Whose Struggle Is It Anyway?

Mycroft swept through the front door of his Oxford townhouse, having just returned from the telegraph office with a wire for Sherlock, which he handed to his brother in the drawing room where he was playing chess with James, and continued down the hallway to his study. He startled slightly when he opened the cracked door to see you asleep on his settee — one of his books laying open on your chest, feet propped up on the arm with your boots still on, no less. He rolled his eyes, Sherlock never really had any friends until recently, and now that he did, Mycroft was reminded what terrible manners university boys have… how much space they take up in one's home, and how much they eat. He was starting to find their constant presence in his house rather… annoying. He had half a mind to wake you up by flicking your ear. But he heard you mumble something. It sounded almost like his name, so at first he thought he had woken you. It was soon obvious that you were actually in the midst of a very vivid dream. Your breathing was labored and your mumbles turned into… moaning.

“Fffuuuuuu—“ you whined, hips slightly jerking up.

Ooohhh, for Heaven’s sake… Mycroft thought, rolling his eyes. He stepped forward to wake you with a now whole-minded flick to the ear, when you moaned again.

“Please, Myc—… Please, Daddy…”

Mycroft stopped short and paused, eyes wide.

“Mycroft…”

Dear Lord… he thought. His stomach plummeted and a searing blush bloomed up his neck. You were dreaming of him!

Mycroft’s first instinct was to turn on his heels and run — to escape to another part of the house and desperately try to forget what he just saw. But something kept his feet glued to the ground and he watched you twitch and moan his name in your sleep. His gaze lingered over your body, assessing every detail he could about you while you were so far naive to his presence. While your boots were still on, you at least had the decency to remove your jacket. You laid there in just your waistcoat — an almost tacky pattern of gold, crimson, and purple embroidery, which you were likely the only person in the world who would actually try to pull off with any sense of style — and the sleeves of your shirt were rolled up to the elbows. You had taken off your necktie and placed it on the chair with your jacket, and undone the first few buttons so that the binding around your breasts was just visible. You had quite made yourself at home actually, which would have irritated him to no end, could he not admit that you looked so charming. Your old gender was a closely guarded secret for obvious reasons, and you had been living with it quite successfully for several years. That is, until you befriended his abnormally observant younger brother, who sussed you out in minutes upon meeting you, but assured you that your secret was safe with them and now it was more of an open secret between you, Sherlock, James, and himself behind closed doors. In fact, he felt a little bit honored that you felt safe enough to be so relaxed in his home. However, he was starting to have a harder and harder time denying that you were forcing him to… question things about himself.

You were supremely annoying, and seemed to have never taken anything seriously in your life, having a propensity to crack jokes at the most inappropriate times, and you wore the most ridiculous clothes sometimes. And there was a glint in your eyes — mischief it was, damned trouble, actually — but it was so charming it was impossible to resist. It’s definitely why you and James got on so well, birds of a feather, you were. And there was something about the way you moved — your physicality. It actually helped him deduce your secret before Sherlock had a chance to tell him. It was masculine at first glance, but held a feminine grace that he almost missed because of your constant fooling. The gimmick worked well on everyone else, just not well enough to stand up to Holmes scrutiny. Your face was just androgynous enough — Masculine, but feminine… feminine but masculine and undoubtedly handsome — it all blended together and he was fascinated with you. That’s what he told himself, it was just fascination. You reminded him of a court jester — subversive in every aspect you could possibly be, with no regard for authority and always quick with a jab or a joke. It was infuriating… maddening… vexatious… unbearable… But, you made Sherlock laugh, and for that he adored tolerated your eccentric obnoxious personality.

But here you were, asleep on his settee, having an erotic dream about him, even in your sleep you can’t be bloody quiet, and suddenly the only thing he could think through the silence that rang through his shocked mind was how gorgeous you looked draped across his furniture, and how well you would look draped across his lap and…

Damn it all…

He shook his head and turned back to the door. Sherlock and James were on the other side of the house playing chess, and he decided that he wanted to play a game too. In a moment of boldness, he shut the door with enough force to wake you and bolted the lock.

You jolted awake at the sound of the door closing. Mycroft was back, and you were caught red handed sleeping in his study.

Whoops! You thought, with a chuckle.

But you couldn’t help the fiery blush that was no doubt showing on your cheeks. Thank God mind reading isn’t possible, considering the dream you were just having about him.

He raised an eyebrow and pointed his cane at your boots and said,

“Feet off. You know Daddy hates that.”

Your blush erupted into flaming hot mortification. You stumbled off the settee, and snatched up your jacket and tie.

“Dreaming of sugarplum fairies?" He asked in a cruelly sarcastic tone, still blocking the door with his body.

“M-M-Mycroft!” You stuttered, fumbling to put on your jacket. “I-I’m so sorry. I just came in to borrow a book! And well, I seemed to have fallen asleep. I’m so sorry, let me get out of your way right now,” you said, trying to shove your necktie into your pocket but missing several times — doing an abysmal job trying to play it cool.

“Not until you answer me one question,” he said, pointing his finger at you with a smirk. You closed your eyes, feeling like your skin was melting off from the unbearable embarrassment.

“Did you finish?” He asked.

You opened your eyes and looked at him questioningly.

“What?” You asked, unsure if you could endure any more of this humiliation before you finally personally proved the possibility of spontaneous human combustion… You may need to try the window…

“In your dream, did you finish? Or do I need to do the gentlemanly thing and finish what dream-me started?” He asked, placing his cane and hat onto his desk.

Every molecule of oxygen blew out of your lungs from shock, and you blinked. There was no way this was happening. You were still dreaming. You had to be. There is no way he said that. Not to his little brother’s friend. Not to someone like you. You desperately wanted to get as far away from Mycroft as possible, never to be seen again. He looked at you with the expectant face of a father waiting for his son to admit to a fib he already knows the truth about.

“Oh dear! Flustered are we? What’s wrong? Have I finally put the trickster on their back foot?” He asked when you didn’t respond.

There was no way out. You were utterly exposed and at Mycrofts mercy, and it was agonizing. The heat in his penetrating ocean eyes, the miniscule patronizing smirk forming on his lips, and the calm but firm tone to his voice as he slowly stepped toward you demanded that you obey. You closed your eyes and swallowed weakly.

“N-no…I didn’t. Not yet…” you stumbled out, looking down to the ground.

“But you were sooo close weren't you?” He whispered in a pitying voice, as he backed you against the sideboard table, just a foot away from you now.

His words washed over you, your skin tingled and you couldn’t help yourself from growing wet from the easy dominance he embodied. Under this persistent intensity, you could only push out a strangled breath and nod as he leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of you, effectively boxing you in. This close, the expensive cologne he wore — a rich botanical scent of balsam and vanilla — mixed with the slight sweetness of pipe tobacco smoke on his clothes overwhelmed your senses and you barely heard him when he said,

“Would you like me to do that? Would you like me to help you finish right now?”

At this point you decided through a hazy cloud of lust that, dreaming or not, you were not about to let the opportunity to let your friend’s ridiculously fine older brother ravish you slip through your fingers. So you nodded with a dry swallow that did nothing to settle the pounding of your heartbeat.

“Ah, ah. Darling, I need to hear you say it,” he said, tilting his head and forcing you to meet his eye.

“Do you want me to make you cum like in your dream?”

“Yes.” You pushed out with a breath, and he smiled.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please.”

“Who?”

You paused, eyes fluttering down as you whispered,

“Yes please, Daddy.”

“There’s a good chap…” he said, giving your cheek two light taps with the palm of his hand.

“Now, tell me about this dream of yours,” he continued, stepping even closer to you. “What was I doing that had you moaning in your sleep like a whore on my settee?" He asked, with a feather light kiss to your jugular.

Jeeeesuuuss! You thought, as his warm lips grazed your neck, the soft hairs of his well kept mustache tickling your skin, sending goosebumps down your body.

Oh, he was enjoying this — toying with you, making you tremble, forcing you to expose your desires to him. It was so erotic, but the thought of actually telling him what you were dreaming of filled you with embarrassment nonetheless.

“I c-can’t…” you stuttered.

“Yes you can, darling, go on. Don’t be shy.”

The sound of your pounding heart in your ears was nearly deafening. But, you tried to brace yourself to answer him, closing your eyes with a dry swallow, you said,

“Um, you-you had me pinned against the wall, with your hand around my throat.”

“Like this?” He firmly placed his hand around your neck and pulled you away from the table, pushing your back against the wall next to it with a thud.

You gasped, and Mycroft could feel your Adam's apple move as you tried to swallow, your eyes rolling back into your head a bit, knees weak.

“Yes,” you whispered. “And um, your knee was between my legs so your thigh was against my, um, my crotch.”

He nudged your knees apart with his, and slid his foot between you, shoving his warm thigh against you, making your breath hitch.

“Mmhmm, and then um… uuhh…”

His gaze bore into like a wolf cornering its defenseless prey, demanding you to continue on.

“Except… except your grip was ti-tighter,” you finally said.

Mycroft’s mouth curled into a crooked grin as he tightened his grip around your throat, restricting the blood flow ever so slightly, causing you to gasp and roll your eyes again.

“Yes! And I was just rubbing against your leg.”

“Were either of us in any state of undress?”

“No, we were both fully clothed.”

“Was I kissing you?”

“No,” you just… you just stood there and watched me hump your leg like a…like a dog,” you said, the last bit coming out with a sheepish whimper.

Mycroft hummed in understanding — a guttural thing that sounded more like a grunt.

“Is that all?” He asked, and you nodded.

“You are pathetically easy to please,” he said a little snidely, placing his free hand on the wall above your head.

“Well go on then, show me how you rode my thigh to near completion,” he commanded, his lips so close to yours you could almost taste them.

You placed your hands on his shoulders and began to move. Mycroft watched you like a hawk — observing every breath, every little whimper and whine, every moan as you rocked against him; how your mouth dropped open and your legs started to shake as your pleasure grew; the light sheen of sweat forming at your hairline. He relished the way your hands ran up and down his chest or clutched the fabric of his vest for leverage, and the pink flush to your face and you started moaning his name in earnest.

“You’re almost there aren’t you, darling?”

You nodded as best you could against the hand on your throat.

“I’m so close, please!” You begged in a raspy voice.

“What do you need, dear. Tell Daddy what you need.”

“Oh Fffuuuck…” you whined, goosebumps cascading over your body. God, he sounded good saying that, so filthy, so posh, he sounded just like he did in your dream, and you nearly came right there, but Daddy had asked you a question, and he was waiting on a response.

“T-touch me. Please!” You finally sputtered out.

He removed his hand from the wall and snaked it around your waist, helping you move against him. From this new closeness you could feel his stiff cock against your hip as you moved. Even over both of your clothes you could feel that he was shockingly well endowed. You closed your eyes because this couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening, and he couldn’t be as turned on as you were. There was just no way.

“Look at me,” he said with a gravely voice.

You opened your eyes and he tilted your chin up to meet his lips in a searing kiss. His tongue easily slid against yours and laid claim to your willing mouth. It was all so, so much. You thought you might pass out from the overwhelm and loss of blood and oxygen when he finally released your lips and said,

“Come on, darling. Cum for me, cum for Daddy.”

Again, the honorific sending you into a spiral, he released the hand around your neck, and your orgasm washed over you like a waterfall. His mouth crashed against yours to quiet your cries as you rode out your pleasure. Eventually, your moaning calmed to tired whimpers, and he released you from his grasp.

“On your knees,” he growled.

You immediately obeyed and sank to your knees in front of him as he unbuttoned his trousers and pulled out his cock, spat into his hand and stroked himself in front of your face. Instinctually, you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out ready to receive him. Upon seeing such a salacious display in front of him, he came with a feral groan and painted your face with his spend. When he was finished, you collapsed against the wall, wiping your cheek with your thumb and sucked the extra cum into your mouth.

Mycroft shook his head and blinked several times. Seeing you on your knees, your face covered with his cum, cum that you were bloody eating right in front of him, pleased him desperately. Once he caught his breath, he handed you a handkerchief to finish cleaning yourself up and tucked himself back into his trousers. When you were done, he took your hand and pulled you to your feet. He poured you both a whiskey from the crystal decanter on the side board, which you downed in one swig, and tried to smooth the stray hairs that had fallen around your face back into place.

“Right then, that ought to do it!” He said, “I have some work to get done and you better change before dinner. There are some stains on your collar, there.”

You looked down and saw the guilty cloudy spot and nodded.

“Yes,” you said, clearing your throat, “Thank you,” and you turned to leave.

“Oh, and darling,” he called out as your hand gripped the doorknob. You turned your attention back to him. As he sat down behind his desk, straightening his waist coat, his jacket now hung from behind the chair, he said,

“Do feel free to come to me with any other wet dreams you have in the future. Daddy rather enjoyed seeing the jester on their knees.”