Fic: Light of the Morning (Complete)
Title: Light of the Morning
Links: AO3
Rating: Explicit
Status: Complete
Author: 30percent
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word count: 2707
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Summary: A kidnapper, a counterfeiter, a murderous adulterer. Stakeouts and frantic chases, biscuits and bad coffee, moments of sleep stolen in the dark hours before dawn.
Interminable interviews at the station, Lestrade’s weary resignation and Donovan’s derision.
Now, Sherlock’s warm, lean form draped over John, limbs heavy with sleep.
***
John drifts into consciousness in stages, memories floating up like bubbles through water.
A kidnapper, a counterfeiter, a murderous adulterer. Stakeouts and frantic chases, biscuits and bad coffee, moments of sleep stolen in the dark hours before dawn.
Interminable interviews at the station, Lestrade’s weary resignation and Donovan’s derision.
One final cab ride, leftover takeaway, a shower to banish the sewer sludge (John nearly propping Sherlock upright under the spray), and then finally: an exhausted collapse of limbs into Sherlock’s bed.
They weren’t even wearing any pants.
Now, Sherlock’s warm, lean form is draped over John, limbs heavy with sleep. Slow exhalations tickle John’s collarbone and a dark mop of curls brushes John’s chin in time with every breath. One long arm trails over John’s chest, and a leg sprawls over John’s thighs.
John blinks his eyes open, squinting into the early morning light. The room resolves around him, and his eyes trail down the lines of Sherlock’s body spread over him, elegant even in sleep.
Sherlock, here like this -- warm and relaxed and naked and his. It still sends a ripple of pleasure down his spine, even after all these months.
These last frantic weeks: a handful of groping kisses in the bathroom, a few handjobs on the sofa, and one memorable blow job against the wall, Sherlock pinning John’s hips to the wallpaper and working his cock with that clever mouth, until John came scant minutes later, breathless and sobbing, fingers twisted in Sherlock’s hair.
That was... well, that was amazing.
But this.
Sherlock, boneless and relaxed in his arms, brilliant mind at ease for once. John’s tempted to slide his fingers into that hair and pull him close enough to scrape his teeth over that jaw, bury his nose in that long neck. But it’s early yet, and Sherlock’s been nearly dead on his feet for days. He satisfies himself by brushing his lips over the mop of curls hovering below his chin.
As if reading John’s thoughts (and when is he not?), Sherlock nuzzles John’s neck in his sleep, sighing as he stretches, languid and sinuous, thrusting lightly against John’s hip. John’s thoughts take a turn for the depraved when Sherlock’s morning erection presses against his thigh.
John lets his fingers trail down the line of Sherlock’s spine, flattening his hand and resting a palm over Sherlock’s arse, urging him closer. Sherlock rocks against him again and John stifles a groan.
Just the slightest encouragement, and Sherlock continues until the head of his cock turns slick where it catches against John’s skin. John groans, and reaches down to tease his own cock, light strokes, head dropping back in relief.
Sherlock sighs into his neck, and John’s skin prickles in hot pleasure. Sherlock’s voice is more rumble than sound. “Mmm. John.”
John hums into Sherlock’s hair. “You’re awake.”
Sherlock stretches, indolent as a cat, and rubs his nose under John’s jaw. “In a manner of speaking,” he mumbles, supercilious even as he presses his erection against John’s hip.
“Perfect.” John shifts, nudging Sherlock onto his back, and plants his elbows on either side of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock blinks up at him, sleepy and warm and pliant, fingers trailing over John’s shoulders.
John searches those mesmerizing eyes, and finds them wide and clear and focused on nothing but him. A jolt of pleasure trips down John’s spine, and he hums in satisfaction. He slides one hand into those dark curls, and watches Sherlock’s pupils dilate as he tightens his fingers and pulls, incrementally, until Sherlock’s long, pale neck is vulnerable beneath him.
John leans forward until he’s close enough to breathe in the heat of Sherlock’s skin, lips hovering at the crook of his neck. John’s eyes close, and he breathes deep: sleep-warm skin and hints of that posh citrus soap and Sherlock, above it all. This is it, for John. This scent will always go straight to his gut and his cock and his heart, for the rest of his life.
Sherlock makes a small, impatient sound, and his hips twitch upward. John smiles, and something dark and delicious twists in his gut, a spiraling curl of heat.
He skims his nose up the long line of Sherlock’s neck to nuzzle at the soft skin below his jaw. He runs his lips along the shell of one ear, and then presses his nose to Sherlock’s temple and inhales again, deep and satisfying, as Sherlock’s hands drift up his back. He worries the soft skin of Sherlock’s earlobe between his teeth, and then bites down, quick and sharp. Sherlock’s hands jump to his hips and pull, and his bitten-off groan makes John smile against his skin.
He lets his lips slide down Sherlock’s jaw, and brushes a soft kiss over the corner of his mouth. Sherlock presses up against him on a sigh. John smiles. “Good morning,” he murmurs.
Sherlock’s thumbs make small circles over his spine. “It could be better.” The thread of petulance is unmistakable. John’s voice drops to barely a breath. “Oh really?”
Sherlock’s hand slides into John’s hair, fingers insistent at the back of his skull. “Really.”
John lets their lips catch, and Sherlock’s are soft and warm and obliging. Sherlock sighs in approval and relaxes under him, tipping his head up as John nips at his bottom lip and deepens the kiss to something dark and breathless.
John leans back, unwinding his fingers from Sherlock’s hair to run down his jaw and over his mouth.
He sits back on his knees and surveys the scene in front of him: Sherlock, loose-limbed and unselfconscious, sprawled under him with dark eyes and a quite a lovely erection. John slides a hand down Sherlock’s torso and watches muscles twitch under his touch. “I think we’re going to have a very good morning.”
John grazes the backs of his knuckles over Sherlock’s cock just to hear his breath hitch, and then slides down the bed until he’s sprawled between Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock watches him with dazed eyes, and anticipation coils tight in John’s stomach. He runs a thumb over the line of one hip, warm skin over solid bone and muscle.
He presses his lips to the space where Sherlock’s leg meets his groin, warm and sensitive, and then brushes his lips over Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock shifts under him, restless, and his cock bumps hot against John’s cheek.
“John,” Sherlock groans, lifting his hips on a plea.
John takes pity on him - for now - and wraps a hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock, running his tongue up the shaft and wrapping his lips around the head.
“Oh, yes.” Sherlock’s head drops back on the mattress like his strings have been cut.
John closes his eyes and explores with his tongue. The shift of delicate skin over the stiff weight of Sherlock’s cock, the slit at the head gathering slick liquid - he’d never been so fascinated by the intricacies of his own body, but this is Sherlock, squirming under him and muffling curses into the pillow, he can’t get enough. His own cock is so hard it nearly hurts, so he presses his hips to the mattress to ease the tension and groans.
He picks up the pace gradually, stroking his hand in counterpoint, until Sherlock’s hips are twitching with every stroke of John’s tongue.
Sherlock’s hand drifts up the nape of John’s neck, the restless stroke of long fingers raising gooseflesh on John’s skin. John reaches up to capture Sherlock’s fingers, drawing them over his cheek to feel the pressure of his cock in John’s mouth. Sherlock’s groan is long and desperate, and his cock twitches gratifyingly in John’s mouth.
He could get off from this: sucking Sherlock’s cock as he falls apart, rocking his own aching cock against the mattress with Sherlock’s slipping fingers through his hair and moaning incoherent pleas. The thought curls something low in his belly, and the orgasm starts to build. But -- not this time.
John slides off with a gasp, holding tight to the base of Sherlock’s cock.
Sherlock’s fingers scrabble at John’s shoulders, and his hips buck. “John! John!” John ignores him, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Sherlock’s thigh as he fights to regain his breath and not finish the both of them off right now.
He opens his eyes and meets Sherlock’s accusatory glare. A slow grin slides over John’s face despite his own arousal. He pushes himself up to his knees. “We’re not anywhere near done yet.”
Sherlock’s expression turns dazed as he tracks John’s movements, and the sight he makes - faced flushed and hair tousled, limbs askew and cock hard against his stomach - has John lunging forward to kiss him, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and sinking his tongue into that mouth.
Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s back and tugs him closer, his leaking cock a hot, stiff line pressing against John’s stomach.
Sherlock rocks against him, sucking on his tongue in time with the roll of his hips. John breaks the kiss on a groan, and presses his face to Sherlock’s temple, breathless. He ignores Sherlock’s groan of frustration, and evades the hands that try to draw him back as he leans toward the nightstand and scrambles for the lube.
John returns to kneel between Sherlock’s thighs again, lube in hand. He takes a few deep breaths, calming himself, waiting for his hands to steady.
He sits back on his heels, and then wraps his arms under Sherlock’s thighs and tugs him closer, his pelvis propped up on John’s knees and his arse only inches from John’s aching cock. He slicks his palm and his cock with lube before he meets Sherlock’s eyes again. It’s a good thing he took the time to steady himself, because the look on Sherlock’s face - god, he just wants to descend on him, bite and rut against him until they’re both a sweaty, sated mess.
Instead, his hand is steady as he reaches slick fingers toward the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. He doesn’t break eye contact as he strokes one careful finger over that tight hole. “What do you want?”
Sherlock groans. “You. Now.”
“Do you know what I want?” John works a finger in small circles, teasing that tight muscle looser as he strokes his other hand over Sherlock’s thigh.
Sherlock shakes his head, but he mumbles “yes.”
“I want to fuck you very, very, very slowly.” John sinks one finger deep, and Sherlock is hot, so hot around him.
“Yes.”
“Touch yourself.”
Sherlock’s reaction is immediate. He wraps a hand around his cock, those long fingers elegant even now, and pumps once, his eyes rolling back and his mouth falling open with pleasure.
“But don’t come.” John adds a second finger and strokes in an easy, smooth rhythm, and the stretch of Sherlock’s body around him is intoxicating.
Sherlock groans, and his hand slows on his cock, his strokes turning light and teasing, his moans a near-continuous stream of sound.
John crooks his fingers until he’s nudging over Sherlock’s prostate with every stroke, and Sherlock shouts. John can see his cock twitch, and the sight has his own cock throbbing in sympathy.
“Don’t come,” he repeats.
Sherlock nearly sobs in frustration, but he releases his cock and fists his hands in the bedsheets instead, his head rocking side to side with every stroke of John’s fingers.
“John.”
“Shh.” John strokes his palm down Sherlock’s thigh in a soothing motion as he scoots closer,
gripping his own cock at the base and nudging the head against Sherlock’s slick, twitching arsehole.
“Is this what you want?”
“Yes, please, yes.”
With effort, he slides his cock over the cleft of Sherlock’s arse rather than pressing in. “Are you sure?” John’s own cock is aching, balls tight and sensitive, sweat dripping down his back, but he waits for Sherlock’s response.
“Yes! John! Please, I need you!” His back arches as he tries to press himself closer to John, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat.
The breath leaves John’s lungs in a whoosh, and finally he lets the head of his cock catch against Sherlock’s hole and press inward. He pauses as that tight muscle grips the head of his cock, and god Sherlock’s body is so tight and hot around him, and knowing that he’s the only one to have Sherlock like this, desperate for him and stripped of his hauteur and impenetrable sarcasm is just--
This brilliant, sometimes mad, always incredible man is his, and as Sherlock’s body relaxes around him he slides deep in one smooth thrust.
Sherlock moans. “John. Yes, more.”
John groans. “God, yes.” He pulls back to sink in again, hips moving in smooth, liquid thrusts as he builds up a rhythm.
Sherlock is splayed out under him, sweaty and gorgeous, a flush spreading down his chest as he rocks his head restlessly against the sheets. His cock is heavy, so hard it looks nearly painful, leaking as it bobs over his stomach. John reaches down and strokes a finger along the underside, then rubs his thumb in small, slick circles over the head. Sherlock groans, deep and guttural, and arches off the bed, nearly dislodging John.
“God, Sherlock, you’re beautiful. You’re so close, aren’t you?”
“More, John, please. Just, fuck me, please, hard.”
John growls, and wraps one arm tight against around Sherlock’s thigh for leverage. His rhythm turns heavy and deep, and he can feel the jolt of their bodies meeting with every thrust all the way through his bones. He wraps his other tight around Sherlock’s cock, pumping twice, and then Sherlock’s face is going slack, eyes wide and dark as he comes in great shudders, back bowed, cock pulsing in John’s grip, hot, slick come coating John’s fingers and striping over Sherlock’s torso.
Restraint gone, John’s thrusts turn frantic and uncoordinated, sweat dripping into his eyes as the desperate need to come builds thick and heavy at the base of his spine. Then he’s coming with a shout, hands gripping Sherlock’s hips as his vision goes white and he shudders in pleasure.
He collapses onto his elbows, letting his head hang down into the crook of Sherlock’s neck as he shivers in the aftermath, brushing his lips over salty skin. Sherlock is utterly boneless under him, chest heaving as he fights to regain his breath.
Once he trusts his muscles not to collapse under him, he pulls out carefully, Sherlock’s hand sliding to his hip as he goes. He fumbles for tissues from the nightstand, cleaning them both off well enough to hold them over until they reach the shower.
He tosses the tissues aside and collapses onto his side with a sigh. He looks up and catches a self-satisfied smile playing about Sherlock’s mouth.
John rearranges his limbs until he’s half-draped across Sherlock, and releases a jaw-cracking yawn. “Why are you so smug?”
“Well.” He takes a few more breaths. “That was fantastic sex.”
John settles into Sherlock’s shoulder. “No, you’ve got that ‘I’ve just done something I’m chuffed about’ look.” His eyes drift closed. He could kip here for another hour or two.
Sherlock buries his nose in the hair at John’s temple. His voice turns to a low, desperate rumble only millimetres from John’s ear as he mimics his earlier words. “Please, John, fuck me.”
Even now, John’s entire body jerks.
Sherlock’s voice is pleased. “You like it when I beg.”
A flush steals up John’s cheeks. He mumbles against Sherlock’s skin. “Sod off.”
“The effect is quite marvellous, really.
“Don’t try to tell me you were faking. I know you.”
“Not faking. Just... emphasising.”
Enough of this. John shifts, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist to pin it to the pillow over his head and leans over him, letting the moment stretch out as he runs a thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip.
Once he’s sure he has Sherlock’s complete attention, he drops his voice to something lazy and satisfied. “Well you like it when I fuck all the sense out of that big brain of yours, so I guess we’re even.”
He’s watching carefully, this time, as Sherlock’s pupils dilate and his hips twitch toward John a fraction. Definitely not faking.
Sherlock smiles up at him, slow and easy. “It seems we are.”
Links: AO3
Rating: Explicit
Status: Complete
Author: 30percent
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word count: 2707
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Summary: A kidnapper, a counterfeiter, a murderous adulterer. Stakeouts and frantic chases, biscuits and bad coffee, moments of sleep stolen in the dark hours before dawn.
Interminable interviews at the station, Lestrade’s weary resignation and Donovan’s derision.
Now, Sherlock’s warm, lean form draped over John, limbs heavy with sleep.
***
John drifts into consciousness in stages, memories floating up like bubbles through water.
A kidnapper, a counterfeiter, a murderous adulterer. Stakeouts and frantic chases, biscuits and bad coffee, moments of sleep stolen in the dark hours before dawn.
Interminable interviews at the station, Lestrade’s weary resignation and Donovan’s derision.
One final cab ride, leftover takeaway, a shower to banish the sewer sludge (John nearly propping Sherlock upright under the spray), and then finally: an exhausted collapse of limbs into Sherlock’s bed.
They weren’t even wearing any pants.
Now, Sherlock’s warm, lean form is draped over John, limbs heavy with sleep. Slow exhalations tickle John’s collarbone and a dark mop of curls brushes John’s chin in time with every breath. One long arm trails over John’s chest, and a leg sprawls over John’s thighs.
John blinks his eyes open, squinting into the early morning light. The room resolves around him, and his eyes trail down the lines of Sherlock’s body spread over him, elegant even in sleep.
Sherlock, here like this -- warm and relaxed and naked and his. It still sends a ripple of pleasure down his spine, even after all these months.
These last frantic weeks: a handful of groping kisses in the bathroom, a few handjobs on the sofa, and one memorable blow job against the wall, Sherlock pinning John’s hips to the wallpaper and working his cock with that clever mouth, until John came scant minutes later, breathless and sobbing, fingers twisted in Sherlock’s hair.
That was... well, that was amazing.
But this.
Sherlock, boneless and relaxed in his arms, brilliant mind at ease for once. John’s tempted to slide his fingers into that hair and pull him close enough to scrape his teeth over that jaw, bury his nose in that long neck. But it’s early yet, and Sherlock’s been nearly dead on his feet for days. He satisfies himself by brushing his lips over the mop of curls hovering below his chin.
As if reading John’s thoughts (and when is he not?), Sherlock nuzzles John’s neck in his sleep, sighing as he stretches, languid and sinuous, thrusting lightly against John’s hip. John’s thoughts take a turn for the depraved when Sherlock’s morning erection presses against his thigh.
John lets his fingers trail down the line of Sherlock’s spine, flattening his hand and resting a palm over Sherlock’s arse, urging him closer. Sherlock rocks against him again and John stifles a groan.
Just the slightest encouragement, and Sherlock continues until the head of his cock turns slick where it catches against John’s skin. John groans, and reaches down to tease his own cock, light strokes, head dropping back in relief.
Sherlock sighs into his neck, and John’s skin prickles in hot pleasure. Sherlock’s voice is more rumble than sound. “Mmm. John.”
John hums into Sherlock’s hair. “You’re awake.”
Sherlock stretches, indolent as a cat, and rubs his nose under John’s jaw. “In a manner of speaking,” he mumbles, supercilious even as he presses his erection against John’s hip.
“Perfect.” John shifts, nudging Sherlock onto his back, and plants his elbows on either side of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock blinks up at him, sleepy and warm and pliant, fingers trailing over John’s shoulders.
John searches those mesmerizing eyes, and finds them wide and clear and focused on nothing but him. A jolt of pleasure trips down John’s spine, and he hums in satisfaction. He slides one hand into those dark curls, and watches Sherlock’s pupils dilate as he tightens his fingers and pulls, incrementally, until Sherlock’s long, pale neck is vulnerable beneath him.
John leans forward until he’s close enough to breathe in the heat of Sherlock’s skin, lips hovering at the crook of his neck. John’s eyes close, and he breathes deep: sleep-warm skin and hints of that posh citrus soap and Sherlock, above it all. This is it, for John. This scent will always go straight to his gut and his cock and his heart, for the rest of his life.
Sherlock makes a small, impatient sound, and his hips twitch upward. John smiles, and something dark and delicious twists in his gut, a spiraling curl of heat.
He skims his nose up the long line of Sherlock’s neck to nuzzle at the soft skin below his jaw. He runs his lips along the shell of one ear, and then presses his nose to Sherlock’s temple and inhales again, deep and satisfying, as Sherlock’s hands drift up his back. He worries the soft skin of Sherlock’s earlobe between his teeth, and then bites down, quick and sharp. Sherlock’s hands jump to his hips and pull, and his bitten-off groan makes John smile against his skin.
He lets his lips slide down Sherlock’s jaw, and brushes a soft kiss over the corner of his mouth. Sherlock presses up against him on a sigh. John smiles. “Good morning,” he murmurs.
Sherlock’s thumbs make small circles over his spine. “It could be better.” The thread of petulance is unmistakable. John’s voice drops to barely a breath. “Oh really?”
Sherlock’s hand slides into John’s hair, fingers insistent at the back of his skull. “Really.”
John lets their lips catch, and Sherlock’s are soft and warm and obliging. Sherlock sighs in approval and relaxes under him, tipping his head up as John nips at his bottom lip and deepens the kiss to something dark and breathless.
John leans back, unwinding his fingers from Sherlock’s hair to run down his jaw and over his mouth.
He sits back on his knees and surveys the scene in front of him: Sherlock, loose-limbed and unselfconscious, sprawled under him with dark eyes and a quite a lovely erection. John slides a hand down Sherlock’s torso and watches muscles twitch under his touch. “I think we’re going to have a very good morning.”
John grazes the backs of his knuckles over Sherlock’s cock just to hear his breath hitch, and then slides down the bed until he’s sprawled between Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock watches him with dazed eyes, and anticipation coils tight in John’s stomach. He runs a thumb over the line of one hip, warm skin over solid bone and muscle.
He presses his lips to the space where Sherlock’s leg meets his groin, warm and sensitive, and then brushes his lips over Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock shifts under him, restless, and his cock bumps hot against John’s cheek.
“John,” Sherlock groans, lifting his hips on a plea.
John takes pity on him - for now - and wraps a hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock, running his tongue up the shaft and wrapping his lips around the head.
“Oh, yes.” Sherlock’s head drops back on the mattress like his strings have been cut.
John closes his eyes and explores with his tongue. The shift of delicate skin over the stiff weight of Sherlock’s cock, the slit at the head gathering slick liquid - he’d never been so fascinated by the intricacies of his own body, but this is Sherlock, squirming under him and muffling curses into the pillow, he can’t get enough. His own cock is so hard it nearly hurts, so he presses his hips to the mattress to ease the tension and groans.
He picks up the pace gradually, stroking his hand in counterpoint, until Sherlock’s hips are twitching with every stroke of John’s tongue.
Sherlock’s hand drifts up the nape of John’s neck, the restless stroke of long fingers raising gooseflesh on John’s skin. John reaches up to capture Sherlock’s fingers, drawing them over his cheek to feel the pressure of his cock in John’s mouth. Sherlock’s groan is long and desperate, and his cock twitches gratifyingly in John’s mouth.
He could get off from this: sucking Sherlock’s cock as he falls apart, rocking his own aching cock against the mattress with Sherlock’s slipping fingers through his hair and moaning incoherent pleas. The thought curls something low in his belly, and the orgasm starts to build. But -- not this time.
John slides off with a gasp, holding tight to the base of Sherlock’s cock.
Sherlock’s fingers scrabble at John’s shoulders, and his hips buck. “John! John!” John ignores him, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Sherlock’s thigh as he fights to regain his breath and not finish the both of them off right now.
He opens his eyes and meets Sherlock’s accusatory glare. A slow grin slides over John’s face despite his own arousal. He pushes himself up to his knees. “We’re not anywhere near done yet.”
Sherlock’s expression turns dazed as he tracks John’s movements, and the sight he makes - faced flushed and hair tousled, limbs askew and cock hard against his stomach - has John lunging forward to kiss him, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and sinking his tongue into that mouth.
Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s back and tugs him closer, his leaking cock a hot, stiff line pressing against John’s stomach.
Sherlock rocks against him, sucking on his tongue in time with the roll of his hips. John breaks the kiss on a groan, and presses his face to Sherlock’s temple, breathless. He ignores Sherlock’s groan of frustration, and evades the hands that try to draw him back as he leans toward the nightstand and scrambles for the lube.
John returns to kneel between Sherlock’s thighs again, lube in hand. He takes a few deep breaths, calming himself, waiting for his hands to steady.
He sits back on his heels, and then wraps his arms under Sherlock’s thighs and tugs him closer, his pelvis propped up on John’s knees and his arse only inches from John’s aching cock. He slicks his palm and his cock with lube before he meets Sherlock’s eyes again. It’s a good thing he took the time to steady himself, because the look on Sherlock’s face - god, he just wants to descend on him, bite and rut against him until they’re both a sweaty, sated mess.
Instead, his hand is steady as he reaches slick fingers toward the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. He doesn’t break eye contact as he strokes one careful finger over that tight hole. “What do you want?”
Sherlock groans. “You. Now.”
“Do you know what I want?” John works a finger in small circles, teasing that tight muscle looser as he strokes his other hand over Sherlock’s thigh.
Sherlock shakes his head, but he mumbles “yes.”
“I want to fuck you very, very, very slowly.” John sinks one finger deep, and Sherlock is hot, so hot around him.
“Yes.”
“Touch yourself.”
Sherlock’s reaction is immediate. He wraps a hand around his cock, those long fingers elegant even now, and pumps once, his eyes rolling back and his mouth falling open with pleasure.
“But don’t come.” John adds a second finger and strokes in an easy, smooth rhythm, and the stretch of Sherlock’s body around him is intoxicating.
Sherlock groans, and his hand slows on his cock, his strokes turning light and teasing, his moans a near-continuous stream of sound.
John crooks his fingers until he’s nudging over Sherlock’s prostate with every stroke, and Sherlock shouts. John can see his cock twitch, and the sight has his own cock throbbing in sympathy.
“Don’t come,” he repeats.
Sherlock nearly sobs in frustration, but he releases his cock and fists his hands in the bedsheets instead, his head rocking side to side with every stroke of John’s fingers.
“John.”
“Shh.” John strokes his palm down Sherlock’s thigh in a soothing motion as he scoots closer,
gripping his own cock at the base and nudging the head against Sherlock’s slick, twitching arsehole.
“Is this what you want?”
“Yes, please, yes.”
With effort, he slides his cock over the cleft of Sherlock’s arse rather than pressing in. “Are you sure?” John’s own cock is aching, balls tight and sensitive, sweat dripping down his back, but he waits for Sherlock’s response.
“Yes! John! Please, I need you!” His back arches as he tries to press himself closer to John, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat.
The breath leaves John’s lungs in a whoosh, and finally he lets the head of his cock catch against Sherlock’s hole and press inward. He pauses as that tight muscle grips the head of his cock, and god Sherlock’s body is so tight and hot around him, and knowing that he’s the only one to have Sherlock like this, desperate for him and stripped of his hauteur and impenetrable sarcasm is just--
This brilliant, sometimes mad, always incredible man is his, and as Sherlock’s body relaxes around him he slides deep in one smooth thrust.
Sherlock moans. “John. Yes, more.”
John groans. “God, yes.” He pulls back to sink in again, hips moving in smooth, liquid thrusts as he builds up a rhythm.
Sherlock is splayed out under him, sweaty and gorgeous, a flush spreading down his chest as he rocks his head restlessly against the sheets. His cock is heavy, so hard it looks nearly painful, leaking as it bobs over his stomach. John reaches down and strokes a finger along the underside, then rubs his thumb in small, slick circles over the head. Sherlock groans, deep and guttural, and arches off the bed, nearly dislodging John.
“God, Sherlock, you’re beautiful. You’re so close, aren’t you?”
“More, John, please. Just, fuck me, please, hard.”
John growls, and wraps one arm tight against around Sherlock’s thigh for leverage. His rhythm turns heavy and deep, and he can feel the jolt of their bodies meeting with every thrust all the way through his bones. He wraps his other tight around Sherlock’s cock, pumping twice, and then Sherlock’s face is going slack, eyes wide and dark as he comes in great shudders, back bowed, cock pulsing in John’s grip, hot, slick come coating John’s fingers and striping over Sherlock’s torso.
Restraint gone, John’s thrusts turn frantic and uncoordinated, sweat dripping into his eyes as the desperate need to come builds thick and heavy at the base of his spine. Then he’s coming with a shout, hands gripping Sherlock’s hips as his vision goes white and he shudders in pleasure.
He collapses onto his elbows, letting his head hang down into the crook of Sherlock’s neck as he shivers in the aftermath, brushing his lips over salty skin. Sherlock is utterly boneless under him, chest heaving as he fights to regain his breath.
Once he trusts his muscles not to collapse under him, he pulls out carefully, Sherlock’s hand sliding to his hip as he goes. He fumbles for tissues from the nightstand, cleaning them both off well enough to hold them over until they reach the shower.
He tosses the tissues aside and collapses onto his side with a sigh. He looks up and catches a self-satisfied smile playing about Sherlock’s mouth.
John rearranges his limbs until he’s half-draped across Sherlock, and releases a jaw-cracking yawn. “Why are you so smug?”
“Well.” He takes a few more breaths. “That was fantastic sex.”
John settles into Sherlock’s shoulder. “No, you’ve got that ‘I’ve just done something I’m chuffed about’ look.” His eyes drift closed. He could kip here for another hour or two.
Sherlock buries his nose in the hair at John’s temple. His voice turns to a low, desperate rumble only millimetres from John’s ear as he mimics his earlier words. “Please, John, fuck me.”
Even now, John’s entire body jerks.
Sherlock’s voice is pleased. “You like it when I beg.”
A flush steals up John’s cheeks. He mumbles against Sherlock’s skin. “Sod off.”
“The effect is quite marvellous, really.
“Don’t try to tell me you were faking. I know you.”
“Not faking. Just... emphasising.”
Enough of this. John shifts, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist to pin it to the pillow over his head and leans over him, letting the moment stretch out as he runs a thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip.
Once he’s sure he has Sherlock’s complete attention, he drops his voice to something lazy and satisfied. “Well you like it when I fuck all the sense out of that big brain of yours, so I guess we’re even.”
He’s watching carefully, this time, as Sherlock’s pupils dilate and his hips twitch toward John a fraction. Definitely not faking.
Sherlock smiles up at him, slow and easy. “It seems we are.”