Blissful Oneshots

Accept (Scomiche)

Mitch is trying to concentrate. Or maybe to not concentrate. Honestly, he's not even sure what exactly he's doing right now, just that he's trying to distract himself and most assuredly not looking down.

He tried browsing one of the kinky toy sites he's recently discovered, thinking he could maybe use this time for a little Christmas shopping while he was in an appropriate mood. However, he soon realized that looking at new and innovative ways to get himself and/or his current nemesis off wasn't actually helping matters, so he switched to his private Instagram. Which he instantly backed out of because his sister posted some new family pics and while that might be an effective strategy, Mitch doesn't want a short-term victory to scar him for life.

So now he's mindlessly scrolling his Twitter feed, not really looking at anything, but unable to put the phone down because then he'd have no distraction at all and no reason to avoid looking down.

Scott's spending this time humming, which normally would be fine. Mitch loves listening to him and usually would be happy to simply bask in his voice or join in and just riff off each other. Well, Scott would riff. Mitch would harmonize.

It's just the location of Scott's current humming that's the problem. It's what's making most of Mitch's distraction techniques completely useless.

That location being around Mitch's dick.

Humming.

Mitch doesn't even remember how they ended up with this bet. Some ridiculous conversation that went from how long Scott could keep him on edge when he desperately wanted to come to how fast Scott could get him off when he desperately wanted to not come to Captain Ego down there actually outlining terms and time thresholds and fucking rules of engagement.

Mitch glances at the clock on his phone. Shit. He has to hold out for like eleven more minutes. Which means he absolutely cannot look down and see those pale cheeks hollowing with suction and those pink lips stretched wide and that sharp jaw unlocking to swallow around him and the glistening spots of precome on that scruff from where he was nuzzling Mitch's cock before he sucked him down and...

Fuck.

Mitch might not be choosing the optimal strategy right now.

Scott hands are wandering around Mitch's thighs, one of them currently in approved territory on his hip, fingers clenched around his open belt, the other skirting perilously close to off limits at the base of his balls. Mitch is still wearing pants to try to keep some level of advantage, but he's also made sure the rules included no prostate stimulation because he knows his own weaknesses almost as well as Scott does and those big fingers and Mitch's ass are a match made in heaven. Mommy's not an idiot.

Except Scott must think he is because his thumb is now pressing rhythmically into his perineum and holy shit even through his pants this feels fantastic and just no. No! It's not going to work.

It's totally going to work.

"Hey!" Mitch protests, reaching down with the hand not holding his phone to blindly grab a handful of blond hair. "You're cheating!"

"Am naah," Scott says around a mouthful of dick. "Naah tutsin' yo aff."

"The deal was staying away from my prostate. You're cheating."

"Fowwy.

Fucking liar.

Scott's thumb stops moving, but it also stays were it is. He does that trick where he swipes his tongue all over Mitch's head while still maintaining suction that Mitch is pretty sure is actual witchcraft and thus qualifies as cheating, except he can't quite make himself discourage Scott from doing it. Ever.