Ophelias



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    John’s fingers leave Sherlock’s hair and he settles back into his well-worn chair. Arousal is flooding Sherlock’s amygdala, lighting his nerves on fire, making his skin tingle and burn with need. He squirms a bit against the bite of the restraints.

    John’s face darkens, grows stern. “Settle, you,” he rumbles warningly. He takes a sip of his tea. “Eyes on the floor.” He sets the tea down and picks up his paper.

    Sherlock gazes at the floorboards, breathes out, stills his mind and waits. As the minutes tick by he finds himself slipping into the dreamy-yet-alert aura of subspace, his entire being subsumed, calmed by the simplicity of this, responsibility lifted from his shoulders, the only thing asked of him is to do exactly what John tells him to do.

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    01 May 2014

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    “Sherlock, I think you may be on to something.” John tightened his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. “I won’t hit you,” John said, radiating calm control as he pulled hard on the sensitive strands, making him gasp in pain and surprise. “But I’m thinking hitting isn’t the only way to give you what you want. You want sensory input? I can get--” he pulled Sherlock’s head up and leaned closer-- ”Very--” he pulled his hair even harder-- “creative,” he whispered, licking the delicate curve at the top of his ear.

    Sherlock moaned, a throaty, desperate sound that sent a jolt of fire straight through John’s body. “Oh yes, John,” he breathed. "Yes, please.

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    25 Mar 2014