Friday, November 28, 2014

A Hayato Gokudera Lemon -- In Bocca al Lupo

 Character: Hayato Gokudera

Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

OC: [Name]

Inspiration: The title means, “Into the wolf’s mouth” and is apparently a common expression in Italian.  Thought it fit with Hayato. 

There is not much one can do when they are stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no way of getting help.  There is definitely nothing to be done when the man in question is too proud to even try to get help, because it would "undermine my integrity, you dumb woman".  So [Name] just sits back, leaning against the whitish-gray walls of their (very) dingy motel room and trying to keep her eyes away from anything that would make her feel more depressed than she already feels.  (The stained bed sheets, the suspicious mouse-like droppings near the window, and Hayato Gokudera himself.)
He is extremely angry.  His eyes gleam with that fury, his entire body screams it.  He is a ticking bomb waiting for the final countdown.  That is why [Name] decides that it might be better to remain silent.  Or at least she tries to remain silent.  She really does.  But sometimes, Gokudera asks for it.
He's scowling when he mutters, "This is fucking great.  I get stuck with you on a mission in fucking Europe and this shit happens.  Figures all your bad luck would stick to me." 
'This shit' references the awful day they'd had, in which they'd stumbled rather stupidly into a trap (they were too busy arguing with each other to notice it), and just barely escaped because of Hayato's unending supply of bombs.  [Name] rather thinks that said escape had been a very lucky thing, but then it makes sense that Hayato would associate her with bad luck.  Her nickname is 'Karma' because her entire life had been one huge mistake after another, and that had been how she'd ended up in the mafia in the first place.  She considers herself very lucky, though, to have been accepted into the Vongola.  They have undoubtedly become family to her, whatever Hayato says.
Regardless, their mission in Europe is an important one.  That's why Tsuna decided to send his right hand man.  That's also why he decided to send her.  Despite her complicated relationship with Hayato, they do get along fairly well together.  It also helps that she's very good at languages and is used to traveling in foreign cities.  They've been on their mission for about two weeks so far, and it has taken them all over Europe.  Now they are in a small Mediterranean town in a cheap room without hot water or sufficient bedding, because they can't afford anything else.  (Or rather they could afford it, but they lost their money that afternoon in all the confusion and Hayato is too stubborn to call Tsuna and admit that he did something so stupid.)  Regardless, they are stuck, and Hayato is angry, and [Name] is annoyed and hungry.
Her stomach rumbles softly and she winces, because it makes Hayato glance at her with his incredulously upset face, as if he can't believe she'd have the gall to let her stomach growl in front of him.  He pauses briefly in his overly obsessed pacing to grumble, "Are you hungry already?  Che.  How is that even possible?"  Because [Name] tends to eat a lot, a lot more than would be considered normal for a twenty-something year old woman.  And it often annoys everyone because she is still so skinny and petit.  Hayato's just annoyed because they used more than a quarter of their money on food before they lost it, which is frankly ridiculous.
[Name] merely sniffs and crosses her arms, looking imperious and regal even in her anger.  She brushes a piece of invisible lint off of her shoulder and says, "Of course I'm hungry.  We haven't eaten since 7:00 this morning, Hayato."  And she drags out his first name because she knows he hates other people using it.  (Besides, of course, his beloved Tsuna.)
"Don't call me that," he immediately snaps, as predicted.  [Name] turns her eyes to him and watches him start pacing again.  She's got a dry expression on her face and it's making him even angrier, but he won't look her at for anything.  It certainly hasn't escaped him, their own circumstances.  The fact that they are in a cramped, tiny little room together, completely alone but for the bed that seems to loom up into existence.  The fact that he's being a complete moron, even thinking about stuff like that, while all she can think about is food. 
But can he help it?  He's been cursed with an odd attraction to her for as long as he can remember.  Even at the beginning, when they first met, Hayato had noticed it.  Then, it had been a dull simpering flame that barely tickled over him.  That flame has since billowed through him, ripping him to shreds and hasn't let him catch his breath even once.  That is why he is so upset about being stuck with her.  That is also why he hasn't stopped pacing the floor restlessly.  He will have no rest tonight, of that he is sure.
[Name] is altogether unaware of his predicament, though she isn't completely blind to his struggles.  She has her own to deal with, after all, that center around the sight of Hayato's jeans, that hug his legs and hips; the way she'd like to peel off all that jewelry and feel his skin, bare to the touch; and the angry gleam of his eye makes her hungry with other desires.  She has always thought him handsome, and yet also very out of reach.  So [Name] watches, studies, but doesn't act upon her thoughts.  The rejection that would surely come of doing something so foolish would shatter her.
"Humph," Hayato grumbles, roughly spinning around with an angry sneer.  His eyes land on her and he points at her and says, "Tsuna doesn't hear a word of this, clear?  When he calls, you tell him that everything is fine."  Because Tsuna will call: he does so every night to check for updates, because the mission is important to the Vongola. 
[Name] raises her eyebrows at his words, and slowly drawls, "Hayato…we have no money and you're short on ammunition after our great escape today.  I think we should tell Tsuna -- "
"No fucking way!" he interrupts with a short but lethal glare.  At his response, [Name] sighs and leans back on the bed.  The movement makes her skirt ride up to her mid-thigh, and though she doesn't appear to notice, Hayato does.  His eyes flicker over the skin, then his gaze slips over the rest of her legs, which splay out rather lavishly against the sheets.  She is still wearing her stockings and black heels from earlier.  They'd had to go into a classier part of town and had dressed the part because they didn't want to stick out.  But now Hayato is regretting making her put on those heels.  Because all he wants to do is crawl between those legs of hers and kiss over the leather of that shoe, the slender edge of her ankle, and up and up until that skirt no longer barricades the sight of her.
He is a tiny bit flushed when he jerks back into the present, just in time to hear [Name] mutter something about him being an irritating idiot with no common sense (complete with curses and un-ladylike phrases).  The words at least put some semblance of reality back to the air, though it doesn't help him all that much because then he is watching [Name] raise her arms up and stretch -- and he has never known a simple stretch to be so erotic and sexy in all his life.
Does she mean to make this hard for him?  Is she even aware of the arousal that spikes his gaze and turns it sharp and jagged?  But it doesn't matter, and Hayato can't waste time trying to figure out what she's thinking.  Because her skirt is riding up even more, and the curves of her breasts are accentuated and pushed into the air, and Hayato would suddenly very much like to lean down and suck that breast.  Suck on it all the way through every layer of her clothing, and make her feel it as poignantly as if she were to be bare beneath him.  And the thought of her bare opens up a whole new level of desire, and he swallows thickly and turns away from her. 
The heat of arousal surges through him and settles between his legs.  There is a slight bulge that is just barely noticeable, but it makes Hayato utterly mortified.  He takes a breath but it does him no good, especially when [Name] wonders a confused-but-somehow-ridiculously-sexy, "…Hayato?"  And God, it's the last straw.  He really doesn't have much control over his emotions and she is unwittingly finding every single chink in his armor.  So he steals his shoulders and doesn't look back at her, otherwise all his willpower will crumble.  Instead, Hayato just mutters, "Cigarette…I need a cigarette…"  And then he swiftly walks to the balcony doors and disappears.
Except he doesn't disappear, exactly.  The balcony is tiny: barely big enough to stand up on.  It is surprising that their dingy hotel even has this little addition, when it doesn't have other basic necessities.  A (cold) shower would do him some good right about now, but since they don't have access to such amenities, Hayato merely settles for his cigarettes. 
He flicks out his lighter and soon he is being dragged into the calm scent of nicotine.  It doesn't really help him all that much though.  With every inhale, his mind flashes back to the sight of [Name]'s legs, her form lifting up off the mattress.  With every exhale, he is met with fresh desires, new things he'd like to do with her.  He goes through three cigarettes before he realizes that smoking is not what he needs.  What he needs is to find some quiet place to fix his problem without [Name] realizing that he's got one to begin with. 
It's easier said than done, as always.  When Hayato pulls the doors open and slips back inside, [Name] is still on the bed, but curled on her side now.  She blinks lazily over at him, as if silently wondering why he's being so uptight tonight.  He jerks back to face the balcony and roughly drags the curtains over the shoddy door, just to give him something to do.  He knows she's watching him and it makes him ridiculously uncomfortable, because he's not entirely sure how he's going to hide the sort-of obvious tent in his jeans.  It luckily doesn't look too bad, so maybe she won't take notice of it --
"Hayato, are you feeling okay?" she suddenly wonders with a frown.  He glances behind his shoulder and makes a low, growling sound.  She's swung her legs over the side of the mattress and is sitting up now, looking sort of concerned.  But he only swallows thickly and narrows his eyes.  He hesitates only a moment before turning to face her, and when he does he's not sure if the decision is a good one or not. 
She knows.  When her surprised eyes flick over his figure and land on his trousers, [Name] raises both eyebrows.  She looks slowly back to his face, which is reddening now because she hadn't been supposed to figure it out so fucking quickly, God damn it -- "I'm going for a walk," he gruffly mumbles, feeling so utterly ashamed that he thinks he'd like to sink into the ground and stay there, maybe forever.
His gait is stiff as he turns to the door, and in her surprise, [Name] just watches him pass her.  But she doesn't let him reach his destination.  Of course not.
With a lurch, she grabs his wrist with both hands and he stops, sends her a withering glare, and tells him, "Stop, Hayato.  This isn't your problem."  It most certainly is, but damn it if she hadn't unknowingly played a part.  She seems to have realized that much, at least, and shuffles forward until she's standing right behind him.  Then she loops her arms around his slim waist and presses her forehead between his shoulder blades.  He is much taller than her, and it makes [Name] feel both safe and impatient at the same time.
Neither of them is exactly well versed in comforting vocabulary.  They have similar childhoods and, before joining the Vongola ranks, had been outcasts of a sort.  So [Name] doesn't bother with words.  She knows he won't appreciate them anyway.  Instead, she just lets her hands speak for her as she dips them beneath his shirt and splays her fingers over his abdomen.
The muscles beneath his skin flex as her touch invades him, but Hayato doesn't immediately complain.  He just stares at the door in surprise, because he hadn't expected this, and he's not entirely sure if he should let it happen or push her away.  While he sifts through the jumbled mess of emotions that zigzag through his mind, [Name] murmurs softly, with a bitter sort of smirk, "You make things so complicated, Hayato.  If you'd just told me -- "
Here, he responds.  He grabs her wrists and pulls them away from him, then spins around to face her.  There is a slightly murderous expression painting over his face, but [Name] isn't afraid of it.  She just stares up at him, waiting for the words that soon come hurtling roughly at her.
"If I'd have told you?  You would have laughed at me and called me an idiot," he makes an annoyed sound and pushes away from her, resuming the pacing that he'd been doing before this whole thing started.  [Name] sighs and goes back to sit on the edge of the bed, watching him. 
"You're right," she acquiesces with a shrug, because he is.  It is difficult for her to take emotions of any kind seriously, especially when they are put into words.  Hayato glances at her with eyes that silently say, 'of course I'm right, you dumb woman'.  But her next words stop him in his tracks.  She raises an eyebrow and says rather boldly, "But after I was done laughing, I would have kissed you."  Lord only knows how much she's wanted to.
He immediately stops pacing to turn and gape at her, his face alight with surprise and something else, something dark.  She gives him a jaunty sort of smile that he's not entirely sure what to do with, but Hayato doesn't stay hesitant for very long.  How can he, when the woman he has been adamantly pining over basically just invited him to her?  [Name] leans back, blinks at him, and waits for him to approach.  He does, moments later.
The word 'approach' might even be too dull to describe the way Hayato stalks forward.  His mind is bent on her, his thoughts entertain the rather callous idea of finally, actually kissing her.  [Name] doesn't have it in her to complain.  She merely falls back with a gasp, a gasp that is quickly swallowed by Hayato's lips.
"Mm!  Hayato - !" It is awkward, at first, and [Name] would like to tell him to slow down a bit, but she can't.  Because Hayato doesn't want to slow down.  His mouth burns her, turns her blind with a sort of aching, lovely passion that reverberates right through her.  She grasps him tightly but it's not enough, it never is, and even though she's got him pressed so sincerely against her, it still feels as if he is miles away.
"Shut up," he mutters, though there is no real anger behind his words, not anymore.  His anger is just a façade, now, just a way of reminding himself that he isn't dreaming, that this is real.  In any case, [Name] doesn't seem to mind.  She lets out a very luxurious moan and Hayato shivers at the sound of it.  He thinks he is the luckiest man on the planet, and he's just about to turn his lips to her neck when suddenly a loud ringing noise fills the silence.
It is her cell phone, and of course it would go off at that very moment.  Hayato pauses, catches her eyes with his, and looks at her.  [Name] is flustered from his attention.  Her cheeks are a soft pink, her lips are faintly bruised, and her eyes are brighter than he's ever seen them.  There is a shade of annoyance crackling through her gaze, most likely due to the interruption.  Hayato decides to deal with said interruption in as practical a manner as he can think of.
He raises his eyebrows at her and mutters, "Answer it, woman."  His voice is rough, like graded stone, or grainy sand.  He stares at her for a second more, then resumes his earlier train of thought and ducks his mouth down her neck. 
[Name] gasps and tilts her head back.  She tangles one hand into his hair and trembles.  His kisses are making her fiercely hot, like some raging inferno has taken hold of her and refuses to let go.  She would not have guessed him to be so passionate.  But it makes sense, in a way.  He plays with fire on his off days, so of course he would take on the personality of his element whenever possible.  But still…she doesn't know what to think of his order.
"H-Hayato…" she mumbles, frowning, then makes a soft keening sound when he roughly nips at her skin.  "Answer it.  It's probably the 10th," he says again, and [Name] sighs and digs her phone out of her pocket.  One glance at the screen tells her that he is right: it is Tsuna, no doubt calling for an update as he has done every night so far.  [Name] appreciates her boss's concern for them and the mission, but tonight her patience is wearing thin.  It is undoubtedly due to Hayato's lavish kisses, and the weight of his body molding against hers, and the hard bulge of his desire reminding her of what she is in for.
She glowers at her phone and debates, for a very brief moment, if she should throw it across the room instead of answering it.  Hayato has got his hands in her shirt now, and they are engulfing her lower abdomen.  She can feel his calloused, burnt fingertips dragging over her sensitive flesh.  He is nearing the edge of her bra now, and [Name] is becoming very impatient.  But Tsuna is her boss and Hayato would probably be furious if she did anything to spite him, on purpose or not.
"Hello?" she drawls into the phone a moment later.  Her voice is calm, collected, but Hayato can hear a shred of reluctant passion searing its way through every letter.  He smirks and kisses back up her neck, licks over her jaw, bites at her chin.  His hands slide further up, up, until he is thumbing along the edge of her bra.  Then, just as [Name] is about to say something to Tsuna, Hayato curves his hand over her clothed breast and squeezes.
His touch his gentle but fierce, as the rest of him.  [Name] lets out a sharp little gasp that goes right to his crotch, and Hayato lifts his head to give her a promising, gleaming smile.  She clears her throat and says, "Ahem.  I'm fine, boss.  What were you saying?"  Her voice is still calm, but the glare that she sends his way is anything but, and Hayato can't help but chuckle.  He likes this game.  Likes it so much that a moment later, he is leaning back, hooking his fingers into his own shirt, and lifting it from his body.  [Name] stares, her eyes greedy.  But she is unable to do anything but lay there, giving half of her attention to her boss's words and the rest to her soon to be lover.
[Name] slowly bends her elbow beneath her body, lifting herself up a little.  Hayato studies her for only a moment before leaning in.  His knees press between her legs, shifting them apart.  His hands slide easily into her shirt and he pushes it up, not looking away from her face.  It is so strangely erotic, being on the phone while being ravished by a man, that [Name] can only stare, stare, stare.  And when Hayato pushes her shirt up over her breasts, she gives him a silly sort of grin and takes the phone away from her ear for a moment, so he can peel the fabric completely away.
Tsuna is saying something about their return date when she puts the phone back to her ear.  His gentle voice has already begun to leisurely map out where the jet plane will be picking them up and when, and how the two of them will get there.  "Do you think you'll be able to make it?" he wonders.  The meeting place is several towns over, in a large grassy field.  If they had money, they'd be able to get a ride there, but it will be difficult to do with their depleted funds.  Still, that is a problem that [Name] won't (can't) think about right now.  It is a matter that Hayato doesn't care for, either.  Not when he's so busy fiddling with her bra, pushing it away, letting that mouth of his go to work upon her breast.
"…[Name]?" Tsuna asks again when she doesn't immediately respond.  Her mind has completely blanked, probably due to the sight Hayato makes as he leans over her and doles out all his attention.  It's bearable, and she's about to respond to her boss when suddenly Hayato smirks against her breast and rolls his hips against hers.  The bulge of his erection makes her feel like she's drowning.  Instead of answering Tsuna, [Name] lets out a little whimper and then turns crimson with embarrassment, because he had probably heard it. 
Hayato gives an indulgent-but-impatient sight, like he's feeling rather proud of himself for being the cause of her blunder.  He nips at her breast one final time before pushing her all the way back onto the mattress and grabbing her cellphone.  Tsuna sounds confused and maybe a little unsure, but Hayato quickly puts his mind to rest.
"10th!  [Name]'s got some stuff to take care of.  What were you talking about?"  his voice is flawless, like he's not fully hard with a real-life boner jutting out from between his legs.  Like there's not a half naked, aroused woman laying all breathless beneath him.  It makes [Name] a little bit annoyed that he can be so smooth even now.  It makes her annoyed enough to want to do something about it.
She gets over her embarrassment quickly.  Soon, she is crawling over to where he's kneeling on the mattress.  She doesn't waste any time as she begins to kiss him, starting with a few slow pecks on his mouth and then delving down to his neck, then further.  Before long she is kissing over his chest, her fingers tracing every angle of his upper half.  She splays her hands against his back, over his spine, then down to touch the hem of his jeans.  Hayato watches her every movement with a critical but interested eye.  Still, his voice doesn't waver, and [Name] decides to test how much control he really has.  Probably not much, if she knows him at all.
She smirks and leans back to look at him, tips her head to the side, and runs her hands over his sides.  When she reaches his jeans, Hayato's eyes are sparking, silently careening into hers with all sorts of warnings.  But she disregards those warnings.  There isn't even a hint of hesitance in her movements as she unbuttons his pants.  When she starts to slide them down his hips, though, Hayato grabs one of her wrists tightly, as if to stop her. 
His eyes are spears of reluctance, but [Name] is going to pay him back for all he's done.  They stare at each other for a moment, then Hayato clears his throat and says into the phone, "Ah…yeah.  Nothing bad happened today."  His response to one of Tsuna's questions makes [Name] raise her eyebrows at him, silently challenging.  Nothing bad happened?  He wouldn't classify losing all their money as a bad circumstance?  Hayato gives her a glowering face, because of course he knows what she's thinking, and [Name] takes advantage of his momentary distraction.
Her hands delves into his jeans and curls around his member, which is stiff and hot.  Hayato makes a soft, surprised sound and then blushes, looking taken aback and intensely turned on at the same time.  "A-ah, yes, of course 10th," he's saying into the phone as he watches [Name] lower her lips to his cock.  The sight is so erotic that he finds it rather difficult to breathe properly, and the rest of his words come out a tangled, jumbled mess as he clenches his teeth together.  "Certainly, 10th.  Until tomorrow."  When he finally hangs up the phone, it is with such relief that he nearly collapses backwards.  But he doesn't, of course, because now [Name] is sucking him off in the most delicious of ways and Hayato can't be troubled to fall, especially not away from her.
"Fuck," he mutters, tangling his fingers into [Name]'s hair.  Her mouth is tight and hot around him, and the way she is sucking on him makes him ridiculously aroused.  His jeans are uncomfortably strewn against his mid-thighs, but there is little he can do about it, or even wishes to do about it.  All he can really do is kneel there on that too-small mattress and let [Name] have her way.  For now.
Hayato tugs her head back after a few moments and she looks up at him.  There's a wicked gleam in her eyes, like she's thoroughly amused by the desperate way he grips her, or the way he's gotten so very hard is such a small amount of time.  Her amusement makes him impatient.
He grabs her chin and presses it up, eyeing her like a king would eye a servant.  Then Hayato scoffs and mutters, "I can't believe you did that while I was on the phone."  With Tsuna, he is no doubt thinking.  [Name] just grins and raises herself up, so that their faces loom closer.  She whispers, "I think you liked it."  And while she isn't exactly wrong, Hayato doesn't grace her with a response. 
He merely grunts, narrows his eyes, and watches her inch closer.  After a moment, he seems to grow tired of her slow progress, and lurches forward for the second time that night.  Their lips crash and mold and Hayato pushes [Name] onto her back, rolling his now freed erection against her lower body.  And her moan is more of a complaint than anything, but only because she is still wearing her skirt and it's getting in the way.
Hayato doesn't care about her discomfort, though.  He is selfish by nature, and can be a selfish lover too.  It takes him an extra moment to realize why she's whining, but he is quick to fix the problem.  Soon, he's rolling the hem of her skirt up around her waist, then his hands are shifting over her stockings and tumbling them down her legs.  She watches, helpless as he quickly reaches up to deal with her panties, which are still very much in his way.  They follow the stockings on the floor without a backward glance, and Hayato leans back to look at her.
[Name] is very sure of herself.  She rarely hesitates, in any type of situation.  But even she has to admit that it is unnerving, having him blink down at her like he's doing now.  She fights off the dominant desire to cave in on herself, to shield her body from his view.  It's hard but somehow she manages, and Hayato gives her a lighthearted sort of smirk that tells her he is pleased.  He doesn't care for hesitant women.  At least not until he'd met her.
[Name] raises her eyebrows at him, lifts herself onto her elbows, and murmurs a hoarse, wicked, "Hayato…didn't I tell you that I don't like foreplay?"  Because, though it's a strange thing to tell an acquaintance, she is sure it has come up once or twice over the years.  It's true, at least.  She doesn't like foreplay, or being stared at or having to wait.  She's impatient and besides, the men she's been with in the past have had given her needs little thought.  She doesn't like foreplay because she doesn't know what to expect and doesn't like to do things she's not familiar with.  But tonight's lover is different from the others, and he intends to show it to her soon enough.
He gruffly chuckles, hovers over her and makes the mattress sink down with his weight.  His hair falls around her face, delicately framing them, knitting them together.  "You might've mentioned it," he mutters, and his voice is light and amused-like, as if he thinks it's funny that she bothered telling him something so intimate.  She stares at him in curiosity and confusion, because his words and his voice and his eyes are making her heart feel like it's burning inside of her chest and she finds it hard to breathe.  She is filled with anticipation and lustful awareness.  She can't stop thinking about the way his cock is pressing into her thigh.  She can't stop imagining what else that cock will soon be pressing into.
"But you're not going to listen to me, are you?" she finds herself wondering, whispering into the space between their mouths.  Hayato watches her lips move, then hums lowly in agreement.  He murmurs, "When do I ever listen to you?"  And as he speaks, his lips slowly descend, until he is softly kissing her. 
Except that Hayato isn't soft, and it doesn't take long for that gentle kiss to turn fierce.  [Name] gasps when he nips at her bottom lip, takes it into his mouth and sucks on it.  Her body arches into his, pressing against as much of him as she is able to.  The obvious come-on in her body language has him pushing her down, letting his hands hurry over her, shift over her breasts and down her abdomen, until soon he is curling his fingers over her wet heat.  And [Name], who doesn't entirely expect the intimacy of his touch, shudders out delightfully and lets out a small little moan.  The noise makes Hayato shiver and kiss her harder, intent on dragging out more of those delicious sounds.
She spreads her legs around his waist, eager for more of his touches.  Hayato does not disappoint, and [Name] wonders if she shouldn't rethink her previous opinion of foreplay.  But Hayato hasn't really dealt with her yet.  [Name] slowly begins to realize this as the passion increases, but still he stays away.
"Hayato…" she whines, her voice slaying through the higher octaves.  His expression is subtly boring, and well-placed, like he doesn't want her to know what he's really feeling.  The gleam of calm that invades his eyes has got her gasping.  It doesn't help when he leans back, heaves her leg to the side, and looks her over.  She trembles right into the mattress when his fingers sink into her core, and by then [Name] can't think of complaining.  She is far too busy trying to remember how to think at all.
"H-Hayato -- !" she moans, eyes fluttering closed.  Her body arches of it's own accord, blindly searching for him, yearning for more of him.  But Hayato is removed from her.  He watches with silent, hungry eyes as [Name] moans and whimpers his name, clenching her hands into the sheets and trying to close her legs around his waist.  He enjoys this fight she puts up.
[Name] does too, but it gets a little old after a while.  Before long, she is glaring up at him, her face etched into a pout that makes him stare.  She raises herself onto her elbows and, still trembling, manages to half-demand, half-moan, "S-stop teasing me, H-Hayato."  She's about to say more, but he doesn't let her.  Instead, he leans forward, pulls out his fingers, and crawls up her form.  Their faces linger close, and [Name]'s thoughts crash and burn before she can voice them.  Hayato smirks.
"There's still a lot I want to do with you," he murmurs.  His breath shifts over her lips and she swallows, desperate for his kisses.  His words send jolts of staggering desire down her body.  It is hard for her to do anything except wonder at those words, at the promise behind them, but soon [Name] is recovering (a little) and smiles.  She whispers back, "We'll just have to go out on more missions together, then."  And how his eyes shine, glimmer with the pleasure of hearing her say that she is very much interested in doing this again, and again, and again still.
He grunts and kisses her.  It is not a gentle kiss but that is okay.  [Name] doesn't want gentle anyhow.  She wants bold, dark touches and rough nails and biting teeth and low, growling moans and Hayato, who is all these things and more. 
Regardless of everything Hayato wants to do, he knows he’s got plenty of time.  So he decides to stop wasting it and start taking advantage of the fact that there is an aroused, interested woman splayed out beneath him, ready for more, all but begging for it.  He finds himself smirking a little bit at the sight.  She sees the smirk and scrapes her nails down his chest, catching his attention and pushing her hips against him again in silent demand.
“Che.  You’re so impatient,” he mutters, but he rewards her with a roll of his hips as he fights back.  The movement makes her melt.  She moans and sink into the mattress like her body as turned to liquid.
“And you’re slow,” she retorts with a scowl.  A scowl that Hayato abruptly kisses away.
Slow is one thing that he is not, and he fully intends to show it to her by the end of the night.  Determination flares through his eyes as he stares down at her.  Her own determination meets with his, and he rolls his eyes and pushes his member into her, acting as if it’s such an inconvenience.  It’s not, though, and before he’s even fully inside her, neither of them care about such silly things anyhow.
“Oh God…” she moans, tilting her head back and her hips up.  He hisses with dark delight and completely fills her up, pauses for a second, then rocks back.  His next thrust is bathed with that determination.  He is not slow anymore.  In fact, he’s almost brutally fast.
“Oh my - !” she’s crying out before she can stop herself because God, she’s never felt so full in her life.  Perhaps it’s because she’s aching so much, because her body is so aroused, but every movement feels intensified and hyper-sensitive.  She clutches at him and closes her eyes, letting it all wash over her.  The rough way he forces her hips up, the sound of his skin slapping against hers, the scent of their joining.  It all makes her head spin as if she’s just inhaled several drugs at once.
Hayato is definitely proving himself, though [Name] is too far gone to care at this point.  He heaves her legs up around his waist and drags her hips closer, pulling her in to meet his thrusts and utterly manhandling her.  She’s never known herself to like rough, dominant sex, but somehow she can’t think of doing it any other way.  Not with Hayato.  And this time it is absolutely brilliant.
Every other second she is pinned forcefully to the mattress, but she still tries to lift her hips up of her own accord.  Hayato likes that.  He likes that she’s still fighting back even when she clearly doesn’t see it the same way.  He lets her try, appreciates the way she forces him deeper, grunts out his pleasure when she wraps her legs tightly around his waist in a desperate attempt to take everything he can offer.
But that’s where her dominance comes to an end.  Hayato grabs her wrists and tosses them above her head, pinning them there.  She looks up at him through heady, clouded eyes and he looks down at her with a snarling, pleasured grin.  Then, before she can keep up with him, Hayato is ducking his head down and latching onto one of her nipples.  He takes the sensitive bud between his teeth and she cries out at the strange mixture of pleasure, pain, and utter arousal that spikes through her.
“Hayato…Ha-Hayato-yes!” she can’t stop mumbling, can’t stop the little noises from whispering past her lips.  She hasn’t felt this degree of intense erotic bliss in ages, if ever.  His tongue swipes over her nipples and his hands crush her wrists together and his cock scrapes over her inner walls with such purpose, such intent, and suddenly she can’t take it anymore.
“I’m coming…Hayato I’m…oh my God, I’m- !” the most sultry cry that Hayato has ever heard spills from her lips and he raises his head to watch her finish.  It’s a sight he will never forget, he’s sure of it.  How could he erase such a flawless image from his memories?  The way [Name] pants his name, the way her body trembles and jerks, it’s enough to almost make him come, too.  Almost, but not quite.  The moment she shudders out her end, Hayato is only sure of one thing: he will never get enough of her.  If anything, the sight she makes has him growing ever harder.
He doesn’t stop thrusting.  He doesn’t care if she’s already finished.  He’s so close, nearly there, that stopping is physically impossible for him.  It’s like his body is on auto-pilot and his hips move on their own.  [Name] doesn’t complain.  She moans even louder, overcome by the sensitivity of her lower body.  Her end seems to splutter for half a second before morphing into another end.  Another finish.  And soon her body is twisting beneath Hayato’s and [Name] is gasping again, feeling a second orgasm spear through her in the most violently exquisite way.
“Fuck!” she sobs, her eyes tearing.  Her voice is wrinkled, like ripped fabric.  It’s so divine that Hayato can only shudder and crush her beneath him, temporarily forgetting to hold himself up.  She doesn’t have time to complain because that’s when Hayato moans deliriously against her neck and explodes inside her, at the very same time that [Name] gasps, digs her nails into his shoulders, and feels her second orgasm tear her into unrecognizable pieces.  She has never felt so satisfied in her entire life. 
Hayato hasn’t, either.  This becomes apparent when he raises his body off of hers and gives her a twisted half-smirk.  His expression has utterly melted.  There is absolutely no trace of his usual hard expression.  He has turned momentarily soft and the stress seems to drip away from them both like it was never there to begin with.  They share a smile and Hayato rolls off her, drags her into his side, and heaves a sigh.
“Wow…” she murmurs nearly ten minutes later.  Hayato hums in agreement, his hands smoothing up and down her back as she fits her body around his.  The ancient looking alarm clock on the bedside table tells them that it’s 10:00.  Crickets chirp outside.  A cool breeze envelopes them from the cracked balcony doors.  She’s never felt more at peace despite their less than adequate surroundings.
After a moment, [Name] raises herself onto her elbows and looks down at Hayato.  He blinks up at her, raising an eyebrow as if to ask what she wants.  A little smirk dances across her lips and she purses her lips.
“I can’t wait for the next mission,” she tells him, leaning down to kiss him.  She tosses her leg over his hips and sinks against his mouth eagerly.
Hayato can only scoff and wrap a hand around that leg.  “Who says I’m waiting until the next mission?  That could take weeks,” he roughly points out.  His voice is like used sandpaper, smooth but coarse at the same time.
“Oh?  What, you can’t bear to wait a few days before I let you ravish me again?” [Name] holds back a smile at the way Hayato scowls.
He stares at her for a moment.  His eyes dip down her body, her breasts, her legs.  Then suddenly he’s rolling them over and pressing [Name] into the mattress, and [Name]’s playfully exclaiming, “Hayato!” as his lips get to work on her neck, collar, chest. 
He gives her a very wicked grin and smoothly says, “Absolutely not.”  And as his kisses drop lower and lower down her body and arousal begins to weave through her once more, [Name] decides that she doesn’t mind.  In fact, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
By the time they return to the base in Italy, they are both so at ease that even Tsuna can figure out what their mission entailed.


Tuesday, November 25, 2014

A Mycroft Holmes Lemon -- Bewilder

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.