Oooh, more layered clothing kink! Thank you!
“Pass me that book, will you, John.”
Because Sherlock can’t stop staring at that little peek of pale skin. They are sitting opposite each other in their chairs, and John reaching for things slightly behind him makes the gap between those two buttons open just so. John is getting a little frustrated with the frequent requests but he hasn’t caught on yet. And well, if John becomes all flustered then so much the better. All in all this is a great strategy.
Sherlock loves this particular shirt, the plaid so simple and understated and yet somehow… firm. So John. He loves how the fabric looks all soft and fluffy and terribly crisp at the same time. How often he’s imagined letting his fingers brush over that neatly folded collar and then, trembling, smooth down to feel the heat of John’s skin under that wide expanse of plaid over his beautiful chest.
Sherlock sits up a little straighter at John’s confused, “Sherlock?” He decides against answering though because, really, at this particular moment he is not so sure of his voice. John is now making himself more comfortable in his chair, and, yes, Sherlock very much wants John to remain, so it’s better to remain quiet now. John likes his peace and quiet too.
John frowns a little and Sherlock imagines kissing the slight crease between his eyebrows and the corner of his frowning mouth and then promptly has to swallow because getting hard in front of John is never a safe option. On the other hand, when has he gone for the safe option, ever? So he settles a bit deeper into his own chair, lifts his legs up to conceal his groin and surreptitiously glances down to make sure his dressing gown is strategically draped.
John has his cup of tea beside him, so Sherlock has at least a while to indulge. Thankfully John is holding a book this time, not a newspaper. Sherlock can count the frustrating mornings of trying to glimpse anything of John’s gorgeous torso with the length and width of the infuriating newspaper in the way. Talking about teasing. John is a practical master. Not that he knows anything about it.
Now John is leaning back though, his legs splayed open and his arms relaxed on the chair arms, one holding the book he is reading, his gaze angled a bit to the side.
Everything is visible. John’s collar still as neat and tidy as ever, a shadowy glimpse of his unique throat behind it, his broad shoulders relaxed, the cardigan draped over them, swooping down and giving a generous view of his shirt covered chest. All the shirt buttons are unfortunately relaxed now but that does not matter because for some reason the cardigan has stretched a bit as John has sat down, the top button straining just a bit, the décolletage tight against John’s pectorals. Dear god. Every time John breathes in, Sherlock can see how it tightens a little, he can almost feel the fibres of the fabric stretching, embracing the contours of John’s chest.
Sherlock takes a long while just staring at that chest rising and falling, the first button of the cardigan neatly snuggled in the middle. That cardigan is certainly one of the most erotic things John owns. It is all proper and neat but so thin that it’s actually transparent. Especially with a shirt like this, with clearly contrasting colour values. Everything shows.
Sherlock lets his eyes wander all around John’s midriff, exploring every crease and fold of his plaid shirt under the sheer brown of the cardigan. In some places the cardigan follows the same wrinkles, the fabrics undulating together side by side, in other places it’s stretched over them, hiding a delectable vision of shadows and hills just underneath. Wherever the fabric is pushing tight against the brown of the cardigan, the colours are shining clearly through, in other places the shadows remain dark and inviting.
None of it is stationary of course. John’s even breaths let the fabrics move gently and evenly. Sometimes John moves a little, tiny adjustments to his posture. Sometimes he takes a larger breath. Mostly the general arrangement of the clothing stays the same, but those tiny moments make the game. Just the though of John’s chest and belly rising and falling underneath those layers, how his skin touches the underside of that shirt, where it is tight and where it is loose, where it is soft and where the wrinkles tickle his skin… Yes, that thought alone makes a swirl of helpless arousal blossom in Sherlock’s belly.
Those clothes really leave nothing to be imagined, or rather, they make it all so potent inside his imagination that it feels quite palpable.
How can one man be so incredibly tantalising?
Sherlock imagines slowly opening the buttons of the plaid shirt, not yet touching John but pushing the fabric aside so that he can look. Somehow in his fantasy it is easy to open the buttons underneath the cardigan too, letting the shirt fall open all the way underneath, and watch John’s belly rise and fall just under that sheer cardigan, his skin against it, his whole midriff visible but yet covered.
Sherlock’s fingers twitch as he reaches in his fantasy to finally touch the cardigan, somehow different now as it rests against naked skin. It is not a bedroom garment at all, but it sure looks like it in his imagination. John all pale and a little shy underneath. Sherlock would let his palms smooth over the fabric and John would shiver and Sherlock would let his fingers lightly skim his skin just at the hem of the garment, over his lower belly and his hips, just above his belt.
When he at last would let a few curious fingers underneath the thin fabric, he would be able to see his own hand, first exploring and then, finally, pressing down against John’s belly.
Later John would be lying on his back in Sherlock’s bed, all naked except for that cardigan, still all neatly buttoned up while Sherlock would be plunging deep into him over and over and over. John would be panting and quivering and pleading, and Sherlock would tease his nipples slipping his fingers just under the ribbing, and John’s chest and belly would still rise up and fall down underneath that brown sheerness, only all fast and furious now. And, god, how good his skin would look and feel underneath it, just hidden and yet so terribly visible.
Sherlock is completely hard in his chair now and almost panting for the want of touch, friction, more, anything. Yet he sits still, trying to even his breathing, trying to calm his wildly beating heart. Wondering if his face is already all red from arousal and desperately hoping that John will not be able to smell the moist debauchery in his pants.
It will be a while yet before John will put his book down and stretch and yawn and finally stand up and wander back to the kitchen to make another cuppa. That will give Sherlock just enough time to carefully stand up and adjust himself and sneak into to bathroom or his room to silently take care of himself.
Until then he is stuck, sitting in his chair, legs folded, trying to keep from moaning aloud, his cock hard as rock and leaking, soaking his pants, unable to do fuck all about it lest John notice. It is part of the excitement of his little hobby, this torture, never knowing when John will leave, being under his mercy so to speak, even if John himself has no idea of his role in the game.
He will take a few minutes to calm down, to not spontaneously burst in his chair. Then, once his heartbeat evens out again, he will let his gaze linger over John once more; his legs splayed, his crotch all displayed there, all the myriad creases of his trousers, his belt so invitingly visible, the hem of the cardigan just there to caress the top of the belt. John’s breaths just as even and mesmerising as ever.
And just like that, he is straining against his pants again, making himself go almost wild before once more letting himself close his eyes for a few moments and breathe. He wonders what might happen if he one day took it one step too far and actually orgasmed right there in his chair, in plain daylight, in front of John, just from looking at the folds of his shirt.
Could he do it in a way that John would remain clueless? Probably not.
Sometimes he wonders if it really is possible that John does not know full well already. Even right now.
Hhmm, so this one can be paired with the double layered shirt ficlet, which in the narrative would come after this one. I’m not entirely sure why thinking of Sherlock looking at John’s clothing is so intriguing but fuck yeah it is. I’m willing to write a haphazard series of these, so if you have screencaps or other suggestions of John’s layered clothing or such, please feel free to send them my way.
Tagging under the cut a few people who seemed to like the previous layered business…
titsay
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
izzy806
turnnoffyourmind
