Hello everyone!
As you may know, I'm a member of the Collectif NoName, a group of French writers and readers who organise challenges every month, in order to help the bond between authors and reviewers to be stronger. If you want more information, you can go read the notes of my previous story 'I will come back' !
Anyway, here is my participation for the July challenge. The theme was "Alternate Universe"!
Enjoy !
Flo'w
His voice, even slurry with alcohol, could only be described as "sinful". It was a deep rumbling sound, added to a perfectly shaped mouth curled into a small smirk, and heavy-lidded, too pale, hypnotising eyes.
In fact, the man himself was sinful, wrapped in tight, black trousers clinging to mile-long legs, and an even tighter purple dress shirt open at the throat- and what throat!
"Handcuffs? Nice idea, Officer..."
The policeman set his jaw, and tried to ignore the churning of his stomach at the innuendo.
"Get in the car", he grunted, gesturing towards the door.
The man complied, but instead of just sitting, he leaned down until he was fully laying on his back. He slightly parted his legs and stretched his cuffed wrists above his head.
"Wanna have me right here?" the man purred, and the policeman bit back a groan. Okay, maybe not innuendo.
"I'm trying to arrest you, dammit! Sit correctly so that I can fasten your seatbelt and drive you to the station", he spat, and the man slowly obeyed.
But when the officer reached past him to click on the belt, he was stopped dead in his track. A hot, open mouth had landed on his neck, biting not-so-lightly at the tender skin. This time, he couldn't suppress a full-body shudder, and jumped back as soon as he could, only to see the other man licking his tantalising lips.
"You taste good", he said, smirking again.
"You're so wasted", sighed the policeman, and he slammed the door.
The ride to the police station wasn't as quiet as he hoped it would be, the drunk git in the backseat seeming unable to stop talking.
"Your card says G. Lestrade. What's your first name?"
"Won't tell you", grunted the officer, wishing that voice would stop. God, the way he said "Lestrade"...
"Graham?"
"Nope."
"Gavin?"
"Shut up!"
A low chuckle responded.
"I'm sorry, there's quite a lot of names starting with a G. Even using the statistics about these names' frequency, it can take quite a long time to find the right one."
Lestrade tried not to gape.
"How can you possibly make that long of a sentence with your level of drunkenness?! Wait, don't answer that. Just shut up. We're almost there."
"Gabriel? Gaaaabe", drawled the man, but wrinkled his nose. "Nope, not Gabriel."
"Are you gonna fucking stop that?" the officer asked, but couldn't choose between anger and amusement.
The devilish grin that met his gaze into the rear view mirror smothered the little hope he had.
"Well, I'd gladly use my mouth for something else, but you're too far..."
Lestrade finally stopped the car in front of the police station, and pulled the drunk man out of the vehicle, trying to avoid touching him too much. He could still feel that bloody mouth on his neck.
"Gerald? No. If you were 60, maybe, but you're no more than 37."
"I'm 36, actually" blurted Lestrade without thinking.
"Mmh."
They walked almost silently to the cells, except that one of them was stumbling a bit, and the other one trying to keep him from falling without actually making contact.
"George? Mmh... No, your family isn't wealthy enough to give you a king's name..."
"How could you possibly know that?!"
The drunk berk ignored the question and leaned against the policeman with a wink.
"I'd call you Gorgeous, but as perfectly as it would suit you, it's not a name..."
Lestrade couldn't help but let out a chuckle.
"This has to be the cheapest pick up line I've ever heard", he retorted. "Okay, here we are", he added, gesturing toward the cell. "We'll do the paperwork tomorrow in the morning, since I doubt you still remember your own name right now."
"I do", snapped the other, "I'm called Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."
Lestrade smirked. That git had to have a name as posh as his suit.
"But I still don't know yours..." Holmes pouted while Lestrade removed his cuffs.
"You have all night to think about it."
"I'd rather you tell me so that I can scream it while we shag."
Oh God, please do. The policeman tried to hide a shiver. Tried to not imagine this incredible mouth doing something else, this too tight shirt ripping open on a long, pale torso...
"Is it Gregory?"
Lestrade froze, and Sherlock chuckled wickedly.
"Oh, that's the right one, isn't it? Gregory Lestrade", he purred.
Say it again, please, thought the officer before he could stop himself. As if he'd heard, Sherlock smiled.
"You want that, don't you? You want to hear me scream your name. You want to get your hands on me. You're starving for it."
As he spoke, Sherlock slowly crowded Lestrade against the doorframe. Gregory wanted to push him away, but he couldn't set his hands on that silk-covered chest and not want to yank the man closer. You're a bloody policeman, for God's sake, just shove him back and lock the door! Let Sally deal with him in the morning!
"Please, Gregory", whispered Sherlock into his ear, and Greg barely suppressed a moan.
Dammit, Greg, he's completely drunk, anyone could come and see you, and how exactly are you going to explain you're being sexually assaulted by some wasted bastard?
Suddenly, there were hands on his hips, and his back was slammed against the wall.
"What the –", he managed to say before Sherlock's lips crashed on his own.
That was bad. He couldn't do that, no, really, being thoroughly kissed by the pissed bloke you were trying to put in jail for the night was definitely wrong. But Greg couldn't help but wrap one arm around Sherlock's shoulders, and drown his other hand in the wild, dark curls of his nape. The plump, bow-shaped lips curled in a smile against his, and Sherlock tightened his grip on the officer's hips, earning a startled gasp.
Greg tried to pull back, breathless, and Sherlock groaned in displeasure.
"Stop, I… I can't do that, no, please…" the policeman panted, holding Sherlock's shoulders.
"Why not? You were doing it quite brilliantly. And I think", he added with a light thrust of his hips against Greg's, the man biting back a sigh, "you really want to continue."
Greg pushed him away, escaping the bruising fingertips on his waist.
"I didn't say I don't want to do this. I said I can't. You're completely pissed, and I'm the policeman arresting you. It's wrong."
Sherlock rubbed a hand in his already dishevelled hair, and smiled crookedly.
"You're not easily corrupted, are you?"
Lestrade crossed his arms, desperately wanting to hide his ragged breath.
"Enough. I'm locking you in, and my colleague will let you out tomorrow."
"Really? You're leaving me?" Sherlock asked.
He started unbuttoning his shirt, lightly caressing the bared skin after each button. Greg stayed frozen, hypnotised for a few seconds before he could avert his gaze.
"Goodnight, Holmes", he snapped, and nearly ran out, slamming the door.
Inside the locked cell, Sherlock only smirked, and sat down on the minuscule bed.
Greg barely got undressed before he fell face first on his unmade bed. That night had been quite tough – getting to arrest a very drunk, very sexy client of London's most selective nightclub for insulting some poor bloke trying to hit on him, and being quite insistently hit on by said very drunk and very sexy man… that wasn't exactly the quiet shift he expected.
And now, at half past three in the bloody morning, he couldn't sleep. The officer rolled on his back, and lost his gaze in the darkness of his small room. His mind was full of piercing grey-blue eyes and pale skin and dark curls and filthy lips, and he couldn't help but slowly palm the bulge in his pants, finally letting out the moan that wanted to get out so much earlier, when a hot, wet mouth had left a purplish mark on his neck.
Greg let himself drown in the sensation, imagining long white hands on him while he stroked his torso and inner thighs. But soon it was too much, or not enough, and he eased out of his too tight underwear. He closed his eyes, picturing Sherlock naked, on all fours above him, and trying to remember the taste of him. His right hand started to lightly stroke his hard length, smearing the drop of precome around the head. I'd gladly use my mouth for something else, the deep voice echoed in his mind. Greg spat in his palm and returned to stroking his leaking prick with more pressure, almost believing for a second that it was really Sherlock's mouth wrapped around him. Would he take him down his throat, that long, alabaster thing, and moan around his cock, the vibration sending delicious shivers down his spine? Would he – oh God – gag? Greg wanted nothing more but grip his unruly curls in one hand and fuck his mouth eagerly, while his other hand would nearly tear the sheet.
"Sherlock…"Greg panted loudly. He was so close, his back and forth movement getting faster and harder with every gasp. He bit his other hand to keep from shouting as the pleasure built steadily inside him, oh God, yes, Sherlock, please, Sherlock, like that, I'm going to –
He arched off the mattress as he came, covering his stomach in semen.
Greg merely wiped it off with his abandoned pants, and immediately fell asleep.
When Greg woke up the next morning – well, morning. More like noon – he had three missed calls from his ex-wife and a text from his colleague Sally. He groaned, and Sally being usually less aggressive than the other woman, he started with the text.
Did the paperwork for your drunk from last night. Was pretty much a jerk, I almost locked him again! Next time YOU deal with him. Have a nice week end
Greg raised a brow at his phone, trying to imagine a sober Sherlock. Yeah, probably was a jerk. He had drunkenly insulted – harassed, really – a bloke at the nightclub, and tried to corrupt a police officer…
Shaking his head, Greg decided to have a shower before dealing with his ex-wife. And twenty minutes later, when he felt a bit more awake, he finally called the dreaded number.
"Gregory! What took you so long?! I first called you at 8!" she answered.
He was pretty sure the phone had barely had time to ring, and suppressed a sigh.
"Hello, Jen. I was on duty last night, and came home at half past three. I just woke up."
"Don't call me Jen, you lazy arse. You don't get to call me that anymore."
This time, Greg let the sigh out quite loudly.
"Okay, did you just wanted to call to yell at me? And why the hell couldn't I call you Jen, or whatever? I think I remember you cheating on me and you asking for divorce pretty clearly, making you the guilty one! Now what do you want, Jennifer?!"
He heard the woman growl, but surprisingly, she calmed down.
"I need you to take Lily to the Nutcracker tonight."
At that, Greg couldn't help but bark a laugh.
"Are you kidding me?! You call me at eight in the bloody morning after my night shift, yell at me, and then ask me a favour?! Anyway, weren't you and Lily supposed to go to that ballet thing together?"
"The Nutcracker is the name of 'that ballet thing'. But Michael is sick, and I can't let him alone at home."
"… You want me to go to a ballet?! On my only free night in three weeks?"
"Gregory, Lily has been waiting for this for three months! You're doing this for her, not for me. Please?"
The officer rubbed his temple and sighed.
"Right. Okay."
"Come pick her up at half past eight tonight. All the information you need is written on the tickets."
"Shall I drive her home tomorrow?"
"No, you can bring her back at my place tonight after the show. I'll wait."
"Good."
He hung off, and wondered how he could still let that woman manipulate him. He had planned to watch the rugby game tonight. Not like it was an important one, the 6 Nation Tournament having only just started, but still – giving it up for a ballet?! He grunted aloud in his small kitchen, and resumed making toast and tea. You're doing this for your daughter, he repeated silently, trying to convince himself.
He left his place at 8pm, dressed in a grey suit jacket with a white button-down tucked in dark jeans, Jen having texted him the opera was a bit formal. While driving in the busy streets of London, he tried not to think too much about the long hours he would spend in an uncomfortable seat watching people lift their legs and spin around. The Nutcracker, wasn't it that silly Christmas tale about a prince turned into a giant nutcracker by the King of the Rats or whatever, and being saved by some random girl? Oh, that was going to be so dull… Maybe he could sleep a bit during the show.
When he pulled off in front of his ex-wife's house, he sighed deeply, and forced himself to smile. His daughter was probably jumping excited for this. She had been learning ballet for a few years now, and Greg liked going to her ballet class' show each year – because he got to see her and because it only was an hour long or so. And even though tonight the dancers would probably be better, they still were random strangers to Greg.
He rang the doorbell and heard quick footsteps.
"Daddy!" his daughter exclaimed, jumping in his arms.
He lifted her to his face and kissed her cheek.
"You ready to go, sweetie?" he asked, and couldn't help but grin at her enthusiasm.
She wriggled free of the embrace to show him the fluffy blue dress she was wearing.
"You look beautiful", he complimented her, and she beamed at him.
"Gregory", greeted Jen as she arrived from the kitchen.
"Jen. Anything else before we leave?" he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets "Can I say hi to Michael?"
"Here are the tickets", said the woman, handing him an envelope as slow, shuffling footsteps approached, and a sleepy boy came out of the kitchen.
"Dad?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.
"Hey, Mike", Greg answered, "how do
you feel?"
"Like my stomach is on a boat and I'm not", the twelve-year-old replied with a crooked smile. "I wanted to watch the game, but Mummy said I have to go to bed early to get better…"
His father chuckled and crouched in front of him.
"Hey, I wanted to watch that game too, but Mummy said I have to go to a ballet with your sister. Life's unfair, eh?" he joked, and the boy laughed weakly. "Don't worry, we'll watch the finale together, okay?"
The boy's eyes lit up.
"Really?! You won't go to the pub with your mates?"
"Yeah, Mike. I promise", Greg said with a wink. "I think we should go now", he added toward Lily, who was putting her coat on.
He patted Michael's head and stood up, brushing his trousers with his fingers to get rid of the wrinkles.
"I'll drop her here when it's over", he said with a nod to Jen, and then smiled to the little girl. "Let's go?"
The opera house was crowded with people, but Greg and Lily managed to get to their seats. They had a really good position, right in the centre and not too far away from the stage and orchestra, and Lily was nearly chirping with glee.
"I can't wait anymore", she exclaimed. "When does it begin?"
"Fifteen minutes, sweetie. I'm sure you can wait that long", he encouraged her, but the nine year-old pouted.
"That's like eternity!"
Greg chuckled.
Ten minutes later, the musicians and director entered, and the lights dimmed above the spectators as they clapped. Lily started bouncing on her chair.
"Quiet now, love", Greg whispered. "The musicians are tuning their instruments. It's going to start any minute."
The girl stilled, but her father could see she was still jumping mentally, and he grinned.
"You're really excited, eh?"
"My favourite dancer is playing the prince", she murmured. "He's so beautiful and talented!" she added with shiny eyes, and Greg could only laugh.
"Maybe one day you'll be as good as him. And you're already more beautiful", he winked.
Just then, silence fell and all lights were switched off except one spot lighting the centre of the red curtain. A man in a smoking walked to the bright circle and bowed, earning a few claps.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the last representation of The Nutcracker by the London Royal Ballet and Orchestra. At the end of this show, people with special invitations will have the opportunity to meet the main dancers. I hope you'll enjoy your evening here. Thank you."
He bowed again and exited the stage, and the lights moved to the orchestra as the music began.
It wasn't that bad, thought Greg, shifting in his chair, even though he would have preferred to watch thirty men in shorts chasing an oval-shaped ball and getting covered in mud.
He was starting to doze a bit, not as impressed and fascinated as Lily by the people in shiny leotards and tutus moving on the stage. At least the music was good – Greg liked Tchaikovsky.
Suddenly, Lily let out a sharp gasp, startling him, and he glanced at her, vaguely worried.
"You alright?" he whispered, and she grinned widely, pointing at the stage.
"It's him! The Prince!" she responded in the same tone.
Greg started to grin, but his smile faded as he looked toward the stage, his jaw going slack in surprise.
The dancer in white tights and a blue sort of military jacket was unmistakable. Despite the exaggerated make up. Despite the dark hair artfully plastered to his head. All Greg could see was a tall man with unruly curls, unearthly blue eyes, and a long, pale neck.
He swallowed hard, founding a lump in his throat, and suddenly felt much more interested in the ballet. Well, in one character anyway…
As sexy as Sherlock Holmes was in dress trousers and shirt, he was incredibly beautiful in his costume – and amazing. He looked like grace itself, his long limbs curling and his body moving like the music was wrapped around them. Greg's stomach tensed. How could that man be one night drunk as hell and next day be the most astonishing being in Greg's universe?
The policeman spent the remaining of the show holding his breath each time the Prince appeared, and when Lily gripped his hand near the end, when the girl wakes up and realises it was all a dream, he gripped it back. Finally, the audience broke into a thunder of applause as the dancers bowed all together in the front of the stage. Greg clapped his hands, his gaze locked on Sherlock, still not believing it.
"It was wonderful!" Lily chirped as they slowly walked in the middle of the crowd. "I can't wait to meet them!"
"What do you mean, meet them?" Greg asked, furrowing his brow. "We're going home now, it's almost midnight. I have to drop you at your mother's."
The little girl went wide-eyed with horror.
"Home?! No, Dad, not yet! Mummy got these special invitation tickets, we can go to the meet-up with the dancers! I want to see the Prince!"
Greg gaped. Meet the dancers?! Meet – him?!
"Sweetie…" he started, hesitating to refuse as his daughter looked literally filled with glee. "Okay, but not for long, right?"
"Yes! Thank you, Daddy!" she grinned.
Their tickets were indeed special invitation ones, and they could enter the large room where a few people were already chatting around a small buffet. The presenter in the smoking came in through another door and cleared his throat.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the artists will be there in a few minutes. They are just changing into more appropriate clothes – costumes are really fragile, and stage makeup isn't very comfortable, I'm afraid. You can help yourself to the buffet while waiting."
Some moments later, people entered the room, starting up a new round of applause. The Girl, The Prince, the King of the Rats, and a few other characters Greg didn't remember nodded and smiled to the privileged spectators.
Immediately, they were surrounded by eager people, congratulating them, asking questions, commenting on the show… Greg stayed still, fascinated by the deep vibration of Sherlock's voice as he was talking to an elderly woman in a cerise dress.
But he couldn't stay daydreaming for long, as Lily grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the man impatiently.
"Come on, Daddy!" she urged, and Greg followed reluctantly.
"… But I don't want to monopolise you, dear", the woman was saying as they approached, "your fans want to talk to you!"
"My fans!" Sherlock retorted with a snort. "Like I have fans. Every time people meet me, they suddenly find they hate no one more."
Greg raised a brow, but his daughter hadn't heard and was lifting her chin toward the dancer, trying to gain attention. The old woman noticed her and chuckled.
"Oh, Sherlock, look. I think someone wants to say hi", she said kindly.
Greg nodded at her, and Sherlock looked surprised for half a second.
"How convenient…" he muttered before turning toward the little girl. "You wanted something?"
Not discouraged in the least by the not-so-kind tone, Lily thrust her ticket and a pen in Sherlock's suddenly fumbling hands.
"Mr Holmes!" she beamed, "you were – no, you always are so incredible! I wish I was just half as talented as you! May I have an autograph? Please?"
Greg had to suppress a laugh at the befuddled expression on Holmes' face. He seemed unable to believe a little girl looked at him like he had hung up the stars.
"What's your name?"
"I'm Lily", she answered. "And this is my father Gregory. He's a policeman." She added obligingly – Greg and Sherlock shared a silent glare.
"Gregory", finally mumbled the dancer as he signed the ticket for Lily.
"Sherlock", clipped Greg in return, trying to not let himself be overwhelmed by the sight. The man was even more appealing than the previous night, his dark navy shirt making his eyes be even bluer. Greg silently wondered if it was legal to be that beautiful.
But while he was lost in thoughts, the little girl opened saucer-wide eyes.
"You two know each other?! Daddy! Why didn't you tell me you knew Mr. Holmes? He's been my favourite ballet dancer for ages!"
"Um, sweetie… We've only met once. And I didn't know he was a dancer, otherwise I'd have told you." Greg hesitated.
Sherlock smirked.
"But I knew your father was a policeman. It's actually quite interesting, running into you tonight. Don't you have drunk people to put in jail, Officer?"
"Not tonight", Greg replied warily, wincing at the insinuation – and the memory. "I merely have to drop Lily at her mother's", he added, not realising it could sound like an invite.
An awkward little silence settled until Sherlock spoke again, sounding a bit surprised.
"I didn't think you were the ballet type. I would've said rugby."
"And you would've been right…" Greg sighed. "But the show was surprisingly interesting", he said with a pointed look, and Sherlock took the hint.
"Thank you very much."
New silence. Greg was feeling less and less at ease. Sherlock's eyes seemed to bore into him, his lips curled into a sly smile. The policeman tried not to think about this mouth on his – oops, too late…
"Lily, sweetie, I think we should go now," he said, at a loss of what to do. He was fighting the urge to grab Sherlock's collar and kiss him stupid. "Say goodbye?"
"Already?!" she protested in a high-pitched voice.
"Yes, love, your mother will worry if we're late", he said, trying to ignore the knot in his gut telling him he was doing a mistake.
Sherlock awkwardly patted Lily's head, handing her the signed ticket.
"You heard your dad", he said, "goodbye, Lily. Maybe we'll see each other again?"
"Goodbye, Mr Holmes", she squeaked, her cheeks bright red.
The two men hesitated for a second before shaking hands. Greg tried not to shiver at the contact. These fingers had been digging his waist less than 24 hours ago. Suddenly finding his throat very dry, Greg swallowed hard, and briskly turned away, taking Lily's shoulder.
As they were about to pass the door, Greg felt a hand on his shoulder blade. He turned, and almost gasped.
"Gregory, I'm sorry I'm so rude. I gave an autograph to your daughter but not to you!" he said, his face completely blank, and handed him a folded piece of napkin.
Greg took it, brow raised, and nodded. Sherlock immediately walked away, and the policeman just pocketed the paper without opening it.
Gregory drove silently to Jen's, Lily drifting asleep as soon as they were on the road. Both their minds were full of Sherlock.
When he arrived in front of the house, he got out and carried his sleeping daughter to the door. His ex-wife opened it, and whispered, noticing Lily.
"How was it?"
"Um, good, I think", he replied, carefully passing her the girl. "I did enjoy it, and Lily was quite over the moon."
Jen smiled.
"Did you go to the meet-up?"
"Yes, and we met the guy playing the Prince, as Lily wanted. She got an autograph."
"Really? That's great! I'm told this Holmes is quite an arsehole with his fans."
"He was actually pretty nice", Greg answered. "Well, I should go now. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, and thanks again."
"Not a problem."
Jen closed the door, and Greg sighed, alone in the darkness again. He climbed back in his car, but just as he was going to pull off, a bell rang in his mind. Autograph. Why the hell had Sherlock given him one? Not like he had asked. Greg took the napkin out of his pocket, and unfolded it, switching on the light above him. His heart leapt when he read the few words.
07******* - TEXT ME, AND I DON'T MEAN TOMORROW
Greg fumbled to get his phone, hastily sending the first thing that came to his mind.
You didn't even sign that napkin. How's that supposed to be an autograph? – Gregory
The reply was almost immediate.
So sorry. How about you come and I'll sign it for you? – SH
Come where?
Same nightclub than last night. Better hurry if you don't want to have to arrest me again. – SH
Greg smirked. The game was on.
He started the car and quickly retrieved the way to the club. The ride was only 15 minutes long and he surprisingly easily found a parking spot. Greg silently thanked Jen to have told him to wear something nice. He opened the first two buttons of his shirt, glanced at his hair in the rear view mirror, and got out of his car.
He paid his ticket and entered – and was immediately overwhelmed by the loud music and the incredible number of people there. The dancefloor was crowded. How was he supposed to find Sherlock in that shaking mass?
Bemused, he turned towards the bar, and sighed in relief when he caught sight of a dark mop of curls above a blue shirt. The man was leaning against a high stool, a half drank beer in his left hand. Greg smirked and silently – well, not like anyone could hear footsteps anyway – approached Sherlock's back, until he was standing right behind him.
"Was I quick enough?" he asked, leaning down to speak in his ear, delighted at the small startled noise Sherlock made.
"As you can see, I've not even finished my first drink", he answered with a smug smile.
"Right. Too soon for the handcuffs, then", he chirped innocently, but chuckled when Sherlock very clearly gasped, although he regained his self-control fairly quickly.
"Too soon indeed', he said, "but we can dance in the meantime."
He drained the remaining of his beer and slammed the glass on the wooden bar.
"Come on, officer", he purred, "you'll arrest me later. For sexual harassment, this time", he added, dead serious.
Greg's stomach tensed. That had not been subtle at all. And he quite liked it that way.
In his uni days, Greg had thought he was a pretty good dancer in nightclubs. He had a good sense of rhythm and instinctively knew how to move. But as the other man dragged him toward the dancefloor, he knew he couldn't compete with Sherlock. Even when he was merely walking, he was already more graceful than Greg would ever be.
And his suspicions got confirmed once they were lost in the middle of the crowd. Sherlock moved like the music was clinging to his body. Greg was starting to get terribly self-conscious, feeling like he was an elephant dancing with some fairy creature of porcelain and silk.
But the dancer didn't seem to care, and he got closer and closer until they were inches apart, their bodies hovering over each other. Sherlock was only slightly taller than him, but Greg still had to tip his chin up to keep their eyes locked together.
Sherlock's silvery-blue gaze was positively hungry, like a starving lion looking at his prey. Greg swallowed hard. What was happening to him exactly?
His train of thoughts wavered – okay, completely derailed – when Sherlock leaned down, his mouth against Greg's ear, breathing hotly. He nipped at the lobe, licked his way from ear to jaw, humming against the pulse point – all that without stopping to dance. One of his hands snaked to the small of Greg's back, pressing their hips together, and the other settled on his waist.
"How're you feeling, officer?" he drawled, and Greg shuddered.
Sherlock chuckled, and pushed one of his legs between Greg's. The policeman gripped Sherlock shoulders for balance, and could only follow the dancer's movements as he slowly rolled his hips with the music. He gasped when Sherlock closed the distance between their chests, still nuzzling in his neck.
"Sherlock…" he managed, and the other man smiled against his warm flesh.
"Breathless already? I've done nothing yet…" he teased, but his breath was a tiny bit ragged too.
Greg leaned into Sherlock's curls, his mouth level with the man's ear.
"Are you threatening me? Beware, young man… I'm the cop here. I've made grown men cry – I think I can make you scream."
"Please try", Sherlock challenged, pulling back a bit to look into Greg's eyes.
Their gazes locked, and they both shivered. The crowd around them was dense, and they were even more pressed together. Of its own volition, Greg's hand shifted from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, fingertips playing with the short locks. Sherlock's eyes rolled back as he leaned into the touch, barely stifling a moan.
"Oh, Gregory…" he sighed,
Oh God, the way he said his name was too much for Greg. He tugged at the dark, curly hair, earning a new almost-moan, and crushed his lips on Sherlock's. The younger man thrust lightly his pelvis into the policeman's, and they both gasped in the kiss, opening their mouths. Their tongues started to dance together as well, lazily sliding against each other, while Sherlock's hands slowly travelled to Greg's arse, slipping into the back pockets of his jeans. He grinded their hips again, pulling back.
"How 'bout arresting me, officer?" he panted against the policeman's lips.
"It's about time you pay for all this", Greg groaned.
The streets were empty as they walked briskly to Greg's car, stumbling in their haste. When they were just next to it, Greg slammed the other man face first onto the vehicle. Sherlock let out a startled shout.
"What – ", he started, but Greg leaned on him, pressing his very clear erection on Sherlock's arse.
"Sherlock Holmes", he said into his ear, voice a bit rough, "you've been quite a naughty boy tonight…"
"Yes, officer", the dancer panted, and the title, not smug this time, sent a jolt of arousal through Greg.
"And as I said, you have to pay for it. I will have. No. Mercy", he nearly growled, punctuating his words with thrusts of his hips.
"Oh God. Please, officer…" started Sherlock, but he didn't finish, at a loss of words when Greg's breath ran over his neck.
"Get in the car", he ordered, and Sherlock could only comply as quickly as possible.
The ride was surprisingly quieter than the last one they had spent together. Greg gripped the wheel with more force than actually necessary, trying not to give in the urge to use the left one to touch Sherlock instead of changing gears. The dancer was trying to calm his breath, without much success since he kept glancing at the bulge in Greg's trousers.
"Oh God, stop looking at me like that, Sherlock. I'm going to lose control", the officer grunted.
"Sorry. You look edible. And I'm starving", the younger man replied.
"Starving, eh? We'll see to make you… eat…" Greg couldn't help but tease, and Sherlock bit his lower lip.
Greg slammed the door to his flat, crowding Sherlock against it. There was a metallic clicking noise, and the dancer suddenly found he had one wrist cuffed. He gasped in surprise, and Greg chuckled darkly.
"Give me the other hand", he purred, rocking his hips into Sherlock's, who let out a strangled moan as Greg took his other wrist.
Holding the short chain, the officer lifted Sherlock's hands, and hooked him on one of the coat hooks.
"Are… you… going to have me here?" the younger man panted as Greg started to unbutton his navy shirt.
"Would you want me to?" Greg drawled, slowly attacking the bared skin with his mouth.
"… Yes. Yes, please. Or anywhere. Just… do it. Please."
Greg laughed against Sherlock's nipple, and thrust his hips again.
"You're quite demanding, for someone being arrested."
"Ah!" was the only response he got, so he continued working on the shirt, and then unbuckled the belt, ever-so-slowly, dropping to his knees to mouth at the zipper.
"Gregory!"
"Where did 'officer' go?" Greg asked, opening the fly.
"… away with my mind, I'm afraid", Sherlock managed to moan. "Oh God…"
The policeman smiled and eased Sherlock's trousers down, removing them completely with shoes and socks. He looked up, founding Sherlock braced against the door, his head fallen back, mouth open, chest heaving. Oh, what a wreck he would make of this man…
He returned his attention to Sherlock's briefs – plain black cotton sharply contrasting with ivory skin. Greg stroked the dancer's inner thighs, going up until he was palming his bollocks. The man moaned loudly, the sound echoing in Greg's ears. Okay, time to make him sob. Greg hooked his fingers in the waistband of the pants and slowly dragged them down, Sherlock's prick bobbing out eagerly. Greg ignored it, nuzzling in the dark pubic hair, planting open-mouthed, wet kisses on his stomach, licking into his navel. Sherlock's legs started to shake, and Greg knew he would have to support his weight with his arms. He hoped the coat hook would be strong enough.
The officer decided to tease a bit more, and very, very lightly traced a wet stripe on the underside of the hard cock in front of him, earning a sigh so dirty he shivered. Smirking, he tongued at the head, still lightly, his hands stroking the thighs and hips, preventing Sherlock from thrusting.
He continued his ministrations until Sherlock was a whimpering mess above him, desperate for more, babbling a continuous string of pleas and moans. Greg stood up, biting an erect nipple on his way. He was still fully dressed, he realised, so he took a step back.
"Look at me, Sherlock", he ordered, and grey blue eyes shot open.
Greg undressed calmly under Sherlock's hungry gaze until he was completely naked, and when he finally stepped out of his underwear, he came closer again and pressed himself against the man, gripping his hipbones, holding him still while he worked his mouth on Sherlock's white, long, offered throat.
"Oh Greg… please, I need… I want…"
"What do you want?"
Sherlock's head rolled back as he gasped. Greg was still not touching him enough.
"I… want you down my throat. I want you to make me gag around your prick. And then I want you to fuck me so hard I forget my name", he managed to say, and it was Greg's time to moan.
He freed one of Sherlock's wrist and dragged him to the bedroom.
Greg let out a startled breath as Sherlock shoved him down on the mattress. He landed on his back, and the dancer was on him in an instant, pushing him up the bed.
"My turn", he growled through gritted teeth, and the hoarse rumbling of his voice send a shudder down Greg's spine.
He took off his open shirt and threw it on the floor, and then didn't bother with teasing. He just kneeled between Greg's open legs, bent down and swallowed him to the root. As he slowly bobbed his head up again, he felt fingers tangling in his curls. With a lick to the head, he peered up through his lashes.
"Use me", he whispered, and Greg heard it like he had yelled it.
His hands tightened in Sherlock's hair, and he lifted his hips off the bed. The dancer braced himself on Greg's thighs, the cold metal still attached to his left wrist digging into their flesh.
The policeman fucked his mouth without any finesse, and soon, Sherlock was gagging, drooling all over Greg's prick as he hollowed his cheeks to increase the suction.
"Oh God, Sherlock, your mouth… So good…" Greg groaned.
Sherlock could only moan in response, and twirled his tongue against the head of Greg's cock. The man nearly shouted, and Sherlock pulled off, fighting the hands holding him in place. Greg lifted his head to look at him and moaned loudly at the sight – Sherlock, naked on all fours with his hard, neglected cock hanging between his legs, saliva and precome smeared around his swollen, reddened mouth. "Obscene" didn't even start to describe him. The dancer slowly licked his lips.
"Fuck me, Greg. Now", he grunted, and Greg could only obey.
He sat up, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and flipped them over. Straddling Sherlock's waist, he stroked his mouth with his fingertips. Sherlock took the hint and opened it, suckling eagerly on the digits one by one, making them nice and wet, under Greg's fascinated gaze.
"Damn, you're so beautiful", he said. "Bet you're even more when you come."
Sherlock gave a last lick to the ring finger before answering.
"Want to find out?" he asked, breathless, and Greg smiled.
"I fully intend to."
With that he kneeled next to Sherlock on the mattress and rolled him on his belly. His spit-slicked hand started to stroke his cleft, forefinger circling his entrance. Sherlock shivered and moaned.
"Get to it, Greg", he demanded, pushing against the tentative fingers.
Greg nipped at his shoulder blade.
"Stay still", he retorted, "don't wanna hurt you."
"You're not hurting me", Sherlock moaned as the first digit slowly entered him.
Greg continued kissing Sherlock's back and nape as he prepared him, adding a second finger, then a third, crooking and moving them inside until Sherlock was shaking with need and nearly sobbing.
He then rolled him over again and kneeled between his legs. Before he could do anything, Sherlock lifted his calves and hooked them around his waist, making the older man smirk.
"Impatient, are we? Let me grab actual lube and a condom first", he said, and Sherlock huffed.
The policeman bent toward the nightstand, and quickly took a foil packet and a small bottle out of the drawer. He swiftly rolled the condom on, and applied lube to both his prick and Sherlock's arse.
"Ready?"
"Thought you'd never a- OH!" Sherlock shouted as Greg penetrated him in one hard thrust.
Greg equally moaned at the sensation. Sherlock was so tight around him, so hot and wet, and he couldn't wait anymore, so he started to move inside him. The friction was so good it was nearly unbearable. He rocked at a steady pace, relishing the feel of Sherlock's arse.
"Sherlock, oh God", he gasped as the man lifted his hips to meet his thrusts, soon finding the perfect angle.
"GREG! Again, harder, please, ohmygodyes, that's it" Sherlock babbled, and Gregory obliged, slamming once more on the right spot.
Sherlock arched off the bed, his hands clawing at Greg's back, digging red lines into his skin. The officer hissed and quickened his pace, hitting Sherlock's prostate on every other thrust, earning a louder shout each time.
"Greg, I'm – I'm so close, please, please –"
The words tightened Greg's gut and he slammed inside, faster, faster, faster, feeling he was close too. He slipped his still-lubed hand between them and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's aching prick, pumping him hard until he was on the very edge, until he was screaming nonsense, eyes screwed shut and neck arched back. Suddenly his eyes shot open, and his voice broke as he shouted Greg's name.
The policeman last coherent thought before his orgasm shut down his brain was that indeed, Sherlock was even more beautiful when climaxing.
Greg collapsed on Sherlock's heaving chest, his softening cock slipping out. He couldn't for the love of God talk, so he just propped himself up on his knees with a grunt when he thought he would be steady enough, and took one more second to test his balance.
His steps to the bathroom were nevertheless stumbling. He disposed of the soiled condom, got himself cleaned and dampened a flannel before returning to the bedroom.
Sherlock hadn't moved, still sprawled on his back, but he seemed to breathe a bit more slowly. Greg grinned, climbed on the mattress next to him and started wiping off the semen spread on his stomach. Sherlock opened his eyes, and looked at him curiously, but didn't say a word.
"I retrieved you pants", Greg announced when he was finished, and handed him the black briefs.
He himself had put his own white pants back on, and Sherlock nodded, taking the underwear to slip it on.
"Thanks. Um…" he started, but closed his mouth again, sitting up.
"Do you want anything to drink? Or eat?" Greg asked, looking at the clock. "It's almost 3am, but that Chinese place down the road has a non-stop service. And they can deliver food, we're not obligated to go there."
Sherlock looked completely dumbfounded.
"Are you serious?"
"Well, I don't even know if you got to eat tonight. And with that – incredible – blowjob you gave me, and your persistent shouts, I figured you could be thirsty", Greg shrugged with a small smile.
Sherlock slowly nodded.
"I wouldn't say no to a huge glass of ice water", he admitted. "But I'm not that hungry. I think I have toast at my flat anyway."
Greg's eyes widened.
"Do you… do you mean you're leaving?"
"Would you want me to stay?" Sherlock asked, his tone clearly saying that was improbable, but Greg chuckled.
"You're going nowhere, Mr Holmes. If this were jail, you would be in for the night. I'm fetching you that glass of water, and you better not even leave the bed."
Without waiting for an answer, he stood up again, and was soon back with a glass and a bottle of water – in case you're thirsty again later, he explained – and settled on the bed next to Sherlock.
The dancer drained the whole glass, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Just put the glass on the nightstand", Greg shrugged. "Come here", he added, gesturing Sherlock to lay down on the bed, "Do you have to get up early tomorrow?"
"No. Tonight was the last show, tomorrow is off. Why?"
"Good, me neither. So here's what we're gonna do: we're going to sleep in awfully late, have a nice, long shower – together if you want –, and then go out for lunch, or breakfast, if you'd prefer. I'm really not good at this 'one night stand' thing, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me until tomorrow at least."
They were laying side by side, Greg propped up on one elbow, looking down at Sherlock who had his arms crossed behind his neck.
"Well, you're the first one not trying to throw me out as soon as you're finished", the dancer merely said, "so I guess spending the night here is good enough. I'm not sure you'll still want to… associate with me once we've had breakfast."
Greg smiled softly, and bent down to kiss him.
"Have you only ever been with jerks? Sorry, that was rude. Let me judge for myself if I 'still want to associate with you' after breakfast, yeah? I'm quite capable of making my own decisions. And you're pretty fascinating, so far. Let's get some sleep, okay?"
Sherlock nodded, and the officer pulled the sheets over them, opening his arms. The younger man accepted the invitation and settled half on top of Greg, his head pillowed on the muscular shoulder.
Greg was almost asleep when Sherlock spoke again.
"Greg."
"Mmh?"
"My left wrist is still cuffed."
"One, two… yes, that's it, Lil-"
"YEAH COME ON THAT'S IT!"
"HE'S GONNA DO IT!"
Sherlock sighed, and Lily chuckled. Both rolled their eyes, and the man stopped the music.
"How about we continue tomorrow, Lily? I think tonight's a lost cause…" he said, shrugging.
The girl nodded.
"I think so too."
"Then go have a shower, you deserve it. That was-"
"OH GOD!"
"HE DID IT, HE DIT IT!"
"- pretty good", Sherlock groaned, and Lily laughed.
"You should have chosen me", she winked, "I'm a lot less noisy."
Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle. He had been Greg's boyfriend for seven years now, and the crush Lily had on him when she was nine was a running joke between them. He shook his head affectionately, and left the spare room of his flat that he had rearranged as a dance studio.
He was greeted in the sitting room by two jumping excited men – "WE WON! WE WON!" – and rolled his eyes at them.
"Judging by the look on your faces, I assume South Africa won over England?" he ironically asked.
"Oh, stop it, you!" Greg scolded, and grabbed his collar to kiss him. "Already stopped your lesson with Lily?"
"We were a little bit… disturbed", Sherlock said. "But she's ready for that contest."
Greg nodded with a smile, and Michael, now a nineteen-year-old boy promising to be as attractive as his father, chuckled.
"Sorry, Sherlock", he said, "we were a bit carried away with the game."
The dancer batted the apology away.
"Don't worry. I guess not everyone can have self-control…"
And as he glanced at Greg, he knew he was thinking of the same night, when a certain lack of self-control had brought them together.
I hope you liked it!
English still not being my native language, I may have made mistakes. Feel free to point them out so that I can correct them ;)
Also, this is my first M-rated story so... have mercy ?
Please leave me a review if you liked it !
See you soon ;)
Flo'w