Whoops Part 2
Please do a followup to John walking in on sherlock in the bathroom. Prompt by Lonewolfe001.Sherlock wore a coal grey shirt--not purple as John had considered a possibility. It didn't make the purple thong disappear from his mind, however. If anything, it made is more pronounced. Dark hair, dark shirt, dark jacket and trousers and under it all, not leaving a single line to tell the tale, were a pair of purple silk pants he had no reason to be acquainted with. Furthermore, he had no reason to be acquainted with the cleft the thin string fell into nor the exact shape of the cheeks that rounded out on either side. No man with such a linear silhouette deserved an arse that gave such a curve to his profile. John was really far too knowledgeable about all manner of details underneath his best friend's trousers. The only thing he really hadn't had that grand a view of his was his cock and had he really just describe the view as 'grand'? Dear lord. Though, honestly, the cling of silk fabric hadn't exactly lent itself to modesty. He may as well have seen it for all the definition taut silk betrayed. Pretty sure he could make out the folds of foreskin, really, and oh Christ he had been staring, hadn't he?
What was made worse was that he was still staring. There was nothing to see, Sherlock's trousers were well tailored unlike his button downs and did not strain against certain movements--though bending down or raising one leg gave the normal expectations of trouser formage against the aforementioned ample arse. There was no reason to stare, though. Nothing was going to happen that he'd miss if he happened to look away. The trousers weren't going to rip right down the center seam to give another quick view of that purple line of silk fabric running up his crease. They weren't going to fall aside because he'd bent over too deeply and leave him entirely exposed save for the minimal coverage granted around back. He wasn't going to see a purple package carefully suspended between the pale thighs, tucked and secured like a silken parcel waiting to be unwrapped. It wasn't going to happen. Not in a million years. Even the Hulk managed to keep his trousers on, after all. If a green-skinned mutant man powered by gamma radiation could retain his modesty, surely so would Sherlock Holmes.
That purple pocket of silk looked very secure, though. John could probably push the string in the back aside without disrupting the goods beneath, fingers running down the vacant path to the place he was only marginally sure he'd seen, the pucker of skin a mesmerizing texture under the pads of his wandering fingers. That would be something. He wondered if Sherlock would pull away in shock or tease back against him in invitation. He liked the idea of him knowing what he wanted--not that John'd entertained such thoughts before. Or that he was doing so now. But, hypothetically, if he were to imagine engaging Sherlock in some manner of intimacy, there was something to be said for an assertive knowledge of Sherlock's own pleasure and a greediness to pursue it, ask for it, demand it with wanton behavior. Hypothetically. Without, you know... having given it any real pause for thought.
And, hypothetically, if Sherlock were to be straddling his thigh as John massaged against the ring of sensitive flesh, bottle of lubrication coming in from somewhere in that clever dreamlike way, and the detective were to rub his silk-covered package against his thigh as he rutted impatiently, moaning with abandon, ordering John into action with every breath that echoed his name--
--oh fuck!
"Something the matter?" Sherlock asked, looking at John as though he'd grown three heads as he paused on the stairs to their flat.
John held on tightly to the railing, trying to keep his posture leaning well forward to disguise the tenting in his trousers and the dampness that was certainly only pre-ejaculate but spreading none the less. "Fine," John choked, wanting nothing more than for Sherlock to finish going up the stairs so he could round the bend and hurry up to his own room with haste. "Just... cramp."
With a cynical arch of his brow, Sherlock shrugged off his behavior and continued upwards, every step switching which side of his trousers was drawn tighter over his arse.