Fair warning: I am going to hell for writing this chapter. This is daddy kink. Yes. That means two consenting adults, participating in ageplay, and incest role-play. Real incest is not sexy. I understand and completely agree. This is not real incest, obviously. But if this sounds like something you don't want to read, please skip this chapter. That being said, if you're the adventurous type—I did try to make this as non squicky as possible. This isn't even really my kink, but I wanted to try writing it because a friend asked for it. If you give it a shot, and find you enjoy it, don't worry. You're no worse of a person than I am :D

When Greg arrived back at his flat, looking forward to dinner, a shower, and a long sleep, he was mildly shocked to see Sherlock Holmes sitting on his couch, smoking a cigarette. Mildly shocked, but not intensely. The git hadn't even opened a window. The entire room stank of smoke.

"I could lock you up for breaking and entering," Greg let out a small sigh.

"You won't," Sherlock replied curtly.

He was in a mood, then. Greg put on the kettle and made two cups. He set one in front of Sherlock, and sank down into his armchair. They sat in semi-comfortable silence for a while. It wasn't so late. The sun had only set a few hours ago. Usually, Sherlock wouldn't show up like this until unreasonable hours of the night.

Greg knew better than to ask any questions. If Sherlock wanted sex, he'd make it clear. If he wanted to just sit there and be a prat for an hour or so before storming back out again, well, Greg supposed he could cope with that too.

Eventually, Greg turned on the telly and watched football reruns. Then he got a beer and switched over to some late night comedy show. The kind of thing Sherlock would normally scoff at. But the tall, pale man offered no comment whatsoever.

After the show ended, Greg got up to change out of his work clothes and make himself some dinner. When he returned to the living room, with a ham sandwich and another beer, Sherlock was sitting on the floor. Right beside Greg's chair.

Greg half raised an eyebrow at this new development. But he settled back into his chair. Sherlock turned his head to look up at him. And god, those eyes—so wide and expressive—staring up at him like he was the only thing in the universe worth looking at. Greg felt a bit self-conscious taking a bite of his sandwich under such intense scrutiny. But he was bloody hungry. So he stared eating.

Sherlock waited until Greg was about halfway through the sandwich before he spoke.

"May I have some? Just a small piece."

And everything suddenly shifted. A strange heat squirmed within Greg's stomach. God. This wasn't good. It shouldn't be so easy for Sherlock to make him feel like this. Just a few fucking words and Greg's blood was already racing feverishly though his veins.

Greg tore off a section of the sandwich and held it in front of Sherlock's mouth. The taller man smiled and opened his mouth, accepting the tidbit and letting his lips brush against Greg's fingers ever so slightly.

Fuck.

Greg hadn't known he could be turned on by feeding someone. But his mind settled firmly into the gutter and all he could think about was his cock sliding into Sherlock's mouth.

"Can I please have a bit more?" Sherlock looked up at Greg with wide, innocent eyes. It was uncanny. He looked ten years younger. Slumped there on the floor. Legs crossed, folded in on himself, asking to be fed.

Greg took another piece of sandwich and held it out. Sherlock accepted it greedily, this time licking Greg's fingers.

Ugh.

The DI took a long swig of his beer in some misplaced attempt to steady himself. Sherlock leaned against Greg's leg and let out a small yawn.

"Daddy, I'm sleepy, is it bed time yet?" Sherlock's voice was softer, smaller, almost a whisper. How did he do that?

Greg's heart went into overdrive. Daddy. That didn't sound right at all. Shit. Sherlock had gone and started a new game without even telling him about it.

But the younger man removed his coat slowly. He wasn't wearing his usual button down. Instead he had on a thin, soft looking t-shirt. It wasn't a very large change, granted. It wouldn't look so unusual to an outside observer. But the fact that he'd come to Greg's flat wearing something different, well… he knew it meant things were about to take one of those abrupt left turns.

Sherlock leaned against Greg's leg again, giving another yawn and rubbing his eyes slightly. It was obviously Greg's move. To either say he was uncomfortable with where this was headed or to dive on in. He wasn't sure about this. Because honestly, Sherlock was quite a bit younger than him. Thirteen years younger, to be exact. And yes, Greg wasn't anywhere near old enough to be Sherlock's father. But still. It seemed like dangerous ground to flirt with.

Something Sherlock had said over the phone before floated back to mind—I've always liked older men. Was this particular kink the thing he'd been implying? Should Greg have been expecting it? Perhaps. Then again, trying to anticipate what Sherlock wanted was like trying to predict the path of a tornado. Impossible and dangerous for all involved.

Still. Greg didn't see any real reason why he shouldn't give this to Sherlock if he was asking for it. It was just a game. Between consenting adults.

So he reached out and stroked Sherlock's hair gently. "All right, son. Go on. Daddy will be there to tuck you in after he finishes his drink."

For a moment, the innocence broke. The smugness threatened to creep back in around Sherlock's sharp features. But then the younger man stood. Hunching his shoulders over slightly, so he didn't seem quite so tall.

"I messed my pajamas last night, Daddy. Shall I just go to bed with no clothes on at all?" Sherlock kept his eyes wide and his voice soft. God. It shouldn't turn Greg on. But hell. The thought of Sherlock taking his clothes off under any circumstance was bound to be sexy.

So he took another swig of beer. "Yes. We haven't got another clean pair of pajamas for you, now do we? Tomorrow's wash day."

Sherlock looked towards the ground, cheeks even going slightly rosy "I'm sorry. It's just… I woke up in the middle of the night feeling very odd…" Sherlock trailed off.

"Odd? Were you sick?" Greg prompted.

"No. I was… well I got solid between my legs. I didn't know why. But I rubbed it once and it felt good. So I kept doing it, and then I got all sticky."

Jesus fucking Christ. Greg should have known. When Sherlock played games, he really played them. And the bloody sociopath could have won Oscars if he'd chosen to go into acting instead of crime solving. Greg tried to take a few deep breaths. His cock twitched. A strange mixture of arousal and guilt was rising in him far too quickly.

He really didn't know how much of this he could take.

"Was that a bad thing to do?" Sherlock bit his lip ever so slightly.

"No, Sherlock…" Greg said carefully, "it was very natural."

"So it's ok if I do it again?" Sherlock's hands wandered to his belt buckle and began toying with it. "Because it felt really nice, Daddy."

Greg groaned. He couldn't help it. God damn it. Sherlock was trying to break his brain into tiny pieces, wasn't he? This as just all some huge experiment to see exactly how far he could push the DI before he went completely mad.

"Can I show you?" Sherlock asked breathlessly.

The DI's vocal chords no longer seemed capable of moving. So he just nodded. Clinging to the beer in his hand like it was his only anchor to reality.

Sherlock slowly unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. He pulled them down and stepped out of them. His pants. They had rocket ships and cartoon astronauts on them. Like they were made for a child.

Greg's stomach twisted. He focused on Sherlock's body. How tall he was—all the sharp, fully formed angles of a sickeningly attractive adult. His blood pressure lowered, getting somewhere closer to normal.

Then Sherlock slowly, timidly, began rubbing at his obvious erection through the bright-blue fabric of his pants.

He didn't grasp his cock and stroke it. No. He rubbed it with a flat hand. Clumsily. Fumbling. Like he wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to be doing. Every so often his fingers would graze against the area right under the head of his cock and he'd let out a strangled little, "oh." But then he'd go right back to his unfocused rubbing of the shaft.

And if Greg hadn't been hard before, he bloody well was now.

Perhaps it was the innocence of it. The insane contrast of such a dark, brooding, mess of a man—playing at being so vulnerable and inexperienced. The arousal crested. Beginning to drown out the more reasonable parts of Greg's mind. The parts that said, this is wrong. Stop. Stop it right now.

"Son," he cleared his throat. His voice was thick, muddled. "There's a better way to do that, you know."

Sherlock ran his tongue along his lower lip, in a decidedly adult gesture. Greg saw the flare of lust in his eyes for a moment. Well, at least he was really getting off on this. He wasn't just doing it to torment Greg.

"Really? How?"

Greg steeled himself for the words about to come out of his mouth. "Come over here and sit on Daddy's lap. I'll show you."

He should have felt ashamed. He would have. Except for that way that sentence just killed Sherlock. He didn't know if he'd ever seen the switch flip so hard. For a moment, the taller man just stood there. Panting. He let out a small, anxious noise at the back of his throat. His cheeks flushed. He even swayed slightly. Like maybe his knees were going to buckle. He unconsciously squeezed his own cock. Just once. Before he could collect himself enough to walk over to Greg's armchair and sit down—straddling him.

Their lips were mere centimeters apart. Greg saw nothing, but the vast, dark expanse of Sherlock's blown-out pupils.

Greg reached down and slowly slid his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock's pants. He pulled the fabric down enough to expose the other man, and then gently grasped his cock, stroking it once from root to tip.

Sherlock shuddered and gasped.

"Feels better, doesn't it?" Greg asked quietly. His voice a lot more husky than he'd intended.

"Yes, Daddy… please, keep going."

Greg obliged, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's length a bit more firmly. He established a slow, insistent rhythm. Occasionally swiping his thumb over the head of the other man's cock to relish the pre-come that slowly leaked out.

"Do you want to practice?" Greg asked gruffly after a few moments. "You could practice on Daddy."

A full-body shiver shot through the man sitting on Greg's lap. Sherlock's fingers fumbled with the button on Greg's trousers, pulling down the zip far too eagerly. Reaching into Greg's pants and pulling out his cock.

Sherlock began to stroke Greg in firm, practiced motions. His act was obviously starting to break down. He moaned breathily, and bucked into Greg's hand. Every breath came heavy and frantic.

And Greg bloody loved it. He loved that he was able to take apart somebody like Sherlock Holmes. To show that he was still human, underneath everything else.

Greg let go of Sherlock's prick and the taller man let out a small whine of protest. But then the DI grabbed the younger man's hips, pulling him closer, until their cocks were touching. He wrapped his hand around both of them and began to stroke them together.

Sherlock slumped. Seemingly unable to cope with this new development. He buried his face in the curve where Greg's neck turned into his shoulder and let out a lot of not so quiet whimpers.

"That's it, love," Greg ran his other hand down Sherlock's back soothingly, "it's all right to just let go. Daddy doesn't mind if you get him sticky. We can wash afterwards."

"Oh god," Sherlock whispered. He trembled. His hands wrapped around Greg's biceps, squeezing hard.

Greg could feel the younger man's body tensing against him. He slid his hand down to grab a handful of Sherlock's plush arse.

"Go on," Greg grunted, "show Daddy how you messed your pajamas. He wants to see you make a mess right now."

And that was it. Sherlock let out a high-pitched moan, and then Greg felt his cock twitch. The warm, viscous liquid dribbled onto his hand, covering their pricks and their shirts. Greg didn't last long after that. Sherlock stayed limp against him while he stroked himself to a quick completion.

The orgasm spiked through him. Greg's brain swam on the high seas of dopamine. God it felt so good. Sherlock's warm body pressed against him. Chest heaving. The tingling pleasure pulsed through Greg's nerve endings. His heart pounded in his chest, so fast and hard it made him ache.

And then Sherlock's lips were pressed against his, kissing him slow and deep, and full of emotion.

They'd never kissed like that before. Never after sex. Always before. In the heat of the moment. Crazy with lust. All inhibitions left at the door.

But as Greg slowly came back to himself, Sherlock didn't stop kissing him. No. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Greg's shoulders, pulling them more closely together, and Greg's hands naturally fell to rest on Sherlock's waist. Their tongues tangled lazily. Swiping against each other. Wrestling with no goal in mind.

When they did eventually break apart, Sherlock didn't get off him. He let his head rest on Greg's shoulder. The DI traced aimless patterns over the expanse of the younger man's back with the tips of his fingers.

"Thank you," Sherlock said softly. Almost inaudibly.

"You're welcome, I suppose." Greg shrugged.

And he kept waiting for Sherlock to get up and dress himself. To light a cigarette and walk haughtily out the door. But he didn't. He stood eventually, but only to offer a hand and help Greg to his feet. The DI barely registered that Sherlock was dragging them towards the bedroom. He didn't understand until Sherlock had stripped down and climbed under the covers.

Greg shed his sticky clothes and clambered in beside Sherlock. The younger man cuddled up to him, with his back against Greg's chest, pulling the DI's arms around him. He wanted to ask. What does this mean? Why now?

But he didn't.

Instead Greg drifted off into an easy sleep, wrapped around Sherlock's thin body, listening to the younger man's quiet breathing.

Yep. I think every week I just progress further into depravity. I blame kink meme and you people. Because you are wonderful enablers. And gosh, have I told you that I loved you? Never stop being amazing.

I'll see you next Saturday for more lovely smut-ventures.

xoxo