What had begun, for Sherlock, as a curiosity was swiftly spiraling into more. He hadn’t put much stock in sex, and even less in foreplay, in kissing, but it’s clear to him now that sex must be like every other vice in that the sensation produced varies with the quality. Low grade heroin will do the trick in a pinch but smoking it is nothing compared to the pure high of injection. This is like nothing he’s ever experienced, and it’s nothing he’d ever expected from Mycroft. It’s hard to imagine Mycroft could be this way, that a man so tightly controlled, so reserved and distant could give in so to desire.
The gentleness faded away somewhat, the almost reverent way he’d kissed and caressed his face and neck, and gives way to not roughness, but a firm hand that shifts their positions and pins him to the floor. The weight of Mycroft on him, moving against him, is unexpectedly perfect.
Then it’s gone, but that’s short lived, and soon enough he’s sent tumbling back into his unmade bed with Mycroft following him down. The warm solidity of his body is there again, on him, and there’s nothing left in Sherlock that even remotely resembles control and the position has him breathless.
He never wants this to stop, except that he wants more. He’d never really fantasized about this, but now he’s overwhelmed with just how much he wants. He wants to try absolutely everything, even things he’s already tried, wants to do it all over again to compare because even just this is good beyond words.
Mycroft’s mouth abandons his, and there’s a moan in a moment of protest, but the attention shifted to his neck and, oh, but that’s almost better. He can feel Mycroft’s breath hot against his skin, the edge of teeth as he sucks and it sends a tingle through him, a sensation he’s never felt before. His lips part in a silent gasp as his hands curl into Mycroft’s clothes; he’s afraid he’ll stop, that for whatever reason he’ll pull away and stop doing that. He barely registers his words. At first he’s aware of them only as far as they mean he’s not still biting, sucking at that place on his skin. Sherlock leans into the whisper of his lips still close, silently willing him to do it again, do it harder.
It doesn’t happen. Instead, Mycroft moves away, and the moan that escapes him is low and longing for him to come back down. The words click then at the same time that Sherlock realizes just how much effort it’s going to take to strip Mycroft’s suit away. There’s too many layers, too many buttons, and Sherlock’s attention follows them from the ones still concealed behind his tie down to the one at the fly of his trousers.
“Does it really look like I’m lying?” he hardly recognizes his own voice, low and thick with desire. His hands move to help Mycroft, but his fine motor skills have seen better days. He tries at the bottom buttons of Mycroft’s shirt, and failing, his hands slip down over the bulge at the front of his trousers. This time, feeling the evidence of what Mycroft wants doesn’t come with anger or accusations. It’s slow, like maybe he’s not sure it’s entirely alright, or perhaps that he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He’s staring and he doesn’t realize it, eyes fixed on Mycroft where he’s touching him. Without warning he stops, his hands smoothing over the fine fabric and settling on his hips and pulling him forward just enough that the weight he rested on Sherlock was something he could move his hips against. He’s eager and chasing what he wants, and he’s demanding.
no subject
The gentleness faded away somewhat, the almost reverent way he’d kissed and caressed his face and neck, and gives way to not roughness, but a firm hand that shifts their positions and pins him to the floor. The weight of Mycroft on him, moving against him, is unexpectedly perfect.
Then it’s gone, but that’s short lived, and soon enough he’s sent tumbling back into his unmade bed with Mycroft following him down. The warm solidity of his body is there again, on him, and there’s nothing left in Sherlock that even remotely resembles control and the position has him breathless.
He never wants this to stop, except that he wants more. He’d never really fantasized about this, but now he’s overwhelmed with just how much he wants. He wants to try absolutely everything, even things he’s already tried, wants to do it all over again to compare because even just this is good beyond words.
Mycroft’s mouth abandons his, and there’s a moan in a moment of protest, but the attention shifted to his neck and, oh, but that’s almost better. He can feel Mycroft’s breath hot against his skin, the edge of teeth as he sucks and it sends a tingle through him, a sensation he’s never felt before. His lips part in a silent gasp as his hands curl into Mycroft’s clothes; he’s afraid he’ll stop, that for whatever reason he’ll pull away and stop doing that. He barely registers his words. At first he’s aware of them only as far as they mean he’s not still biting, sucking at that place on his skin. Sherlock leans into the whisper of his lips still close, silently willing him to do it again, do it harder.
It doesn’t happen. Instead, Mycroft moves away, and the moan that escapes him is low and longing for him to come back down. The words click then at the same time that Sherlock realizes just how much effort it’s going to take to strip Mycroft’s suit away. There’s too many layers, too many buttons, and Sherlock’s attention follows them from the ones still concealed behind his tie down to the one at the fly of his trousers.
“Does it really look like I’m lying?” he hardly recognizes his own voice, low and thick with desire. His hands move to help Mycroft, but his fine motor skills have seen better days. He tries at the bottom buttons of Mycroft’s shirt, and failing, his hands slip down over the bulge at the front of his trousers. This time, feeling the evidence of what Mycroft wants doesn’t come with anger or accusations. It’s slow, like maybe he’s not sure it’s entirely alright, or perhaps that he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He’s staring and he doesn’t realize it, eyes fixed on Mycroft where he’s touching him. Without warning he stops, his hands smoothing over the fine fabric and settling on his hips and pulling him forward just enough that the weight he rested on Sherlock was something he could move his hips against. He’s eager and chasing what he wants, and he’s demanding.
“Hurry up with the buttons…”