In which I'm slightly naughty at work and in public...
...because I simply can't look at this users' manual anymore right now, even though I have about 1k pages left and I have to know it by 1:00 tomorrow afternoon. 0_o
The Five Acts Meme (Round 2)
hosted by toestastegood
- Post a list of your five favorite kinks/acts or themes you liked to read about in your journal. Inspiration can be found here. At the ( Read more... )
The Five Acts Meme (Round 2)
hosted by toestastegood
- Post a list of your five favorite kinks/acts or themes you liked to read about in your journal. Inspiration can be found here. At the ( Read more... )
So, yes, more complicated that John had been prepared for.
Waking up to Sherlock's weight on his arse isn't exactly a new sensation. Sherlock thinks nothing of experimenting when John's sleeping, mostly in a way that he approves of - ends up approving of. And though he's a lot heavier than he looks, John isn't going to complain.
The slow, tickling trail of pressure on his back, that's new.
John blinks, frowns, and gradually the low mutter from Sherlock starts to make some sort of sense.
" - but it was cold, she would have hurried, seventeen minutes to get home, no, fifteen. She would have taken the stairs. Seen again at 8:45 - that's twenty six minutes unaccounted for."
"Sherlock, Are you making a crime timeline on my back?"
"Shush," Sherlock says, too fast. "Thinking, John."
The warm slide and catch of Sherlock knees just above his waist is quick and distracted. There's a rock of weight so he can lean over, wrist resting on John's shoulder blade. John recognises the tap of plastic that suggests he's being written on in biro.
John sighs into the pillow, rolls his eyes, tries to figure out the odds of managing to go back to sleep.
Sherlock shifts lower, draws a line down his spine and adds brief, tiny notations that John swears he can still feel even when Sherlock moves on. His whole back is strangely sensitive, it's probably an odd mess of blue pen and strange inky fingerprints. Though there's something hypnotic about Sherlock's quick, fluttering handwriting. The press of the pen gentle but certain. Competent, controlled.
Until it stops, pressed in hard for a fraction of a second.
"I'm a genius," Sherlock says fiercely.
"You're a genius," John agrees, without having a clue what he's agreeing with. Sherlock's almost certainly done something clever after all.
The biro clatters against the wall.
John's fully prepared for Sherlock to slither off of him, bound off and inform whoever needs to be informed of whatever Sherlock just discovered. That's how it usually goes.
He's not prepared for Sherlock to stretch out over his back, warm fingers sliding into his hair.
He makes a surprised noise - which quickly turns into a startled yelp when Sherlock's teeth bite into his ear.
"Christ, Sherlock."
"You were much less distracting when you were asleep," Sherlock says all accusation and sudden, obvious interest against the curve of his arse.
There are long legs easing John's apart and he exhales and grumbles complaint when Sherlock slips between them, hand pushing his boxers down in a way that's determined.
"You didn't want to have sex earlier because you were busy," John reminds him.
"I'm not busy anymore."
"Maybe I'm busy," John offers.
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John grunts, unwilling to confirm or deny.
There's another shift of weight and then a pointed and familiar click of plastic.
John's tempted to protest again, because Sherlock gets far too many things his own way.
Until Sherlock says his name, in that shaky familiar way that John's completely incapable of saying no to. Moreso since he ended up in Sherlock's bed which he's not sure if he should worry about or not.
But then he's breathing through the slow push of a finger into him and he can't help the noise he makes.
Everything Sherlock does is efficient and meticulous, including this. Though there's a impatience that John can feel, the rush of breath that's audible and not entirely steady.
Sherlock drags one of the pillows down the bed, curves his hand round John's hip and tugs until there's enough space to shove it underneath him. Sherlock’s fingers are still moving inside him, but he's swearing under his breath, and watching. He's always watching.
John pulls a leg up the bed, says Sherlock's name, sharp, and just a little shaky.
Sherlock exhales, fingers sliding free and then he's shifting his weight, all tightly grasping fingers and then pressure where John doesn’t think he's ever going to get used to it. Sherlock doesn't stop until he's buried all the way inside him and John's making quiet noises that aren't in any way unhappy but always manage to sound so shocked.. He doesn't know when this became something he wanted, something he needed.
Narrow fingers catch at his waist, nails digging in, there's an impatient growl in Sherlock's throat. Like he never had to learn restraint, can't understand why he needs it.
John's breath shakes out of him when Sherlock moves, when he slides away and then pushes back in. It's hard, deep and at just the right angle to straddle the line between good and uncomfortable. John has discovered that he doesn't mind half as much as he should.
Sherlock can be enthusiastic when he remembers he has a sex drive.
John has to wonder, has to, if Sherlock's getting off on the complex map of crime he's written across his shoulder and down his spine. The flowing beauty of mystery to solution.
He wouldn’t surprise him but - stranger still, John doesn't think he minds. He's the only one Sherlock gets to write on after all. The only one who gets to see the unfinished pictures.
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John doesn't know if Sherlock even realises how human that is. That greedy stab of possessiveness that's so shamefully obvious. That John pretends to find irritating as hell.
His thoughts are scattered to pieces by the next sliding thrust, fingers going white round the wood at the force behind it.
He forgets about everything then, about the timeline and the ink across his skin and Sherlock's greedy, impatient need to have whatever he wants whenever he wants it. Because John wants this too, this impossible, intimate thing that he'd never wanted before, and he wants it with Sherlock. Frustrating, arrogant, impossible Sherlock.
He comes first, he always accuses Sherlock of having no self-control but he'd never expected it to be so intense. He'd never expected to like it so much and it's always too much, too deep, not enough. Until John's gasping and breathing into the pillow and taking every hard, shaky thrust shivery and over-sensitised.
Sherlock bites out his name, over and over, until there's no rhythm at all, just reckless, greedy pushes and then stillness and warmth - and the untidy weight of Sherlock slumped against his back.
John's not sure he can move.
Sherlock makes an indistinct noise into his shoulder blade.
"I appear to have smudged 9:15 to 11pm," he says and he sounds somewhere between annoyed and disappointed.
John sighs into the pillow, doesn't bother opening his eyes. "Let me shower and you can write it all out again."
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Also, thanks for being the catalyst for me to sign up. This is pretty much the best meme ever! I have so much to write and such lovely presents to read!
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I love this meme, I love writing for it so I'm glad I could lure people in. I'm going to try and write more this weekend, since it finishes on Monday :D
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