LOVELY INDY WROTE A FIC IN WHICH MYCROFT EJACULATES BUTTERCREAM FROSTING

AND IT IS THE MOST AMAZING THING EVER HOLY BALLS

The first time Mycroft is made aware of his fetish is when he’s at Buckingham Palace enjoying a nice dinner with powerful people, nothing out of the ordinary, and one of the serving staff trips and spills a tray of cakes across his lap. Mycroft hopes to God no one caught the noise he made, and as the man scurries about alternating between apologizing profusely and trying to bat the cake off of Mycroft’s soiled pant legs, Mycroft finds himself watching the icing smeared over his crotch and…suppressing an erection. This can’t be good.

On his way home that night, he asks Anthea to purchase a cake and have it delivered to his house. He knows she won’t ask questions—banks on it, actually. The cake arrives after a long twenty minutes, during which Mycroft changes out of his suit and tries not to think about buttercream frosting.

The cake is sitting on the step when he opens the door, and he waves to Anthea’s car as it drives off down the street. It’s a quiet night. Mycroft stares at the innocuous white box, trying to decide if he’s really about to do this.

Yes, he is.

He picks up the cake and takes it inside, setting it on the kitchen table. He’s wearing a robe and boxers—it seemed silly to overdress. The thought strikes him that he’s about to become one of those creeps who sees this as a ruddy date and he won’t be able to go back to being normal. But then he remembers Watkinson and the scandal with his maid’s dog, the rumors about Shepherd sticking wine bottles where no wine bottle had gone before. Everyone’s got their secrets. This doesn’t even compare to half the ones Mycroft’s heard, and it’s ridiculous enough to be passed off as rumor.

With trembling fingers, he undoes the ribbon around his prize, and in a flourish he spreads the box open, revealing the yellow cake and the buttercream frosting. Just what he wanted.

He holds his breath and dips a finger into the frosting, and then moves his robe aside so he can smooth it over his left nipple. And it goes pretty much downhill from there.

Ten minutes later finds him spread out on the couch, the cake pressed between his legs and his throbbing cock thrusting into the cake, buttercream kisses peppering his chest and thighs. Mycroft’s had lovers before, and this is the best he’s ever had—the way the cake crumbles and sticks to him has him closer than ever practically as soon as he’s inside it.

And all of a sudden he’s coming helplessly, coating the couch with sticky…

Frosting?

Mycroft sits up very slowly and examines the substance that just shot out of his dick. Coats his finger with it and sucks it into his mouth. He almost comes again at the taste. Buttercream. It’s buttercream frosting. He just came buttercream frosting.

How the bloody fuck is that possible? Mycroft is certain that ejaculate contains sperm, manufactured in the testes and held in the epididymus, and semen, manufactured in the prostrate gland. The male reproductive system does not include a frosting gland. In fact, Mycroft doubts that frosting provides the ideal environment for sperm to survive in. The thought crosses his mind that he just tasted buttercream frosting off his finger—he did have quite a lot of it there a few minutes earlier—but as he examines the cushions in front of him, he sees no traces of semen, only buttercream frosting, the frosting nearest to his cock a slightly lighter shade than the rest.

Mycroft feels sick.

He’s had lovers before. And he’s quite sure that he’s never come icing before tonight. He’d do research on whether diet affects ejaculate, but he’s fairly certain that actually coming frosting is not anywhere close to normal. He wonders if this is his punishment for trying out the fetish. He’ll never be normal again, never be able to have normal sex.

It’s not possible. It can’t be.

There’s only one thing for him to do.

A week later, Anthea drops off another cake. This one has pink, sugary icing, and Mycroft wastes little time with pleasantries, this time wanting only a quick, dirty fuck on the kitchen table. He pants hard as he comes, and for a moment he squeezes his eyes closed as the aftershocks subside, not sure if he wants to see the results of this experiment.

He opens his eyes.

His chest and legs and the cake are all coated in pink sugary frosting. There’s still some oozing out of the tip of his deflating erection, making his stomach twist.

Mycroft sighs and lets his head drop back against the table. Still a hope of normalcy yet.