
"Oh, fuck off," Martin says, amiably, as he undoes Ben's trousers.
"Wait, wait," Ben says, and Martin freezes.
"All right?" he checks, and Ben nods, and Martin relaxes a little.
"Just - where is this, timeline-wise?" he asks, and Martin blinks at him. "First season? Second?" and no, it's probably not the best timing, and yes, it probably is one of the most inane questions he could've asked, but he's an actor and Martin's got his hand down Ben's pants, so he's pretty proud that he even managed to get out something approaching proper English. Martin ducks his head and laughs into Ben's chest, and he curls a hand into the hair at the base of Martin's neck and waits.
"You," Martin says, affectionately, lifting his head, "are ridiculous." And Ben raises his eyebrows and waits, and Martin's grin grows. "Whenever you want," he replies easily, returning to divesting Ben of his trousers and pants.
"OK," Ben says, thoughtfully, as Martin settles between Ben's bare thighs, and he's been half-hard since Martin helped him unbutton his shirt, and his stomach tenses as Martin lightly touches him. "Second," he decides, and Martin makes a loose fist around Ben's dick and pumps a few times, eyes still on Ben's face as Ben fills and hardens in his grip. "Between - Baskerville and Reichenbach."
Martin blinks a few times as he mentally re-adjusts before giving a short nod. He ducks down and sucks at just the head of Ben's cock, wet heat and tongue and suction, just lightly sucking, and Ben spreads his legs a little more, helplessly.
"Have you done this? Before?" Martin asks, jerkily, as he pulls off, and Ben lifts his head; Christ, he does tend to be typecast as wan and detached, yeah, but he's not a virgin, and - oh, oh, he's asking as John, and Ben props himself up on his elbows for a moment to think and Martin kisses the inside of his thigh and lets him.
He flicks his gaze over to Mark, and he doesn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce what Mark wants, so he jerks his head in the negative, with just the right combination of vulnerability and self-consciousness and irritability to be Sherlockian (he does so hate not being an expert).
"OK. That's - that's fine," Martin says, with a believable amount of awkwardness. "It's all fine," he adds, with a lopsided smile, so helpless and fond, and Martin's John loves Benedict's Sherlock so much, and Ben's chest aches with it. "Just - talk to me, yeah?"
Ben sighs. "Obviously," he replies, tightly (it's tense and anticipatory and John's the only person who'd understand, so Martin just smiles at him, patient and lovely and perfect).
Martin swallows down as much of Ben's cock as he can, this time, and Ben gasps, "Oh!" like Sherlock would but Martin chokes in laughter and pulls off. Ben frowns at him - it was a pretty inspired choice of acting, if you ask him - and Martin leans up and over him and kisses him, quickly, apologetically, before moving back between Ben's legs.
"If you can't stay in character for at least a minute, I'm personally rescinding your BAFTAs," Mark says, then pretends to remember - "Oh." And Ben's planning on replying, he is, but Martin mouths at his balls at that exact moment, and Ben lets his head fall back onto the pillow, clutching at the sheets, but he feels a hand lift off his thigh for a moment, and he keens, helplessly, when Martin's mouth disappears briefly too.
"For Benny," Martin mutters, and he doesn't have to see, doesn't have to hear Mark's indulgent laugh to know Martin's giving him the finger, and Ben's laugh turns into a quiet gasp as Martin sucks at the head of his cock again.
"Good," Ben murmurs. "That's - that's good," and Martin moves down, until Ben's nudging the back of his throat, before bobbing his head quickly, tongue stroking the underside of Ben's cock and Ben can't help rocking up into it, just a little.
Martin wraps a hand around him as he pulls back to tongue at Ben's slit and Ben's toes curl.
"Look at that," Mark says, in mock wonder, "You've rendered him all but speechless."
Martin lifts his head to look at Ben, rutting against the mattress for a long moment, helpless and flushed, and Ben reaches down to tug Martin up and over him. He presses a thigh up against Martin, who grinds back down against him.
"You want to fuck me," Ben deduces, shifting against Martin more purposefully, and Martin hisses through his teeth, lips so close to Benedict's.
"Language," Mark pretends to scold, "This isn't HBO."
"Hear the man out," Martin snaps, without heat. Then, hesitantly, eyes scanning Ben's face, "Ben, is this - " you or Sherlock he can't quite ask.
"Both," Ben says, quiet and honest. Because, really; John wants to fuck Sherlock, and Martin wants to fuck Ben, and Sherlock and Ben are both more than amenable to that. It's quite simple.
(It's anything but simple, Christ).
"Does anyone have anything?" Martin asks, rocking against Ben's leg, and Mark laughs.
"Don't pretend you don't have a condom in your wallet," he says, amused. "And there's lotion in the bathroom, naturally."
"Naturally," Martin mocks, quietly, then -- "Oh, I'll get it. No-one move." He groans as he lifts off Ben and the bed and pads into the bathroom, and Ben turns to gaze at Mark.
Mark stares back at him, placid and all-too-knowing.
"I'm surprised you've let it get this far," Ben says, and Mark crosses his legs.
"I'd say the same to you," he says, mildly, "But I'm really not," and Ben looks away first, as Martin re-appears, clambering back on top of Ben, with a quick, open-mouthed kiss that Ben chases, tossing the condom and lotion onto the bed beside them.
Martin slicks up his fingers silently and touches his fingertips between Ben's legs, just lightly.
"All right?" he checks again, and Ben lets his legs fall open wider as Martin presses on his perineum.
"Fine," Ben says, clearing his throat, and Martin slides just a fingertip inside. "Oh, Christ," he swears, hips pushing back onto Martin's hand and up against nothing, just - just seeking, and Martin pushes in further, until Ben can feel his knuckles pressed up against his arse. "Martin," he pleads, shifting against his hand until Martin starts to move, probably a little harder than John would have dared, their first time together.
"Another finger, if you will, Martin," Mark says, sounding almost disinterested, but he shifts in his seat again as Martin hesitates. "Martin."
"Ben?" Martin checks, and Benedict nods, stomach twisting pleasantly as Martin pushes a second finger in, and there's a slick, wet noise as his fingers withdraw that has even Martin's breath catching, but he keeps moving, watching Ben's expressions (and it's too - too much, and Ben closes his eyes to it for a long moment).
"He's plenty ready," Mark says, and Ben's nodding, nodding before Mark's even finished speaking. "Help him with the condom, though, will you, Benedict?" he doesn't really ask, as Martin pulls his slippery fingers out of Ben.
Benedict sits up a little, Martin kneeling between his spread legs, and rolls the condom down his length; it's the first time he's really touched Martin, and he strokes him, curiously. Martin grabs the lotion again, and squeezes some into Ben's waiting palm. He slicks Martin up, his grip firm but slow, and Martin grabs at his knee, warningly, before kissing him, warm and open-mouthed, sucking lightly on Ben's tongue for a moment.
He lies back down, drawing his knees up, and it's so vulnerable and exposed that something catches in his throat. Martin moves forward, balancing on one hand, the other guiding himself to Ben's entrance and he pushes in, steadily, until just the head of his cock's inside Ben, stretching him open. He pulls back and pushes back in again, once, twice, and he can't pull his gaze away from the sight of himself sinking into Ben and Ben groans.
"Move," he says, churlishly, and Martin - John - grins.
"Alright, alright," he mutters, hiking one of Ben's legs up higher and bottoming out inside him. Ben sucks in a noisy breath through his nose, skin prickling under Mark's gaze, and Martin pulls out a bit again, as they find their rhythm.
Ben's cock, trapped between them, rubs against their stomachs every time they move, slicking with pre-ejaculate already, and Martin pushes into him harder, hooking an elbow under Ben's knee and changing the angle a little and --
"Oh, Christ, there," Ben gasps, legs tightening around Martin, and Martin rubs against it, relentlessly, and the base of Benedict's spine is tingling, balls drawing up tight in preparation.
"No," Mark says, firmly. "Not yet."
"I-" he says, helplessly, and he's close, so close --
"Benedict," Mark says, and it's a warning.
"You're not really the British government, you know," Martin says, breathlessly, and there's a pause, before Ben rolls his head on the pillow.
"Or - are you?" he asks, and Mark's smile is slow and so Mycroft that Ben can't help rocking up into Martin faster.
"Kinky," Martin murmurs.
"Yes," Mark agrees, dryly, "Because until now, the evening's been rather bourgeois."
Martin slows his movements, and studies Ben's face for a moment, before glancing over his shoulder at Mark. He pulls out, carefully, Ben's legs falling open, and he touches Ben's hip, lightly.
"Can you-" he breaks off, and there's a flush spreading down his neck that's not entirely a result of exertion, and Ben's interest is piqued.
"Yes," he says, prompt and answer in one, and Martin's hips are rocking, just slightly, tiny movements into the air.
"On your hands and knees?" he asks, and Ben rolls over and pushes up, and Martin stops him, with a hand to his side. "Swing 'round a bit?" he asks, voice tight, and he gently urges Ben around until he's facing Mark, and there's a flush spreading down Ben's neck, now, too.
"Oh," he says, softly.
"OK?" Martin asks, and Ben's gaze doesn't leave Mark's.
"OK," he agrees, as Martin lines himself up again, and Ben arches his back, a little wantonly, maybe, and groans as Martin pushes back in. "Yes," he hisses, surprising even himself (so full, so good). Martin grabs his hips and sets a cracking pace, balls slapping against Ben, and Ben watches Mark touch himself through his trousers.
And maybe it's the angle, the drag of Martin against his prostate; maybe it's Mark's dark gaze, fingertips just teasing himself; whatever it is, Ben's close again, toes curling, fingers twisting in the sheets.
"Mark," he whimpers, and any other time, he'd marvel at actually surprising Mark (and, judging by the brief falter behind him, Martin). "Mark, I need-"
"Touch yourself," Mark interrupts, mercifully, undoing his own fly, and Ben wraps a hand around his cock, gasping in relief, hand almost a blur between his legs.
"Oh," he gasps, "Oh," and Martin grunts and fucks him harder, fingers digging into Ben's hips, and he's jerking and coming, coming over his hand and the sheets, and Martin fucks him through it, not far behind him, coming with a groan, forehead pressed into Ben's back.
Mark pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, watching Martin still slowly rocking into Ben, and covers himself as he comes, silently.
"Sherlock," Martin breathes, into Ben's neck, "Christ, Sherlock, I love you." And oh. Oh.
Mark's gaze is hideously sympathetic, but Benedict doesn't look away. "And I, you," he says, with a stiffness that's not all Sherlock's, and Martin lifts his head, laughing.
"He would, wouldn't he?" he asks, rhetorically, "Fucking toff."
"Now, now," Mark chides, gently. "Play nice."
"I think I'm being plenty nice," Martin says, softening, but rolling against Ben just right, and his back arches, helplessly, and Martin's laughing again, but it isn't cruel.
"I'm still not convinced," Mark says, mildly, and this time, they both flip him off. He ignores them, tucking himself back into his pants.
"Fuck that," Martin says, gripping the condom and pulling out, collapsing on the bed next to Ben. "We're amazing together." Ben lazily hums his agreement, and Martin kisses his shoulder.
"Be that as it may," Mark says, and although it probably looks like his gaze is travelling from the sheets, to where Ben can already feel Martin's come between his thighs, Benedict knows he's watching the way he's pressing against Martin's side, the gentle hand Martin's running through his hair, "It's just all a bit - messy."
Rating: nc-17
Pairing: Benedict Cumberbatch/Martin Freeman + Mark Gatiss
Word Count: ~2,500
Summary: "Ah. I wouldn't want to see John bugger Sherlock," Mark corrects, and Martin raises his eyebrows almost appreciatively, and something passes between the two of them, something that Ben's not quite privvy to, as Martin curves his free arm around Ben's waist, beneath his jacket.
"What are we promoting tonight?" Martin deadpans, knocking back the rest of his red.
"Yes, yes," Mark says, archly. "We get it. You're big movie stars, now."
"Now?" Ben echoes, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder, but he breaks, quickly, and Martin grins at him. "Another?" he asks Martin, nodding at his empty glass.
"Cheers," Martin says, with a jerk of his chin, and Mark's gaze is a little too amused as Ben slips away to the bar, and he's not gone for long, he can't have been gone for long, but when he returns, two glasses in hand, Martin and Mark are starting at each other, the silence between them heavy with -- something intangible.
"No," Mark says, without looking away from Martin. "Never."
"Alternate ending," Martin suggests, startling a genuine laugh out of Mark before he can catch himself.
"Alternate universe, maybe," he allows.
"Wrong show," Martin replies, with a quick grin that fades as he turns to Ben, stepping into his space as he takes his glass, fingers curling around Ben's on the stem. "Thanks," he murmurs, licking his lips almost absently, in a way that's so John Watson that Ben might not understand why, but he knows exactly what they're doing.
"This is tedious," he complains, quietly, ducking his chin a little, holding eye contact with Martin, who swallows, noticeably.
"I'll make it up to you later," he promises, just as softly, lifting his chin a little, and Ben clenches his teeth until he knows a muscle in his cheek jumps, and Martin breaks away to face Mark again. "Nothing?" he asks, normally.
"Nothing," Mark agrees, with a funny little smile.
"Oh, fuck you," Martin says, pleasantly, "We're both fucking gorgeous," but he can't keep a straight face.
Mark gives them slow once-overs. "Beauty is - so subjective," he murmurs.
"You wouldn't like to see me bugger Ben?" Martin asks, offended, and the corner of Mark's mouth curls slightly.
"Ah. I wouldn't want to see John bugger Sherlock," he corrects, and Martin raises his eyebrows almost appreciatively, and something passes between the two of them, something that Ben's not quite privy to, as Martin curves his free arm around Ben's waist, beneath his jacket.
*
"I thought method was beneath you," Mark teases, lightly, from the armchair.
Martin glances at Ben, then over at Mark. "Ben's beneath me, right now," he replies, and Ben pushes at his chest, pretends he wants to get up.
"No, sorry, that was terrible," he says, and Mark murmurs his agreement.
"Oh, fuck off," Martin says, amiably, as he undoes Ben's trousers.
"Wait, wait," Ben says, and Martin freezes.
"All right?" he checks, and Ben nods, and Martin relaxes a little.
"Just - where is this, timeline-wise?" he asks, and Martin blinks at him. "First season? Second?" and no, it's probably not the best timing, and yes, it probably is one of the most inane questions he could've asked, but he's an actor and Martin's got his hand down Ben's pants, so he's pretty proud that he even managed to get out something approaching proper English. Martin ducks his head and laughs into Ben's chest, and he curls a hand into the hair at the base of Martin's neck and waits.
"You," Martin says, affectionately, lifting his head, "are ridiculous." And Ben raises his eyebrows and waits, and Martin's grin grows. "Whenever you want," he replies easily, returning to divesting Ben of his trousers and pants.
"OK," Ben says, thoughtfully, as Martin settles between Ben's bare thighs, and he's been half-hard since Martin helped him unbutton his shirt, and his stomach tenses as Martin lightly touches him. "Second," he decides, and Martin makes a loose fist around Ben's dick and pumps a few times, eyes still on Ben's face as Ben fills and hardens in his grip. "Between - Baskerville and Reichenbach."
Martin blinks a few times as he mentally re-adjusts before giving a short nod. He ducks down and sucks at just the head of Ben's cock, wet heat and tongue and suction, just lightly sucking, and Ben spreads his legs a little more, helplessly.
"Have you done this? Before?" Martin asks, jerkily, as he pulls off, and Ben lifts his head; Christ, he does tend to be typecast as wan and detached, yeah, but he's not a virgin, and - oh, oh, he's asking as John, and Ben props himself up on his elbows for a moment to think and Martin kisses the inside of his thigh and lets him.
He flicks his gaze over to Mark, and he doesn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce what Mark wants, so he jerks his head in the negative, with just the right combination of vulnerability and self-consciousness and irritability to be Sherlockian (he does so hate not being an expert).
"OK. That's - that's fine," Martin says, with a believable amount of awkwardness. "It's all fine," he adds, with a lopsided smile, so helpless and fond, and Martin's John loves Benedict's Sherlock so much, and Ben's chest aches with it. "Just - talk to me, yeah?"
Ben sighs. "Obviously," he replies, tightly (it's tense and anticipatory and John's the only person who'd understand, so Martin just smiles at him, patient and lovely and perfect).
Martin swallows down as much of Ben's cock as he can, this time, and Ben gasps, "Oh!" like Sherlock would but Martin chokes in laughter and pulls off. Ben frowns at him - it was a pretty inspired choice of acting, if you ask him - and Martin leans up and over him and kisses him, quickly, apologetically, before moving back between Ben's legs.
"If you can't stay in character for at least a minute, I'm personally rescinding your BAFTAs," Mark says, then pretends to remember - "Oh." And Ben's planning on replying, he is, but Martin mouths at his balls at that exact moment, and Ben lets his head fall back onto the pillow, clutching at the sheets, but he feels a hand lift off his thigh for a moment, and he keens, helplessly, when Martin's mouth disappears briefly too.
"For Benny," Martin mutters, and he doesn't have to see, doesn't have to hear Mark's indulgent laugh to know Martin's giving him the finger, and Ben's laugh turns into a quiet gasp as Martin sucks at the head of his cock again.
"Good," Ben murmurs. "That's - that's good," and Martin moves down, until Ben's nudging the back of his throat, before bobbing his head quickly, tongue stroking the underside of Ben's cock and Ben can't help rocking up into it, just a little.
Martin wraps a hand around him as he pulls back to tongue at Ben's slit and Ben's toes curl.
"Look at that," Mark says, in mock wonder, "You've rendered him all but speechless."
Martin lifts his head to look at Ben, rutting against the mattress for a long moment, helpless and flushed, and Ben reaches down to tug Martin up and over him. He presses a thigh up against Martin, who grinds back down against him.
"You want to fuck me," Ben deduces, shifting against Martin more purposefully, and Martin hisses through his teeth, lips so close to Benedict's.
"Language," Mark pretends to scold, "This isn't HBO."
"Hear the man out," Martin snaps, without heat. Then, hesitantly, eyes scanning Ben's face, "Ben, is this - " you or Sherlock he can't quite ask.
"Both," Ben says, quiet and honest. Because, really; John wants to fuck Sherlock, and Martin wants to fuck Ben, and Sherlock and Ben are both more than amenable to that. It's quite simple.
(It's anything but simple, Christ).
"Does anyone have anything?" Martin asks, rocking against Ben's leg, and Mark laughs.
"Don't pretend you don't have a condom in your wallet," he says, amused. "And there's lotion in the bathroom, naturally."
"Naturally," Martin mocks, quietly, then -- "Oh, I'll get it. No-one move." He groans as he lifts off Ben and the bed and pads into the bathroom, and Ben turns to gaze at Mark.
Mark stares back at him, placid and all-too-knowing.
"I'm surprised you've let it get this far," Ben says, and Mark crosses his legs.
"I'd say the same to you," he says, mildly, "But I'm really not," and Ben looks away first, as Martin re-appears, clambering back on top of Ben, with a quick, open-mouthed kiss that Ben chases, tossing the condom and lotion onto the bed beside them.
Martin slicks up his fingers silently and touches his fingertips between Ben's legs, just lightly.
"All right?" he checks again, and Ben lets his legs fall open wider as Martin presses on his perineum.
"Fine," Ben says, clearing his throat, and Martin slides just a fingertip inside. "Oh, Christ," he swears, hips pushing back onto Martin's hand and up against nothing, just - just seeking, and Martin pushes in further, until Ben can feel his knuckles pressed up against his arse. "Martin," he pleads, shifting against his hand until Martin starts to move, probably a little harder than John would have dared, their first time together.
"Another finger, if you will, Martin," Mark says, sounding almost disinterested, but he shifts in his seat again as Martin hesitates. "Martin."
"Ben?" Martin checks, and Benedict nods, stomach twisting pleasantly as Martin pushes a second finger in, and there's a slick, wet noise as his fingers withdraw that has even Martin's breath catching, but he keeps moving, watching Ben's expressions (and it's too - too much, and Ben closes his eyes to it for a long moment).
"He's plenty ready," Mark says, and Ben's nodding, nodding before Mark's even finished speaking. "Help him with the condom, though, will you, Benedict?" he doesn't really ask, as Martin pulls his slippery fingers out of Ben.
Benedict sits up a little, Martin kneeling between his spread legs, and rolls the condom down his length; it's the first time he's really touched Martin, and he strokes him, curiously. Martin grabs the lotion again, and squeezes some into Ben's waiting palm. He slicks Martin up, his grip firm but slow, and Martin grabs at his knee, warningly, before kissing him, warm and open-mouthed, sucking lightly on Ben's tongue for a moment.
He lies back down, drawing his knees up, and it's so vulnerable and exposed that something catches in his throat. Martin moves forward, balancing on one hand, the other guiding himself to Ben's entrance and he pushes in, steadily, until just the head of his cock's inside Ben, stretching him open. He pulls back and pushes back in again, once, twice, and he can't pull his gaze away from the sight of himself sinking into Ben and Ben groans.
"Move," he says, churlishly, and Martin - John - grins.
"Alright, alright," he mutters, hiking one of Ben's legs up higher and bottoming out inside him. Ben sucks in a noisy breath through his nose, skin prickling under Mark's gaze, and Martin pulls out a bit again, as they find their rhythm.
Ben's cock, trapped between them, rubs against their stomachs every time they move, slicking with pre-ejaculate already, and Martin pushes into him harder, hooking an elbow under Ben's knee and changing the angle a little and --
"Oh, Christ, there," Ben gasps, legs tightening around Martin, and Martin rubs against it, relentlessly, and the base of Benedict's spine is tingling, balls drawing up tight in preparation.
"No," Mark says, firmly. "Not yet."
"I-" he says, helplessly, and he's close, so close --
"Benedict," Mark says, and it's a warning.
"You're not really the British government, you know," Martin says, breathlessly, and there's a pause, before Ben rolls his head on the pillow.
"Or - are you?" he asks, and Mark's smile is slow and so Mycroft that Ben can't help rocking up into Martin faster.
"Kinky," Martin murmurs.
"Yes," Mark agrees, dryly, "Because until now, the evening's been rather bourgeois."
Martin slows his movements, and studies Ben's face for a moment, before glancing over his shoulder at Mark. He pulls out, carefully, Ben's legs falling open, and he touches Ben's hip, lightly.
"Can you-" he breaks off, and there's a flush spreading down his neck that's not entirely a result of exertion, and Ben's interest is piqued.
"Yes," he says, prompt and answer in one, and Martin's hips are rocking, just slightly, tiny movements into the air.
"On your hands and knees?" he asks, and Ben rolls over and pushes up, and Martin stops him, with a hand to his side. "Swing 'round a bit?" he asks, voice tight, and he gently urges Ben around until he's facing Mark, and there's a flush spreading down Ben's neck, now, too.
"Oh," he says, softly.
"OK?" Martin asks, and Ben's gaze doesn't leave Mark's.
"OK," he agrees, as Martin lines himself up again, and Ben arches his back, a little wantonly, maybe, and groans as Martin pushes back in. "Yes," he hisses, surprising even himself (so full, so good). Martin grabs his hips and sets a cracking pace, balls slapping against Ben, and Ben watches Mark touch himself through his trousers.
And maybe it's the angle, the drag of Martin against his prostate; maybe it's Mark's dark gaze, fingertips just teasing himself; whatever it is, Ben's close again, toes curling, fingers twisting in the sheets.
"Mark," he whimpers, and any other time, he'd marvel at actually surprising Mark (and, judging by the brief falter behind him, Martin). "Mark, I need-"
"Touch yourself," Mark interrupts, mercifully, undoing his own fly, and Ben wraps a hand around his cock, gasping in relief, hand almost a blur between his legs.
"Oh," he gasps, "Oh," and Martin grunts and fucks him harder, fingers digging into Ben's hips, and he's jerking and coming, coming over his hand and the sheets, and Martin fucks him through it, not far behind him, coming with a groan, forehead pressed into Ben's back.
Mark pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, watching Martin still slowly rocking into Ben, and covers himself as he comes, silently.
"Sherlock," Martin breathes, into Ben's neck, "Christ, Sherlock, I love you." And oh. Oh.
Mark's gaze is hideously sympathetic, but Benedict doesn't look away. "And I, you," he says, with a stiffness that's not all Sherlock's, and Martin lifts his head, laughing.
"He would, wouldn't he?" he asks, rhetorically, "Fucking toff."
"Now, now," Mark chides, gently. "Play nice."
"I think I'm being plenty nice," Martin says, softening, but rolling against Ben just right, and his back arches, helplessly, and Martin's laughing again, but it isn't cruel.
"I'm still not convinced," Mark says, mildly, and this time, they both flip him off. He ignores them, tucking himself back into his pants.
"Fuck that," Martin says, gripping the condom and pulling out, collapsing on the bed next to Ben. "We're amazing together." Ben lazily hums his agreement, and Martin kisses his shoulder.
"Be that as it may," Mark says, and although it probably looks like his gaze is travelling from the sheets, to where Ben can already feel Martin's come between his thighs, Benedict knows he's watching the way he's pressing against Martin's side, the gentle hand Martin's running through his hair, "It's just all a bit - messy."