“Sherlock, I mean it. You are to be on your best behaviour, you will not ruin this for us.”
His groan could be heard for miles, and Mycroft still stares him down from where he sits at his desk, as if he is being a child. “What does it matter? They think we were made by a giant man in the sky and that the world spins on the back of a turtle.”
“Nevertheless, their lands are fertile and ours is barren. The king believes we should be educated, and right now, we need his support.”
He wants to groan again, but a sharp look from his own brother just makes him sink down into his seat and sulk.
He sulks when the foreigners arrived, low in his throne, but Mycroft stands and welcomes them with words memorised a few months ago, his smile lacking in sincerity of any kind and impassive even when his words are kind.
They wear cloaks over their clothes, and the darker their robes are, the more powerful they are, but his eyes are focused on the back of the group, where there are 4 white-robed boys and three shift and murmur to each other. The last one, the last one stands slightly apart from them. When sun-darkened fingers comes up to curl around the edge of the flimsy hood, he leans forward slightly in his seat, deaf to the pleasantries Mycroft is sharing with the head of the company.
The man under the cloak is young enough, and small enough, to pass for 19, but his eyes and the lines around them speak of an older age. 25 at most. There is dark kohl lining his sapphire eyes, with an intelligent spark in them as they wander over the pillars and pale walls curiously, bangles around his wrists that are the colour of his hair. He is… breathtakingly beautiful, but Sherlock is forced to lean back in his seat when Mycroft casts him a look.
His name is John. He has a sister who can’t quite hold her liquor and he dislikes the way Sherlock crowds him against a wall whenever they are alone. He speaks frankly and politely tells Sherlock to sod off before slipping under his arm with his Lord’s book clung tightly to his chest.
“You can’t deny the Prince forever, John.” He murmurs at the end of the first week, when his dreams are filled with John squirming and writhing under him and he is tired of waking up burning and aching, trailing a finger down John’s cheeks, his voice soft and enticing.
“You are not my prince.” John says in return, his voice frigid, but his lack of experience regarding matters of the flesh leaves him vulnerable in ways Sherlock can’t help but exploit.
It doesn’t take him very long to have John begging and trembling at his feet, right there in the middle of the hallway, gasping for his cock as if he has done it a million times before, looking more desperate than Sherlock has ever seen him look, the iron control that kept John together having vanished, and Sherlock decides that this will be his new favourite pastime.
He rubs the head of his cock over John’s slick, wet lips, over John’s open expression, dips his cock shallowly into the warm cavern of his mouth. Pre-cum clings to John’s eyelashes like pearls, his cheeks warm with a rosy glow, and his hands lay useless at his sides as he looks up at Sherlock with eyes glazed with want.
Sherlock pets his hair gently, cooes soft praises that make John’s eyes flutter, tells him that he’s Sherlock’s angel, asks him to stay forever.
from Tumblr http://ift.tt/1HEyHjg