Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 3/?
anonymous
August 26 2012, 03:24:01 UTC
That Sherlock has never had anyone's mouth on his cock is obvious. Mycroft had known it long before he ever set foot in the garden. His thighs are quivering in Mycroft's hands, his hips jerking unevenly against Mycroft's face. He gags slightly when Sherlock bumps the back of his throat, before managing to relax his throat and tighten his grip. Sherlock will be wearing bruises under his trousers tomorrow, their parents none the wiser, but that’s the least of Mycroft's concerns.
It takes hardly any time at all before Sherlock is spurting into his mouth. Mycroft swallows greedily, licking him clean as best he can before Sherlock shoves off of his shoulders and stumbles backwards. The time ticks by in Mycroft’s mind. By his count, it takes Sherlock nearly thirty seconds to maneuver his prick back into his pants and fasten his zip before he slinks back into the house without another word.
Once he’s disappeared from view, Mycroft closes his eyes and lies down in the grass, peeling the hem of his shirt aside so he can slip a hand into his pants. He curls his fingers around the damp length of his cock, the taste of Sherlock lingering in his mouth as the last of the afternoon sun dries him.
***
It takes all of three days for Sherlock to come crawling back to him.
He's taking a bath, eager for a soak despite the heat, with his feet braced up on the wall of the tub. His legs are too long for anything else, but no matter. Enough of him is submerged to keep it from being a wasted exercise. The steam has barely begun to dissipate when Sherlock starts pounding on the door.
No one else could be so infuriating without words.
Mycroft sinks lower into the water to drown out the infernal racket as Sherlock keeps pounding, only coming back up when he can be sure that it's stopped. He perks his ears up and listens, for anything, certain that Sherlock is still lingering in the hall, and wondering if he really intends to wait for permission or if he'll pick the lock in his impatience. He hasn't quite ruled out either.
"Mycroft," Sherlock says, "I have to use the toilet."
"The orchids were looking particularly parched yesterday, if memory serves."
"I’m not going to piss in the garden."
"And what’s wrong with the downstairs?"
A pause. "It’s being cleaned."
Mycroft snorts. "Yes, I’m sure."
"Please, I can't wait any longer. I---I think I might wet myself if you don't let me in." There's a thunk as Sherlock slumps against the door. He gives a despairing moan, followed by a hiccup that might well be a sob. "Please, Mycroft, I've already leaked a little."
You dreadful tease. "Oh, all right then. I'll only be a moment."
He takes his time getting out of the bath, not bothering to towel off or cover up. He lingers at the threshold of the door to see if any other delightful confessions will be forthcoming. It wouldn't do to have the poor boy piss himself all over the carpets like an ill-behaved puppy, even if turnabout is fair play, but Mycroft isn't above dragging it out a bit longer. He counts to five before letting Sherlock in, doing his best to keep the smile off his face as Sherlock elbows past him to the toilet and immediately drops his trousers.
Mycroft admires the view of Sherlock’s arse, pert and milky white, as he closes the door.
Sherlock huffs impatiently. "Mycroft."
"Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Did you need a hand, brother?"
He doesn't wait for a response, although he's sure that whatever Sherlock has in mind would be equal parts petulant and delightful. He folds himself against Sherlock's back, kissing the side of his neck and wrapping a hand around his flaccid cock.
He fondles Sherlock idly as he grinds his cock between the boy's buttocks, slippery with sweat from the humid air. His mouth waters at the thought of what Sherlock must taste like, but there’s time for that, and more, later. Mycroft draws back his hand and spits onto his fingers before bringing them back to trail saliva over the head. He rubs it into the slit with his thumb, the slight touch of wet coaxing a sympathetic spurt out of Sherlock’s cock.
It takes hardly any time at all before Sherlock is spurting into his mouth. Mycroft swallows greedily, licking him clean as best he can before Sherlock shoves off of his shoulders and stumbles backwards. The time ticks by in Mycroft’s mind. By his count, it takes Sherlock nearly thirty seconds to maneuver his prick back into his pants and fasten his zip before he slinks back into the house without another word.
Once he’s disappeared from view, Mycroft closes his eyes and lies down in the grass, peeling the hem of his shirt aside so he can slip a hand into his pants. He curls his fingers around the damp length of his cock, the taste of Sherlock lingering in his mouth as the last of the afternoon sun dries him.
***
It takes all of three days for Sherlock to come crawling back to him.
He's taking a bath, eager for a soak despite the heat, with his feet braced up on the wall of the tub. His legs are too long for anything else, but no matter. Enough of him is submerged to keep it from being a wasted exercise. The steam has barely begun to dissipate when Sherlock starts pounding on the door.
No one else could be so infuriating without words.
Mycroft sinks lower into the water to drown out the infernal racket as Sherlock keeps pounding, only coming back up when he can be sure that it's stopped. He perks his ears up and listens, for anything, certain that Sherlock is still lingering in the hall, and wondering if he really intends to wait for permission or if he'll pick the lock in his impatience. He hasn't quite ruled out either.
"Mycroft," Sherlock says, "I have to use the toilet."
"The orchids were looking particularly parched yesterday, if memory serves."
"I’m not going to piss in the garden."
"And what’s wrong with the downstairs?"
A pause. "It’s being cleaned."
Mycroft snorts. "Yes, I’m sure."
"Please, I can't wait any longer. I---I think I might wet myself if you don't let me in." There's a thunk as Sherlock slumps against the door. He gives a despairing moan, followed by a hiccup that might well be a sob. "Please, Mycroft, I've already leaked a little."
You dreadful tease. "Oh, all right then. I'll only be a moment."
He takes his time getting out of the bath, not bothering to towel off or cover up. He lingers at the threshold of the door to see if any other delightful confessions will be forthcoming. It wouldn't do to have the poor boy piss himself all over the carpets like an ill-behaved puppy, even if turnabout is fair play, but Mycroft isn't above dragging it out a bit longer. He counts to five before letting Sherlock in, doing his best to keep the smile off his face as Sherlock elbows past him to the toilet and immediately drops his trousers.
Mycroft admires the view of Sherlock’s arse, pert and milky white, as he closes the door.
Sherlock huffs impatiently. "Mycroft."
"Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Did you need a hand, brother?"
He doesn't wait for a response, although he's sure that whatever Sherlock has in mind would be equal parts petulant and delightful. He folds himself against Sherlock's back, kissing the side of his neck and wrapping a hand around his flaccid cock.
He fondles Sherlock idly as he grinds his cock between the boy's buttocks, slippery with sweat from the humid air. His mouth waters at the thought of what Sherlock must taste like, but there’s time for that, and more, later. Mycroft draws back his hand and spits onto his fingers before bringing them back to trail saliva over the head. He rubs it into the slit with his thumb, the slight touch of wet coaxing a sympathetic spurt out of Sherlock’s cock.
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