| Sherlock: "A Quiet Evening In" (Mycroft/Sherlock)
||[Jan. 30th, 2011|04:12 pm]
Title: A Quiet Evening In
Word count: 1619
Warnings: Animal play
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock have complementary kinks.
Permanent link: "A Quiet Evening In" on AO3
There was a muffled thump, and Mycroft's eyes darted upwards an instant before he identified the sound: the log crackling in the hearth had burnt through and a part of it had fallen against the grate. Mycroft watched the flames a minute longer and then returned his gaze to the page he'd been reading.
He smiled slightly. Mycroft was never unaware of the appearance he projected, and that was as true now as when he was meeting with the prime minister. This awareness often brought him satisfaction, but rarely true pleasure; yet he was pleased with how he looked in this room. A well-dressed Englishman relaxing after a hard day's work in a tasteful sitting room: he might have stepped out of a magazine...or a lithograph.
Only two things spoiled the picture. The first was that Mycroft's head was bent over a novel rather than a newspaper. He rarely got the chance to relax. While he never regretted the sacrifices he made for his country, in this one small haven, he could allow himself to prevent work from intruding. The second was that, rather than the more traditional dog at his feet, Mycroft instead had a cat sharing his sofa.
Sherlock was a warm, heavy weight in his lap, and Mycroft stroked his back, with occasional detours to rub the top of his head or the nape of his neck or behind his ears. It was soothing...and not just for Sherlock, who went boneless and purring at the touch. Mycroft could feel the day's tension flowing away with each stroke and pat.
Sometimes this was all they did: simply shared a comfortable evening together in front of the fire, and then Sherlock went home to his flat with a rare peace in his eyes and Mycroft went to bed and invariably slept a full six hours without waking once in the night.
Mycroft rubbed the top of Sherlock's head again, then stroked firmly along his jawline and the soft edge of his throat. He rubbed under his chin, and Sherlock pulled away just enough to nip his fingers. Mycroft sucked in a quick breath and left his hand suspended in mid-air. Sherlock nipped again, gnawing gently at his fingertips, then darted his tongue across two fingers before biting once more.
When he nuzzled against the placket of Mycroft's trousers, Mycroft didn't hesitate to unbutton and unzip himself. Sherlock nosed curiously at the gap, hindering Mycroft in his efforts to slide his pants down enough to expose his hard cock, but Mycroft simply pushed his head away with a quick, gentle hand and had himself arranged momentarily.
Sherlock took no affront at the rebuking nudge, his entire focus on Mycroft's erection. It might have been an unnerving look--very like a cat stalking small prey--but for the fact that they'd done this so many times before that all Mycroft could feel was anticipation.
"Kitty likes his cream," Mycroft thought, as he often did at this juncture, but would never dream of saying. Some things were simply too cliched for words.
Sherlock did like it, though; that much would be obvious even to a lesser observer than Mycroft. He lapped at Mycroft's erection with a quick, clever tongue, his eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure. No sucking--adult cats didn't suck, so neither did Sherlock--but having his cock licked for upwards of a quarter of an hour was just the sort of pleasurable torture that Mycroft most preferred.
Mycroft settled himself more comfortably against the sofa back and placed a hand on Sherlock's head. Sherlock blinked his eyes lazily, but otherwise didn't respond to the touch, his tongue still busily darting out to lick along the shaft and head, to slide carefully along the slit in order to chase the taste of precome welling at the head of Mycroft's erection. Occasionally he made a purring sort of growl in the back of his throat, which never failed to make pleasure spike through Mycroft's belly.
Mycroft didn't bother making himself hold out for more than ten minutes or so; it had been a...not an easy week, but a less difficult one, and he adjudged that Sherlock had less need to lose himself than he sometimes did. Accordingly, Mycroft felt no compunctions about wrapping a hand around the base of his erection, fingers bumping up against Sherlock's chin as he masturbated himself. Sherlock obligingly shifted his attention upwards to give Mycroft room. Mycroft didn't bother warning him when he was about to come--a cat would never understand a verbal warning, no matter how kindly given--so it caught Sherlock unawares, a decent portion of the ejaculate striping his cheek.
Sherlock drew back with an affronted air and swiped a paw across his face. Mycroft couldn't help but smile at the gesture; it was so quintessentially Sherlock--both cat and man.
Under ordinary circumstances, Sherlock would have bristled at the fond smile, would have yelled at Mycroft and stomped away in a childish huff. Now, perfectly in character, he merely slanted a disinterested gaze at him.
Mycroft's smile softened further and he reached out to play with Sherlock's curly hair and to rub behind his ears.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed with pleasure, and he butted his head up against Mycroft's fingers. He had nothing like Mycroft's patience, however--especially not in these sorts of circumstances--so it was hardly a surprise when, half a minute later, he ducked away from Mycroft's hand and rolled onto his back, stretched over Mycroft's lap with long, lithe grace.
Mycroft couldn't help patting the soft, flat belly that Sherlock displayed for him so trustingly, while Sherlock squirmed with impatient need. And Sherlock took it, his desires temporarily Mycroft's alone to fulfill--or not to fulfill--and Mycroft felt his breath catch at Sherlock's reliance upon him. Mycroft wasn't a cruel master, however; long before he wanted to stop what he was doing, he gave in to Sherlock's silent importunities and wrapped his hand around his straining erection.
He wondered sometimes if Sherlock was as silent in bed when he was a man as when he was a cat, but he'd long since resigned himself to never knowing the answer. Sherlock had next to no interest in him--sexual or otherwise--but for on these rare, precious evenings when they could both drop their usual roles and assume new ones. Mycroft, to his regret, could not say the same, but he had no option other than to follow Sherlock's lead. (Or, more precisely, he had options: he could coerce or seduce his brother into expanding their intimacies into the world outside this secret sitting room; he could place video cameras in his flat; he could hide bugs in the buttons of Sherlock's suits. But he refused to do any of those things, and so Sherlock would always remain, at least in part, unattainable and unknowable.)
Sherlock blinked at him, obviously noting Mycroft's brief moment of inattention, and Mycroft reapplied himself to memorizing every nuance of the Sherlock who was here now, gloriously real under his hands, rather than wasting time in regretting the Sherlock he could never have.
Sherlock's cock emitted a pulse of precome, and Mycroft swiped his left thumb over it and then put the thumb in his mouth, sucking the taste off even as his other hand continued its steady stroking motion. He'd never sucked Sherlock's cock, and likely never would, but this was a reasonable approximation.
Sherlock was sweating lightly, his breath erratic and his eyes almost dazed-looking. Mycroft wanted to keep him balanced on this edge for hours, to reduce Sherlock's entire world to Mycroft's hands on his skin and to the desperate desire for a release that only Mycroft could grant. The last time he'd pushed the boundaries of their interaction, however, and drawn out the pleasure beyond the time that Sherlock's expression had said was reasonable--not for hours; only for about twenty minutes--Sherlock hadn't returned to him for five months. He wouldn't make the same mistake again.
So Mycroft stroked his left hand along Sherlock's side, cataloguing as much of him as he could even as his other hand sped up slightly to find the rhythm Sherlock most preferred. There was a tightness around Sherlock's eyes, and he swallowed hard several times, as though to choke back a moan.
Mycroft watched greedily as Sherlock did his best to restrain himself, and then even more greedily as Sherlock lost his inner battle and fell apart under Mycroft's hands, his entire body tensing as he came in two long spurts and then loosening all at once so that he went boneless in Mycroft's lap, trembling and breathing harshly.
Mycroft wiped his wet hand fastidiously on the couch--the maid who cleaned up after his evenings in was exceptionally well-paid--and then replaced his hand on Sherlock's stomach so that he could stroke him soothingly. It wouldn't be long now before Sherlock pulled away and withdrew to the discreet screen in the far corner of the room, where he would clean himself, redress, and emerge with a deliberately blank expression on his face, by which point Mycroft would have pulled himself together, as well. He would extend his right hand to Mycroft, and the two of them would shake hands: the only time they ever did so was in this room.
It was necessary for him to do so; they couldn't spend their entire lives in this room, however much Mycroft might occasionally wish it. In the meantime, however, Sherlock was sprawled warmly in Mycroft's lap, welcoming his touch. The look in his eyes might even have been affection, though, of course, that was always impossible to tell in cats.
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