The Snow Prince
Title: The Snow Prince
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Length: 597
Rating: R
Spoilers: None really
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: Written for come_at_once’s 24-hour porn challenge.
Summary: A midwinter tryst brings it own heat.
On Ao3 or below the cut!
It's damned cold outside, the wind whipping up Baker street to flog John with his own scarf. He has to wrestle the scrap of wool into whimpering submission before he can get into the flat, stomping the snow off of his shoes once inside the hall. Drop an inch of snow on London and some people thought the world was coming to an end. The door bangs shut behind him, but John immediately turns as he hears someone scrabbling clumsily at the lock behind him.
He yanks the door open and inadvertently pulls Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock is pale as the snow dusting his coat, his skin no longer red, but ice-pale. His fingers are bone-white and stiff, the lockpicks dangling from them with nerveless clumsiness that bespoke of Sherlock testing some theory-or-other with himself as a guinea pig. Again.
John pulls Sherlock against him, making him stumble up the stairs to their shared flat, Sherlock's hands wandering to John's side. They're so cold, so very cold, and sear against the heat of John's body, running hot from the dash home against the wind. The contrast of sensation is electricity to John's nerves, and the gasp he lets slip is enough to draw Sherlock out of his languor.
“He couldn't have done it,” Sherlock says, his voice pale as the rest of him. “Desmond Hamp's fingers would have been too stiff to have picked the lock in the window of opportunity during that weather. He's innocent of that part of the crime.”
“Of course,” John says. Sherlock's eyes have opened, and in contrast to the cold John practically feels radiating off him, those pale eyes are warm, heated, scalding, so when John kisses him, they both burn like fire.
Sherlock doesn't melt, he's not the melting type, but he stills as John's hands, hot enough to sear, expose more of his cold flesh to the front room. He is a statue of ice, except for where John takes a hold of him, hot as a branding iron and yet not nearly as hot as John's hand in contrast. Sherlock can almost imagine the frost sizzling off where John braces himself against Sherlock's body, head down, radiating heat despite the fact he just shed his jumper. And everything else. He's a bonfire, gold and beautiful and impossible to ignore.
The heat is a torment, a tidal surge of blood and sensation chasing themselves down Sherlock's chilly bones as John's hand moves on him, stroking, bringing him closer with every moment. Then John's lips suddenly close where his hand had been, and there, that's the spark to light an inferno. The cold hollows out, a thin veneer of ice holding lava at bay, and Sherlock silently shouts into the warm air.
John is up against him as he recovers, a blanket covering him. “You're freezing,” he says, and Sherlock lifted now-supple fingers to stroke tantalizingly cool skin across the heat of John's erection without hesitation.
“I know,” Sherlock says, and feels John twitch eagerly in his hand even as his lips seek out Sherlock's again. “I always know.”
But he opens to the kiss, the ice cube yawning open under the kiss of sunlight, and lets himself be thawed.
John pulses finally under his cool fingers, incoherent with pleasure as Sherlock teases him slowly to his peak, and Sherlock feels the last of the ice slipping away from him.
He whispers into John's hair, “My love,” his breath as warm as fresh bread. Sunlight breaks on him again as John responds with all the heat of their passion.
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Length: 597
Rating: R
Spoilers: None really
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: Written for come_at_once’s 24-hour porn challenge.
Summary: A midwinter tryst brings it own heat.
On Ao3 or below the cut!
It's damned cold outside, the wind whipping up Baker street to flog John with his own scarf. He has to wrestle the scrap of wool into whimpering submission before he can get into the flat, stomping the snow off of his shoes once inside the hall. Drop an inch of snow on London and some people thought the world was coming to an end. The door bangs shut behind him, but John immediately turns as he hears someone scrabbling clumsily at the lock behind him.
He yanks the door open and inadvertently pulls Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock is pale as the snow dusting his coat, his skin no longer red, but ice-pale. His fingers are bone-white and stiff, the lockpicks dangling from them with nerveless clumsiness that bespoke of Sherlock testing some theory-or-other with himself as a guinea pig. Again.
John pulls Sherlock against him, making him stumble up the stairs to their shared flat, Sherlock's hands wandering to John's side. They're so cold, so very cold, and sear against the heat of John's body, running hot from the dash home against the wind. The contrast of sensation is electricity to John's nerves, and the gasp he lets slip is enough to draw Sherlock out of his languor.
“He couldn't have done it,” Sherlock says, his voice pale as the rest of him. “Desmond Hamp's fingers would have been too stiff to have picked the lock in the window of opportunity during that weather. He's innocent of that part of the crime.”
“Of course,” John says. Sherlock's eyes have opened, and in contrast to the cold John practically feels radiating off him, those pale eyes are warm, heated, scalding, so when John kisses him, they both burn like fire.
Sherlock doesn't melt, he's not the melting type, but he stills as John's hands, hot enough to sear, expose more of his cold flesh to the front room. He is a statue of ice, except for where John takes a hold of him, hot as a branding iron and yet not nearly as hot as John's hand in contrast. Sherlock can almost imagine the frost sizzling off where John braces himself against Sherlock's body, head down, radiating heat despite the fact he just shed his jumper. And everything else. He's a bonfire, gold and beautiful and impossible to ignore.
The heat is a torment, a tidal surge of blood and sensation chasing themselves down Sherlock's chilly bones as John's hand moves on him, stroking, bringing him closer with every moment. Then John's lips suddenly close where his hand had been, and there, that's the spark to light an inferno. The cold hollows out, a thin veneer of ice holding lava at bay, and Sherlock silently shouts into the warm air.
John is up against him as he recovers, a blanket covering him. “You're freezing,” he says, and Sherlock lifted now-supple fingers to stroke tantalizingly cool skin across the heat of John's erection without hesitation.
“I know,” Sherlock says, and feels John twitch eagerly in his hand even as his lips seek out Sherlock's again. “I always know.”
But he opens to the kiss, the ice cube yawning open under the kiss of sunlight, and lets himself be thawed.
John pulses finally under his cool fingers, incoherent with pleasure as Sherlock teases him slowly to his peak, and Sherlock feels the last of the ice slipping away from him.
He whispers into John's hair, “My love,” his breath as warm as fresh bread. Sunlight breaks on him again as John responds with all the heat of their passion.