One does not simply undress Mycroft Holmes.. Besides, hands under waistcoat is basically sex.
Seriously though drawing dishevelled Mycroft is my new favorite hobby. So tasty.
You have to go through six levels of security clearance before the top button comes undone. For the tie, you need to fill out a requisition form.
(via evawrites)
Greg gasps, shallow, hitching breathes; he can’t think, ever cell in his body screams at every point of contact, broken half-words fall out of his mouth, “Touch… My… fuck… My… come… fucking…need-“
He grasps at Mycroft’s hand, squirming desperately beneath him. Without warning his orgasm is ripped from him. He yells horsely as the overpowering sensations course through his body, every muscle clenching, knuckles white, clenching at the soft flesh of Mycroft’s back, his release coating his stomach.
And then everything is still.
Colours dance in front of his eyes. Every muscle and limb is deliciously heavy and languid. Breathing is still a struggle, but with all the concentration he can muster he manages to slow it a bit.
If he passed out Mycroft would never let him live it down.
He lays there, numb after what was one of the most intense orgasms of his life, brain wonderfully empty.
After a time he brings himself back to Mycroft, he cards his hands clumsily through his hair, moves one down to soothe the marks he’s made, minute tremors still running through his hands. “Jesus…”
Mycroft cannot help but grimace, partly in pain and partly with sheer overwhelming sensation, at the tightness around his now-sensitive, softening length, at the fingers making delicious lines in his back, the heightened awareness of every point at which his being and Greg’s intersects. Then his lover relaxes, practically collapses against the sheets beneath him, and My stumbles onto his elbows, panting heavily over his, still shivering off the stars from his vision, every nerve still buzzing and jangling in a terribly distracting fashion.
All too soon, he shifts slightly, lowering himself to lay mostly on Greg, embracing him loosely as he is petted. He tries to concentrate on slowing his breathing, a far more difficult practise than he’d imagined it could ever be. His hand slides lazily along the length of Greg’s side, thumb catching against his lover’s hip and circling there, a point of focus.
“I … Yeah,” He breathes, frustratingly speechless as all the little chemicals buzz in his veins in what he’d forgotten could be a highly addictive manner. His mouth, it seems, needs distraction, too, so instead of trying to find words, he smears it hotly against Greg’s throat, along his jaw, before lifting up to take his lips in a dizzied, passionate kiss.
Greg responds as best he can in kind, but carefully slows the pace, letting the kiss become less heated, less desperate, sweeter, more tender. After a time he gently pulls away, “Not as young as I used to be My,” he murmurs into the small space between them.
He continues to run his hands along Mycroft’s body, mentally mapping the tiny differences in this youthful body; more muscle here, more freckles there, the tiny raised scar in the small of his back no longer present.
He leans up, presses his lips against the younger man’s collar bone, “You’re so beautiful My, fucking gorgeous…like this and normally,” he brings up his hands, cradles Mycroft’s head between them, “You’re bloody perfect.”
“You’re as, if not more gorgeous now,” Mycroft murmurs, “Than you were when we first met. And how you accomplished that, I am desperate to know. Bathing in the blood of virgins, I suspect … ” His eyes had fluttered closed at those fingers on his skin, and he presses his cheek against one hand, seeking the warmth of his lover’s palm.
“Gods help me, but I love you. I hope that you never doubt how much.” He reaches a hand up to cradle one of Greg’s, turning to press a kiss into the palm before placing it back to his cheek and giving a soft sigh. “My outer shell doesn’t matter, young or old … Although, I have to admit, this whole ‘older man in my bed’ thing is rather enjoyable. I can see the attraction.” A cheeky grin curves his lips and his eyes open, sparkling mischievously down at Greg in the dimmed light of the bedroom.
Musings on miracles and the Only Ones
Everything had gone to plan.
Greg took another swig of his drink. Nothing went wrong…he still couldn’t quite believe it.
No international terrorist alerts, snipers hidden in between family members, mysterious bags left under tables, crazed ex convicts disrupting the ceremony. It’s more than he could ever had asked for. This was Sherlock ‘I can’t go outside without creating a police incident’ Holmes’s wedding…and nothing had gone disastrously wrong.
Bloody miracle really.
His eyes flick across the room, looking out for that sharp suite, ridiculous good posture, thinning hair; his Mycroft.
The next song comes on, triggering a jeer from a hoard of inebriated Yarders. His love of metal and punk may or may not have diffused somewhat into the playlist, and they were all well aware of it.
“On another world with you-” the music crashes out of the speakers. He grins behind his glass, he loves this song. Would have been an injustice not to have it, really would have.
And then he sees Mycroft, standing on the edge of the frivolities. Leaving his glass on the bar he weaves his way through the mass of bodies towards him.
“Mycroft!” He reaches for his sleeve, nods toward the amps, “Approve?”
Mycroft’s lips twist slightly as he sees Greg headed his way, chuckling under the music as his partner slips close, fingers on his arm. Save for glances and grins across the aisle, they’d not seen each other, much less spoke, and Mycroft had only been able to admire from afar as they were pulled away for photos and other accoutrements of a successful wedding.
But now, here they are, and one of Greg’s favourite songs is rumbling out of the speakers, making the younger people shout and dance and an acceptable number of elderly head for the relative quiet of the garden beyond. He nods, shaking his head in amusement at the pride on Greg’s face. Gods, but he loves when this man smiles.
“I do, though admittedly this is more your wheelhouse than mine. But more than fitting, considering … ” And he tilts his head, eyes flicking towards where Sherlock and John were sat, failing utterly to keep their hands off each other. Mycroft estimates another two minutes until one of them drags the other off somewhere, and just as well, as truly the sexual tension was practically pouring off the newlyweds. It was almost embarrassing … Almost, and just a bit dear. The thought makes him take a gulp of sherry before turning his gaze back to Greg.
“They certainly are inhabiting another world together, are they not?”
Greg laughs, “Caught in their own little bubble alright, we’re going to need to start flicking water at them to remind them we’re all still present.”
He leans against the wall, surveying the crowds, “It’s good to see them happy though, it’s about God damn time for both of them… They complete each other really don’t they?”
He stands there, brooding for several moments, considering, tapping the beat of song onto his leg with bone-deep familiarity. Then, grabbing Mycroft’s sherry, taking a swig and placing it on the windowsill, he pushes away from the wall and holds out a hand.
“Dance with me.”
“Indeed they do. As perfect a match from the first day they met as anyone could hope to make for themselves,” Mycroft nods in agreement. But he isn’t looking at his sibling and his new spouse. He considers himself just as lucky, if not more so.
” What?” Mycroft practically gulps, blinking in surprise as the glass is stolen from his hand. He bites his bottom lip in an unusual display of vulnerability - this must not be his first glass of sherry. Still, he slides his hand into Greg’s, hesitantly. “I … I must warn you, I am no good at dancing to this particular sort of music. I had ballroom dancing for several years, but even in the clubs of my misspent youth, I tended to just stand near the wall and nod my head.”
Greg suppresses a smile at Mycroft’s nervousness, instantly endeared to the rare shyness. He draws him in, already swaying to the beat.
“Ballroom lessons huh? Better equipped than me then.”
He bounces on his heels, eyes practically rolling back as the beat picks up, wrapping his fingers around Mycroft’s he pulls him into the crowd of people. “Standing and nodding your head is not an acceptable way of enjoying this, it’s plain sacrilege My.”
Linking their hands more firmly, he pulls Mycroft into a twirl. He raises his voice above the combined din of people and music, “You gotta let go My,” he near shouts, already his pumping his free arm in time, dipping and bobbing along with the song.
He turns to Mycroft, notes the awkward stance, the lack of movement. He turns to catch the other hand in his and guides him, lets Mycroft move along with him, “Space travel’s in my blood!” he shouts, unashamedly feeling 17 again.
Greg catches Mycroft a bit off guard with the twirl, and he finds himself nodding and yet biting his bottom lip, trying to follow Greg’s lead. Still, for all his observational power, as well as his musical and formal dance training, the discomfort of trying to move in a ‘relaxed’ fashion whilst surrounded by family members and youths keep him from being able to really let go and follow Greg’s lead. Instead he finds himself moving a bit more than before, perhaps, but he can’t keep from glancing from side to side, glancing down if anyone meets his gaze. His feet shuffle awkwardly, and his grip on Greg’s hand is tight.
“Seems that it’s not in mine, however,” Mycroft says loudly, leaning towards him and smiling apologetically. “You are far better at this, I’m afraid.”
(Source: mystradedoodles)
Musings on miracles and the Only Ones
Everything had gone to plan.
Greg took another swig of his drink. Nothing went wrong…he still couldn’t quite believe it.
No international terrorist alerts, snipers hidden in between family members, mysterious bags left under tables, crazed ex convicts disrupting the ceremony. It’s more than he could ever had asked for. This was Sherlock ‘I can’t go outside without creating a police incident’ Holmes’s wedding…and nothing had gone disastrously wrong.
Bloody miracle really.
His eyes flick across the room, looking out for that sharp suite, ridiculous good posture, thinning hair; his Mycroft.
The next song comes on, triggering a jeer from a hoard of inebriated Yarders. His love of metal and punk may or may not have diffused somewhat into the playlist, and they were all well aware of it.
“On another world with you-” the music crashes out of the speakers. He grins behind his glass, he loves this song. Would have been an injustice not to have it, really would have.
And then he sees Mycroft, standing on the edge of the frivolities. Leaving his glass on the bar he weaves his way through the mass of bodies towards him.
“Mycroft!” He reaches for his sleeve, nods toward the amps, “Approve?”
Mycroft’s lips twist slightly as he sees Greg headed his way, chuckling under the music as his partner slips close, fingers on his arm. Save for glances and grins across the aisle, they’d not seen each other, much less spoke, and Mycroft had only been able to admire from afar as they were pulled away for photos and other accoutrements of a successful wedding.
But now, here they are, and one of Greg’s favourite songs is rumbling out of the speakers, making the younger people shout and dance and an acceptable number of elderly head for the relative quiet of the garden beyond. He nods, shaking his head in amusement at the pride on Greg’s face. Gods, but he loves when this man smiles.
“I do, though admittedly this is more your wheelhouse than mine. But more than fitting, considering … ” And he tilts his head, eyes flicking towards where Sherlock and John were sat, failing utterly to keep their hands off each other. Mycroft estimates another two minutes until one of them drags the other off somewhere, and just as well, as truly the sexual tension was practically pouring off the newlyweds. It was almost embarrassing … Almost, and just a bit dear. The thought makes him take a gulp of sherry before turning his gaze back to Greg.
“They certainly are inhabiting another world together, are they not?”
Greg laughs, “Caught in their own little bubble alright, we’re going to need to start flicking water at them to remind them we’re all still present.”
He leans against the wall, surveying the crowds, “It’s good to see them happy though, it’s about God damn time for both of them… They complete each other really don’t they?”
He stands there, brooding for several moments, considering, tapping the beat of song onto his leg with bone-deep familiarity. Then, grabbing Mycroft’s sherry, taking a swig and placing it on the windowsill, he pushes away from the wall and holds out a hand.
“Dance with me.”
“Indeed they do. As perfect a match from the first day they met as anyone could hope to make for themselves,” Mycroft nods in agreement. But he isn’t looking at his sibling and his new spouse. He considers himself just as lucky, if not more so.
” What?” Mycroft practically gulps, blinking in surprise as the glass is stolen from his hand. He bites his bottom lip in an unusual display of vulnerability - this must not be his first glass of sherry. Still, he slides his hand into Greg’s, hesitantly. “I … I must warn you, I am no good at dancing to this particular sort of music. I had ballroom dancing for several years, but even in the clubs of my misspent youth, I tended to just stand near the wall and nod my head.”
In laws.
For one of the first times all day John left Sherlock’s side to ‘mingle’, as they called it. It was his wedding day after all, and he’d left Sherlock getting his hair ruffled by Harry. Ha, deal with John’s whole childhood, he grinned…
“With your permission, then, certainly,” The elder Holmes chuckled, nodding in mock gratitude. “In the rush of ceremony, I’m afraid I have not yet been able to tender my congratulations. Welcome to the family, John.” He offered his hand, his face suddenly open and earnestly sincere. Truly, if anyone was a welcome asset to the Holmeses, it was this man. Mycroft was in a better position to know it than any other member of his family, and he would - and had already, if he was honest - gladly affirm that to any doubting aunt, cousin or otherwise.
John smiled widely and shook his hand with a firm military grasp. “Oh er, thank you.” He said, pleased. “Not everyone’s opinion, Auntie..I don’t know her name, big fluffy coat and feathers, doesn’t seem to keen. Sherlock called her a hag.” He snorted laughter, looking down to his drink; stance more childish than of a newlywed soldier.
“Ah, yes, well,” Mycroft nodded, knowing just to whom John was referring. “I believe my brother’s assessment more than usually apt. She’s a right old bat, and even our mother cannot stand her, sisters though they might be. But she left straight away after the ceremony, so she can no longer rain on your parade, as they say.” He grinned smugly at the fact, quite certain that the remaining members of their clan were all just as relieved as he that she was well out of the picture. “Otherwise, she’d be spending half the time making overly loud comments the decorations, but meaning each as thinly veiled, rude observations if everyone around her.”
In laws.
For one of the first times all day John left Sherlock’s side to ‘mingle’, as they called it. It was his wedding day after all, and he’d left Sherlock getting his hair ruffled by Harry. Ha, deal with John’s whole childhood, he grinned and kissed his cheek before getting up and…
Mycroft’s eyebrow lifted inquisitively, and he lifted his glass of sherry in acknowledgement as his brother’s new spouse approached. “Dr. Holmes,” He welcomed him, his mouth quirking in amusement at the slight change of his normal address to John. “Doesn’t have quite the same ring, but perhaps that is for the better … Tell me, Brother John, were you not interested in the hyphenate?I tell you, quite honestly, I held a secret hope I would be able to call my younger sibling ‘Mr. Watson’ that has left me quite dissatisfied at the whole situation. In fact, I may call him that at any rate. Just fair warning.”
John smiled and have him a nod, sipping champagne. “I haven’t had this much champagne in my life, never mind just in one night..” He chuckled and shrugged slightly. “Maybe. I didn’t mind either way, and he seems to like this arrangement. Makes him happy. Maybe hyphenated seemed too long winded?..I know a lot of my patients who’ll be keeping with Doctor Watson at least ‘til it sinks in.” He carried on, looking to Mycroft.”Feel free to call him whatever the hell you like.” He said with a small laugh. “I do.”
“With your permission, then, certainly,” The elder Holmes chuckled, nodding in mock gratitude. “In the rush of ceremony, I’m afraid I have not yet been able to tender my congratulations. Welcome to the family, John.” He offered his hand, his face suddenly open and earnestly sincere. Truly, if anyone was a welcome asset to the Holmeses, it was this man. Mycroft was in a better position to know it than any other member of his family, and he would - and had already, if he was honest - gladly affirm that to any doubting aunt, cousin or otherwise.
In laws.
For one of the first times all day John left Sherlock’s side to ‘mingle’, as they called it. It was his wedding day after all, and he’d left Sherlock getting his hair ruffled by Harry. Ha, deal with John’s whole childhood, he grinned and kissed his cheek before getting up and strolling to Mycroft. It was only polite.
Mycroft’s eyebrow lifted inquisitively, and he lifted his glass of sherry in acknowledgement as his brother’s new spouse approached. “Dr. Holmes,” He welcomed him, his mouth quirking in amusement at the slight change of his normal address to John. “Doesn’t have quite the same ring, but perhaps that is for the better … Tell me, Brother John, were you not interested in the hyphenate?I tell you, quite honestly, I held a secret hope I would be able to call my younger sibling ‘Mr. Watson’ that has left me quite dissatisfied at the whole situation. In fact, I may call him that at any rate. Just fair warning.”
Greg lets out a loud, nearly animalistic shout as Mycroft pushes his way in. The feeling becomes almost overwhelming, conscious thought driven away by primal sensations, pleasure, pain, lust…mixing to a near unbearable level.
But he wouldn’t have it any different for the world.
He stays still a moment, gasping shallowly, letting his body adjust, he focuses on Mycroft, on his harsh breathing, the heat rolling off his body in waves. Hooking a leg over Mycroft’s hip he draws him closer, “Yes, yes, yes-” he pants like a mantra, breath hot against Mycroft’s ear. He leans back, exposing his neck, and begins rolling his hips.
The baring of that neck is an irresistible invitation, and Mycroft skates his teeth across it before biting gently and sucking at the join of neck to shoulder, moaning against skin. His thrusts are slow at first, as gentle as he can be in his wound-up state. It doesn’t last very long, however, and he lifts up to stare into Greg’s eyes, mouth slack and panting as he begins to truly fuck him in earnest. One hand reaches back to encourage his lover’s leg even higher before gripping Greg’s hip for leverage. Still, this isn’t even close to the pace he had promised, and his lips curl into an open grin as his hips snap a little more, pushing him deeper and harder.
“I’d turn you over … do you even harder … h-harder than I ever could … like this … ” He breathes, eyes half-lidded and blown dark with lust, “But I want t- … to see your face … want to see you … when I make you fucking come … ”
Greg lets out something between a choke and a moan, a sound so utterly wanton and broken, if he wasn’t so far gone he’d feel completely humiliated. He begins to grind down in time with Mycroft’s thrusts urging him deeper, faster.
He growls, moving a hand down to grip Mycroft’s arse, pulling him closer. His breath becomes uneven and ragged, overwhelming feelings of pleasure, of being possessed blinding out any previous discomfort. He wants it rough, real, the way they never usually can because they can’t risk the their superiors or colleagues seeing the marks. Today is the exception though. And he knows My is capable of more. He bites down hard on Mycroft’s shoulder trying to draw a reaction, push him over the edge, force the generally repressed and controlled man to just let go completely.
My’s restraint was already dissolving rapidly, and it is proof of how well Greg could read him, even in this form, that those teeth on his shoulder break his resolve completely. A sound, half-moan and half-growl erupts from him, his hips gaining speed and leaving accuracy and tenderness far behind. Raising up, his hand scrabbles for Greg’s leg, slinging it up over his shoulder and then wraps around that thigh to hold him there as he leans in, practically folding him in half under the punishing snap of his hips. But oh, the angle is sharper, and so much deeper, and the slick, hard, wet sound of their joining is absolutely, deliciously obscene.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Mycroft moans, his nails digging into tender skin of hip, thigh. Every end of every nerve seems to scream for more, and for once, My gives in to it, is indeed eager to let his instinct run wild. “Greg! Oh, fuck, Greg … ” His voice, what he can find of it, is full of need, and his slide shut, rolling back in his head at the sheer overwhelming wave of sensation. Much more of this and, with little regard for his partner, Mycroft would be succumbing to the end far faster than he should want. And yet, it is all too amazing to try and rein himself in as he attempts to screw Gregory completely through the mattress.
Greg grinds down in earnest with each one of Mycroft’s thrusts. This is exactly what he wanted, and it feels bloody fantastic. He feels every minute change of angle, every time a few more millimetres are breached intensely, pain and pleasure have produced something incredibly overpowering, reducing him to little more than instinct and want.
“My, My, fucking bloody hell-” He throws his head back, mouth hanging open as Mycroft’s angle changes, and with every movement is now making contact with his prostrate. Greg screws up his eyes against the onslaught of sensation, dots of light playing over his retina. He reaches down and grabs his cock roughly in his hand, eyes snapping open as he does so, a broken keen leaving his mouth. He near sobs as he begins to pump his hand in time, minute tremors running through his body. He’s so close, so so close…
There are far too many chemicals flooding his system, urging him on, and an overwhelming amount of stimuli, especially as Gregory tightens around him in response to stroking himself. Mycroft leans in close, his eyes locking with Greg’s, his mouth open and huffing brokenly above his lover’s as he absolutely lets go. Any plans to draw this out have long since gone out the window, and all My can hear is his blood thrumming in his ears, Close,close,close,close,now,now,nownownow…
It is only seconds, a harsh release of breath later, that he comes, his fingers digging in hard enough that there will undoubtably be bruises on Greg’s hips. His own hips are a stuttering, vicious blur, still pumping furiously for a few seconds until his muscles succumb to the intense wash of orgasm. Even then, though they slow, he is unable to keep from pulsing hard and deep every now and again as he spends himself into his lover. Indeed, it feels like he simply keeps coming, pulse after pulse, until Mycroft feels his vision blur. Finally he can give no more, and he is panting desperately as his body shudders to a near halt. Not yet soft, he raises a shaky hand, pumping sharply into Greg as he wraps his fingers around Greg’s own, rasping hotly, “Fucking come, Gregory … Do it … Come on, love … ”
Greg gasps, shallow, hitching breathes; he can’t think, ever cell in his body screams at every point of contact, broken half-words fall out of his mouth, “Touch… My… fuck… My… come… fucking…need-“
He grasps at Mycroft’s hand, squirming desperately beneath him. Without warning his orgasm is ripped from him. He yells horsely as the overpowering sensations course through his body, every muscle clenching, knuckles white, clenching at the soft flesh of Mycroft’s back, his release coating his stomach.
And then everything is still.
Colours dance in front of his eyes. Every muscle and limb is deliciously heavy and languid. Breathing is still a struggle, but with all the concentration he can muster he manages to slow it a bit.
If he passed out Mycroft would never let him live it down.
He lays there, numb after what was one of the most intense orgasms of his life, brain wonderfully empty.
After a time he brings himself back to Mycroft, he cards his hands clumsily through his hair, moves one down to soothe the marks he’s made, minute tremors still running through his hands. “Jesus…”
Mycroft cannot help but grimace, partly in pain and partly with sheer overwhelming sensation, at the tightness around his now-sensitive, softening length, at the fingers making delicious lines in his back, the heightened awareness of every point at which his being and Greg’s intersects. Then his lover relaxes, practically collapses against the sheets beneath him, and My stumbles onto his elbows, panting heavily over his, still shivering off the stars from his vision, every nerve still buzzing and jangling in a terribly distracting fashion.
All too soon, he shifts slightly, lowering himself to lay mostly on Greg, embracing him loosely as he is petted. He tries to concentrate on slowing his breathing, a far more difficult practise than he’d imagined it could ever be. His hand slides lazily along the length of Greg’s side, thumb catching against his lover’s hip and circling there, a point of focus.
“I … Yeah,” He breathes, frustratingly speechless as all the little chemicals buzz in his veins in what he’d forgotten could be a highly addictive manner. His mouth, it seems, needs distraction, too, so instead of trying to find words, he smears it hotly against Greg’s throat, along his jaw, before lifting up to take his lips in a dizzied, passionate kiss.
