FIC: The Arsenal Offside Trap 1/1 (Sherlock BBC)
Title: The Arsenal Offside Trap
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:2500
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: Established Relationship, Smut
Warning(s): None
Summary:If there was one thing that a few months of a psychosomatic limp had taught John Watson, it was that a man should never take the ability to simply walk for granted.
Note: Everyone needs a porny treat before going back to work tomorrow, don't they? Enjoy!
If there was one thing that a few months of a psychosomatic limp had taught John Watson, it was that a man should never take the ability to simply walk for granted.
Even tonight, a bit of three sheets to the wind as he made his way home from the pub, John could take a moment to appreciate the effortlessness of putting one foot in front of the other as he walked along Baker Street. True, it was on the cold side, his breath coming out in visible puffs as he turned up his coat collar against the chill, but John was still riding high on too much beer and Arsenal's brilliant win over Tottenham tonight. Half the pub had been in a similar state by the time he and Stamford had made their goodbyes, the two of them staggering off in opposite directions as Mike caught a cab and John chose to walk.
Course, neither of them would be quite as drunk if they'd gone to pub with anyone else. If John had gone out with Greg instead, for example, the both of them would have only had a few pints and he wouldn't have had the urge to buy round after round, each of them downing their pints with blurry eagerness as the game went on, their shouts at the large screen drowned out by the rest of the crowd.
Not that John would admit it, to Mike or to anyone, but he couldn't quite get past a feeling of gratefulness to Stamford. In one instant of thoughtfulness for an old Uni friend and an odd acquaintance, he had single-handed done what all of John's therapy had failed to do; he'd saved John's life.
And perhaps there were times John thought he owed Mike a punch in the nose rather than a pint or two but truthfully, those moments passed quickly. Sherlock had chased away John's melancholy, given him a purpose, a life, but it was Mike Stamford who'd set him on the path towards him, shooing him off to limp along a golden road of bricks towards a wizard who was nothing like anyone could possibly imagine.
Or perhaps John was just a lot drunker than he'd believed when he'd left the pub, John thought wryly. The flat was in sight now and John fumbled for his keys, wondering if Sherlock was still in the kitchen working on an experiment or perhaps he'd moved on to reading or even a bit of crap telly.
Now there was a hope, one that made John open the door a bit quicker; Sherlock was impossible to be moved during an experiment but after one, after a successful one he tended to be giddy with triumph, chatty and enthusiastic. It was the enthusiasm that John was rather looking forward to, Christ, yes, when he was in the mood for it Sherlock had such a mouth on him, could probably suck the red off a cherry if he put mind and mouth to it. John had to stop for a moment on the stairs, leaning against the railing as he recalled a particularly enthusiastic use of that mouth after Sherlock had solved that birthday card case.
John had been pressed up against the door, braced against it, his shaking legs barely holding him and Sherlock had looked up at him from beneath those sooty lashes, his lips stretched around John's cock as he'd worked his tongue against the head in a strange, wriggling little dance, until John had filled his hands with those dark curls and pulled him down, fucked that pretty mouth while Sherlock hummed soft, appreciative sounds and he'd swallowed eagerly when John came. Comparing the taste relative to time of day, he'd said, later. It was an experiment John had been happy to assist with.
He let himself into the flat with that image still at the back of his eyes, perfectly ready to step from dream to reality and to find both kitchen and sitting room unoccupied was the last thing on his mind.
John stood for a long moment on somewhat wobbly legs as he stared at the emptiness of their flat, as though Sherlock might materialize from thin air, dressing gown flapping behind him as he finished a conversation with John that he hadn't even been present for.
Had he gone out? John fumbled out his phone on the off chance he'd missed a text or a call but his phone offered no explanations. Deductions were really Sherlock's area, particularly when John was mostly pissed and certainly randy, and unless Sherlock had left a trail of breadcrumbs behind, John wasn't in much of a state to go searching for him.
A soft sound from the back of the flat drew his attention and John followed it to Sherlock's bedroom, to find the bed occupied, the sheets draped over a familiar slim form. It took a short time for it to seep through his alcohol-hazed mind but eventually John realized with soggy shock that Sherlock had actually gone to bed and at a fairly reasonable hour.
Sherlock was asleep and John was already mostly hard in his jeans, tottering drunk and contemplating the unfairness of the universe. Sherlock, who rarely slept a full night and never went to bed early, was sprawled across their bed sound asleep. Well, that wasn't on, was it? John had come home prepared for arguments and insults and hopeful a shag. This was not at all in his plans for the night.
His boots were noisy on the wooden floor as he crossed it and Sherlock stirred restlessly, rolling over on his back. The sheet slid down with the movement, baring a wide swathe of pale skin and the sight drew John in like a fifty-pound note half buried in the snow. Lovely sight, that, one that John wasn't often treated to; Sherlock was usually up and about before John even woke, much less managed to crawl out of bed. He saw Sherlock naked often enough but naked and still, that was a rare sight.
The sheet had halted its descent at mid-chest, pink nipples hardening in the chilled air and John didn't even think about reaching out to touch one, sliding his finger over the silky little nub over and over, until it was straining against his touch. He was already reaching for the other one, his focus utterly on pinching that sensitive point, when a hand caught his, long fingers, damp with sleep, threading through his own.
"Six pints tonight, John?" Sherlock asked sleepily, his voice deeper, rougher with sleep. It made John think about the caress of a cat's tongue, sent a hard throb of lust down his spine. "I take it Arsenal came out the victor?"
"Hmm," John sighed agreeably. Didn't know how Sherlock had deduced how much he'd drunk. Didn't care. He put a knee on the bed, felt the mattress dip beneath his weight as he moved to settled atop Sherlock. He felt as much as heard Sherlock's startled hiss of protest, the chill of his clothes against bare skin.
"You might have taken your coat off at least," Sherlock started, breaking off on a low groan as John pushed one denim-clad knee between his thighs. His clothes were heavy between them but the sheet was no barrier at all and he could feel Sherlock's heat bleeding through the layers of fabric. The contrast of his hardening prick and the softness of his balls against John's knee was oddly fascinating and he rocked his knee up thoughtfully, gently rubbing.
"No time," John mouthed it into Sherlock ear, drawing the soft lobe into his mouth and catching it between his teeth. He bit, softly, licking messily into it and Sherlock made a kitten-like sound, nearly a hiccough.
Never tell him that, John decided with beery delight. Never, ever, just get him to make it again. Mouthing the line of his chin gave him an entirely different sound, less of a noise and more of a deep vibration, and the skin was roughened with stubble, unknown in a more daytime Sherlock.
John dragged his tongue against it, ignoring the mild burn. He wanted that slight pain, wanted Sherlock to rub his stubbly face everywhere, down his chest, against his nipples. Under his arms and across his belly, burning fine redness into the insides of his thighs.
He might have said that aloud, John wasn't sure, but Sherlock's hands were suddenly frantic against his back, scrabbling uselessly against his heavy coat. He couldn't seem to find a way beneath it; his nails startlingly loud against the fabric, though not quite as much as the little, rhythmic groans that were edging out of him.
The sheet was tangled between them, webbed over Sherlock like a net and John couldn't be arsed to move enough to pull it loose. Not when Sherlock had just enough room to part his legs, let John settle between them with a ragged moan. He braced his feet against the footboard, toes curling in his boots as he rocked hard against Sherlock.
There was enough light that he could see Sherlock's eyes roll back, his mouth opening on cry, the pink curl of his tongue just before Sherlock bit the tip, catching it between his teeth as John shoved against him again. Oh, perfect, fucking perfect, riding the friction between them as Sherlock fought an arm free of the bedclothes, looping it around John's neck and pulling his head down.
"Harder," Sherlock demanded. "Come on then, you wanted it, so take it!"
"Shut up," John panted and smothered that scornful mouth with his own, stifling any other words. He followed Sherlock's arm with his hand until he found his wrist, pressing his thumb into the soft flesh there until he let go and John could bully it back down, pinning his hand back against the sheets.
"Oooh, are you a bad man?" Sherlock cooed it into his mouth and John only just pulled back in time to miss the sharp click of his teeth. He mashed their mouths back together in punishment, driving his hips against Sherlock's until he hissed, face tight as he fought to push back into John.
This, yes, this, he wanted Sherlock mostly trapped beneath him, his unresisting hands pinned relentlessly down as he fought to push up against John, struggling against the sheet to drag his legs further apart. He wanted Sherlock begging, head tipped back to spill that dark hair across the pillowcase, the long line of his throat goading for John's teeth to dig bruises in, biting colour into that pale, pale skin.
"Oh, god, yes," Sherlock groaned out, surrendering any pretense of a fight as John sucked at the tiny indents from his teeth, drawing up the blossoming purplish bruise. The press of their hips together was faltering, the rhythmic slide of it dragging out a mangle of words and groans. "Yes, John, that's...that's good, that's very good."
Close, then, had to be, Sherlock's verbal skills only broke down when he was riding the edge of orgasm and John drew back enough to watch, greedily taking in the tightening of his face, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, his lip caught between his teeth, stifling cries that were trying to spill out.
"None of that," John murmured, kissing that captured lip free, until Sherlock was tipping his head up into it, pleading wordlessly for more. "I want to see you come, want you to do it all over me. I want to feel it soaking through the sheets, I want to feel you everywhere, Sherlock, come for me."
Shock widened Sherlock's eyes, still so innocent in some ways, until they finally drifted shut again, lashes dark against his cheeks and those soft whimpers took on an edge of desperation.
"John," Sherlock pleaded, his hand flexing in John's grip. He slid his fingers up to twine them with Sherlock's, giving him something to hold as he drove their hips together, the gorgeous friction burn of denim and sheets between their cocks dragging him along, thrills of sensation washing over his already alcohol-soaked body and mind.
The scrape of his jeans against the sheets was obscenely loud but not moreso than Sherlock's deep, frantic cry, his fingers clenching John's painfully as he finally pushed up against John's weight and came, hard, a flush of colour spilling into his pale cheeks as John eagerly watched.
Long moments passed, John still rocking against Sherlock, riding for himself now against Sherlock's limp, exhausted form, until finally he could feel liquid warm seeping into his jeans, spreading across his thighs. Yes, perfect, Sherlock's come staining him and now John could bite his own lip, add his own into the spreading damp as Sherlock lay crumpled beneath him, still panting.
"Aren't you a lovely thing" John said, weakly, and he barely groaned a protest as Sherlock wormed a hand free just to slap him on the back of the head.
"You can stop that, now," Sherlock said tartly, "It's only attractive when I am insensate."
"I'm insen-insat---I'm that," John protested sleepily.
"I don't recall including your state of mind in that sentence." Sherlock pushed lightly at his shoulder until John rolled off, sprawling out on the sheet. Fucking hell, he was wrecked, wasn't he. The dampness at his crotch was cooling somewhat unpleasantly. Denim was a brilliant wear when dry. Wet it was like dragging soggy sandpaper across the skin.
"Even your boots, John?" Sherlock sounded terribly disapproving. What a shame that John was too drunk to care, wasn't it?
"Boots," he agreed blurrily. One should agree with the bloke you just shagged, he supposed. Or, lacking an actual shag, they had just shared a bodily fluid or two. Close enough for spitting, not that there had been any of that
Drink and orgasm were conspiring against him and John was already drifting by the time he felt cool, familiar hands easing his boots off, only barely grumbled a protest as they tugged his jeans free pitilessly.
In the end, it turned out to be worth it, John bare as a babe with an equally naked body against his own and it just so happened he was right fond of that other body. Particularly when it was naked. John didn't usually sleep that way himself, years of being a doctor added in to more years in the military and sleeping bare-arsed was an excellent way to end up naked in surgery. Right now, though, with a fresh sheet drifting down to cover him and Sherlock sliding in to snug up behind, it was a little slice of brilliant, and he would owe Mike Stamford a pint every time they went out for the rest of his life for giving him this.
"Get some sleep, John," Sherlock murmured against the back of his head, close enough to his ear that John could hear it. "Just as a warning, I'm going to fuck you in the morning so you'd best hope this is one of those nights you aren't prone to a hangover."
"Mmmhmm," John mumbled and some part of his brain was aware that agreeing to things from Sherlock when one was mostly asleep was never a good idea.
Ah, well. He'd find out tomorrow, wouldn't he?
They could deal with it then.
-Finis-
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:2500
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: Established Relationship, Smut
Warning(s): None
Summary:If there was one thing that a few months of a psychosomatic limp had taught John Watson, it was that a man should never take the ability to simply walk for granted.
Note: Everyone needs a porny treat before going back to work tomorrow, don't they? Enjoy!
If there was one thing that a few months of a psychosomatic limp had taught John Watson, it was that a man should never take the ability to simply walk for granted.
Even tonight, a bit of three sheets to the wind as he made his way home from the pub, John could take a moment to appreciate the effortlessness of putting one foot in front of the other as he walked along Baker Street. True, it was on the cold side, his breath coming out in visible puffs as he turned up his coat collar against the chill, but John was still riding high on too much beer and Arsenal's brilliant win over Tottenham tonight. Half the pub had been in a similar state by the time he and Stamford had made their goodbyes, the two of them staggering off in opposite directions as Mike caught a cab and John chose to walk.
Course, neither of them would be quite as drunk if they'd gone to pub with anyone else. If John had gone out with Greg instead, for example, the both of them would have only had a few pints and he wouldn't have had the urge to buy round after round, each of them downing their pints with blurry eagerness as the game went on, their shouts at the large screen drowned out by the rest of the crowd.
Not that John would admit it, to Mike or to anyone, but he couldn't quite get past a feeling of gratefulness to Stamford. In one instant of thoughtfulness for an old Uni friend and an odd acquaintance, he had single-handed done what all of John's therapy had failed to do; he'd saved John's life.
And perhaps there were times John thought he owed Mike a punch in the nose rather than a pint or two but truthfully, those moments passed quickly. Sherlock had chased away John's melancholy, given him a purpose, a life, but it was Mike Stamford who'd set him on the path towards him, shooing him off to limp along a golden road of bricks towards a wizard who was nothing like anyone could possibly imagine.
Or perhaps John was just a lot drunker than he'd believed when he'd left the pub, John thought wryly. The flat was in sight now and John fumbled for his keys, wondering if Sherlock was still in the kitchen working on an experiment or perhaps he'd moved on to reading or even a bit of crap telly.
Now there was a hope, one that made John open the door a bit quicker; Sherlock was impossible to be moved during an experiment but after one, after a successful one he tended to be giddy with triumph, chatty and enthusiastic. It was the enthusiasm that John was rather looking forward to, Christ, yes, when he was in the mood for it Sherlock had such a mouth on him, could probably suck the red off a cherry if he put mind and mouth to it. John had to stop for a moment on the stairs, leaning against the railing as he recalled a particularly enthusiastic use of that mouth after Sherlock had solved that birthday card case.
John had been pressed up against the door, braced against it, his shaking legs barely holding him and Sherlock had looked up at him from beneath those sooty lashes, his lips stretched around John's cock as he'd worked his tongue against the head in a strange, wriggling little dance, until John had filled his hands with those dark curls and pulled him down, fucked that pretty mouth while Sherlock hummed soft, appreciative sounds and he'd swallowed eagerly when John came. Comparing the taste relative to time of day, he'd said, later. It was an experiment John had been happy to assist with.
He let himself into the flat with that image still at the back of his eyes, perfectly ready to step from dream to reality and to find both kitchen and sitting room unoccupied was the last thing on his mind.
John stood for a long moment on somewhat wobbly legs as he stared at the emptiness of their flat, as though Sherlock might materialize from thin air, dressing gown flapping behind him as he finished a conversation with John that he hadn't even been present for.
Had he gone out? John fumbled out his phone on the off chance he'd missed a text or a call but his phone offered no explanations. Deductions were really Sherlock's area, particularly when John was mostly pissed and certainly randy, and unless Sherlock had left a trail of breadcrumbs behind, John wasn't in much of a state to go searching for him.
A soft sound from the back of the flat drew his attention and John followed it to Sherlock's bedroom, to find the bed occupied, the sheets draped over a familiar slim form. It took a short time for it to seep through his alcohol-hazed mind but eventually John realized with soggy shock that Sherlock had actually gone to bed and at a fairly reasonable hour.
Sherlock was asleep and John was already mostly hard in his jeans, tottering drunk and contemplating the unfairness of the universe. Sherlock, who rarely slept a full night and never went to bed early, was sprawled across their bed sound asleep. Well, that wasn't on, was it? John had come home prepared for arguments and insults and hopeful a shag. This was not at all in his plans for the night.
His boots were noisy on the wooden floor as he crossed it and Sherlock stirred restlessly, rolling over on his back. The sheet slid down with the movement, baring a wide swathe of pale skin and the sight drew John in like a fifty-pound note half buried in the snow. Lovely sight, that, one that John wasn't often treated to; Sherlock was usually up and about before John even woke, much less managed to crawl out of bed. He saw Sherlock naked often enough but naked and still, that was a rare sight.
The sheet had halted its descent at mid-chest, pink nipples hardening in the chilled air and John didn't even think about reaching out to touch one, sliding his finger over the silky little nub over and over, until it was straining against his touch. He was already reaching for the other one, his focus utterly on pinching that sensitive point, when a hand caught his, long fingers, damp with sleep, threading through his own.
"Six pints tonight, John?" Sherlock asked sleepily, his voice deeper, rougher with sleep. It made John think about the caress of a cat's tongue, sent a hard throb of lust down his spine. "I take it Arsenal came out the victor?"
"Hmm," John sighed agreeably. Didn't know how Sherlock had deduced how much he'd drunk. Didn't care. He put a knee on the bed, felt the mattress dip beneath his weight as he moved to settled atop Sherlock. He felt as much as heard Sherlock's startled hiss of protest, the chill of his clothes against bare skin.
"You might have taken your coat off at least," Sherlock started, breaking off on a low groan as John pushed one denim-clad knee between his thighs. His clothes were heavy between them but the sheet was no barrier at all and he could feel Sherlock's heat bleeding through the layers of fabric. The contrast of his hardening prick and the softness of his balls against John's knee was oddly fascinating and he rocked his knee up thoughtfully, gently rubbing.
"No time," John mouthed it into Sherlock ear, drawing the soft lobe into his mouth and catching it between his teeth. He bit, softly, licking messily into it and Sherlock made a kitten-like sound, nearly a hiccough.
Never tell him that, John decided with beery delight. Never, ever, just get him to make it again. Mouthing the line of his chin gave him an entirely different sound, less of a noise and more of a deep vibration, and the skin was roughened with stubble, unknown in a more daytime Sherlock.
John dragged his tongue against it, ignoring the mild burn. He wanted that slight pain, wanted Sherlock to rub his stubbly face everywhere, down his chest, against his nipples. Under his arms and across his belly, burning fine redness into the insides of his thighs.
He might have said that aloud, John wasn't sure, but Sherlock's hands were suddenly frantic against his back, scrabbling uselessly against his heavy coat. He couldn't seem to find a way beneath it; his nails startlingly loud against the fabric, though not quite as much as the little, rhythmic groans that were edging out of him.
The sheet was tangled between them, webbed over Sherlock like a net and John couldn't be arsed to move enough to pull it loose. Not when Sherlock had just enough room to part his legs, let John settle between them with a ragged moan. He braced his feet against the footboard, toes curling in his boots as he rocked hard against Sherlock.
There was enough light that he could see Sherlock's eyes roll back, his mouth opening on cry, the pink curl of his tongue just before Sherlock bit the tip, catching it between his teeth as John shoved against him again. Oh, perfect, fucking perfect, riding the friction between them as Sherlock fought an arm free of the bedclothes, looping it around John's neck and pulling his head down.
"Harder," Sherlock demanded. "Come on then, you wanted it, so take it!"
"Shut up," John panted and smothered that scornful mouth with his own, stifling any other words. He followed Sherlock's arm with his hand until he found his wrist, pressing his thumb into the soft flesh there until he let go and John could bully it back down, pinning his hand back against the sheets.
"Oooh, are you a bad man?" Sherlock cooed it into his mouth and John only just pulled back in time to miss the sharp click of his teeth. He mashed their mouths back together in punishment, driving his hips against Sherlock's until he hissed, face tight as he fought to push back into John.
This, yes, this, he wanted Sherlock mostly trapped beneath him, his unresisting hands pinned relentlessly down as he fought to push up against John, struggling against the sheet to drag his legs further apart. He wanted Sherlock begging, head tipped back to spill that dark hair across the pillowcase, the long line of his throat goading for John's teeth to dig bruises in, biting colour into that pale, pale skin.
"Oh, god, yes," Sherlock groaned out, surrendering any pretense of a fight as John sucked at the tiny indents from his teeth, drawing up the blossoming purplish bruise. The press of their hips together was faltering, the rhythmic slide of it dragging out a mangle of words and groans. "Yes, John, that's...that's good, that's very good."
Close, then, had to be, Sherlock's verbal skills only broke down when he was riding the edge of orgasm and John drew back enough to watch, greedily taking in the tightening of his face, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, his lip caught between his teeth, stifling cries that were trying to spill out.
"None of that," John murmured, kissing that captured lip free, until Sherlock was tipping his head up into it, pleading wordlessly for more. "I want to see you come, want you to do it all over me. I want to feel it soaking through the sheets, I want to feel you everywhere, Sherlock, come for me."
Shock widened Sherlock's eyes, still so innocent in some ways, until they finally drifted shut again, lashes dark against his cheeks and those soft whimpers took on an edge of desperation.
"John," Sherlock pleaded, his hand flexing in John's grip. He slid his fingers up to twine them with Sherlock's, giving him something to hold as he drove their hips together, the gorgeous friction burn of denim and sheets between their cocks dragging him along, thrills of sensation washing over his already alcohol-soaked body and mind.
The scrape of his jeans against the sheets was obscenely loud but not moreso than Sherlock's deep, frantic cry, his fingers clenching John's painfully as he finally pushed up against John's weight and came, hard, a flush of colour spilling into his pale cheeks as John eagerly watched.
Long moments passed, John still rocking against Sherlock, riding for himself now against Sherlock's limp, exhausted form, until finally he could feel liquid warm seeping into his jeans, spreading across his thighs. Yes, perfect, Sherlock's come staining him and now John could bite his own lip, add his own into the spreading damp as Sherlock lay crumpled beneath him, still panting.
"Aren't you a lovely thing" John said, weakly, and he barely groaned a protest as Sherlock wormed a hand free just to slap him on the back of the head.
"You can stop that, now," Sherlock said tartly, "It's only attractive when I am insensate."
"I'm insen-insat---I'm that," John protested sleepily.
"I don't recall including your state of mind in that sentence." Sherlock pushed lightly at his shoulder until John rolled off, sprawling out on the sheet. Fucking hell, he was wrecked, wasn't he. The dampness at his crotch was cooling somewhat unpleasantly. Denim was a brilliant wear when dry. Wet it was like dragging soggy sandpaper across the skin.
"Even your boots, John?" Sherlock sounded terribly disapproving. What a shame that John was too drunk to care, wasn't it?
"Boots," he agreed blurrily. One should agree with the bloke you just shagged, he supposed. Or, lacking an actual shag, they had just shared a bodily fluid or two. Close enough for spitting, not that there had been any of that
Drink and orgasm were conspiring against him and John was already drifting by the time he felt cool, familiar hands easing his boots off, only barely grumbled a protest as they tugged his jeans free pitilessly.
In the end, it turned out to be worth it, John bare as a babe with an equally naked body against his own and it just so happened he was right fond of that other body. Particularly when it was naked. John didn't usually sleep that way himself, years of being a doctor added in to more years in the military and sleeping bare-arsed was an excellent way to end up naked in surgery. Right now, though, with a fresh sheet drifting down to cover him and Sherlock sliding in to snug up behind, it was a little slice of brilliant, and he would owe Mike Stamford a pint every time they went out for the rest of his life for giving him this.
"Get some sleep, John," Sherlock murmured against the back of his head, close enough to his ear that John could hear it. "Just as a warning, I'm going to fuck you in the morning so you'd best hope this is one of those nights you aren't prone to a hangover."
"Mmmhmm," John mumbled and some part of his brain was aware that agreeing to things from Sherlock when one was mostly asleep was never a good idea.
Ah, well. He'd find out tomorrow, wouldn't he?
They could deal with it then.
-Finis-