little glasses fic
(forgot. I wrote this as comment fic in response to blooms84's request for glasses!porn a few days ago)
“You’re snagged. Stay still.” Firm, steady fingers pressed his temple, cool against his skin. Cooler than he’d expect, given the room’s...ah. Damn.
He thought he’d broken his body of the habit.
“Yes,” he was saying, “Yes, don’t bother,” and his fingers interrupted the detective inspector’s hand, damn, damned cool against his own, and surely his fingers could not blush. He shifted, meaningfully, to break the contact, and...the cool fingers remained, now against his jaw, steadying his face. His eyes were closed and he didn’t know when his miserable body had done that to him as well. The earpieces were being gently unhooked from his ears by fingers leaving icy traces on his traitor skin and the rests lifted from his nose and if he opened his eyes now, his detective would be too close to bear.
“I didn’t know you wore them,” said G. Lestrade, G. for Gregory, 42, overdue for a rise in station, divorced, wearing mismatched socks, wearing a nicotine patch under his freshly laundered shirt. Whose voice had receded. Who could be safely viewed.
“In poor lighting.” Or unsafely. G-for-Gregory Lestrade, DI, unwound the threads from the curtain, from the shredded curtain at the bombed office, away from the gold wire hinge. He held the lenses of the spectacles grasped in the fold of his tie. It would take so little for the sharp little hinge to snare a blue thread of silk from that tie. If it loved him.
“Ah, well. They suit you,” said his detective. And he smiled, and he smelled of sandalwood, and he held the curtain safely aside, for Mycroft to view the damage.
“You’re snagged. Stay still.” Firm, steady fingers pressed his temple, cool against his skin. Cooler than he’d expect, given the room’s...ah. Damn.
He thought he’d broken his body of the habit.
“Yes,” he was saying, “Yes, don’t bother,” and his fingers interrupted the detective inspector’s hand, damn, damned cool against his own, and surely his fingers could not blush. He shifted, meaningfully, to break the contact, and...the cool fingers remained, now against his jaw, steadying his face. His eyes were closed and he didn’t know when his miserable body had done that to him as well. The earpieces were being gently unhooked from his ears by fingers leaving icy traces on his traitor skin and the rests lifted from his nose and if he opened his eyes now, his detective would be too close to bear.
“I didn’t know you wore them,” said G. Lestrade, G. for Gregory, 42, overdue for a rise in station, divorced, wearing mismatched socks, wearing a nicotine patch under his freshly laundered shirt. Whose voice had receded. Who could be safely viewed.
“In poor lighting.” Or unsafely. G-for-Gregory Lestrade, DI, unwound the threads from the curtain, from the shredded curtain at the bombed office, away from the gold wire hinge. He held the lenses of the spectacles grasped in the fold of his tie. It would take so little for the sharp little hinge to snare a blue thread of silk from that tie. If it loved him.
“Ah, well. They suit you,” said his detective. And he smiled, and he smelled of sandalwood, and he held the curtain safely aside, for Mycroft to view the damage.