He laughs, "Always so impatient, dear brother of mine." The man decidedly takes his time, savoring his moments with Sherlock squirming beneath. Mycroft decidedly likes the way he looks - leans in to brush his thumb over his lip, kiss-bruised and red and lovely. He admires him instead of bothering to debauch him even further, just continuing to let that younger man shift up against him, and he's obviously hard underneath his hips. Moreso obvious than Mycroft was at the beginning.
He's pulling away entirely after a moment. "Now, then. If you're patient, and can stay still - no touching yourself, Sherlock - then perhaps I'll give you a reward once I've finished folding my suit." Because far be it from him to waste a 6000 pound suit crumpled on the floor where it could be damaged. Instead Mycroft pulls off the bed, slowly unbuttoning one button after the other after the other - loosening his tie, pulling it off completely (oh, he could use that later) and discarding it over the top of a chair. The blazer is folded and creased to follow, then his shirt.
He's never been quite pleased with his body. Vanity had a price when you passed thirty, and skin wasn't as tight, muscles not as strong or as used as they once were. He's proud at the very least that his stomach doesn't hang quite as much, a product of running and a strict exercise routine. Mycroft slips off the shirt and folds it, stopping short of removing his belt to sneak a glance towards Sherlock, still lying there on the bed.
"You're surprisingly being very good. Trust me when I say, it will be worth it."
And then back to his belt, slipping it off to unbutton his trousers. Those follow in a crisp, clean fold to hang over the back of the chair, the blazer and suit folded on the seat. He very nearly forgets to remove his pants, the underwear gone - leaving him bare and vulnerable. "Now then. Where were we?"
no subject
He's pulling away entirely after a moment. "Now, then. If you're patient, and can stay still - no touching yourself, Sherlock - then perhaps I'll give you a reward once I've finished folding my suit." Because far be it from him to waste a 6000 pound suit crumpled on the floor where it could be damaged. Instead Mycroft pulls off the bed, slowly unbuttoning one button after the other after the other - loosening his tie, pulling it off completely (oh, he could use that later) and discarding it over the top of a chair. The blazer is folded and creased to follow, then his shirt.
He's never been quite pleased with his body. Vanity had a price when you passed thirty, and skin wasn't as tight, muscles not as strong or as used as they once were. He's proud at the very least that his stomach doesn't hang quite as much, a product of running and a strict exercise routine. Mycroft slips off the shirt and folds it, stopping short of removing his belt to sneak a glance towards Sherlock, still lying there on the bed.
"You're surprisingly being very good. Trust me when I say, it will be worth it."
And then back to his belt, slipping it off to unbutton his trousers. Those follow in a crisp, clean fold to hang over the back of the chair, the blazer and suit folded on the seat. He very nearly forgets to remove his pants, the underwear gone - leaving him bare and vulnerable. "Now then. Where were we?"