Sherlock Fic: A Little Bit, Sometimes
Title: A Little Bit, Sometimes
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/Moriarty
Rating: R
Word Count: ~600
Content advisory: none
Note: Written for snoozing_kitten for Five Acts, Round Five. Thanks to redandglenda for beta-ing. Title from this song
Summary: Moriarty knows how to keep Sherlock coming back for more.
“Look at them all. Peons. Insects. Nonentities.” Jim drapes himself across Sherlock’s back, shoving him against the railing. The music of the club pulses around them, swallowing any protests. Still, they likely only have six minutes before the meddlesome brother, the tenacious detective, or the plucky doctor arrive. Jim will have to make the most of the time he has.
“I’m the one who understands you. That’s why you keep coming to me like this.”
Sherlock doesn’t answer, but his grip tightens on the metal rail.
“It’s a lonely life you’ve chosen.” Jim settles his hands on Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock had removed his coat and scarf when he came in, because he knew-- he knows Jim will want to touch him-and here he is in those pants tailored perfectly to show off his best assets. Jim runs his right hand against Sherlock's back, along the bottom of his belt, then dips down between their bodies to trace the crease of Sherlock’s ass.
Sherlock’s foot moves, widening his stance just slightly. Jim smiles.
“That’s it. You’re so bored with them. But this isn’t boring, is it?” He provides a little more pressure against Sherlock’s hole, and his ass clenches. “No, it isn’t.” He answers his own question, because he knows all the answers already, every one. His hand delves between Sherlock’s legs, and Sherlock’s head falls back.
Jim knows there’s a high chance Sherlock’s face is flushed; he wishes he could see it in this light. He’ll have to be content watching the strange grey-blue irises be swallowed up by black pupils.
Jim slides his hand back out, around the side of Sherlock’s thigh to ghost over the bulge at the front of Sherlock’s pants. The man is so hard it must be uncomfortable. Jim is hard himself, but he has the inviting cushion of Sherlock’s ass against which to rut. Sherlock must stand still, must look as if he’s simply observing the crowd.
“You’re wishing you could bend over for me,” Jim says. “Lean forward, just a bit, let your trousers down, and have me inside you while you watch these vacant automatons go about their messy lives. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being too clever to get caught. But oh!” Jim gasps in mock concern, and Sherlock’s hips jerk fractionally, pushing into the warm firmness of Jim’s hand. “What about your friends? Can you imagine what they might say, if they caught us together? If they caught you here, writhing for it?”
Sherlock stiffens against Jim, affronted at being accused as something so wanton as writhing.
“Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. You could say I forced you. I am, after all,” and here he curls his hand around Sherlock’s trapped cock and squeezes, “so very evil. But no.” He draws back his touch until he can just roll his palm teasingly against the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. “What would really be embarrassing is if they came up here to find me sucking you off.”
Jim walks his fingers up Sherlock’s chest, up the side of his neck, until he can slide his fore and middle fingers between Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock opens for Jim, takes his fingers in and sucks on them, gently.
“You can’t tell me you don’t want that. You wouldn’t be able to convince them, either. They’d all know what kind of a creature you really are. That you would do anything--anything--to stop being bored.”
“Sherlock!” A cry pierces through the music and the buzz of the dance floor below.
Jim melts away into the darkness, and when Sherlock whirls around, eyes scanning urgently through the crowd packed onto the balcony, even he can’t see where Jim’s gone.
John charges up the stairs and pushes through the crowd to Sherlock’s side. Sherlock pats him on the shoulder and gives him some expected platitudes, but Jim knows. Jim can see the disappointment in Sherlock's eyes. He knows Sherlock will be back.
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/Moriarty
Rating: R
Word Count: ~600
Content advisory: none
Note: Written for snoozing_kitten for Five Acts, Round Five. Thanks to redandglenda for beta-ing. Title from this song
Summary: Moriarty knows how to keep Sherlock coming back for more.
“Look at them all. Peons. Insects. Nonentities.” Jim drapes himself across Sherlock’s back, shoving him against the railing. The music of the club pulses around them, swallowing any protests. Still, they likely only have six minutes before the meddlesome brother, the tenacious detective, or the plucky doctor arrive. Jim will have to make the most of the time he has.
“I’m the one who understands you. That’s why you keep coming to me like this.”
Sherlock doesn’t answer, but his grip tightens on the metal rail.
“It’s a lonely life you’ve chosen.” Jim settles his hands on Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock had removed his coat and scarf when he came in, because he knew-- he knows Jim will want to touch him-and here he is in those pants tailored perfectly to show off his best assets. Jim runs his right hand against Sherlock's back, along the bottom of his belt, then dips down between their bodies to trace the crease of Sherlock’s ass.
Sherlock’s foot moves, widening his stance just slightly. Jim smiles.
“That’s it. You’re so bored with them. But this isn’t boring, is it?” He provides a little more pressure against Sherlock’s hole, and his ass clenches. “No, it isn’t.” He answers his own question, because he knows all the answers already, every one. His hand delves between Sherlock’s legs, and Sherlock’s head falls back.
Jim knows there’s a high chance Sherlock’s face is flushed; he wishes he could see it in this light. He’ll have to be content watching the strange grey-blue irises be swallowed up by black pupils.
Jim slides his hand back out, around the side of Sherlock’s thigh to ghost over the bulge at the front of Sherlock’s pants. The man is so hard it must be uncomfortable. Jim is hard himself, but he has the inviting cushion of Sherlock’s ass against which to rut. Sherlock must stand still, must look as if he’s simply observing the crowd.
“You’re wishing you could bend over for me,” Jim says. “Lean forward, just a bit, let your trousers down, and have me inside you while you watch these vacant automatons go about their messy lives. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being too clever to get caught. But oh!” Jim gasps in mock concern, and Sherlock’s hips jerk fractionally, pushing into the warm firmness of Jim’s hand. “What about your friends? Can you imagine what they might say, if they caught us together? If they caught you here, writhing for it?”
Sherlock stiffens against Jim, affronted at being accused as something so wanton as writhing.
“Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. You could say I forced you. I am, after all,” and here he curls his hand around Sherlock’s trapped cock and squeezes, “so very evil. But no.” He draws back his touch until he can just roll his palm teasingly against the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. “What would really be embarrassing is if they came up here to find me sucking you off.”
Jim walks his fingers up Sherlock’s chest, up the side of his neck, until he can slide his fore and middle fingers between Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock opens for Jim, takes his fingers in and sucks on them, gently.
“You can’t tell me you don’t want that. You wouldn’t be able to convince them, either. They’d all know what kind of a creature you really are. That you would do anything--anything--to stop being bored.”
“Sherlock!” A cry pierces through the music and the buzz of the dance floor below.
Jim melts away into the darkness, and when Sherlock whirls around, eyes scanning urgently through the crowd packed onto the balcony, even he can’t see where Jim’s gone.
John charges up the stairs and pushes through the crowd to Sherlock’s side. Sherlock pats him on the shoulder and gives him some expected platitudes, but Jim knows. Jim can see the disappointment in Sherlock's eyes. He knows Sherlock will be back.