Title: Rosé Sangria
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: Explicit
Length: 500
Content Notes: Mycroft/Lestrade; ice play/food play
Summary: On a hot summer day, one lucky DI has a pitcher and an Ice Man waiting for him.
Author's Note: For my Cheers collection of 500-word cocktail inspired ficlets.

“How much longer, Donovan?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Bastards!” He wiped his brow. “I’m poached already!”
“The smell,” she groaned. “Fried death.”
Beep!
“Hey, Donovan, want to see some pornography?” He flashed the screen at her.
“Ooo! Sangría. I could bathe in that right now.”
“I’m brewing a cup of DI sweat in the small of my back.”
“Sir!”
“Apologies,” he said, affecting a posh voice. “It’s the heat.”
The late afternoon sun was dancing on the surface of the pool when Lestrade stepped onto the terrace. Mycroft laid a folded newspaper beside a pitcher and two glasses and asked, “Fancy a drink?”
“I fancy that whole jug on my head, but I’ll start with a glass,” he replied, gulping down the liquid. Then he sighed and handed the glass back to Mycroft. “Like you. Impossibly cool on the hottest day of summer. Also pink, in certain places and at certain moments.” He grinned.
“I’m not sweet.”
Lestrade looked around them. “Luring your boyfriend,” they both winced, “to a slice of paradise just so he can cool off is pretty sweet.” He kissed Mycroft, bracing himself so only their lips touched. Then he pulled back. “’Boyfriend’ is too juvenile, ‘lover’’s too specific, friend is…”
“Not specific enough,” agreed Mycroft. “Perhaps something more formal.”
“Are you…?”
Mycroft waved a hand. “It’s the heat.” He turned and refilled Lestrade’s glass.
“Quick shower and you can call me, and do with me, what you please.”
“Let’s cool you off,” said Mycroft as he traced Lestrade’s lips with the ice cube; then drew a line down his neck to the open V of the robe. He circled one nipple, then the other, with the ice, then bent forward and enveloped each bud in the wet heat of his mouth.
He fed Lestrade cold fruit with his fingers, the tips of which Lestrade kissed with every proffered morsel.
Lestrade let the sides of the robe fall apart. He watched Mycroft’s expression melt as his eyes moved up and down, ogling the body and thick cock that jutted out of wiry hair. He took a raspberry between his lips, then kissed Mycroft, then whispered, “Fuck me.”
Mycroft’s double-blink was the only sign the request was a surprise.
“I want to show I’m husband material.” Lestrade looked away and shrugged. “It’s the heat,” he added coyly.
Mycroft stood and removed his waistcoat.
“Fuck!" exclaimed Lestrade at the brush of Mycroft’s cock deep inside him.
“Right there, Gregory?”
“Yes! Oh, God. It’s perfect. Please, love, don’t stop!” He felt Mycroft’s hands running up and down his back as he thrust. “Your touch, so cool. Lovely.”
“You’re so warm, Gregory.”
“Hot mess, you mean?”
“My hot mess. My filthy, sweaty, utterly fuckable mess. Mine?”
“Yours,” groaned Lestrade. “Always.”
Mycroft came. Then he quickly pulled out.
Lestrade flipped over, wound a hand in Mycroft’s hair, and pulled him closed. “Now wrap those beautiful lips ‘round my cock and suck me hard while I finish my drink.”
“Gregory,” Mycroft groaned.
“Love you, too.”