Rei'd lips were thin, pressing into a fine line in his anger, though, he reeled, turning on his heel to face Sherlock at that declaration about wearing Reid's pants. It brought a blush to his cheeks that wasn't just anger, but there was something awkward and almost embarrassing about the revelation that Sherlock had been into his underwear, rummaged around in his pairs of matching white briefs, and stolen a pair. His thin, delicate hands were viscious in their intensity, forceful as they folded clothes and slammed drawers, stealing stabbing looks at the man sprawled on his bed.
"If you don't belong on the bed, then get off of it," Reid demanded, his voice that high, almost countertenor that just aided in that perception of his youth. He was legitimately angry, fretting to the degree that it was hard to focus on what to do with him because all he could think about was the mess. Of course, he'd never had any intention of turning Sherlock in, so the fact that he's wanted for questioning, being looked into by Interpol -- none of this comes up.
He'd just needed to prove he was better. He'd needed to win a game between them, even if the rules were less certain here. This move, right here, with Sherlock on his bed... it felt like it should be checkmate for one of them, but the question was who? Or was it just another case where a distant voice declared a draw?
"What part of being dead involves lounging in other peoples' bedrooms, anyway?"
"The part where I've run through my emergency funds and needed a place to stay," and a bathroom to wreck, clothes to steal, a computer to hack, files to read…
"And if you want me off the bed, then make me," he adds petulantly. If Reid is almost childish for his high, frustrated tone, then Sherlock was for the sheer intensity of his stubbornness. He shoots Reid a look that screams I dare you while simultaneously drinking in the anger and the embarrassment that's coming off the younger man in waves. Not much younger, mind you, but enough that Sherlock feels that it's a win for him.
The problem is that Sherlock is too good, too smart, too close to what Reid is (singular, special, different, a genius) for Spencer to be able to refuse the challenge, the dare. And he's so angry, and what he wants more than anything right now is to punish Sherlock Holmes for it. There's a million questions he could ask, about why here, but they both have to know that he was getting close, that it wouldn't have taken him long to get to Sherlock.
And so Sherlock gets to him instead.
Spencer isn't smooth or graceful as he moves onto the bed, but there's that anger-fueled determination that has his delicate hands grappling at Sherlock's frame, trying to shove him off the bed. He's trying to prove some sort of point, though he's not entirely sure what it is. They're both tall and whip-thin, though Spencer is a bit shorter, lacks the lean muscle and physical know-how that makes Sherlock good in a fight. He's all hands, tugging and pushing at Sherlock's shoulders, fairly graceless.
Sherlock had wondered if Reid would rise to the bait. It was so childish, after all, and an easy win would be to choose to be above it entirely. But, of course, neither of them would ever be the bigger person because there was no game but whatever game the other was playing. It had started with chess and evolved into one of pursuit, predator and prey, and Sherlock had made evasion an art until he'd run out of place to run and flipped the rules to suit his needs, landing himself here.
Now the game was physical. Reid trying to wrestle him off the bed. In flying at him, an awkward knee clapped the laptop computer shut - good thing it wasn't Sherlock's - and the initial momentum of Reid's weight flying at him knocked him off balance and he fell back in a shower of confidential papers exploding from his hands and floating down around them to the bed and the floor, and beneath their bodies.
Reid's terrible at this. After the initial lunge, he's not using his weight at all. He's using his hands, as if he can slap or push him off the bed with no strength behind it. Sherlock writhes beneath him to bring his legs around right and brings one leg down fast and hard, catching him behind the knees and ruining the stance he had, causing the lankier man to collapse atop him. Then Sherlock shoved him hard, threw an elbow back into the bed and launched himself at Reid, efficiently flipping them over and pinning Reid down flat to the bed with the full force of his weight. Trapped beneath them were files and crumpled papers, possibly the laptop, but Sherlock didn't care because, for now, he had the upper hand.
"Is that the best you can do?" he asked, a little breathless, and rather… awkwardly pressed against Reid, but he hadn't quite realized that yet, even if his body had.
Spencer gasps as he loses momentum, as Sherlock catches him behind the knees and knocks him off-balance, and then in a moment their positions are turned, and Sherlock is pushing him down into the bed with his weight, amidst the rain of upset files and confidential files, a toppled laptop. His breath felt stuck in his throat, only able to escape in thin, short gasps as Sherlock leaned over him, his voice that warm, low tone that Spencer would not admit was perversely appealing. He thrashed and squirming, doing his best to try and free himself, but getting himself absolutely nowhere except pointed contact with Sherlock's growing erection as it pressed into his hip.
Spencer's face reddening, his blue eyes wide, deeper than Sherlock's pale hues, and his hands came back to Sherlock's shoulders, trying to use any sort of leverage to push him off, but he was failing miserably, going about it all wrong. And with the squirming and the squabbling, Sherlock wasn't the only one reacting, and Spencer couldn't help his breathless embarrassment. He didn't get like this around people, not really. This was horrifyingly inappropriate, and he wishes he had something to explain it away with, but he really doesn't.
For the moment he's trying to not point out that yes, that pretty much is the best he can do, and that he only got into the FBI because they gave him concessions in every area relating to physical ability. "No," he lies through his teeth, rocking his body in an attempt to use his hips to throw Sherlock, but his eyes go wide because -- oh -- that wasn't what he'd meant to do at all.
Spencer never stops. Not even when he's clearly losing. That pisses him off, that stubborn refusal to say die even when it's clear that there's no coming back. He was that way with chess, refusing to stop, but then technically, they'd both done exactly the same. It was how they'd ended in a tie.
That squirming is irritating him. Except that it's not. He's enjoying it. At first, he's enjoying the fact that as much as Reid squirms and tries to get away or throw Sherlock off, that he's not making any headway. But slowly it's shifting. He's not even aware of it at first, that he's enjoying it on another level entirely, that Spencer is squirming their bodies into each other, that he's putting rather welcome pressure against his groin. He's aware that Reid's embarrassed, that he's trying again to push him away, but still not consciously aware that he's aroused. Aroused on Reid. Because of Reid.
It's not until he rocks against him to try and throw him off that he starts to catch on. There's a sudden flare of… of something. It catches him like a punch in the gut and he's breathless for a moment, lips parted as he stares down at Reid, Reid who is lying because that is very much the best he can do. He wants that again, that feeling, whatever that was, and he tries for it, moving like an awkward teenager who isn't quite sure how his body works until he gets it. It's strange and undignified and it's Reid but it feels so good, so strange he can't help it. He's still staring at Reid like he's studying him as he repeats it again. This time it's better, as if the feeling grows if he keeps the motions steady, rolls them one after another, continuous, and he lets out a low, obscene moan.
There's something to how Sherlock moves abve him, and it makes his breath catch, uneven, swallowing gasps in a vain attempt to try and keep his composure. His moan is swallowed into Sherlock's, his body heating, the sound of his breath to how Sherlock holds him pinned all sparking a response in his body. He doesn't react like this to most people, but Sherlock isn't most people. He's smart, brilliant, almost as much of a genius as Spencer himself, and it's that same-ness that he's never expected to find in anyone that makes this quite so hot, so erotic. His mind is far more beautiful than his body.
It's just another battleground, another black and white checkered board for the dominance of intellectual pursuit. This sinks in, viscerally, when he can't keep his hips from moving, can't help the noises, and all he can really do is grit his teeth, wide-eyed, embarrassed, baffled, and hope that whatever game they're sparring with now, that he manages not to lose. His hands are clinging to Sherlock, instead of trying to push him away, fingers scrabbling against his shirt, trying to get it off in an urge he's never bothered to put words to.
His clothes; Sherlock shouldn't be wearing them anyway.
Sherlock is well aware that he's hardly any better than Reid at maintaining his composure, but the fact that he's struggling to catch his breath between the strangled sounds he's making feels like another win. He'd comment on it, keep score as they go, but he can't quite manage it.
Reid's moving with him, hips up against his own and what they're doing is suddenly grinding and it's perfect. It's just what he needs, just that much more, until it's not. Not enough anymore. That's when Spencer starts scrabbling to get his shirt off. Good, he comments silently. He hadn't thought of that, of losing their clothes, but maybe that's what his body wants. It certainly seems to be, however he couldn't give less of a damn about his shirt. Reid's got the buttons undone when Sherlock slaps his hands and growls, "Trousers."
He gives one last pronounced buck of his hips and sits up a bit, enough, hands shaking with the speed he's moving, managing his own button before changing directions and going for Reid's, popping them open carelessly and tugging down the zip, shoving his hand inside and finding the same tight white briefs he's stolen a pair of. Not enough, he wants them off.
It's friction, and it feels hot and blissful, and he can't get Sherlock's shirt off fast enough, even though he hardly knows what he's doing, just knows that he wants it off, that it's somehow too much and not enough. There's a whine of soft complaint when Sherlock slaps his hand away, and he's blinking blue eyes up at him until he growls that word, hot in the space between them. Spencer's never done this, not with anyone, his only touches fumbles of his own fingers over flesh when it got to be too distracting. That last jerk of Sherlock's hip pulls another stuttered moan from his lips, and then Sherlock is sitting up and Spencer, still dazed, his heart pounding, follows suit.
Sherlock's hands are on his trousers, popping the button open, undoing the zipper, and then there are fingers pressing in, touching through the thin cotton fabric of his white briefs. His own hands move to Sherlock's pants (in the American sense) and starts pushing them down, tugging them from hipbones as sharp as his own. He wants to feel, even if he doesn't really understand the desire that's hammering in time to his heart. He wants out of his pants, wants skin on skin, wants to feel their bodies pressed together.
Soon enough, they've devolved into desperately tugging each other's trousers, and soon following, pants down. Reid was not, apparently, going for pants just yet, even if that is what he wants. Maybe he's too shy (another win for Sherlock) to make that move first, but Sherlock wastes no time in doing it, even managing something of passive aggressive eye contact to rub the point home that he was bolder.
However, he didn't have any more idea what they were doing than Reid did. Having the slightly shorter, debatably smarter man's briefs tugged to mid-thigh didn't mean he had it figured out. The next thing he needs, he decides, is to get his own clothes off. It's risky to move and give Reid the chance to take the upper hand, but there's no alternative. He rolls off of him and onto his side, kicking off pants and trousers just about as gracelessly as Reid always was.
There's something in the eye contact, the way that Sherlock points out that he's bolder in this, his fingers dragging Reid's pants (in the very British sense) down around the slightly younger man's thighs. And before Reid can get his fingers into Sherlock's stolen clothes, the man pulls back, starting to kick off his clothes just as gracelessly as Spencer so often does. He can't quite resist leaning in, touching trembling fingertips to clothed shoulders, bared chest, bare sides as he awkwardly tries to get his underthings off of his left ankle.
No idea what he's doing, but he likes this, touching Sherlock. He doesn't usually like touching people. But Sherlock isn't just people, he's like him. Unwilling to let Sherlock keep the upper hand, Spencer shoves at him, as if he's got something to prove (he does), as if he knows what it is that they're saying in between the hands and clothes and all of this strangely intimate touching (he doesn't).
He could have practically guaranteed that Reid would launch his gangly body at him. He's not, however, doing anything that remotely feels good. He's just sort of flopped on him to prove a point, which leaves Sherlock in the position of needing to regain the upper hand. Which he manages without too much effort, rolling over on top of Reid and bringing one thigh right between Reid's, and that, that's what he wanted. No clothes between them, save for partly undone shirt, certainly nothing in the way of their hips, their erections.
There's a little grin, part pleasure and part gloating, and then he's rolling his hips against Reid and then there's no gloating left, just a groan falling from his lips that is, in all likelihood, the most obscene sound he's ever made. That feels good and he wants more, doesn't know enough to know that there's so much more that would feel better than this. They could explore, figure it out, but there isn't time. He keeps it up, the motion of his hips rhythmic, endless, and he folds himself down against Reid, arms tucked beneath his body, fingers gripping his shoulders from behind so they're flush and the friction builds and builds. Still, they haven't kissed, but Sherlock isn't thinking of anything like that, all he's thinking of is this building sensation.
There's an awkward noise of protest that's mostly a yelp as Sherlock flips their position easily after Reid's vain attempt at regaining the upper hand. He's about to say something, but then Sherlock shoves a thigh between his legs, and their bodies -- both slim and tall and angular -- somehow fit together, bare erections pressing into bodies, their shirts tangling around their frames, and all the can do is moan, the sound higher than Sherlock's, in his countertenor voice, but just as obscene.
He clings to him, holds on, breathless gasping as his face presses into the side of Sherlock's neck, his hips rocking, grinding up into him, into the friction that feels like the best thing he's ever felt. He doesn't know a lot about sex, has never really had the inclination or the interest, and all he knows is that this feels like bliss. He has no sense of pacing, of waiting, of anything except rocking into Sherlock's body and trying to get more, feel more, whimpering, almost pleading pants of hot breath, gasps muffled into skin. They fit together, like some lost theorist's perfect geometry, like a figure shaped by Fibonacci's n-step number sequences.
"Ohh..." He moans, feeling so close, feeling it build, and the need, desire meets the pleasure stride for stride.
Sherlock isn't stupid. He knows how this will inevitably end. A mess trapped between them and a need for a shower, but the build up is nothing like it is when it's just his hand. Granted, he's only done that sporadically, but he knows this is different and he wonders if the end will be different, too. Somehow more.
He has a brief thought about how he'd like Reid to come first so he can gloat later about his lack of control, but that's when he feels it. He's so close it's stealing his breath and fuck, it's Reid's fault. Reid is doing this to him and there's a sound lost in there between desperate moans that sounds ever so put out, and then he's coming hard over Reid's bony hip and gasping for air, his lips parted against Reid's ear as he holds on tight to him.
Spencer wants Sherlock to come first, for the same reason, that desire for something to be smug about, to hold over his head. Even if Reid is a bit too insecure about sexuality to manage the words, he'd still own that piece of this conflict between them, be able to curl his lips and lift an eyebrow and have Sherlock know. However, as it happens, he's not actually sure which of them comes first. He's too caught up in it, in the breathlessness, in the pounding of his pulse, and Sherlock's breath, and the noises, and the way it's so fucking good.
His hips stutter and jerk, rhythmless, needy, as his cock twitches, fluid spilling between their bodies as he moans hot and wanton against Sherlock's ear. It's hotter, better, more, like this. He refuses to admit that this is Sherlock's fault, that how he feels is because of the man above him, because that feels like giving up an edge he doesn't have, it feels like giving away a half-point he can't spare in the chess game of tumbling pieces that happens every time they meet. He clings to Sherlock, holding on like he's afraid of letting go, when he's never liked being touched, being close to people, but Sherlock is somehow different from all of that.
He's aware, suddenly, that he's not the only one who utterly lost control. Maybe Reid did first, maybe… but he's not sure. Not sure enough to gloat, certainly. What he wasn't prepared for was how slowly his body seems to be recovering. He's breathing hard, and appallingly, those last moans and sounds Reid makes draw a final twitch from his cock that can't be mistaken for being caused by anything else. Reid has always gotten to him, but now he's getting to him and this is the worst thing.
It's almost nice to be held. He never lets it happen, prefers to always be away from people, but this… it's nice. He sinks into the feeling just enough, just until his mind is fully recovered, and he realizes that he needs to eventually move away. He shifts a little and is suddenly quite aware just how much of a mess they are, and he mutters against Reid's ear, "I'm going to have another shower…"
"If you don't belong on the bed, then get off of it," Reid demanded, his voice that high, almost countertenor that just aided in that perception of his youth. He was legitimately angry, fretting to the degree that it was hard to focus on what to do with him because all he could think about was the mess. Of course, he'd never had any intention of turning Sherlock in, so the fact that he's wanted for questioning, being looked into by Interpol -- none of this comes up.
He'd just needed to prove he was better. He'd needed to win a game between them, even if the rules were less certain here. This move, right here, with Sherlock on his bed... it felt like it should be checkmate for one of them, but the question was who? Or was it just another case where a distant voice declared a draw?
"What part of being dead involves lounging in other peoples' bedrooms, anyway?"
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"And if you want me off the bed, then make me," he adds petulantly. If Reid is almost childish for his high, frustrated tone, then Sherlock was for the sheer intensity of his stubbornness. He shoots Reid a look that screams I dare you while simultaneously drinking in the anger and the embarrassment that's coming off the younger man in waves. Not much younger, mind you, but enough that Sherlock feels that it's a win for him.
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And so Sherlock gets to him instead.
Spencer isn't smooth or graceful as he moves onto the bed, but there's that anger-fueled determination that has his delicate hands grappling at Sherlock's frame, trying to shove him off the bed. He's trying to prove some sort of point, though he's not entirely sure what it is. They're both tall and whip-thin, though Spencer is a bit shorter, lacks the lean muscle and physical know-how that makes Sherlock good in a fight. He's all hands, tugging and pushing at Sherlock's shoulders, fairly graceless.
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Now the game was physical. Reid trying to wrestle him off the bed. In flying at him, an awkward knee clapped the laptop computer shut - good thing it wasn't Sherlock's - and the initial momentum of Reid's weight flying at him knocked him off balance and he fell back in a shower of confidential papers exploding from his hands and floating down around them to the bed and the floor, and beneath their bodies.
Reid's terrible at this. After the initial lunge, he's not using his weight at all. He's using his hands, as if he can slap or push him off the bed with no strength behind it. Sherlock writhes beneath him to bring his legs around right and brings one leg down fast and hard, catching him behind the knees and ruining the stance he had, causing the lankier man to collapse atop him. Then Sherlock shoved him hard, threw an elbow back into the bed and launched himself at Reid, efficiently flipping them over and pinning Reid down flat to the bed with the full force of his weight. Trapped beneath them were files and crumpled papers, possibly the laptop, but Sherlock didn't care because, for now, he had the upper hand.
"Is that the best you can do?" he asked, a little breathless, and rather… awkwardly pressed against Reid, but he hadn't quite realized that yet, even if his body had.
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Spencer's face reddening, his blue eyes wide, deeper than Sherlock's pale hues, and his hands came back to Sherlock's shoulders, trying to use any sort of leverage to push him off, but he was failing miserably, going about it all wrong. And with the squirming and the squabbling, Sherlock wasn't the only one reacting, and Spencer couldn't help his breathless embarrassment. He didn't get like this around people, not really. This was horrifyingly inappropriate, and he wishes he had something to explain it away with, but he really doesn't.
For the moment he's trying to not point out that yes, that pretty much is the best he can do, and that he only got into the FBI because they gave him concessions in every area relating to physical ability. "No," he lies through his teeth, rocking his body in an attempt to use his hips to throw Sherlock, but his eyes go wide because -- oh -- that wasn't what he'd meant to do at all.
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That squirming is irritating him. Except that it's not. He's enjoying it. At first, he's enjoying the fact that as much as Reid squirms and tries to get away or throw Sherlock off, that he's not making any headway. But slowly it's shifting. He's not even aware of it at first, that he's enjoying it on another level entirely, that Spencer is squirming their bodies into each other, that he's putting rather welcome pressure against his groin. He's aware that Reid's embarrassed, that he's trying again to push him away, but still not consciously aware that he's aroused. Aroused on Reid. Because of Reid.
It's not until he rocks against him to try and throw him off that he starts to catch on. There's a sudden flare of… of something. It catches him like a punch in the gut and he's breathless for a moment, lips parted as he stares down at Reid, Reid who is lying because that is very much the best he can do. He wants that again, that feeling, whatever that was, and he tries for it, moving like an awkward teenager who isn't quite sure how his body works until he gets it. It's strange and undignified and it's Reid but it feels so good, so strange he can't help it. He's still staring at Reid like he's studying him as he repeats it again. This time it's better, as if the feeling grows if he keeps the motions steady, rolls them one after another, continuous, and he lets out a low, obscene moan.
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It's just another battleground, another black and white checkered board for the dominance of intellectual pursuit. This sinks in, viscerally, when he can't keep his hips from moving, can't help the noises, and all he can really do is grit his teeth, wide-eyed, embarrassed, baffled, and hope that whatever game they're sparring with now, that he manages not to lose. His hands are clinging to Sherlock, instead of trying to push him away, fingers scrabbling against his shirt, trying to get it off in an urge he's never bothered to put words to.
His clothes; Sherlock shouldn't be wearing them anyway.
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Reid's moving with him, hips up against his own and what they're doing is suddenly grinding and it's perfect. It's just what he needs, just that much more, until it's not. Not enough anymore. That's when Spencer starts scrabbling to get his shirt off. Good, he comments silently. He hadn't thought of that, of losing their clothes, but maybe that's what his body wants. It certainly seems to be, however he couldn't give less of a damn about his shirt. Reid's got the buttons undone when Sherlock slaps his hands and growls, "Trousers."
He gives one last pronounced buck of his hips and sits up a bit, enough, hands shaking with the speed he's moving, managing his own button before changing directions and going for Reid's, popping them open carelessly and tugging down the zip, shoving his hand inside and finding the same tight white briefs he's stolen a pair of. Not enough, he wants them off.
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Sherlock's hands are on his trousers, popping the button open, undoing the zipper, and then there are fingers pressing in, touching through the thin cotton fabric of his white briefs. His own hands move to Sherlock's pants (in the American sense) and starts pushing them down, tugging them from hipbones as sharp as his own. He wants to feel, even if he doesn't really understand the desire that's hammering in time to his heart. He wants out of his pants, wants skin on skin, wants to feel their bodies pressed together.
Sherlock has always been maddening.
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However, he didn't have any more idea what they were doing than Reid did. Having the slightly shorter, debatably smarter man's briefs tugged to mid-thigh didn't mean he had it figured out. The next thing he needs, he decides, is to get his own clothes off. It's risky to move and give Reid the chance to take the upper hand, but there's no alternative. He rolls off of him and onto his side, kicking off pants and trousers just about as gracelessly as Reid always was.
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No idea what he's doing, but he likes this, touching Sherlock. He doesn't usually like touching people. But Sherlock isn't just people, he's like him. Unwilling to let Sherlock keep the upper hand, Spencer shoves at him, as if he's got something to prove (he does), as if he knows what it is that they're saying in between the hands and clothes and all of this strangely intimate touching (he doesn't).
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There's a little grin, part pleasure and part gloating, and then he's rolling his hips against Reid and then there's no gloating left, just a groan falling from his lips that is, in all likelihood, the most obscene sound he's ever made. That feels good and he wants more, doesn't know enough to know that there's so much more that would feel better than this. They could explore, figure it out, but there isn't time. He keeps it up, the motion of his hips rhythmic, endless, and he folds himself down against Reid, arms tucked beneath his body, fingers gripping his shoulders from behind so they're flush and the friction builds and builds. Still, they haven't kissed, but Sherlock isn't thinking of anything like that, all he's thinking of is this building sensation.
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He clings to him, holds on, breathless gasping as his face presses into the side of Sherlock's neck, his hips rocking, grinding up into him, into the friction that feels like the best thing he's ever felt. He doesn't know a lot about sex, has never really had the inclination or the interest, and all he knows is that this feels like bliss. He has no sense of pacing, of waiting, of anything except rocking into Sherlock's body and trying to get more, feel more, whimpering, almost pleading pants of hot breath, gasps muffled into skin. They fit together, like some lost theorist's perfect geometry, like a figure shaped by Fibonacci's n-step number sequences.
"Ohh..." He moans, feeling so close, feeling it build, and the need, desire meets the pleasure stride for stride.
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He has a brief thought about how he'd like Reid to come first so he can gloat later about his lack of control, but that's when he feels it. He's so close it's stealing his breath and fuck, it's Reid's fault. Reid is doing this to him and there's a sound lost in there between desperate moans that sounds ever so put out, and then he's coming hard over Reid's bony hip and gasping for air, his lips parted against Reid's ear as he holds on tight to him.
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His hips stutter and jerk, rhythmless, needy, as his cock twitches, fluid spilling between their bodies as he moans hot and wanton against Sherlock's ear. It's hotter, better, more, like this. He refuses to admit that this is Sherlock's fault, that how he feels is because of the man above him, because that feels like giving up an edge he doesn't have, it feels like giving away a half-point he can't spare in the chess game of tumbling pieces that happens every time they meet. He clings to Sherlock, holding on like he's afraid of letting go, when he's never liked being touched, being close to people, but Sherlock is somehow different from all of that.
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It's almost nice to be held. He never lets it happen, prefers to always be away from people, but this… it's nice. He sinks into the feeling just enough, just until his mind is fully recovered, and he realizes that he needs to eventually move away. He shifts a little and is suddenly quite aware just how much of a mess they are, and he mutters against Reid's ear, "I'm going to have another shower…"
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