Character: Mycroft Holmes
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
OC: [Name], forgiving but blunt
Inspiration: The Diogenes Club :3
Mycroft Holmes is a very busy man, with all manners of important things to do. He is, of course, very diligent when it comes to his work, as he really must be due to his high status. But even a man like him has to rest once in a while, if only to get back the strength to dominate all those around him. He doesn't do this in a conventional way, however. Perhaps that's why you eventually decide to do something about it.
Women aren't allowed in the Diogenes Club, of course, but that doesn't exactly stop you from going in anyway. It is in fact ridiculously simple to get your own way, if you know how to go about it properly. This is one facet of your personality that comes quite naturally. You merely paint on a stressful smile, give the men who stop you big doe-like eyes, and tell them that something dreadful has happened and that you very much need to speak with your husband. Your husband being none other than Mycroft Holmes. They of course let you through without a second thought, even though in actuality there is nothing at all dreadful happening at the moment, and the real reason you're here is to be utterly wicked and delightfully evil. That part (that is, making said wicked plan come to fruition) should prove to be a bit more difficult.
Mycroft doesn't like to be bothered while he is 'resting'. You've got a problem with this line of thought because of one major reason: he doesn't, under any circumstance, rest. Not in the way other people do, at least. His idea of taking a break from society's problems is to actually immerse himself in those problems, just as he's doing now.
You can see him now, from the threshold of one of the Club's extensive rooms. He is thankfully alone, and yet not. He is never free from the demons that chase him, whether they are of his own imagination or as real as the newspaper he holds in his hands. His back is rigidly straight and though you can't see his face from where you're standing, it is easy to imagine that his face is rigid, too. No matter. Soon you will make him rigid in more agreeable places, and he will thank you for it. (Once he gives in, stops being angry with you, and lets you have your way with him.)
For a very brief moment, you observe him. You take note of the cellphone laying on the shining mahogany side table. The way his fingers twitch every other moment, always ready to snatch it up. The calm but restless way his eyes skim over the contents of the paper. You wonder what he is really thinking about, other than the Sunday stock market. A moment later you get your answer.
"Ahh…the Diogenes Club," comes his voice, which at this moment is perfectly dry like a desert or a tumbling of scotch down a barren throat. He turns his head in your direction, but you're still standing behind him and so he can't catch your eye. Or see your smirk. "An engaging operation developed in the 1800s for upper class men." The words are obviously meant for you, a woman, though how he’d detected your presence baffles you.
You very nearly chuckle and give yourself away. It is quite clear what he is implying. Quite clear and extremely exciting that he'd known it had been you and not one of the other members. Not entirely shocking (his genius started to become ordinary and mediocre after the first few months of your marriage), but definitely impressive.
You press your hip against a nearby chair and cross your arms, not making any effort to walk towards him. He carefully folds the newspaper back into its original square and snaps it onto his lap, then shifts his body to the side and finally catches sight of you. His expression is still eternally rigid but there is a spark in interest and maybe even affection in the way his eyes push over yours. The corner of his mouth twitches, like he's holding back a smile. "And yet it doesn't surprise me that my headstrong wife has found a way around every single one of them," he drawls, referring to the men who should have posed a barrier, but didn't.
This time, your chuckle does spill into existence, and Mycroft's eyes darken a little bit at the sound. You allow yourself to nonchalantly have a look around, taking in all the posh leather chairs and end tables and bookshelves. And you shrug, and tell him, "Except for one." Your eyes sidle over to crash up against his and his mouth twitches again. But his expression stays firm and unchanging; a challenge.
He blinks at you as you step around the room, watching your every movement like a predator. He appears to be extremely proud and unbending, but you take little apparent notice of him. After a little while, he leans back and asks in that dry-but-curious voice, "Why did you interrupt me on my day off? There must be something appallingly wrong to bring you all the way here." It is clear, of course, that he doesn't believe for a single moment that something has gone wrong. He happens to know his wife very well and you are practically transparent to him. Everyone is. That is why he's already got a good idea as to what, exactly, has brought you here today. But he'll let you speak and maybe even act, because he enjoys your wicked and delightfully evil personality.
You're well aware of your own transparency. It certainly wouldn't take a genius to figure out your plan, and so you're not at all surprised that a genius has unraveled it. He probably knows exactly what you're wearing beneath your long trench coat, too. It's perhaps a bit cliché, but sometimes cliché is exciting. Especially in a men-only, aristocratic club, where you're technically not supposed to be.
You pass him an easy, amiable grin and stride towards his chair. "Something appalling has happened, actually," you smoothly say, reaching for the newspaper that's still in his lap. He lets you, eyes curious but vague, like he has already planned your next ten moves and is now merely waiting for them to play out. You tilt your head and catch his eye, "Once again, I find you hard at work even on your day off." You say the last two words like it's all very amusing, the idea of him having a day off. He seems to think so, too.
He leans back in his chair and knits his fingers together, raising both eyebrows. "My dear, I am the British government. Lots of people rely on me to keep the parliament…well-oiled." It's like he's speaking of the spokes of a wheel rather than a body of people. You raise your eyebrows (perhaps a little mockingly) and say in return, "Of course, Mycroft, darling. But it's my job to keep you well-oiled."
You'd very much like to have a private laugh over those words, but you refuse to do so in front of Mycroft, who is now staring at you with that twisted-corner-smile. So he has enjoyed hearing your rather witty reply, then. You think he's also a little bit transparent (all men are, in fact), when it comes to this sort of thing. When you go to untie your trench coat, Mycroft's eyes glimmer with interest even as the rest of him tries to deny its existence.
"Honestly, [Name], I'm a little surprised that you didn't come up with something more interesting. Breaking into a club in the middle of the afternoon? Rather unimpressive," he drawls, seemingly idle. But the rest of him is still rigid, his eyes flashing with every shift of the coat. And by the time said coat is on the floor, his gaze is positively ferocious and gleaming with unsaid desire. The rest of him, a blank canvas. You decide you'd like to break that canvas into tiny little irreparable pieces.
You're wearing lingerie, of a sort. It's sheer black and stretches tight over the skin of your arms. After that it's not tight at all, but rather swishy and breezy, and the sheer fabric allows for just a peek at the panties you're wearing underneath. You can tell Mycroft likes it even though he isn't giving you a clear reaction. You've learned to read him in other ways, instead. The slight twitch of his fingers, the appraising way his eyes slip over you, and those eyes -- even if the rest of him denies his attraction, he cannot hide that gaze away, which shifts with blown desire.
You send him a flirty little smile that makes his eyes flash, and stalk towards him. He doesn't do anything to stop you, even when you swing your legs around his and ease into his lap. He's warm even through the layers of his suit, and you snuggle into his chest like it's your favorite place to be.
He sighs a little in (faux) impatience, dragging his hands over your back. The fabric of your little outfit is short and layers over yours thighs, so it's easy to lift up. When he goes to splay his hands against your skin, you nestle further against him and he eases his head back, shaking it a bit. "Only you would come and bother me for something so primal." When he falls silent, you chuckle lowly and swing your head up to look at him.
"Don't try denying it, Mycroft. You like this." He glances down at you with dry, raised eyebrows and you smirk. You're pressing a kissing against his jaw a moment later, gently nipping at him, and in an even lower voice you murmur, "You like that this is different and exciting. You like the danger of it. You like the lovely little fact that anyone could walk in at any moment."
That catches his attention. He stares down at you, at the position you're in atop his lap and at the way he's already got his hands bundled into your silky lingerie. Then he asks in a seemingly lazy, but actually tense voice, "You didn't lock the door?"
You tilt your head and draw away from him, letting your body arch into the air. He allows himself to look you over, paying special attention to the way that black lace ghosts over your bare breasts, but then he lifts his gaze back to yours. You respond with a flippant, "Nope." Your eyes scream at him challengingly.
It's all part of your plan, of course. Mycroft's eyes jerk over to the door, which is at this moment closed tightly. But it is true that you hadn't locked it. It's also true that anyone could walk in and find you in this lovely, compromising position. You aren't surprised when this doesn't seem to bother Mycroft (that much). For a moment he looks like he'd very much like to walk over to the door and lock it himself, but he doesn't. It is a game, after all: a challenge that he must accept. Walking over there would mean that he is letting you win. And Mycroft Holmes does not simply hand over his power to just anyone. He leans back and stares at you, meeting your eyes with a challenge of his own.
"Hmm…you've passed the first test," you tell him, leaning in. Your mouth hovers sinfully, inches away. He keeps his eyes steadfastly peeled to your own gaze and doesn't give into the temptation of looking down at them. "Are there more of these little tests?" he finds himself wondering, and almost hoping there are. You smirk and tumble your fingers into his hair, shifting closer. Before your lips touch his you whisper, "The next one involves staying completely silent." Then you mouths crash, burn against each other and Mycroft is sitting up, taking you into his arms and kissing you with such fervent passion that you're left almost utterly breathless.
It is difficult, really, to imagine that Mycroft would be as passionate as he sometimes is. He is so outwardly cold, so calculating and strong. But when it comes to matters such as this, he tends to be very different indeed. At least when you have slowly gotten him into the mood.
His lips dominate yours even from his slightly submissive position beneath you, but you don't complain. They are delicious, his kisses. They make you crazy with need. You let him dominate this kiss because you can't be bothered to try to stop him. It feels too wonderful, the way he grasps you, pulls you tight against him, lets his hand duck around your rear and drag your lower body over his. He's already aroused, the slight bulge of his trousers is fairly obvious by now, and you rock your hips as best you can and watch him crumble into the chair. But he remains silent, for two reasons. Moaning is not his style, and letting any noise at all slip out would mean failing your next test. Which would, of course, mean that you are winning. He cannot stand the thought of going down without a fight. If nothing else, he is very tenacious.
You fiddle with his tie, smoothly loosen it, but don't take it off. Instead, you ease your fingers beneath it and start undoing the top buttons of his shirt, all the while immersing yourself in the heady kiss. You won't try to control that kiss, but you certainly can control the rest of him, or at least try to. It all depends on whether Mycroft is feeling gracious or not. Apparently he is, at least a little, because when the kiss slowly dissolves and he turns his eyes to watch the progress of your hands over his clothes, he doesn't try to stop you. Instead he just sits there like a calm and powerful king waiting for his servant to obey. You don't mind filling that role, for now.
But there is nothing submissive about you. Perhaps that is why Mycroft doesn't seem to mind being married to you. Perhaps it is what caught his attention in the first place. There is a wild grace to your movements, your smile, that constantly keeps him on guard and curious. He invests no small amount of patience in you, as well, especially in moments like these. He will let you have your way, but only until he cannot stand it any longer. Then he will show you what true dominance is.
If you see that predatory gleam in his eye, you don't comment. You don't entirely disregard it, either. You have learned to be wary in the face of that fierce expression, especially when his eyes are flashing in the way they are now. But even in your wariness you don't like to back down, and it is with a little smirk that you break the kiss and begin to trail your mouth down over his jaw, neck, shoulder.
Your hands have finished with his shirt and you are now enjoying the feel of his chest beneath your fingertips. Mycroft tangles his hand into your hair as your lips follow your fingers. He watches silently as your hands dart down to his trousers, notes the mischief in your eyes, and nearly smirks at the sight of it. Still, he allows you to undo his pants, but that is about as far as he lets you go.
There isn't much room for mobility in that great big chair, but Mycroft is still able to dominate you without question. He easily catches your fingers and drags them away from his trousers. Instead he splays them against his chest, then allows his own hands the privilege of running up your arms, which are primed with that delightful lace. His fingers drift past your shoulders and over your collarbone, lightly grazing over the skin of your neck, until finally he reaches the ties that keep your little outfit together. They are intimately placed between your breasts, and Mycroft takes his time pulling the bow apart. You let him smooth the fabric away from your upper body, but you haven't made things easy for him: you're still wearing a bra.
He sighs and looks up at you dryly, as if he's not sure why he's surprised. You merely tip your head to the side and smirk, and he shakes his head and reaches forward to search for the hooks. "You, my dear, enjoy making things more difficult than they need to be." His voice is dry like his eyes, but somehow, tunneled beneath that barren arid tone is a burning desire and an amusement that knows no bounds, none at all.
You chuckle as he finally slips the bra away, and respond with a rather mocking, "A sound analysis." Your eyes flash promises to him, promises that he is all too happy to take advantage of. He runs his hands up your sides and you lean forward. He is quick to do the same, and then your mouths are colliding with a sort of fervent power that makes you tremble into him.
Mycroft is not a passionate man by nature, but you would hardly know it at that moment. His kisses exude a passion that make you feel as if you're drowning, tossed beneath the tempest of desire as it crashes through the room. You are unsure exactly where his passion has come from, because Mycroft isn't exactly a let's-fuck-in-public sort of guy. But perhaps it is simply the fact that this is exciting and new. The month's hectic schedules could have played a role in it, too. Regardless, you are quite content with letting this situation play out in whatever way it wants to, just as long as you get to keep kissing him.
He seems to follow your train of thought, but as usual Mycroft acts it out in a more progressive fashion. Before you can really follow his movements, he's unhooking your bra and shoving it down your arms. His lips break from yours and Mycroft pulls away to glance down at you. He's seen your body so many times in the past, but there is always a gleam of appreciation that burns through him whenever he is graced with the sight of you. You've got a dancer's form, with petit breasts and slender shoulders and a slim stomach. Your small hips peek excitably up at him, the jaunting hipbones flashing from beneath a thin layer of black lace. You're skinny but muscular, and Mycroft pauses briefly to appreciate it. Very briefly, that is.
"I'm taking you out to eat later. You're too skinny," he murmurs as you kiss him again. You hum, though your response is neither agreement nor disagreement. Speaking is one activity that you are no longer interested in doing (unless it's the dirty sort of speaking), but Mycroft seems adamant. He keeps kissing you, but says against your mouth, "You hardly touch your food at the assembly dinners. Don't think I don't notice." At this, you sigh and frown at him, pausing the kiss to glower at him instead.
Your mouths brush together as you mutter, rather childishly, "I can't stand eating with those pompous fools. They make me lose my appetite." You run your hands down his bare chest, pushing away as much of his dress shirt as you can. The fabric still hangs around his form, and there it will remain. It would be too much to remove it at this point, especially in this public place.
Mycroft tangles his fingers into your hair and says with a reluctance sort of agreement, "…Yes, I know what you mean." You think he'd like to say more, but you hurry to cut in before he can once again draw the situation away from physical intimacy. "Besides," you murmur, cupping his face and leaning close. His eyes flash, especially when you roll your hips against his very hard erection. You briefly wonder how he can think about feeding you when he's so aroused, but your thoughts stray rather quickly. (A prime example of how arousal can change the course of a thought.) "I'm hungry for other things now." Your words are so cliché that Mycroft smirks.
He chuckles lowly, his voice roughly edging over the lower octaves, which in this moment scream out in erotic passion. "Are you really?" he wonders dryly, and says, "Your banality is a constant source of amusement." You find yourself chuckling along with him, because of course he is right (as usual), and you enjoy his dry and smooth way with words.
When you roll your hips against his, though, Mycroft's amusement dies rather quickly. He swallows and lets his eyes loiter over your body, which is perched atop him like an unending reminder of spiraling desire. There is very little which separates you now: just the undone layer of his trousers and the flimsy piece of fabric you call panties. If this scintillating little fact hadn't been realized before, it certainly is now. It's your turn to smirk, especially when you raise your hips into the air and murmur, "Help me with these, would you darling?" And Mycroft narrows his eyes at you just a little, but doesn't argue because he doesn't really have it in him. Not anymore.
His fingertips are calloused and rough, a testament to the many layers of work involved in his precarious job. They induce deep shivers to brim up within you when he brushes his hands over your waist. He moves slowly, as if he wants to treasure the moment, to feel it as stagnantly as you do. And you think it’s rather strange that you’re so breathless. Your chest rises and falls quickly as if you’ve just come back from a marathon. Mycroft watches those little pants with curious, affectionate eyes, trailing their path from your gasping chest to your parted lips, and even further to the way your eyes glisten with impatient brilliance.
He catches your gaze just as his fingers slip underneath the thin layer of your panties and he starts to smoothly push them away. Something in his eyes makes you pause, a sort of silent tenderness that you see in him only rarely. Something about it makes you quirk a little smile, as if to say, ‘I know that feeling, every day it pulls me under.’ His mouth slowly pushes into a smirk too and you rise up to kick your panties away.
You are well and truly bare now, and it won’t do if someone does in fact come to interrupt. Mycroft allows himself all of three seconds to take all of you in before he nods at the discarded trench coat. He orders a short, “Put that on,” that makes you blandly scowl, but you go to fetch it anyhow.
“It’ll just get in the way,” you sigh, stepping over to the fabric. As you bend to pick it up, Mycroft makes a noise that sounds half gruffly dominating and half appreciative, and you hide a smile into the collar of the fabric as you slip it up your arms. Then you’re turning back to him, the coat a frame around your form.
You’re aware that you’re still got your heels on and Mycroft seems to like the sight of you, standing in all your glory with those dangerous, pointed black pumps. You decide you quite like the sight of him, too. He is altogether unkempt, in a way you rarely see him. Even at home he is always dressed impeccably. But now, leaning back with his trousers half undone and bulging, with his dress shirt wrinkled and strewn away from his chest, he looks so mesmerizing that you can only stare.
“You’re my wife,” he drawls almost possessively, “therefore I am the only one allowed to see you like this. Now come here.” You bite the inside of your cheek as you momentarily battle with another wave of shivers, and step forward as if in a dream. The next moment, you’re settling back into your previous position and Mycroft is pulling you close, slipping his hands under the trench coat and skimming those rough fingertips up your spine. You tremble as he kisses you, and you proceed to push all of those delicate shivers into the kiss. He is a surprisingly adept kisser, for a relentlessly busy politician, and you never tire from the firmness of his mouth against yours. Like he’s silently telling you that you indefinitely belong to him and him alone.
You trail you fingers down his chest and when you reach his trousers, you don’t hesitate this time in undoing them. The zipper slides down and Mycroft clenches his teeth as you pull his erection out of the fabric. The trousers remain where they are for convenience’s sake, something neither you nor Mycroft dares to complain about even though it’s slightly uncomfortable. You kiss him again, briefly, and then reach into the pocket of your trench coat. When you pull out a familiar bottle, Mycroft raises his eyebrows at you in mild surprise, but he can’t bring himself to be all that shocked. Some part of him knew this was coming, especially since this coupling is a rather haphazard one at best.
“Get on with it, then,” he tells you shortly, glancing at the unlocked door with extremely well hidden anticipation. You chuckle and pop the cap of the lube, upending it and letting the cold liquid drizzle over his cock. He swallows hard and clenches his hands into your coat at the chillness of it, giving you a firm glare that tells you exactly what he thinks of your thoughtless little move. But it was, in fact, very much thought out. You smirk and return the small bottle to your coat pocket, wasting no time as you curl your fingers around his girth and start massaging the oil into his erection. The sight he makes as you do does crazy things to your heart.
You lean in and kiss him, and against his lips you murmur, “I’ll warm you up, darling.” And you already are, if his expression has anything to say on the matter. This early in the game, you know Mycroft doesn’t allow his pleasure to show on his face, but you’ve learned to read between the lines. The tensing of his muscles and the way his eyes flicker restlessly; the way he swallows and clenches his jaw is all the confirmation you need. But foreplay is something better saved for the privacy of home, and while you’d love to continue down this path you also know that time is of the essence.
Mycroft is well aware of this fact, too. Which is why, a few minutes later, he grumbles out a brief, “Hurry up, [Name], I’ve got a meeting in two hours that I now have to change clothes for.” The little quip makes you smirk triumphantly, which of course makes him roll his eyes in impatience. But you take his words to heart anyway. (Mostly because your own body selfishly demands it.)
“Don’t you want to make sure I’m ready for you? A gentleman would, you know,” you drawl playfully, brushing your thumb over his leaking tip. Mycroft swallows but doesn’t physically react. Instead he only raises his eyebrows and says, “You’ve been ready since before you even thought up this awful plan. You think I didn’t notice the moment you stepped through that door?”
Oh you like where this is going. With a mock surprised look (because of course he noticed, only the most brainless wouldn’t, i.e. half the city of London), you lean in and roll your hips against his member. “Oh?” you whisper lowly, “what exactly gave it away?”
He can’t stop the sigh that pushes past his lips when you roll your hips against him again. You’re so God damned wet that he wonders why you bothered with the lube at all. His hands clench into your coat and he drags you forward, shifting himself down to accommodate you.
“Please,” he scoffs, brushing away his embarrassing reactions to you. Your fingers still tumble over his cock but his mind still whizzes at full speed, as it always does regardless of the situation. “The use of a trench coat to hide your lack of clothes was about as sneaky as an elephant in the underground.” You smirk and hum in agreement. Your fingers guide his tip into you. Mycroft doesn’t stop talking. “Your eyes were dilated which means you were either afraid or aroused – not hard to figure out which considering your choice of clothes. We’ve been married for two years. I’ve memorized your expressions long before we settled into this mundane union people call a marriage and besides, I could practically hear your heartbeat the moment I saw you – faster than normal which means you were feeling a thrill of some sort, obviously – “ you’re sinking against him and he’s fully inside you. Mycroft lets out a heavy, sort of pleased sigh before finishing his deduction with a rattled, breathy, “…arousal…”
You smirk. His way with words and final conclusion has only made you wetter, if that’s possible. You can’t help it if you think his reasoning is absolutely erotic. It’s almost as sexy as his reluctant passion, which you can now see crinkling up the edges of his eyes as he looks up at you.
“Mmm…very aroused,” you admit, dragging your hips sloppily over his. Your position in this chair makes things difficult for you, but you’re nowhere near complaining. Mycroft scoffs again and sets his jaw as you thrust, sending pleasure shooting up his body in frazzled, uncontrollable shivers. It’s been weeks, after all. And it probably would have been weeks more if you hadn’t decided to come collect your rightful dues as his wife.
Mycroft Holmes is a very logical man, but there is nothing logical in the way he reacts to you now. His reactions are subtle but honest: the tightening of his expression, the softening of his eyes, the indulgent way his hands force your hips to move faster.
You can feel his fingers burning through your coat and it makes you dizzy. You raise your arms and rest them on the top of the chair above his head. The way you rise up above him makes it the perfect position for him to – “Mmm,” you moan when his mouth suddenly latches onto your breast.
He knows you very well by now. All your quirks and not-so-subtle cravings have become utterly transparent to him. He can read you like an open book, but that’s okay. It is the mark of a skilled lover. He’s never thought he would fit into such a role, never wanted to either, but he can’t imagine acting any differently toward you. And this time, he is not at all wary or embarrassed. This time, he is empowered.
His hands slip into your coat to wrap around your hips and pull them forcefully against his. Suddenly you’re not the one in control: he is.
He guides you around his member with such impatience that you can barely breathe. Your lack of oxygen might also have something to do with the way his tongue is lapping at your skin, but what do you know? All you’re aware of is the way he fills you up so perfectly, the way you’re so comfortable against is body, the luxurious way your skin and his meld together like scorching, pliable iron.
His breathing is getting heavy. Everything about the situation comes together like a well tailored suit and makes your heart race and your body spin out of control. The unlocked door, the all-men’s club, the scandalous act of you and the country’s most important man fucking in an oversized leather armchair in public. You almost can’t believe you persuaded him to do this. But then you suppose that if you’ve been frustrated over the lack of sex, he was probably much worse off as well as utterly unwilling to admit it.
You bury one hand into his hair and pull his head closer. His teeth gently nip at you in silent retort, and you let out a breezy, careless noise. The sound makes Mycroft tip his head back and mutter, “There’ll be none of that, [Name], not here – “
You cut him off with a gentle kiss and whisper, “I know. But you make me crazy Mycroft – “
He smirks and kisses you, cutting you off and murmuring, “I’m well aware of that.”
Course he is. You laugh breathlessly and thrust harder, faster. You know that your finish is going to be very haphazard and maybe not as fulfilling as it would be in the privacy of your bedroom, but you also know it will be perfectly satisfying for the time being.
The beginnings of your orgasm tilt over your skin and make you move faster in an attempt to encourage them. Mycroft grunts very softly at the increased speed and shoves his head back against the chair, staring up at you and the way you’re arching into him, half lidded eyes screaming with pleasure. The sight makes him thrust faster, too, intent on following you as quickly as he is able.
You’re right: your finish is rather lackluster compared to your normal orgasms, but it can’t be helped and you don’t mind anyway. You come with a shudder and a silent moan that you muffle again Mycroft’s neck. Your wet heat clenches over him so tantalizingly that it doesn’t take much longer for him, either.
After barely a minute, he’s shaking into the chair and holding you close, his hips furiously tilting into yours as he feels himself burst. His seed drips down your thighs and stains the edge of your coat, but neither of you bother with the mess quite yet. You’re too busy panting against Mycroft’s chest and wondering why on earth you’ve never thought to visit him here before.
As if reading your thoughts, Mycroft shakes his head and murmurs, his voice impressively back to normal despite the short time gap since his orgasm, “Absolutely not. You’re not coming here again.” You pout and lean back to look at him, twisting your hips just a little. He holds his breathe at the movement and you sullenly ask, “Why? I know you liked it.”
He is silent for a moment longer than necessary, making it fairly obvious that he reluctantly agrees with your little deduction. Even so, he gives you a pointed glower and says, “Next time we wouldn’t be so lucky.” You’d like to speak more on the subject, but Mycroft is already sitting up and you sigh. Seconds later, you’re lifting your hips and easing into the chair beside your lover. He gives a critical glance to the mess you both made and tsks.
You smirk at the sight of his come staining the leather of the chair. His trousers are soiled, too: there are stains all over the front of his thighs that make it ridiculously obvious what has happened. The sight definitely does not bode well and he gives you a rather chilling glance that tells you he considers this to be all your fault. Your smirk only widens at the sight.
With a clear of your throat and an embellished gesture, you pull out a packet of tissues from the other pocket of your trench coat. You also accidentally grab onto the condom you’d brought as well, and give an apologetic grimace when Mycroft sees it. You maybe forgot about it in the heat of the moment, but Mycroft doesn’t seem to appreciate the slip. He sighs and rubs his eyes.
“Whoops,” you say with a shrug and a grin. You hand him the tissues and he shakes his head.
“You might’ve mentioned you brought a condom. It would have spared my trousers and my dignity,” he mutters, wiping the come from his trousers as best he can. It doesn’t help: there are still dark stains on the fabric that stand out rather obviously.
You tut and stand, taking a tissue to clean yourself up. He watches for a moment before sighing and grabbing it from your hands, doing the job himself. The kiss he brushes onto your hip tells you that while he is still upset about the state of his trousers, he will forgive you this time. When he stands up, you help button his shirt as he tucks himself into his pants.
“Your coat will hide it,” you say, trying to placate him. You even tell him that you’ll go and find it for him. He doesn’t say it out loud, but you know he expects you to anyway, regardless of whether you want to or not. Having someone else see him like this would only induce scandalous articles and make him into a mockery, something that he cannot and will not afford.
After you fix yourself up and button up your coat, you walk through the door and take a few minutes searching for his own overcoat. Five minutes later, you’re both walking out of the room as if nothing had happened: him with his normal, cold expression; you with your gentle smile and confident stride. You nearly forget about the excuses you used to gain entrance into the club, but the man at the front quickly reminds you of them when he catches sight of you.
“I thought you were long gone by now, Mrs. Holmes!” he exclaims, and you send him a gracious smile. Beside you, Mycroft stiffens. The man glances at your husband. Mycroft just gives him a chilling smile and says, “We had several things to discuss. Good day.” The abruptness of his words isn’t surprising, but the man’s gaze follows the pair for a moment longer than strictly necessary.
“Do you think he knew?” you whisper at him as you step into the car. Mycroft sighs and gets in after you, tossing his umbrella on the other side of the seat. He tells the driver where to take them (home, of course, he still needs to change his damned trousers) and then turns back to you with a barely decipherable scowl. “Hardly. Though it would have been ridiculously obvious had he taken a moment to observe.”
You know what he’s actually saying between the cadence of his voice and the lines of his words. It was a close call. Anyone else might have guessed what you’d been up to. In fact, if it had been anyone other than Mycroft Holmes (uptight, cold, collected Mycroft Holmes), then it would have been obvious and you wouldn’t have gotten away with it. The fact that you did only makes you smirk victoriously and lean into your husband’s warm, solid chest. A moment later, he rather reluctantly puts an arm around you and sighs, shaking his head as he stares out the window.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he suddenly says, quietly, for you only. He doesn’t spare you a glance as he watches London pass by in a blur of color. You glance up at him with raised eyebrows. “I sincerely hope you don’t think that that dismally fast orgasm was anywhere near enough for me.”
You certainly don’t expect him to say that. You chew the inside of your mouth for a moment as you look up at his profile, then hum. “Is that your way of saying you have plans for later tonight?” He doesn’t need to answer because you already know it is, and that you’re most certainly in for an arousing evening. His response comes in the form of a light squeeze around your shoulders and a tiny smirk that scrapes over the edges of his mouth.
You bite your lip and chuckle against his coat. “Then I’ll be ready and waiting, Mycroft, darling. Do try to come home early, hmm?”
From the glance he gives you a moment later, you know that he would be more than willing to cut his day short in order to pursue these very pressing matters. The breathless way your breathing speeds up makes him smirk widely. Needless to say, you don’t quite catch said breath until hours later, when you’re lying in his arms feeling very much satisfied and not at all inconvenienced.