Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 2/?
anonymous
August 26 2012, 03:23:01 UTC
"You enjoyed it, you pervert," Sherlock says, with absolute conviction. "You were half-hard in your trousers before I even finished. You didn’t even wash up after. I listened outside the bathroom door. Running the tap might have been sufficient to fool Mummy, but it isn't enough to fool me." He clucked in disgust. "Your sheets must reek of it."
Mycroft gives him a long stare of consideration. Childish, defensive, and more than a little amateur, but on the whole, quite correct. Mycroft mentally assigns him half marks for the effort.
"You'd let me do it again," Sherlock says.
Mycroft smiles. "Developing a taste for it, are you?"
For once, Sherlock declines to answer, though the twitch of his hand, ever so slightly toward his flies, is answer enough. It’s almost too easy, but Mycroft is lazy with the summer heat and craving the indulgence. Easy or not, the results have been more than satisfactory thus far.
He had been pleasantly surprised the evening prior, when Sherlock had backed him into a corner, murder in his eyes and all of him thrown into vibrating rage. His cock swells at the memory of it, Sherlock's hand braced on his chest and the other tugging out his flaccid prick, pink and soft and lovely, before he aimed it at Mycroft's trousers and soaked him with a hot stream of piss that he'd trailed all down Mycroft's trouser leg, where it had soaked into his socks and finally into the hall carpeting.
Mummy had caught them half a second after Sherlock had tucked his cock back into his pants and shrieked.
"Mycroft had an accident, Mummy," Sherlock said, smug.
It hadn't been far from the truth. It had been an accident. Oh, letting the air into Sherlock's fermentation chamber had been entirely deliberate, if not painstakingly calculated, but exposing himself, to Sherlock of all people, had been completely unintentional. Of all the possible outcomes Mycroft had anticipated, the reality ranked rather far down on his list. Latent alpha male tendencies, he supposes. An urge to mark one's territory.
Sherlock shifts his thighs apart with a bare foot. "Did you masturbate after?"
"Did you?"
"Quiet."
He says it so viciously, Mycroft feels obligated to humor him. He hasn't quite let go of the hope of a repeat performance, even factoring in the inconvenience of Sherlock having discovered his dirty little secret. At fourteen, Sherlock still shows too much on his face, and Mycroft can follow his thought process as easily as if it were being diagrammed before his eyes, greedily taking in every micro-expression and shift in posture, each step in the sequence bringing Sherlock closer to giving him what he wants.
When Sherlock pulls out his cock this time, it's more than a little swollen. He can see a soft roundness to Sherlock’s belly where his shirt leaves him exposed.
"You must be incredibly full," Mycroft remarks, and Sherlock quavers. "You've not gone since last night, have you? It must ache terribly."
At the word, the tiniest bead of fluid dribbles out of Sherlock's cock, leaving a damp spot on Mycroft's leg.
"Let's have it, then," he says, gently. "We wouldn't want you to mess yourself, now, would we?"
Sherlock gives a quiet whimper before the floodgates tear open in an erratic gush. His trousers only get a sprinkling this time, the bulk of it splashing onto the crisp, tailored linen of his shirt. Trickles of piss are diverted around Mycroft's collarbones and down his sternum in swirling eddies. It seems to go on forever with Sherlock wavering on his feet, pulse after pulse hitting Mycroft's front.
He slumps forward at the last, catching himself on the lattice and bringing his cock flush with Mycroft's face.
Mycroft leans up to take it in his mouth, forcing Sherlock to throw out his other hand to steady himself as Mycroft suckles at the head of his cock, tasting while the mess of his shirt grows tepid next to his skin. He curls a hand around the back of Sherlock's thigh, keeping him close, and gives an encouraging squeeze. He's rewarded with the barest trickle of hot fluid on his tongue and a pained noise from Sherlock as he forces the last bit of it free.
Mycroft gives him a long stare of consideration. Childish, defensive, and more than a little amateur, but on the whole, quite correct. Mycroft mentally assigns him half marks for the effort.
"You'd let me do it again," Sherlock says.
Mycroft smiles. "Developing a taste for it, are you?"
For once, Sherlock declines to answer, though the twitch of his hand, ever so slightly toward his flies, is answer enough. It’s almost too easy, but Mycroft is lazy with the summer heat and craving the indulgence. Easy or not, the results have been more than satisfactory thus far.
He had been pleasantly surprised the evening prior, when Sherlock had backed him into a corner, murder in his eyes and all of him thrown into vibrating rage. His cock swells at the memory of it, Sherlock's hand braced on his chest and the other tugging out his flaccid prick, pink and soft and lovely, before he aimed it at Mycroft's trousers and soaked him with a hot stream of piss that he'd trailed all down Mycroft's trouser leg, where it had soaked into his socks and finally into the hall carpeting.
Mummy had caught them half a second after Sherlock had tucked his cock back into his pants and shrieked.
"Mycroft had an accident, Mummy," Sherlock said, smug.
It hadn't been far from the truth. It had been an accident. Oh, letting the air into Sherlock's fermentation chamber had been entirely deliberate, if not painstakingly calculated, but exposing himself, to Sherlock of all people, had been completely unintentional. Of all the possible outcomes Mycroft had anticipated, the reality ranked rather far down on his list. Latent alpha male tendencies, he supposes. An urge to mark one's territory.
Sherlock shifts his thighs apart with a bare foot. "Did you masturbate after?"
"Did you?"
"Quiet."
He says it so viciously, Mycroft feels obligated to humor him. He hasn't quite let go of the hope of a repeat performance, even factoring in the inconvenience of Sherlock having discovered his dirty little secret. At fourteen, Sherlock still shows too much on his face, and Mycroft can follow his thought process as easily as if it were being diagrammed before his eyes, greedily taking in every micro-expression and shift in posture, each step in the sequence bringing Sherlock closer to giving him what he wants.
When Sherlock pulls out his cock this time, it's more than a little swollen. He can see a soft roundness to Sherlock’s belly where his shirt leaves him exposed.
"You must be incredibly full," Mycroft remarks, and Sherlock quavers. "You've not gone since last night, have you? It must ache terribly."
At the word, the tiniest bead of fluid dribbles out of Sherlock's cock, leaving a damp spot on Mycroft's leg.
"Let's have it, then," he says, gently. "We wouldn't want you to mess yourself, now, would we?"
Sherlock gives a quiet whimper before the floodgates tear open in an erratic gush. His trousers only get a sprinkling this time, the bulk of it splashing onto the crisp, tailored linen of his shirt. Trickles of piss are diverted around Mycroft's collarbones and down his sternum in swirling eddies. It seems to go on forever with Sherlock wavering on his feet, pulse after pulse hitting Mycroft's front.
He slumps forward at the last, catching himself on the lattice and bringing his cock flush with Mycroft's face.
Mycroft leans up to take it in his mouth, forcing Sherlock to throw out his other hand to steady himself as Mycroft suckles at the head of his cock, tasting while the mess of his shirt grows tepid next to his skin. He curls a hand around the back of Sherlock's thigh, keeping him close, and gives an encouraging squeeze. He's rewarded with the barest trickle of hot fluid on his tongue and a pained noise from Sherlock as he forces the last bit of it free.
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