Click for NSFW!
Falka and I love you, Doods, you are amazing! We want you to know how talented and sweet and good at stuff you are! So we put our dumb heads together to make a thing to show our appreciation! Hope you enjoy!! (This is a lot of exclamation marks but I hear that just shows our enthusiasm!)
Greg Lestrade’s skin, dripping wet and flushed under the warmth of the shower spray, should be likened to something akin to divinity - but it tasted like skin, nothing more, nothing less, just clean fresh skin under Mycroft’s tongue; a purely earthly delight.
Greg arched back; his hot, panting breath lost in the steam of the shower spray. He had yet to learn patience, obvious from the way he bucked against Mycroft’s fingers -two of them - slowly pushing inside of him. His body was tight around just those two fingers, squeezing them as they slid in, muscles clenching. It was enough to drive a man to madness, these sensations and sordid, filthy thoughts of how tight he would be around something nice and thick instead.
“Bloody h-” Greg panted out, the rest of the curse lost in a fevered gasp, an ah of sound - perfectly annunciated vowel from his open mouth as Mycroft’s fingers curled just right, rubbing over the sensitive swell of his prostate. He bucked again but his movements were limited, pressed between wet tile and the slick skin and comforting weight of Mycroft’s body, pinned by his wrists to the shower wall.
Mycroft simply hummed in response, low and self-satisfied, lips pressed to Greg’s shoulder in a tender kiss. He could feel Greg’s body twitching around his fingers, the heat of his insides, tension in his muscles and the way his inner walls seemed to squeeze with each undoubted twitch of his dripping cock as he fucked him with his fingers, leisurely and slow.
“Jesus, Mycroft,” Greg swore, hips pushing back to get more of the touch, voice strangled when just fingertips brushed teasingly over his prostate. “Please,” he moaned, completely unashamed. His erection bobbed between his legs, heavy and hard, as he humped the air, eager for relief that wasn’t coming.
“Come now, Gregory, you’re still quite a ways off from your breaking point,” Mycroft said, pushing his fingers in again with a twist of his wrist.
Slowly, unhurriedly, he drew out the pleasure, gently massaging Greg’s prostate with the pads of his fingers, feeling him tremble, waiting for the begging to begin. The salt of Greg’s tears would taste exquisite upon his cheek, upon his skin, before they, too, were washed clean away.