Work Text:
When one enjoys the simple pleasures, one learns to make time for the best there is to offer. Mycroft Holmes understands this. He has no time for second-rate; his staff are the best, his suits are the finest, when he does something it is done perfectly or not at all.
He begins during a particularly dreary end of day meeting; a soft, rhythmic rub of his thumb over each of his fingers in turn until the hairs are standing up on the back of his neck. He strokes delicately over the webbing between his fingers until the urge to flutter his eyes closed and purr is almost overwhelming. His skin tingles; he bites his lip.
In the car, he parts his legs ever so slightly more than is decent, runs one finger softly over his mouth. His cock is hot, heavy between his legs.
When he reaches home, the urge to simply throw himself on the bed and writhe is just about irresistible, but resist he does. All parts are equal in this game, and he slides his jacket from his shoulders, shuddering as the rough fabric slips over his sensitised palms. The shirt follows; slower, to allow him to fully savour the sweet glide of fabric over the soft translucent skin on the crooks of his elbows, his wrists. He shivers. The soft tips of his nipples tighten with arousal, aching to be touched. He runs a quick, decadent thumb over each, sighs a little.
He removes the rest of his clothes in a similar fashion, pausing to fully appreciate the rasp of a silky black sock over his calf, dragging his thumbs along with his trousers as he pushes them down his thighs. He’s left in his underwear, which he likes to leave on just a little while longer; he enjoys the constraint.
Sometimes he likes to stay in the lounge, French windows thrown open onto the garden. The wash of fresh air over his naked body feels completely delightful, as does the jerk of his subconscious, which finds the thought of being spotted terribly interesting, though logically he knows nobody but himself ever sees into this room. Today, however, he has the urge to properly splay himself out on the bed; there is nothing quite like being completely naked on top of a fine cotton duvet.
He parts his legs, arches a little off the bed. The very tips of his fingers make their slow way across his ribs, stroking over his nipples so briefly it aches. Even this light touch is inflammatory at this point, every nerve sensitised to the point of desperation by his slow, teasing build up. He can’t help letting out a shuddering little Oh! when his fingers brush over the waistband of his briefs. Lovely.
His cock is almost fully hard now; there’s something completely delicious about watching as it pushes at his underwear, pre-ejaculate dampening the fabric. He ghosts a quick thumb over where the glossy tip is nudging out of the waistband, wetting his thumb and drawing it up over his bottom lip. He gives in to the urge to moan a little, oral fixation whetted.
Finally, he hooks his thumbs into his briefs and pulls them down, making sure to drag indulgently over the hot length of his cock; it’s flushed, damp, and he palms himself firmly, feels as it twitches a little against the attentions of his hand. Oh, yes. One hand he moves down to gently trace through the soft, fine hair on his balls, drawing a finger up the crease of his thigh; he uses the other to firmly grasp his cock, panting a little.
He pulls the foreskin down slowly; it’s soft, silky in his hand. Drawing his other hand up from between his legs, he drags a blunt nail over a tingling nipple, watching as his cock jerks and spills a little liquid from the tip. Sometimes he can get close to coming just from playing with them. He pulls his hand from his cock for a little moment, flicks at them lightly with both hands until he’s shivering, moaning. There is a thin string of pre-ejaculate from his cock to his belly, and he dips his finger to the slit and rubs a little before wrapping his hand exquisitely back around his cock, keeping one finger rubbing gently over the soft peak of a nipple.
He fists his cock once, slowly, pulling his foreskin completely off the head. He can feel he’s close, always is after spending so long on little teasing touches, and he can’t resist one or two quick dirty pushes of his hips up into the circle of his hand, oh God, that’s it, that’s perfect, and he has to force himself not to just move with abandon lest he come straight away. Instead, he tightens his hand almost to the point of pain and concentrates on slow, shivery thrusts that have every nerve ending on his body sparking with pleasure. At each little push, he lets out a breathy moan; somehow hearing himself as he fucks up into his own hand makes everything spark brighter, more intensely. God, he’s almost there, slowly bringing himself closer and closer and the rhythmic flick of his one finger over his nipple has him arching off the bed, eyes closed now as the movement of his hand speeds up. He concentrates on the slippery wet head of his cock and he just needs a little more, one rough-sweet glide of his thumb under the crown and one perfectly timed pinch of his other hand and he’s coming wet and hot all over his hand, his belly, his chest in three, oh, four long pulses, breath shuddering in on an open-mouthed gasp.
He allows himself a filthy, indulgent moment to trace his fingers through the warm slippery come on his stomach as he lies panting on the bed. He rubs it into his skin just a little, just because he can, and shivers at the way it slides down his thighs as he pads towards the bathroom. In the shower, he stands under the hot spray for almost half an hour, already thinking about the fifty year old Speyside malt he has waiting for him in the cabinet downstairs.
It really has been a most satisfactory afternoon.