You're already falling it's calling you
Title:You're already falling it's calling you
Author:
blue_eyed_1987
Characters/Pairings:John/Mcycroft
Rating:NC-17
Warnings:Spoilers for A Scandal in Belgravia
Summary: “There are many names for what she does. She prefers ‘Dominatrix’.”
Disclaimer: Not mine
Author's notes: Phone sex! Because Mycroft said 'Dominatrix' and hnnnnng. Essentially. So yeah, first time writing phone sex. PWP. Thanks to mightypretty for looking this over and encouraging me to post it. Writing this seems to have helped my muse come back \o/ Title from The Moody Blues
“There are many names for what she does. She prefers ‘Dominatrix’.”
John suppresses a shudder. He eyes Mycroft over his teacup, hoping futilely that Mycroft doesn’t notice. Mycroft barely raises an eyebrow in return. Bollocks.
Mycroft’s plummy accent is what had caught John’s attention in the first place. It’s rounder and darker than Sherlock’s, which is more affected by smoking than anything else. Mycroft’s is like dark chocolate, bitter but smooth to take the edge off. Dangerous in an entirely different way.
The flirtations were quiet, a gentle pushing of boundaries, nothing that you could put a finger on and say yes. That. Then one afternoon, over tea, Mycroft had just said his name, warm and low, curled a hand around John’s cheek and leant in for a kiss.
The conversation continues around him, and John tries to keep up, but ‘sex’ and ‘recreational scolding’ comes out of Mycroft’s mouth and his brain goes offline. It’s entirely unfair. Mycroft smirks and John can see his brain ticking over and all of a sudden John’s dreading and looking forward to their next encounter in equal measure.
~~~
“John.”
“Mycroft.” John tucks the phone in between his ear and shoulder and continues making tea. Sherlock is out somewhere (something about sheep, John doesn’t even want to fathom), and John is determined to enjoy the silence. “Sherlock’s out, if you were after him.”
“No, although I’m glad he’s out, I wanted to talk to you.” Mycroft’s voice lowers slightly, just a suggestion. John looks at the mug with teabag and sugar in, and leaves it.
“Really.”
“Yes. I think you should move to your bedroom. Wouldn’t want to frighten Mrs. Hudson.”
“Mrs. Hudson? Your pillow talk leaves much to be desired.”
Mycroft chuckles softly, and John takes the stairs two at a time, leg be damned. He shuts the door behind him - it hasn’t got a lock on it, not since Sherlock started using it as lock-picking practice, but Mrs. Hudson - there she is again - doesn’t bother snooping around John’s room.
“Sorted?”
“Isn’t this where you’re supposed to ask me what I’m wearing?”
“I could, but I could tell you what you’re wearing, so it seems pointless. What I could do, however, is describe how I’d like to strip you, hold you down, and fuck you through the mattress.”
John drops down on to the bed, dizzy from the rush of arousal. He’s never heard Mycroft swear - not when he’s been angry, or incoherent with pleasure - and hearing it now makes John shudder.
“Would you like that, John?”
John makes a choked sound. “Yes, yeah.” Another chuckle, more breathy this time. John grinds his hand down on his cock, fiddling with his belt.
“Take off your belt, properly.” John grunts and opens the belt, pulling it out of the loops of his jeans and dropping it onto the floor. “Good,” Mycroft says, “jeans next.” John kicks off his shoes and socks, then shoves his jeans off his legs. He pushes his boxers down for good measure, gasping as his erection is freed.
“Impatient.” Mycroft scolds. “I should punish you.”
And John has always found ‘have you been a naughty boy’ talk laughable but Mycroft, Mycroft could read the dictionary and it would make John hard.
“Oh, God.”
“Unbutton your shirt.” John’s fingers fumble on the buttons and he swears. “Slow down, John. We’ve got plenty of time.” John takes a deep breath and tries again, managing to manoeuvre the plastic through the fabric hole.
“I’m going to put you down to take my t-shirt off.” John puts the phone on the bedside table, flexing his arm and pulling his shirt off. He picks the phone back up and lies down on the cool sheets. “Right, naked.”
“Good. Touch yourself.” Mycroft orders. And John definitely shouldn’t find that sexy.
John swallows hard. “Where?”
“Nipples first, pinch them.”
John runs a hand up his chest and rubs a thumb over his nipple, arching slightly into it. He breaks out in a slight sweat, skin tingling.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Hmm.” John squirms under his hand, tamping down on the urge to pull himself off.
“Not enough though,” It’s not a question, so John doesn’t answer. “Are you hard, John?”
“Yes, fuck.” John’s aching.
“Touch your cock.” John makes a noise in the back of his throat and curls a hand around his dick.
“That’s it.”
“Yes.” John hisses as he strokes from root to tip.
“Not too much. Don’t come yet. Not until I say so.” Mycroft practically growls. John groans, thrusting up.
“Mycroft.” He says, not caring about the pleading tone in his voice.
“Soon.” Mycroft’s voice is slightly shaky, and John realises that Mycroft is turned on - maybe as turned on as he is.
“Are you, are you touching yourself?”
“Of course.”
“Fuck,” John mutters, picturing Mycroft in a wood panelled room, tie loose around his neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, one strong hand wrapped around his weeping cock. “Mycroft, come on.”
“Are you close, John? I’m so close.” Mycroft is breathing heavily now, John can hear the rustle of clothing over the line.
John can feel the pleasure coalescing at the base of his spine, his muscles tightening.
“Come for me, John.” And John does, crying out something incoherent as he spills over his hand.
John comes back to himself; a faint tinny sound coming somewhere to his left. He fumbles for the phone, closing his eyes against the dizzyness.
“Sorry, dropped the phone.”
“Quite alright.”
John lets out a laugh. “Bloody hell, Mycroft.”
“Yes.” Mycroft says, voice low and breathless.
“Oh, god. Stop. I can’t go again yet,” John covers his eyes with his arm.
“I can wait. I’m free all afternoon.”
“Well, I could come over?” John starts sitting up, “then you could see the effect you have on me.”
“Yes.” Mycroft answers, “shall I send a car?”
“The Government is not paying for my lift for a shag. I’ll call a taxi.”
This entry was originally posted at http://blue-eyed-1987.dreamwidth.org/40134.html please feel free to comment at either site
Author:
blue_eyed_1987
Characters/Pairings:John/Mcycroft
Rating:NC-17
Warnings:Spoilers for A Scandal in Belgravia
Summary: “There are many names for what she does. She prefers ‘Dominatrix’.”
Disclaimer: Not mine
Author's notes: Phone sex! Because Mycroft said 'Dominatrix' and hnnnnng. Essentially. So yeah, first time writing phone sex. PWP. Thanks to mightypretty for looking this over and encouraging me to post it. Writing this seems to have helped my muse come back \o/ Title from The Moody Blues
“There are many names for what she does. She prefers ‘Dominatrix’.”
John suppresses a shudder. He eyes Mycroft over his teacup, hoping futilely that Mycroft doesn’t notice. Mycroft barely raises an eyebrow in return. Bollocks.
Mycroft’s plummy accent is what had caught John’s attention in the first place. It’s rounder and darker than Sherlock’s, which is more affected by smoking than anything else. Mycroft’s is like dark chocolate, bitter but smooth to take the edge off. Dangerous in an entirely different way.
The flirtations were quiet, a gentle pushing of boundaries, nothing that you could put a finger on and say yes. That. Then one afternoon, over tea, Mycroft had just said his name, warm and low, curled a hand around John’s cheek and leant in for a kiss.
The conversation continues around him, and John tries to keep up, but ‘sex’ and ‘recreational scolding’ comes out of Mycroft’s mouth and his brain goes offline. It’s entirely unfair. Mycroft smirks and John can see his brain ticking over and all of a sudden John’s dreading and looking forward to their next encounter in equal measure.
~~~
“John.”
“Mycroft.” John tucks the phone in between his ear and shoulder and continues making tea. Sherlock is out somewhere (something about sheep, John doesn’t even want to fathom), and John is determined to enjoy the silence. “Sherlock’s out, if you were after him.”
“No, although I’m glad he’s out, I wanted to talk to you.” Mycroft’s voice lowers slightly, just a suggestion. John looks at the mug with teabag and sugar in, and leaves it.
“Really.”
“Yes. I think you should move to your bedroom. Wouldn’t want to frighten Mrs. Hudson.”
“Mrs. Hudson? Your pillow talk leaves much to be desired.”
Mycroft chuckles softly, and John takes the stairs two at a time, leg be damned. He shuts the door behind him - it hasn’t got a lock on it, not since Sherlock started using it as lock-picking practice, but Mrs. Hudson - there she is again - doesn’t bother snooping around John’s room.
“Sorted?”
“Isn’t this where you’re supposed to ask me what I’m wearing?”
“I could, but I could tell you what you’re wearing, so it seems pointless. What I could do, however, is describe how I’d like to strip you, hold you down, and fuck you through the mattress.”
John drops down on to the bed, dizzy from the rush of arousal. He’s never heard Mycroft swear - not when he’s been angry, or incoherent with pleasure - and hearing it now makes John shudder.
“Would you like that, John?”
John makes a choked sound. “Yes, yeah.” Another chuckle, more breathy this time. John grinds his hand down on his cock, fiddling with his belt.
“Take off your belt, properly.” John grunts and opens the belt, pulling it out of the loops of his jeans and dropping it onto the floor. “Good,” Mycroft says, “jeans next.” John kicks off his shoes and socks, then shoves his jeans off his legs. He pushes his boxers down for good measure, gasping as his erection is freed.
“Impatient.” Mycroft scolds. “I should punish you.”
And John has always found ‘have you been a naughty boy’ talk laughable but Mycroft, Mycroft could read the dictionary and it would make John hard.
“Oh, God.”
“Unbutton your shirt.” John’s fingers fumble on the buttons and he swears. “Slow down, John. We’ve got plenty of time.” John takes a deep breath and tries again, managing to manoeuvre the plastic through the fabric hole.
“I’m going to put you down to take my t-shirt off.” John puts the phone on the bedside table, flexing his arm and pulling his shirt off. He picks the phone back up and lies down on the cool sheets. “Right, naked.”
“Good. Touch yourself.” Mycroft orders. And John definitely shouldn’t find that sexy.
John swallows hard. “Where?”
“Nipples first, pinch them.”
John runs a hand up his chest and rubs a thumb over his nipple, arching slightly into it. He breaks out in a slight sweat, skin tingling.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Hmm.” John squirms under his hand, tamping down on the urge to pull himself off.
“Not enough though,” It’s not a question, so John doesn’t answer. “Are you hard, John?”
“Yes, fuck.” John’s aching.
“Touch your cock.” John makes a noise in the back of his throat and curls a hand around his dick.
“That’s it.”
“Yes.” John hisses as he strokes from root to tip.
“Not too much. Don’t come yet. Not until I say so.” Mycroft practically growls. John groans, thrusting up.
“Mycroft.” He says, not caring about the pleading tone in his voice.
“Soon.” Mycroft’s voice is slightly shaky, and John realises that Mycroft is turned on - maybe as turned on as he is.
“Are you, are you touching yourself?”
“Of course.”
“Fuck,” John mutters, picturing Mycroft in a wood panelled room, tie loose around his neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, one strong hand wrapped around his weeping cock. “Mycroft, come on.”
“Are you close, John? I’m so close.” Mycroft is breathing heavily now, John can hear the rustle of clothing over the line.
John can feel the pleasure coalescing at the base of his spine, his muscles tightening.
“Come for me, John.” And John does, crying out something incoherent as he spills over his hand.
John comes back to himself; a faint tinny sound coming somewhere to his left. He fumbles for the phone, closing his eyes against the dizzyness.
“Sorry, dropped the phone.”
“Quite alright.”
John lets out a laugh. “Bloody hell, Mycroft.”
“Yes.” Mycroft says, voice low and breathless.
“Oh, god. Stop. I can’t go again yet,” John covers his eyes with his arm.
“I can wait. I’m free all afternoon.”
“Well, I could come over?” John starts sitting up, “then you could see the effect you have on me.”
“Yes.” Mycroft answers, “shall I send a car?”
“The Government is not paying for my lift for a shag. I’ll call a taxi.”
This entry was originally posted at http://blue-eyed-1987.dreamwidth.org/40134.html please feel free to comment at either site