Silver and Gold
Title: Silver and Gold
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,338
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Slave AU and inherent consent issues thereof.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock.
Notes: This is written as an adjunct to brighteyed_jill’s Sherlock slave AU story In My Master’s House Are Many Rooms. For reference, Mycroft is a British lord, and Lestrade is Mycroft’s personal slave.
Summary: Mycroft has a nightly indulgence in silver and gold.
It was a perfect way to end the day. The endless reports and briefings had been secured in his office, the household crises had all calmed, and even his brother had managed to keep his mayhem to an acceptable dull roar. Unless the government chose to implode on its own, tonight bid fair to be quiet.
For a man of Mycroft Holmes’ stature, routine was something to be both avoided and cultivated. Avoided, because being a rut could stifle the creativity necessary to solve the unpredictable world events that were thrown at the Empire every day. Avoided, because too many routines and habits were weaknesses an enemy or ally could exploit. But some habits, some routines were wanted, even desired. If it was known that Lord Holmes attended the symphony regularly, it created a certain assumption of sophistication and refinement without having to spend a tedious amount of time working at it.
Not that, of course, anyone would call Mycroft Holmes anything but sophisticated and refined. But by blocking off a half-hour of the evening, right before bed, to indulge in reading one of the leather-bound classics in the library while sipping brandy, Mycroft reinforced the image that he wanted to project. That he was the consummate English Lord, a bastion of utter respectability, conscious of being a perfect friend to the Empress.
It was necessary, of course, to be better than perfect when one’s brother is Sherlock Holmes.
At this time of night, his suit was put away in his wardrobe, pressed and cleaned and ready for service. Mycroft could finally be confortable in an elegantly patterned silk dressing gown (a gift, of course, from one of the Eastern provinces), his body cradled in the smooth leather of the wingback chair near the fireplace. Seasoned logs gave off golden light and warmth, gilding the brandy snifter and turning its contents into liquid embers. The book in his hand was a classic, the spine tooled with its title and author in perfectly coordinating colors, specifically made for his library to harmonize with his décor.
He had been turning the pages every few minutes, but he hadn’t read a word since Anthea locked the door fifteen minutes ago with the usual order not to disturb him unless the house was burning down or the Empress called him on his personal line. The reason for that was his true indulgence. The carpet beneath his feet was far thicker and plusher than would be comfortable for a man in dress shoes, but was perfect to kneel upon. Gregory Lestrade had been grateful for the consideration when Mycroft had got it installed several years ago, and never failed to show that gratitude.
Mycroft’s hand drifted down between his legs to Gregory’s silver head, bobbing leisurely up and down on his cock. To be certain, he could have read his book while Gregory plied his talents, but truly, why would he bother? This was his relaxation, a moment of privacy and pleasure. The sensuous feel of Gregory’s hair in one hand, the smooth leather of the book in another. The faint hint of brandy and woodsmoke in the air. Gregory’s hands, smooth and soft with the care Mycroft had lavished on them, one sliding down Mycroft’s thigh, the other closed upon his shaft with perfect pressure. The heat and slick moisture of Gregory’s mouth closed in around him, driving him higher and closer to the edge every minute.
Mycroft had only the smallest of regrets for this sliver of private time: that no one was there to immortalize the moment with oil paints on canvas. He expected the picture he and Gregory created would be suitable to hang in the National Gallery. In the private section, naturally. The richly patterned silk of his dressing gown draped over his thighs contrasted nicely with Gregory’s silver hair, adding an aesthetic touch to the pleasure building throughout Mycroft’s body.
He’d found Gregory handsome enough when he’d selected him for personal service, but had expected to need to replace him in a few years. Instead, Gregory had just become more striking as he’d matured; skill, dignity, and intimate knowledge adding to his beauty each year. Such unexpected satisfaction was not to be discarded to simply get the “latest model.”
The book wavered in Mycroft’s hand and finally dropped to the table as Mycroft focused his entire attention on the rising tide of pleasure Gregory was drawing out of him. A sigh forced its way out of his lips as Gregory responded to a slight pressure from his hand and took him deep and then pulled back slowly, tongue tracing obscene patterns along the underside of his cock. Mycroft’s breath caught, and Gregory stroked down his shaft while his lips touched the swollen head gently, tongue laving up drops of pre-come in a maddeningly delicate touch. The fire had become too warm, the sensation too much, and Mycroft could feel himself cracking and letting go, his balls drawing up tight as Gregory caressed them with the very tips of his fingers.
Mycroft’s head went back into the leather of the chair as the firelight became a nova behind his eyes, the pleasure burning through him and into Gregory. He let his dignity slip as he gasped and shook through the throes of orgasm, his hands moving to urge Gregory up.
He blinked the world back into focus as Gregory knelt on the large chair, his knees framing Mycoft’s thighs. No clothing impeded Mycroft’s view of Gregory’s body, aside from the thick black collar around his neck, the tag emblazoned with Mycroft’s initials. He let one finger trace the collar in simple affirmation before gliding downwards, across the lines of Gregory’s fit body, through the faint coarseness of the hair sprinkling his chest, to the smooth hardness of his cock, curving up towards his belly, the tip damp from his arousal. That Mycroft did not need to use drugs on Gregory to indulge himself was a point of special pride with him.
He raised his other hand slightly in a permissive gesture, and Gregory leaned over and took the brandy from the side table at the signal. With slow and careful sips in between Mycroft’s delicate exploration of his aching erection, Gregory drained the glass and put it back on the table with hardly a sound other than his slightly ragged breathing. The heat of the fireplace combined with the heat of the alcohol and his arousal had a fine sheen of sweat covering Gregory’s body, turning him gold to go with the silver of his hair. Mycroft moved his hand a little faster, making Gregory brace himself on the arms of the chair as he submitted to his master’s ministrations.
His face flushed and his eyes were damp as he hovered over Mycroft, hips rock-solid, not attempting to drive into Mycroft’s hand for more friction, just taking what he was given. Only his eyes begged for more, silent and eloquent beneath the silver fringe of his hair.
“Beautiful,” Mycroft said softly, and Gregory finally snapped his hips forward hard at that signal, semen spurting to cover Mycroft’s stomach and hand. Gasping slightly, Gregory rocked gently at Mycroft’s urging, drawing out every bit of pleasure he could so his master could see it play across his face. Finally, Mycroft pulled away and Gregory went to fetch the warm water and cloths Anthea had provided before leaving them to it. Gregory slowly wiped Mycroft’s skin clear of his spending, placing a gentle kiss to where he had spilled, touching his lips to Mycroft’s stomach and knuckles.
Mycroft caught his chin once, and ran his thumb down Gregory’s neck to touch his collar once more before he hurried to put the cloths away and his clothes on. A moment later, as the clock struck the half-hour, Anthea opened the door to see her master and his personal slave in their usual places by the fire, Mycroft reading, Lestrade kneeling, ready to answer any need. They looked just as pretty a picture.
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,338
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Slave AU and inherent consent issues thereof.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock.
Notes: This is written as an adjunct to brighteyed_jill’s Sherlock slave AU story In My Master’s House Are Many Rooms. For reference, Mycroft is a British lord, and Lestrade is Mycroft’s personal slave.
Summary: Mycroft has a nightly indulgence in silver and gold.
It was a perfect way to end the day. The endless reports and briefings had been secured in his office, the household crises had all calmed, and even his brother had managed to keep his mayhem to an acceptable dull roar. Unless the government chose to implode on its own, tonight bid fair to be quiet.
For a man of Mycroft Holmes’ stature, routine was something to be both avoided and cultivated. Avoided, because being a rut could stifle the creativity necessary to solve the unpredictable world events that were thrown at the Empire every day. Avoided, because too many routines and habits were weaknesses an enemy or ally could exploit. But some habits, some routines were wanted, even desired. If it was known that Lord Holmes attended the symphony regularly, it created a certain assumption of sophistication and refinement without having to spend a tedious amount of time working at it.
Not that, of course, anyone would call Mycroft Holmes anything but sophisticated and refined. But by blocking off a half-hour of the evening, right before bed, to indulge in reading one of the leather-bound classics in the library while sipping brandy, Mycroft reinforced the image that he wanted to project. That he was the consummate English Lord, a bastion of utter respectability, conscious of being a perfect friend to the Empress.
It was necessary, of course, to be better than perfect when one’s brother is Sherlock Holmes.
At this time of night, his suit was put away in his wardrobe, pressed and cleaned and ready for service. Mycroft could finally be confortable in an elegantly patterned silk dressing gown (a gift, of course, from one of the Eastern provinces), his body cradled in the smooth leather of the wingback chair near the fireplace. Seasoned logs gave off golden light and warmth, gilding the brandy snifter and turning its contents into liquid embers. The book in his hand was a classic, the spine tooled with its title and author in perfectly coordinating colors, specifically made for his library to harmonize with his décor.
He had been turning the pages every few minutes, but he hadn’t read a word since Anthea locked the door fifteen minutes ago with the usual order not to disturb him unless the house was burning down or the Empress called him on his personal line. The reason for that was his true indulgence. The carpet beneath his feet was far thicker and plusher than would be comfortable for a man in dress shoes, but was perfect to kneel upon. Gregory Lestrade had been grateful for the consideration when Mycroft had got it installed several years ago, and never failed to show that gratitude.
Mycroft’s hand drifted down between his legs to Gregory’s silver head, bobbing leisurely up and down on his cock. To be certain, he could have read his book while Gregory plied his talents, but truly, why would he bother? This was his relaxation, a moment of privacy and pleasure. The sensuous feel of Gregory’s hair in one hand, the smooth leather of the book in another. The faint hint of brandy and woodsmoke in the air. Gregory’s hands, smooth and soft with the care Mycroft had lavished on them, one sliding down Mycroft’s thigh, the other closed upon his shaft with perfect pressure. The heat and slick moisture of Gregory’s mouth closed in around him, driving him higher and closer to the edge every minute.
Mycroft had only the smallest of regrets for this sliver of private time: that no one was there to immortalize the moment with oil paints on canvas. He expected the picture he and Gregory created would be suitable to hang in the National Gallery. In the private section, naturally. The richly patterned silk of his dressing gown draped over his thighs contrasted nicely with Gregory’s silver hair, adding an aesthetic touch to the pleasure building throughout Mycroft’s body.
He’d found Gregory handsome enough when he’d selected him for personal service, but had expected to need to replace him in a few years. Instead, Gregory had just become more striking as he’d matured; skill, dignity, and intimate knowledge adding to his beauty each year. Such unexpected satisfaction was not to be discarded to simply get the “latest model.”
The book wavered in Mycroft’s hand and finally dropped to the table as Mycroft focused his entire attention on the rising tide of pleasure Gregory was drawing out of him. A sigh forced its way out of his lips as Gregory responded to a slight pressure from his hand and took him deep and then pulled back slowly, tongue tracing obscene patterns along the underside of his cock. Mycroft’s breath caught, and Gregory stroked down his shaft while his lips touched the swollen head gently, tongue laving up drops of pre-come in a maddeningly delicate touch. The fire had become too warm, the sensation too much, and Mycroft could feel himself cracking and letting go, his balls drawing up tight as Gregory caressed them with the very tips of his fingers.
Mycroft’s head went back into the leather of the chair as the firelight became a nova behind his eyes, the pleasure burning through him and into Gregory. He let his dignity slip as he gasped and shook through the throes of orgasm, his hands moving to urge Gregory up.
He blinked the world back into focus as Gregory knelt on the large chair, his knees framing Mycoft’s thighs. No clothing impeded Mycroft’s view of Gregory’s body, aside from the thick black collar around his neck, the tag emblazoned with Mycroft’s initials. He let one finger trace the collar in simple affirmation before gliding downwards, across the lines of Gregory’s fit body, through the faint coarseness of the hair sprinkling his chest, to the smooth hardness of his cock, curving up towards his belly, the tip damp from his arousal. That Mycroft did not need to use drugs on Gregory to indulge himself was a point of special pride with him.
He raised his other hand slightly in a permissive gesture, and Gregory leaned over and took the brandy from the side table at the signal. With slow and careful sips in between Mycroft’s delicate exploration of his aching erection, Gregory drained the glass and put it back on the table with hardly a sound other than his slightly ragged breathing. The heat of the fireplace combined with the heat of the alcohol and his arousal had a fine sheen of sweat covering Gregory’s body, turning him gold to go with the silver of his hair. Mycroft moved his hand a little faster, making Gregory brace himself on the arms of the chair as he submitted to his master’s ministrations.
His face flushed and his eyes were damp as he hovered over Mycroft, hips rock-solid, not attempting to drive into Mycroft’s hand for more friction, just taking what he was given. Only his eyes begged for more, silent and eloquent beneath the silver fringe of his hair.
“Beautiful,” Mycroft said softly, and Gregory finally snapped his hips forward hard at that signal, semen spurting to cover Mycroft’s stomach and hand. Gasping slightly, Gregory rocked gently at Mycroft’s urging, drawing out every bit of pleasure he could so his master could see it play across his face. Finally, Mycroft pulled away and Gregory went to fetch the warm water and cloths Anthea had provided before leaving them to it. Gregory slowly wiped Mycroft’s skin clear of his spending, placing a gentle kiss to where he had spilled, touching his lips to Mycroft’s stomach and knuckles.
Mycroft caught his chin once, and ran his thumb down Gregory’s neck to touch his collar once more before he hurried to put the cloths away and his clothes on. A moment later, as the clock struck the half-hour, Anthea opened the door to see her master and his personal slave in their usual places by the fire, Mycroft reading, Lestrade kneeling, ready to answer any need. They looked just as pretty a picture.