lifeofpineapple | (no subject)

[He tears himself from the doorway, shrugs his coat off and goes to hang it behind the door of his closet. There are suddenly wisps of a second movement around the edges of the first. Annoying and distracting and pleasant. (Fitting.)

He presses through the shirts that are still hanging up and tuts, mock critical. Won't tip his hand.]

You've upset my organizational system now, you realize.

[She watches him, head cocked and interest growing. She supposes in a way that's the draw. He's always caught her attention and kept her as fascinated by him as she was the first moment she'd seen him.

He won't tip his hand, but he leaves her just enough to make playing worth it] Oh, how remiss of me.

[She moves to all fours, crawling down towards the foot of his bed, shirt sliding just the right away to reveal a smooth shoulder]

Well I can't say I'm often on the recieving end, but I'm always up for a little corporeal punishment, if you are.

[He steps out of the closet, closes the door, and -- oh.]

For mussing up my shirts? Seems excessive. But then, not my specialty.

But it is mine. I'd be very happy to steer you around the learning curves, Mr. Holmes.

[Careful, Sherlock. Or she's going to be able to just peer over your arm and get a look at your hand with hardly any effort at all]

You're assuming I even want to learn.

Don't you? I've caused you quite a bit of trouble.

Rather eager to flatter yourself. You shouldn't, you know, I'm told it's unseemly.

[She laughs, soft. If you aren't going to come to her, she has no problem heading over there, and she swings one well toned leg over the edge of the bed, curling her toes slightly at the cool floor]

I'm not here to enter into a debate on whether or not it remains flattery, if it's true. Or on the notion that you find causing trouble a compliment.

No?

[He resolutely does not move, resists even the tiny urge to just turn his posture more toward her. (Infuriating mix of chemicals.) But he can't help studying her, can't help smirking just a little.]

Then tell me -- what are you here for?

[That's almost more telling than if you'd done it at all. The smirk gives her just the slightest pause, forces her to complete the vacating of his bed into a slower, sultrier move than she intended to make the pause less jarring.

It wouldn't do to show him just how much he effects her in the same way. When she reaches him however, she dances her fingers idly across his chest]

I should have thought it was obvious.

[Oh, but even less jarring is still jarring, and he's nothing if not observant. Play the game, Ms. Adler.

He watches her hands rather than her, doesn't move to either pull away or reciprocate.]

Thought I'd give you the benefit of the doubt.

That's awful generous of you, Mr. Holmes.

[She stops when she reaches the opening of his shirt, but instead of going for the more obvious move of skating finger tips across skin, she pauses to fiddle with the first closed button. She glances up at him through her lashes]

Your problem is that you simplify the motivation. It's always far more complicated than that, there's no need to be disappointed.

Really. [He lifts his gaze to meet hers, his eyes crinkling thoughtfully at the corners.] And just how complex are your motivations, I wonder?

Come now, you don't really wants an answer. That would be boring.

[She tips up on her toes and a little closer, but not close enough to be too alarming, not just yet] Why don't you play and find out?

[He's calm and still, not moving, not touching her, just watching.]

Need some guarantee it'll be worth my time. Busy, you know. Things to do.

[She pushes just a little more, fingers moving deftly and pulling the first button free, before resting her hand flatly on his chest, just to feel the pace of his heart. Smile just the right shade of enticing]

I'm almost wounded. When have I ever not made it worth your time? And that, you can mark down as flattery.

[And suddenly his hand is sliding up her forearm, his fingers curling loose but firm around her wrist. It's half a threat to pull her away, but only half.

(His elevated heart rate, tempo allegretto -- no, no, mixing metaphors.)]

Well. That's no reason to suddenly be lenient, is it?

[Her heart rate is elevated in the same way, as much from the simple proximity as the feeling of his fingers curling around the skin of her wrist.

Her tongue runs slowly across the top of her teeth, in a soft, smug gesture]

I wouldn't advocate for it. And how would you like your guarantee?

[His grip tightens on her wrist, just slightly.]

Surprise me.

[She supposed what would have been truly surprising, would have been to turn around and do nothing at all. But there's an element of that, in taking the more obvious choice. But the way she goes about it, is nothing at all like her reputation remarks. Nothing about it, is even what she would have pegged for Sherlock to like. And there's always something surprising about honesty in the middle of the game.

She closes the rest of the distance between them, allowing the tip forward to allow her to rest gently against him, her lips meeting his in a soft, almost flirtatious movement. It's sensual, and certainly doesn't lack emotional feeling, but nothing about it is invasive or hard. She only parts her lips slightly to release a small breathy sigh as she pulls away]

[It's brief; so brief that he doesn't have time to respond, much less choose to reciprocate or resist. But he smiles slightly into the lingering sensation of it, a curious tilt of his head as she pulls away. (Never fail to disappoint, Ms. Adler.)]

Hm. [It comes out quiet, more a rumble than an actual meaningful unit of sound.] Interesting.

[The smile is entirely it's own reward, and surprising in and of itself. Not that he does it, of course, she's already seen plenty of that. But that he would choose to do so, likely not at all voluntarily as a reaction is wonderful.

So she'll remain her light rest against him, this time moving her fingers to brush barely there against the hollow of his throat, a thoughtful though no less coy expression searching his. There's more honesty lingering, but she's hardly finished playing. She doesn't really think they'll ever be finished]

I do like interesting. [It's a compliment, from him. But it isn't his answer. It's rude to keep a girl waiting, Sherlock. Are you playing or not?]

[Not really a question for him anymore. (Not the sort of game he can resist.) But there's something to be said for playing close to the vest.

He leans in so that his mouth is by her ear, cheeks nearly brushing but not quite. One hand closes over hers, his thumb stealing into the groove of her palm, and he holds her there, so she can feel every vibration of his vocal chords.]

I think-- [he exhales, thoughtfully] --you've wrinkled my clothes enough already.

[And then he presses back, pushes her hand down and away, an attempt to reclaim space between them without taking a step backwards himself.

He'll play, but he plays on his terms.]

[Her teeth sink into her lower lip, eyelids fluttering closed at the proximity, her body's instinctive reaction to the feel of his breath fanning across the soft skin of her ear. But it's the words themselves that bring the most pleasure.

She's won and she can scarcely believe it. Handing over the reins, in a manner of speaking, is nothing in comparison to the fact that she's won. When he presses her hand down and away, she'll slide her eyes back open and twist her wrist lightly and curl her fingers around his. But she's not making another move. Your terms it is, dear]

What a shame, they do look so much better that way.

Can't say I agree. Did always prefer them freshly pressed.

[His next move is barely a move at all. He holds her in place via that single point of contact and Looks. That intense, probing sort of Look, searching for any bits of data that may have leaked through but gotten lost in the shuffle of endorphins and oxytocin.

If she wants to hide anything from him, now is the time to do it.]

They wouldn't get wrinkles, if you removed them entirely.

[She's keeping the same even, enticing tone she started out with, eyebrow arching in challenge. Otherwise she remains perfectly in place, and she isn't hiding anything. The thread of honesty is the card she's been dealing and it's changing the rules so late in the play would be a risk she's not up to making, not this time.

And while she's certainly not being upfront entirely, complex motivations and all, there's nothing suggesting their sinister, or that she's even hear for a favour. Even more telling, her iphone is nowhere to be seen]

Debatable.

[His fingers slide out from between hers, rest lightly against her waist. He tilts his head, with an innocent sort of curiosity that's a little jarring in this particular scenario. A test, first. Small one, harmless.

He feels for the button just above her navel, then pops it open, almost lazily. (Neutral choice, not too high, not too low.) But his gaze never shifts; it's the same calculating, considering Look, steady on her face.]

Is it?

[The curiousity would jarring, if she didn't know him. Didn't know that this was the first time he'd done something like this, that marking the reactions and seeing what would happen is the biggest draw in this for him.

She leans lightly into the touch at her waist, utilizing her free hand to pop open the next button on his shirt in exchange. She's using a more linear method, out of her own amusement that everything they've done has really just lead them here. And when his first reaction isn't to draw away, she opens another, fingers brushing lightly over the skin she's exposing]

[Distracting, distracting, distracting. (His hands on her, hers on him.) Scrambles him, makes it difficult to think -- at once an unpleasant sensation and not. Not an uncommon one when he's around her, either, which makes it worse (better).

Stupid. Focus.

He breathes in deeply, his hands sliding up with a bit more urgency; another button, and another.]

I don't plan on putting them neatly back on their hangers, do you?

Not at all. You can iron them later. [The sense of urgency is catching, and it's like getting permission to step over the line, to stop having to play follow the leader, and take some of the control she so enjoys having back.

Her hands move to unbutton his shirt a lot faster, closing the distance between them a little once more, leaving enough room for him use his hands properly. But there's something she'd like that mouth to be doing far more than talking, and she tips her chin upwards to catch his mouth in another kiss]

[He has an urge to quip back (Mr. Punchline), but then he's kissing her and it really doesn't matter anymore.

He's done this before, obviously. "This" being the mechanics of it, of tilting his head at just the precise angle, of flicking through the last of the buttons on her (his) shirt, of pressing past fabric and skimming his hands over her ribs. Nothing about this process is remotely complicated. (Got boring.)

Except not, because this is all the same and all different. It's hazy, tugs at him, makes it difficult to detach and focus on the data.

(Motivation. His, hers. More complicated a game than he realized. Brava, Ms. Adler.)]

[She arches up into his touch, even as her shoulders roll back to let the shirt fall to the floor, exposing her entirely. It only gives her the thought that she should return it in kind, fingers tracing over muscles towards his waist.

This is different for her as well, and while she's better capable of dealing with this, having at the very least, found a lot more pleasure in the act before than he has, the emotion running through it, changes everything. As well as the fact that, well, she'd not have asked for anything different, not from them, but no one has wanted to bed the woman behind the dominatrix in more than a decade.

Her hand on his belt fumbles once, and she chuckles, soft and self amused against his mouth, but it's a delighted sound and on her second try she gets open smoothly and pulls it free]

[Suddenly his hands are everywhere. Exploring, searching, like she's the particularly unexpected result of an experiment he desperately wants to unravel. (Basic maps of erogenous zones are misleading; far too much individual variation for them to be helpful in high-pressure situations. Has to make his own.) He catalogs data like lightning, abandoning areas that don't elicit responses and paying special attention to ones that do.

(Devil in the details.)

He grins against her, unbidden, when his belt hits the floor. This is fun in his (their) own twisted way, the first time he's ever enjoyed himself so much doing something so repetitive. He lets his nails skim lightly along her hipbones before he pulls his hands away entirely, just long enough to pull his own shirt off and toss it to the side.]

[This too is honest. Had he been anyone else, or this scenario been anything but what it was, she'd have been putting on a show regardless of whether or not he'd earned it. But with him, she only responds when he does something she enjoys, volume rising a little unintentionally when he manages to do it particularly well.

She pulls back at the grin to return it, breath hitching at the need for air, fingers twisting in the belt loops of his pants rather than continuing in her quest to undo them. She steps back towards the bed, tugging him with her step for step, but rather than being concerned for where she's going, she's setting a trail down the sensitive skin along his jaw, all teeth and tongue on her way to a more thorough exploration]

[Doesn't matter anyway, he doesn't need to look to steer them in the right direction. Has this room, this flat, memorized from floor to ceiling, could traverse it all with his eyes closed. (And has, several times.) Always nice to find new applications for previous skills.

He trails after her, pressing back until her legs hit the edge of his mattress. He tilts his head to give her better access, one hand sliding lazily up her spine. But with his mouth free, it's only a matter of time before he starts talking again -- seven seconds, to be more precise. His voice is so deep it's almost more vibration than sound.]

Careful. You'll give me all the answers at this rate.

And you're letting me. [She gives a soft considering him, pausing in the press against his skin. He's given her further access, so he can't be too put out at being hand fed some of the answers, but the reminder isn't entirely a bad one. With him, it's easy to get lost in the moment, forget a little that the game is just as enticing as the promise of sexual release.

She slides a leg up to kneel at the foot of his bed, drawing back slightly to pop open the button on his pants and tease idly around the zipper, head cocking to the side] By all means, Sherlock, dig for them yourself.

[He watches her, taking the moment to kick his shoes off with remarkably little effort. (Doesn't like doing that without properly undoing the laces, but, well, desperate times.) His fingers skim the underside of her wrist, encouraging. Get it over with or he'll do it himself.

His gaze roves, but he spends as much time on her face as he does on the rest of her, and after a second or two he dips close, their lips barely a breath apart.]

Don't mind if I do.

[It's slower kiss this time, less urgent and more languid, like he's perfectly content to just do this for the rest of the afternoon. (He's not.) He leans into her, pressing her towards the mattress just to see how much she'll push back.]

[She makes a soft noise in the back of her throat, and she is perfectly content to do this for the rest of the afternoon, and maybe one day, she likes to think that she will. One day when he's getting tired of the woman, she'll show him exactly what they pay her for.

But for now, she only returns in kind, slowing her hands down, pulling the zipper neatly, and gives a little tug at this waist, until they slip far enough that gravity will do the rest.

She pushes back just enough to follow the same pattern with underwear, lips moving to grin into the kiss as she slides one hand into his hair, the other wraps around him in slowly, lazy strokes. Mostly to make a point. Did he really think he could just skip to the good part, without letting her play at all?]

[His breath stutters against her mouth. (Can't help it. Past experience notwithstanding, it's still been a long time.) There's a moment where he tries to fight it, to split his attention; let the sensation in and hold on to his focus at the same time.

It's nearly physically painful, definitely unpleasant, and it comes out as roughness. A drag of his teeth against her lower lip, the hard press of his fingers against her thigh.

(Doesn't make sense. Used to be so easy, separating the mental from the physical. Different, different, all of this is different.)]

[The hand in the hair moves to soothe him immediately, fingers rubbing deep circles into the base of his head, the roughness hardly deters her from the kiss, a pleasant little gasp releasing instead.

She wouldn't have pegged him for a man to do it. Her grip on him won't ease, however, keeping the same languid pace, but varying the pressure on every stroke. She's intending to draw this out, and keep him on his toes]

[Have to employ an alternate strategy, then. Streamline. Focus on something else, focus on--

Christ.

He pulls back just enough to speak against her lips.]

You're distracting me.

[Not really a request to stop, though.]

[She laughs softly, again, more smug amusement in the sound than anything else. Though a slight undercurrent of affection is there as well]

You didn't expect me to make it easy on you, did you? [Excellent, because she has no intention of stopping]

Hardly.

[But don't expect him to just sit back and take it. He's nothing if not adaptable, and for all his momentary discombobulation he still knows how to reassess and reorient.

His hips press into her touch more eagerly, and he focuses his attention on the spot where her jaw meets her neck. He mouths his way down, slowly, occasionally humming into her skin when she rubs him just the right way. He's leaning over her, heavy, encouraging her to lie back, fishing to tip control back in his favor.]

[She was hoping for the opposite, actually. Because he'd never been the sort of man to be content to be spoon fed, and she's almost sure that if he'd adopted a demeanour like that in bed, she'd have become disinterested enough to call a halt to things.

But the last thing she is, is disinterested or disappointed. She's curious enough about what he'd do with the allusion of control he'd receive by the action, that she'll allow him to topple her back onto the bed, hands skimming the areas of skin she has available as she goes. However, now that she's had him at such a close proximity, she's loathe to let him go and reaches up to pull him down to her]

[He uses it to drag it out, surprisingly enough.

The few number of times he'd done this before had been strictly scientific -- an examination of biology and chemistry in himself and psychology in his partners. Laboratory conditions (nearly). Controlled experimentation (sort of). They'd been some of the most boring experiments he'd ever done in his life.

But this -- this isn't boring. It's anything but, and he's not eager to just stick it in and get it over with. So he goes with her easily, pressing his mouth to the pulse point in her neck and skimming his hands down lower, lower. He's rapidly losing track of what he was supposed to be paying attention to in the first place, but it's fine. She's enough of a puzzle on her own.]