What Mycroft Likes
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: R
Pairing: Mycroft/Irene
Highlight to Read Warnings:incest play, weight issues
Word Count: 221
Disclaimer: Property of Gatiss and Moffat. No money made, no copyright infringement intended.
Summary: It’s just that he gets so tense running the country.
A/N: Written for fannybaws on Tumblr, who requested recreational scolding for Mycroft. This is my first 221b.
What Mycroft Likes
It’s just that he gets so tense running the country. It’s as if his skin tightens up around the soft wet insides of him, and he’d give anything to step out of it. To breathe again.
She provides that cleansing oxygen.
“Hush, dear man,” she says, working loose the knot of his tie. “Mummy’s here.”
He shudders, prick rising helplessly - she knows all his secrets.
Piece by piece his suit falls to the floor. It’ll be wrinkled, but it’s not his duty to mind, here. She traces the lines of his shoulders, his back, with nails tipped crimson. The riding crop trails along old, livid stretch marks on his hips, the bowl of his belly, his backside, his thighs, his arms. He has learned not to flinch from the scrutiny, not to indulge the bloom of shame that threatens when he is reminded of the ruin of his skin. The weight is gone, but broken pink scars chart a map of struggle onto his body, irrevocable.
Leather draws down his spine from cervical curve to tailbone, and his breath shudders from him.
“Lie down now,” she says, and he obeys. Light slaps of the crop part his thighs. “Be a good boy.” He hears the crop break the air before it lands, absolving, on his needful skin.
He counts the blows.
End
Rating: R
Pairing: Mycroft/Irene
Highlight to Read Warnings:incest play, weight issues
Word Count: 221
Disclaimer: Property of Gatiss and Moffat. No money made, no copyright infringement intended.
Summary: It’s just that he gets so tense running the country.
A/N: Written for fannybaws on Tumblr, who requested recreational scolding for Mycroft. This is my first 221b.
What Mycroft Likes
It’s just that he gets so tense running the country. It’s as if his skin tightens up around the soft wet insides of him, and he’d give anything to step out of it. To breathe again.
She provides that cleansing oxygen.
“Hush, dear man,” she says, working loose the knot of his tie. “Mummy’s here.”
He shudders, prick rising helplessly - she knows all his secrets.
Piece by piece his suit falls to the floor. It’ll be wrinkled, but it’s not his duty to mind, here. She traces the lines of his shoulders, his back, with nails tipped crimson. The riding crop trails along old, livid stretch marks on his hips, the bowl of his belly, his backside, his thighs, his arms. He has learned not to flinch from the scrutiny, not to indulge the bloom of shame that threatens when he is reminded of the ruin of his skin. The weight is gone, but broken pink scars chart a map of struggle onto his body, irrevocable.
Leather draws down his spine from cervical curve to tailbone, and his breath shudders from him.
“Lie down now,” she says, and he obeys. Light slaps of the crop part his thighs. “Be a good boy.” He hears the crop break the air before it lands, absolving, on his needful skin.
He counts the blows.
End