He’d take issue with the laugh if it wasn’t for how good this felt. He turns his face into Mycroft’s touch, lips parting as his thumb traces against it. He wants more, but perhaps it’s an effect of the drugs or the unreality of the moment that’s unfolding, but he’s almost content to take what he can get from Mycroft’s body while the elder Holmes sits back to watch.
The spell seems to break when Mycroft pulls away. It’s not so much the teasing perhaps-promise that does it, but the absence as he pulls away, and it leaves Sherlock with nothing dull the need that’s pooling within him. Patient. His hand had begun to move to replace Mycroft’s weight on him and then it registers, no touching, and he exhales a moan at the loss he can’t replace.
He looks thoroughly fucked already, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s not yet undressed. His hair is a wild mess of dark curls against the pale bedding, face uncharacteristically flushed with lips to match. His eyes track Mycroft’s every move, silently willing him faster. If he were allowed, he’d tear that suit away from him just to get him back atop him to soothe the ache.
He’s never considered his brother really attractive, at least not in the way that stirred most people’s desire. Not even when he was younger and a few stone lighter, the way he’d looked when he’d come home from Oxford; long and lean and firm. He’s not unattractive, but his appeal doesn’t emanate from his skin. It’s deeper than that. It’s how he moves, it’s in the control that he keeps close and how rare it is when he lets it go. Still, he can’t look away as his clothes come off and he folds them - ridiculous - over the chair.
It’s his voice too, he realizes now, as Mycroft praises him for being good, promises it will be worth it. Sherlock hates to be agreeable, especially for Mycroft, but if it will earn him a reward he can’t help but make an exception. Maybe next time he’ll misbehave as an experiment, to see if it will earn the opposite, a punishment. Mycroft’s asked him a question, and Sherlock can hardly formulate a response. It comes belated, stuttered in a voice that’s distracted and thick with need.
no subject
The spell seems to break when Mycroft pulls away. It’s not so much the teasing perhaps-promise that does it, but the absence as he pulls away, and it leaves Sherlock with nothing dull the need that’s pooling within him. Patient. His hand had begun to move to replace Mycroft’s weight on him and then it registers, no touching, and he exhales a moan at the loss he can’t replace.
He looks thoroughly fucked already, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s not yet undressed. His hair is a wild mess of dark curls against the pale bedding, face uncharacteristically flushed with lips to match. His eyes track Mycroft’s every move, silently willing him faster. If he were allowed, he’d tear that suit away from him just to get him back atop him to soothe the ache.
He’s never considered his brother really attractive, at least not in the way that stirred most people’s desire. Not even when he was younger and a few stone lighter, the way he’d looked when he’d come home from Oxford; long and lean and firm. He’s not unattractive, but his appeal doesn’t emanate from his skin. It’s deeper than that. It’s how he moves, it’s in the control that he keeps close and how rare it is when he lets it go. Still, he can’t look away as his clothes come off and he folds them - ridiculous - over the chair.
It’s his voice too, he realizes now, as Mycroft praises him for being good, promises it will be worth it. Sherlock hates to be agreeable, especially for Mycroft, but if it will earn him a reward he can’t help but make an exception. Maybe next time he’ll misbehave as an experiment, to see if it will earn the opposite, a punishment. Mycroft’s asked him a question, and Sherlock can hardly formulate a response. It comes belated, stuttered in a voice that’s distracted and thick with need.
“You were going to reward me…”