Thrills of pleasure shot through Sherlock's stomach before he even registered that someone had spoken. That voice...he would recognise it anywhere, and he knew that for a fact. Its gentle whine stroked his spine and the lilt of his accent stirred his stomach. And the voice was saying his name...Another thrill spread warm curls through his stomach.
Sherlock didn't turn around, not yet. He didn't think he could have if he had tried. He could see him without turning, he could see the small man, leaning against the doorframe with his arms and ankles crossed. Without turning, Sherlock could feel his dark eyes, hot and deep, tracing over his body as he sat with his back to the door.
Sherlock couldn't help but to close his eyes and savour the image in his mind, letting the darkness wash over him and waiting for Jim's next words. If he could only hear a few more syllables drip from his mouth, coated in that beautiful, drawling tenor. Just a phrase, stretching and curving through the air, tense and tall...If he could only have that...
"You've been at it for hours, it's so boring</>."
Sherlock couldn't help but to snatch a gasp of the air as those words rushed over him. The words, the words, already, their meaning was lost to him. He left the assignment of meaning to the different letters to a different part of his brain and a later time, letting himself fall into the sound, the tone of them instead. He was a genius after all? What fun was it if he couldn't hand over menial jobs to another part of his brain to deal with?
The way his voice rose, that slight incline reaching up until it crested and pulled on the word 'hours', the sensuous stretch of the word on Jim's tongue. It owned Sherlock's breath until the 's' whispered from his lips to chase goosebumps down Sherlock's arms.
He felt the anticipation of the comma, a flash of irrational desperation and frustration coursing through him to fill the silence that flooded the pause in Jim's speech, until the man finally uttered those four syllables, two up, two down, the words smoothly running into each other, their sounds entwining and rolling through the air.
Sherlock gasped at the tug of Jim's voice on the final word, stretching it out, dropping from his lips in that perfect whining whisper.
Part of his brain was reeling off facts about inflection and accent and tone and attitude, but the facts were slippery and foggy. For the first time, they were distant and unwelcome. Nothing, in that moment, was more important than that small man's voice, reaching across the room to stroke Sherlock's spine, scatter his skin with goosebumps and steal his breath.
And worst of all, he never wanted the moment of utter oblivious bliss to end.
FILL: Moriarty/Sherlock, Voice Kink
"Sherlock..."
Thrills of pleasure shot through Sherlock's stomach before he even registered that someone had spoken. That voice...he would recognise it anywhere, and he knew that for a fact. Its gentle whine stroked his spine and the lilt of his accent stirred his stomach. And the voice was saying his name...Another thrill spread warm curls through his stomach.
Sherlock didn't turn around, not yet. He didn't think he could have if he had tried. He could see him without turning, he could see the small man, leaning against the doorframe with his arms and ankles crossed. Without turning, Sherlock could feel his dark eyes, hot and deep, tracing over his body as he sat with his back to the door.
Sherlock couldn't help but to close his eyes and savour the image in his mind, letting the darkness wash over him and waiting for Jim's next words. If he could only hear a few more syllables drip from his mouth, coated in that beautiful, drawling tenor. Just a phrase, stretching and curving through the air, tense and tall...If he could only have that...
"You've been at it for hours, it's so boring</>."
Sherlock couldn't help but to snatch a gasp of the air as those words rushed over him. The words, the words, already, their meaning was lost to him. He left the assignment of meaning to the different letters to a different part of his brain and a later time, letting himself fall into the sound, the tone of them instead. He was a genius after all? What fun was it if he couldn't hand over menial jobs to another part of his brain to deal with?
The way his voice rose, that slight incline reaching up until it crested and pulled on the word 'hours', the sensuous stretch of the word on Jim's tongue. It owned Sherlock's breath until the 's' whispered from his lips to chase goosebumps down Sherlock's arms.
He felt the anticipation of the comma, a flash of irrational desperation and frustration coursing through him to fill the silence that flooded the pause in Jim's speech, until the man finally uttered those four syllables, two up, two down, the words smoothly running into each other, their sounds entwining and rolling through the air.
Sherlock gasped at the tug of Jim's voice on the final word, stretching it out, dropping from his lips in that perfect whining whisper.
Part of his brain was reeling off facts about inflection and accent and tone and attitude, but the facts were slippery and foggy. For the first time, they were distant and unwelcome. Nothing, in that moment, was more important than that small man's voice, reaching across the room to stroke Sherlock's spine, scatter his skin with goosebumps and steal his breath.
And worst of all, he never wanted the moment of utter oblivious bliss to end.