After all the fun of Biscuitgate, we seem to be kicking off with Bonergate (i.e., what is the normal American term for what we Brits would sensibly call a pocket rocket).
I have a vested interest here because in my Symbrock fiction, Eddie will be having a lot of them. He’s from New York, living in San Francisco, late thirties – so thanks to this secret person (thank you, secret person! ❤️) I’m now leaning back towards my initial choice of hard-on.
With a suspicion I’m opening Pandora’s Box here, can all helpful and willing Americans please now scream at me what you would casually call the engorgement of a phallus. Thank you.
– deduce-my-heart for wanting it enthusiastically -it didn’t turn out THAT filthy afterall, at least not with my standards-,
– and also this is day9 of my 30 day NSFW OTP challenge: against the wall (yes, I am shite at that challenge, I did 9 days, in, like, 3 weeks at this point…)
“That will be all, detective inspector,” Mycroft said in a clipped tone.
Even if he hadn’t explicitly stated the dismissal, Greg would’ve heard it in his voice. Mycroft had been absent-minded and irritated for most of their discussion, even though the actual topic had been a mild one. Greg was sure that someone else wouldn’t have been able to pick up on the subtle changes of speech that betrayed Mycroft’s mental state, but he knew the man so well by now that he actually worried. It wasn’t unusual for Greg to worry – he was concerned about almost everyone who stepped into his life for more than a few days. It’s what made him such a good inspector, but also what made his work so very difficult sometimes.
Mycroft though… Mycroft was different. Greg knew how a Holmes worked by now. He had known the man for years. So he collected all his courage and stared at Mycroft, who had turned his attention back to a printout on his desk. A few seconds passed, then Mycroft raised his head again, eyes focussing on Greg’s, a slight frown on his face.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Mycroft asked, though it seemed more like an order to leave immediately than an actual question.
“Are you alright?” Greg said before he could stop himself. “You don’t seem like… yourself.”
(You see what you’ve done, Greenie? Now we all must suffer.)
He’s quiet at first – shy. It always takes him time to settle when it’s someone new. This one is handsome, broad-shouldered and unobtrusive, and already I suspect he’ll be asked to return. He’s gentle with my lover, and patient – and knows my lover’s gaze belongs to me.
As they relax and grow familiar with each other, and the air around us warms with the fire, I pay little attention to the proceedings and instead finish my glass of wine. Only when things have progressed to the point of interest do I move quietly closer, rest myself in an armchair positioned a safe distance from the bed, and take up charcoal and chalk.
It’s all lines at first – mere suggestions of shape, shadows of form. The rasp of charcoal over paper is the loudest sound in the room, their breath tentative beneath it.
Soft hazel eyes flick often towards me, searching for mine – but he’ll have to wait a little longer.
I’m not in the least bit surprised that Mark is now making pre-emptive fan art of @green-violin-bow. He clearly listens to Out of Thought on repeat while he’s jogging. It was only a matter of time.
Green Violin Bow 