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Fill: However Improbable (1/2)tenderly_wickedDecember 16 2014, 21:47:59 UTC
All the guests are finally gone. The halls of Appledore are empty in their immaculate whiteness. Sherlock lingers at the large panoramic window watching the twilight slowly devouring the lawn in front of the house and the darkening hills of the Cotswolds in the distance. Perhaps it’s not what appears before his inner eye.
He’s still dressed in a sharp black suit, elegant as always; a present ready for unwrapping. Charles lets him have a brief moment of privacy. Anticipation makes his desire all the more visceral. Lounging on a large curved white leather sofa with a glass of indecently expensive whiskey in one hand, Charles leisurely kneads the bulge in his trousers with the other; the fine fabric adds a delicious tactile sensation to the pleasure.
Sherlock looks back, but Charles doesn’t stop. A lopsided smile broadens on his face as Sherlock’s gaze quickly darts away. The poor thing is still so easily embarrassed.
“Sometimes I wish you were not so pale, dear,” Charles croons, amused. “You would blush so prettily.”
On the other hand, Sherlock’s perfect as he is. A study in white and black. Besides, bruises, hickeys and other marks look so sensual on pale skin. The tender rose pink pucker between Sherlock’s buttocks quickly turns angry red from good use. Looking at it is an exquisite delight. Knowing that no one else has ever touched it is more than just information.
Today Sherlock had clearly had difficulties sitting still during the dinner. No wonder, after what his little arse had been through in the morning. The sight of him fidgeting in place had given Charles an absolutely inappropriate hard-on.
Now it’s time to do something about it.
“Come here,” Charles calls out and throws a pillow to the floor so that Sherlock could settle at his feet, between them. “Let’s have a nice evening chat.”
Sherlock, torn away from his reverie, obeys more or less promptly, albeit reluctantly. He’s trained too well by now. He knows better than to spoil Charles’s good mood.
“It seems you’ve taken interest in the Watson family,” Charles mentions casually. “This ex-military doctor is a funny little man, though his wife is certainly more interesting, wouldn’t you agree?”
Sherlock doesn’t respond, eyes fixed on the floor, and Charles continues, threading a hand through Sherlock’s thick, silky curls: “Oh yes, she’s definitely a person of interest, especially after she’s gone freelance. I wonder if John knows her little professional secrets,” he adds dreamily. Maybe he doesn’t. If so, it could be quite entertaining.
Charles takes a small sip of his whiskey and continues ruffling Sherlock’s hair: “Now, what was I talking about? Mmm, ah yes. You spent too much time with Dr. Watson and paid little attention to other guests, I’m afraid. No doubt, you enjoyed basking in his attention. I overheard him exclaiming “brilliant” and “amazing”, which was flattering of course, but hardly an excuse to forget that other people were present at the party too. What did you impress him with? Were you making your little deductions again?”
“I was right about him,” Sherlock mutters all of a sudden. “I only got it wrong about his sister, but…”
Charles’s grip in Sherlock hair tightens painfully; it makes Sherlock gasp and shut up.
He’s still dressed in a sharp black suit, elegant as always; a present ready for unwrapping. Charles lets him have a brief moment of privacy. Anticipation makes his desire all the more visceral. Lounging on a large curved white leather sofa with a glass of indecently expensive whiskey in one hand, Charles leisurely kneads the bulge in his trousers with the other; the fine fabric adds a delicious tactile sensation to the pleasure.
Sherlock looks back, but Charles doesn’t stop. A lopsided smile broadens on his face as Sherlock’s gaze quickly darts away. The poor thing is still so easily embarrassed.
“Sometimes I wish you were not so pale, dear,” Charles croons, amused. “You would blush so prettily.”
On the other hand, Sherlock’s perfect as he is. A study in white and black. Besides, bruises, hickeys and other marks look so sensual on pale skin. The tender rose pink pucker between Sherlock’s buttocks quickly turns angry red from good use. Looking at it is an exquisite delight. Knowing that no one else has ever touched it is more than just information.
Today Sherlock had clearly had difficulties sitting still during the dinner. No wonder, after what his little arse had been through in the morning. The sight of him fidgeting in place had given Charles an absolutely inappropriate hard-on.
Now it’s time to do something about it.
“Come here,” Charles calls out and throws a pillow to the floor so that Sherlock could settle at his feet, between them. “Let’s have a nice evening chat.”
Sherlock, torn away from his reverie, obeys more or less promptly, albeit reluctantly. He’s trained too well by now. He knows better than to spoil Charles’s good mood.
“It seems you’ve taken interest in the Watson family,” Charles mentions casually. “This ex-military doctor is a funny little man, though his wife is certainly more interesting, wouldn’t you agree?”
Sherlock doesn’t respond, eyes fixed on the floor, and Charles continues, threading a hand through Sherlock’s thick, silky curls: “Oh yes, she’s definitely a person of interest, especially after she’s gone freelance. I wonder if John knows her little professional secrets,” he adds dreamily. Maybe he doesn’t. If so, it could be quite entertaining.
Charles takes a small sip of his whiskey and continues ruffling Sherlock’s hair: “Now, what was I talking about? Mmm, ah yes. You spent too much time with Dr. Watson and paid little attention to other guests, I’m afraid. No doubt, you enjoyed basking in his attention. I overheard him exclaiming “brilliant” and “amazing”, which was flattering of course, but hardly an excuse to forget that other people were present at the party too. What did you impress him with? Were you making your little deductions again?”
“I was right about him,” Sherlock mutters all of a sudden. “I only got it wrong about his sister, but…”
Charles’s grip in Sherlock hair tightens painfully; it makes Sherlock gasp and shut up.
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