Fic: Intervention
Pairing: Mycroft/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: bondage, beating, and no cuddling afterwards.
Mycroft wants John so Mycroft has John (in an abandoned warehouse on his knees).
***
"I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop kidnapping me," John said quietly, biting back what must be a large amount of frustration, given how he was holding himself. His eyes were fixed unflinchingly on Mycroft's, unafraid.
"You were on your way to see Dr Sawyer," Mycroft said coolly. "I intervened."
John's eyes narrowed. "What business is it of yours where I go in my own time?"
The little wounded soldier held himself like he was the strongest person in the room. It was charming, really, that powerful personality wrapped up in a body that was so fragile. It was one of Mycroft's favourite things about him. So very teasing.
"I do hate being contrary, John, but I must inform you. Everything you do is my business," Mycroft said, smiling pleasantly.
"And why is that?" John asked, fingers curling. Not fists, just tense strength and muscle memory from years of handling a gun.
Mycroft walked forward, pleased to see John doesn't so much as flinch. They were close now, and John's compact body was within grabbing distance. Mycroft resisted the powerful temptation to just take hold of him and do whatever he desired to the man. He wanted to savour this.
Because soon, John would be naked and shuddering beneath him, skin sweaty, hot against the cold concrete of the old abandoned warehouse.
"You're mine, John," Mycroft said leisurely. "I've been watching you for quite some time, and now I'm ready to collect."
John's eyes widened. There was pupil dilation, arousal. But John forced that down. "I'm not your property," he argued. "I'm not in a relationship with you, and I want one with Sarah. Don't interfere."
Mycroft shrugged off the words. His job was interference, so that meant nothing. He gripped John's dominant forearm, and pulled him close, dipping his neck so they were face to face. John inhaled sharply, stirred. Mycroft felt him try to tug away, and had the pleasure of seeing a little bit of fear gleam in John's eyes when he realised quite how strong Mycroft was.
"Don't deny yourself, John," said Mycroft, sliding his other hand down John's side. "She's not what you need."
John's resolve was weakening. "Oh? So what do I need?" he asked, voice finally cracking, just a little.
Mycroft smiled down at him, head leaning down. His lips hovered over John's, nearly touching. "Me."
John hesitated, eyes flickering, examining. Then, as if in a trance, he closed the gap between them, spare hand reaching up to grip over Mycroft's neck. His thin lips were hot and wet, and he kissed with passion.
You've been holding back, thought Mycroft, tugging John's body closer and kissing back, pushing his tongue in. Their lips slid over each other, first controlled, then slipping into clumsy sucking, gasping for breath in each other's mouths.
Mycroft let go of John's arm and flicked open the buttons of his shirt, running his hands down naked skin. He brushed his fingers against soft little nipples and John flinched, pulled their mouths apart. His lips were pinker than usual, and he breathed heavily, eyes clouded.
Mycroft tugged John's shirt off, quickly, eager to expose softly sloping shoulders and arms with flexing muscle. John's skin goose-pimpled as it was uncovered to the cool air, almost invisible blond hairs standing on end. He slid his foot behind John's knees and guided him to the concrete floor, hands roving.
"Cold," said John, fingers fisted in Mycroft's suit, taking pleasure in crumpling the perfectly smooth grey wool.
"I'll warm you up," said Mycroft, unbuckling John's belt. His fantasy, of taking John somewhere old and secluded like this, was swiftly coming to life as he roughly undressed the man lying beneath him.
Mycroft wanted everything.
He hurriedly leant over the now naked John, kissing, licking and biting his way over John's neck, his chest, his stomach. He smoothed his hands over John's soft thighs, and spread them, pinning the man to the floor and scrutinising him intently. John squirmed beneath him, back arching up, a red blush over his cheeks.
"You're very eager for someone who was initially so resistant," Mycroft taunted, and pushed a slicked finger into John, curling and twisting, his other hand pressing against John's knee, to hold him open.
"Shut up," John retorted, huffing at the pressure, as Mycroft started pushing in another finger. Still pent up with anger. How wonderful.
John was lovely like this, flexing on the ground, every inch of skin available for Mycroft to touch and take. He leant down, sucking his lips over one of John's nipples, and curled his fingers upwards in John to find the swelling of his prostate. John hitched a breath, and gasped out Mycroft's name.
"Now that is nice," Mycroft rumbled, and stroked John from the inside while lapping and biting at his nipple, over-stimulating the swollen flesh.
John let out delightful little gasps and whispers, trying and failing to keep silent, swearing loudly when Mycroft pinned his wrists with one large hand.
"Don't touch yourself," ordered Mycroft.
"Fuck," growled John, as Mycroft pressed relentlessly at his prostate. He sounded desperate now. "God, please, I'm ready."
Mycroft bit the nipple he was tormenting, hard, and John yelled. "This is my body now, John. I decide what to do with it, and when it is ready."
John bucked down on Mycroft's fingers, crying out in frustration when Mycroft pulled them out, instead leaning his bodyweight over John, holding him down and staring into those furious blue-grey eyes.
He still had too much fight in him.
Mycroft sighed and leant away. He rolled John onto his stomach, ignoring the pained cries of protest as John's hard cock pressed against rough concrete. He sat on the back of John's thighs to pin the small body down, then neatly unbuckled his belt and undid his trousers, and pulled himself out. He laid his cock over John's arse, imagining sinking in between those cheeks into tight heat.
But not yet.
John hadn't quite been subdued, thrashing about like that.
He grabbed John's flailing hands and pinned them together, then bound them with the discarded unbuttoned shirt. John hissed in rage, tugging and pulling hopelessly, but his struggles did nothing but tighten knots.
"You bastard!"
Mycroft cuffed him over the ear. "Stop blithering."
He looped his belt in his hand, snapping the leather experimentally. John tensed at the unmistakable sound, suddenly more frightened than angry.
"Wait," he said quickly.
Mycroft smacked the belt onto John's arse, and John cried out. A wide red stripe glowed over his white cheeks, and Mycroft rubbed it approvingly, raising the belt again.
"Are you going to stop fighting me?"
"Mycroft, please," John begged.
Another blow, perfectly aimed, the mark lying parallel to the first.
Mycroft whipped him six times, each stripe deeper than the last, and John's cries transformed. They were less out of anger now, and more out of pain. The little man slumped weakly on the concrete, trembling, teeth gritted, flinching as Mycroft tossed the belt to the side and ran his hands over the bruises.
Mycroft wanted this body now. Wanted to dominate it completely, and leave it a shuddering mess on the floor.
He released John's wrists and pulled him to his hands and knees. He lined up his cock, pressing the head against John's tight hole and rubbing over it, teasing.
John let out a snuffling growl, thrusting his hips back onto Mycroft's cock, fingers white on the concrete. He impaled himself slowly but relentlessly, working Mycroft's cock in as far as he could take it, letting out a low groan at the incredible stretch deep inside his body.
Well, he obviously wanted it rough then.
Mycroft took control, gripping John's hips and fucking him at a punishing pace. John cried out, voice jolting, hair shaking at the rough speed that Mycroft slammed into him, hands skidding on the concrete to stay upright. After several brutal thrusts, John was forced onto his elbows, palms flat on the floor, moaning helplessly as Mycroft ruthlessly snapped his hips into John.
John came first, loudly, spasming around Mycroft. He slumped to the ground, held up only by strong hands at his hips, and was viciously used until Mycroft was finished, grimacing as he spilt his load deep inside John. He pulled out his softened cock, and John curled onto the ground, trembling, hypersensitive to sensation.
"Mycroft," he muttered, as Mycroft got to his feet and put himself away.
John was small, now, pride broken.
Needy.
Mycroft smoothly sidestepped the outstretched hand, and walked out the warehouse.
"Get him a lift home," he said to one of his assistants, who nodded deferentially and made a call.
Mycroft walked down the short distance to the road and climbed into the back seat of his black sedan, comfortably sated, at least for now. The ride home was very enjoyable, especially with the recording from the warehouse that had been linked directly to his laptop. He plugged in headphones and listened to his handiwork.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: bondage, beating, and no cuddling afterwards.
Mycroft wants John so Mycroft has John (in an abandoned warehouse on his knees).
***
"I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop kidnapping me," John said quietly, biting back what must be a large amount of frustration, given how he was holding himself. His eyes were fixed unflinchingly on Mycroft's, unafraid.
"You were on your way to see Dr Sawyer," Mycroft said coolly. "I intervened."
John's eyes narrowed. "What business is it of yours where I go in my own time?"
The little wounded soldier held himself like he was the strongest person in the room. It was charming, really, that powerful personality wrapped up in a body that was so fragile. It was one of Mycroft's favourite things about him. So very teasing.
"I do hate being contrary, John, but I must inform you. Everything you do is my business," Mycroft said, smiling pleasantly.
"And why is that?" John asked, fingers curling. Not fists, just tense strength and muscle memory from years of handling a gun.
Mycroft walked forward, pleased to see John doesn't so much as flinch. They were close now, and John's compact body was within grabbing distance. Mycroft resisted the powerful temptation to just take hold of him and do whatever he desired to the man. He wanted to savour this.
Because soon, John would be naked and shuddering beneath him, skin sweaty, hot against the cold concrete of the old abandoned warehouse.
"You're mine, John," Mycroft said leisurely. "I've been watching you for quite some time, and now I'm ready to collect."
John's eyes widened. There was pupil dilation, arousal. But John forced that down. "I'm not your property," he argued. "I'm not in a relationship with you, and I want one with Sarah. Don't interfere."
Mycroft shrugged off the words. His job was interference, so that meant nothing. He gripped John's dominant forearm, and pulled him close, dipping his neck so they were face to face. John inhaled sharply, stirred. Mycroft felt him try to tug away, and had the pleasure of seeing a little bit of fear gleam in John's eyes when he realised quite how strong Mycroft was.
"Don't deny yourself, John," said Mycroft, sliding his other hand down John's side. "She's not what you need."
John's resolve was weakening. "Oh? So what do I need?" he asked, voice finally cracking, just a little.
Mycroft smiled down at him, head leaning down. His lips hovered over John's, nearly touching. "Me."
John hesitated, eyes flickering, examining. Then, as if in a trance, he closed the gap between them, spare hand reaching up to grip over Mycroft's neck. His thin lips were hot and wet, and he kissed with passion.
You've been holding back, thought Mycroft, tugging John's body closer and kissing back, pushing his tongue in. Their lips slid over each other, first controlled, then slipping into clumsy sucking, gasping for breath in each other's mouths.
Mycroft let go of John's arm and flicked open the buttons of his shirt, running his hands down naked skin. He brushed his fingers against soft little nipples and John flinched, pulled their mouths apart. His lips were pinker than usual, and he breathed heavily, eyes clouded.
Mycroft tugged John's shirt off, quickly, eager to expose softly sloping shoulders and arms with flexing muscle. John's skin goose-pimpled as it was uncovered to the cool air, almost invisible blond hairs standing on end. He slid his foot behind John's knees and guided him to the concrete floor, hands roving.
"Cold," said John, fingers fisted in Mycroft's suit, taking pleasure in crumpling the perfectly smooth grey wool.
"I'll warm you up," said Mycroft, unbuckling John's belt. His fantasy, of taking John somewhere old and secluded like this, was swiftly coming to life as he roughly undressed the man lying beneath him.
Mycroft wanted everything.
He hurriedly leant over the now naked John, kissing, licking and biting his way over John's neck, his chest, his stomach. He smoothed his hands over John's soft thighs, and spread them, pinning the man to the floor and scrutinising him intently. John squirmed beneath him, back arching up, a red blush over his cheeks.
"You're very eager for someone who was initially so resistant," Mycroft taunted, and pushed a slicked finger into John, curling and twisting, his other hand pressing against John's knee, to hold him open.
"Shut up," John retorted, huffing at the pressure, as Mycroft started pushing in another finger. Still pent up with anger. How wonderful.
John was lovely like this, flexing on the ground, every inch of skin available for Mycroft to touch and take. He leant down, sucking his lips over one of John's nipples, and curled his fingers upwards in John to find the swelling of his prostate. John hitched a breath, and gasped out Mycroft's name.
"Now that is nice," Mycroft rumbled, and stroked John from the inside while lapping and biting at his nipple, over-stimulating the swollen flesh.
John let out delightful little gasps and whispers, trying and failing to keep silent, swearing loudly when Mycroft pinned his wrists with one large hand.
"Don't touch yourself," ordered Mycroft.
"Fuck," growled John, as Mycroft pressed relentlessly at his prostate. He sounded desperate now. "God, please, I'm ready."
Mycroft bit the nipple he was tormenting, hard, and John yelled. "This is my body now, John. I decide what to do with it, and when it is ready."
John bucked down on Mycroft's fingers, crying out in frustration when Mycroft pulled them out, instead leaning his bodyweight over John, holding him down and staring into those furious blue-grey eyes.
He still had too much fight in him.
Mycroft sighed and leant away. He rolled John onto his stomach, ignoring the pained cries of protest as John's hard cock pressed against rough concrete. He sat on the back of John's thighs to pin the small body down, then neatly unbuckled his belt and undid his trousers, and pulled himself out. He laid his cock over John's arse, imagining sinking in between those cheeks into tight heat.
But not yet.
John hadn't quite been subdued, thrashing about like that.
He grabbed John's flailing hands and pinned them together, then bound them with the discarded unbuttoned shirt. John hissed in rage, tugging and pulling hopelessly, but his struggles did nothing but tighten knots.
"You bastard!"
Mycroft cuffed him over the ear. "Stop blithering."
He looped his belt in his hand, snapping the leather experimentally. John tensed at the unmistakable sound, suddenly more frightened than angry.
"Wait," he said quickly.
Mycroft smacked the belt onto John's arse, and John cried out. A wide red stripe glowed over his white cheeks, and Mycroft rubbed it approvingly, raising the belt again.
"Are you going to stop fighting me?"
"Mycroft, please," John begged.
Another blow, perfectly aimed, the mark lying parallel to the first.
Mycroft whipped him six times, each stripe deeper than the last, and John's cries transformed. They were less out of anger now, and more out of pain. The little man slumped weakly on the concrete, trembling, teeth gritted, flinching as Mycroft tossed the belt to the side and ran his hands over the bruises.
Mycroft wanted this body now. Wanted to dominate it completely, and leave it a shuddering mess on the floor.
He released John's wrists and pulled him to his hands and knees. He lined up his cock, pressing the head against John's tight hole and rubbing over it, teasing.
John let out a snuffling growl, thrusting his hips back onto Mycroft's cock, fingers white on the concrete. He impaled himself slowly but relentlessly, working Mycroft's cock in as far as he could take it, letting out a low groan at the incredible stretch deep inside his body.
Well, he obviously wanted it rough then.
Mycroft took control, gripping John's hips and fucking him at a punishing pace. John cried out, voice jolting, hair shaking at the rough speed that Mycroft slammed into him, hands skidding on the concrete to stay upright. After several brutal thrusts, John was forced onto his elbows, palms flat on the floor, moaning helplessly as Mycroft ruthlessly snapped his hips into John.
John came first, loudly, spasming around Mycroft. He slumped to the ground, held up only by strong hands at his hips, and was viciously used until Mycroft was finished, grimacing as he spilt his load deep inside John. He pulled out his softened cock, and John curled onto the ground, trembling, hypersensitive to sensation.
"Mycroft," he muttered, as Mycroft got to his feet and put himself away.
John was small, now, pride broken.
Needy.
Mycroft smoothly sidestepped the outstretched hand, and walked out the warehouse.
"Get him a lift home," he said to one of his assistants, who nodded deferentially and made a call.
Mycroft walked down the short distance to the road and climbed into the back seat of his black sedan, comfortably sated, at least for now. The ride home was very enjoyable, especially with the recording from the warehouse that had been linked directly to his laptop. He plugged in headphones and listened to his handiwork.