FIC: Catalogue 1/1 (Sherlock BBC)
Title: Catalogue
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount: 700
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: Established Relationship, Smut
Warning(s): None
Summary: If they are going to do this, going to have this sex-thing between them, then Sherlock needs data.
Note: Eh, I'm bored. Have some lovely Sherlock-y goodness.
~~*~~
If they are going to do this, going to have this sex-thing between them, and it seems that they are, all evidence points to this continuing, to Sherlock waking mornings and sleeping nights with John Watson bare against him-
If they are doing this, then Sherlock needs data. He needs every shred of information, every piece to the puzzle that is John Watson.
He has catalogued the different ways John smells, from the back of his neck to the inside of his elbow. The small of his back tastes different than the bony curve of his ankle.
His fingertip against Sherlock's tongue is rougher than the thin skin at the lobe of his ear and the sounds John makes vary from throaty groans to startled, hiccoughing laughter when Sherlock buries his face into John's armpit and inhales deeply, identifying faint traces of sweat overlaid thickly with his deodorant. A generic brand, cheap, 95p at the shops, and whenever he smells it, even years from now, slightly changed as the company altered its formula, it will always make him think of John.
The lines that edge his eyes change, vanish when his eyes go wide as Sherlock slides between his spread legs, palming the hard line of his thighs, fingers catching behind his knees and drawing them up. They deepen, tighten, the first time Sherlock pushes inside him, his entire face tightens into something similar to pain and not quite. Sherlock watches, fascinated, the way his face changes with each rock of his hips, more enchanted by every minute alteration in John than with the feel of his own cock moving inside him.
It catches up to him eventually, this sex-thing, this orgasm-chase, his own pleasure spiralling out, tingling up his spine in a match to John's damp gasps, the slick-wet sound of their bodies moving together. Altogether gorgeous, and he categorizes the higher pitch of John's gasps, the increased use of profanity, a garbled mix of pleading and fuck, fuck, hard, s'good, fuck me harder. He extrapolates the closeness of orgasm in comparison to the faint pinch of John's nails digging into his shoulders, he deduces the very instant John is on the edge of coming, the way he goes brutal-tight inside, his knees clenching where they are curled over Sherlock's arms.
He mourns that he can't know the exact temperature of John's semen as it splashes hotly against his chest, four uneven stripes of wet heat against his chest that drip ticklishly downward and he hates the hot, sweet rush of his own orgasm, hates the distraction of coming, and despises the interference of his own sharp moan, overshadowing the moment John's breathing evens out from ragged, desperate gulps of air.
Even so, the disruption of his own climax allows him to collapse slowly down on to John without excuses, cultural norms give him permission to sprawl over John, press his ear against his chest and count the beats of his heart, identifying his pulse rate, determining when it slows. Each deep, rhythmic thump is perfect to his ear.
Sherlock already knows the consistency of John's semen and he can identify his sperm sample with 95% accuracy from a slide. That knowledge doesn't stop him from sliding a hand down John's belly, rubbing his fingers through the tacky, drying streaks.
To his delight, John sighs softly at the touch, one drowsy exhale that is a deviation of his normal post-orgasmic lassitude. A minute change, a slight aberration and it only makes Sherlock want more. He wants to knows every smell, every taste, everything.
"My resting heart rate is about 65 beats per minute," John told him, sleepily, and Sherlock doesn't question the offered information, snatches it greedily and adds it to his mental catalogue. He listens as it slows, as John's breathing alters into sleep, and counts each throb.
-fin
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount: 700
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: Established Relationship, Smut
Warning(s): None
Summary: If they are going to do this, going to have this sex-thing between them, then Sherlock needs data.
Note: Eh, I'm bored. Have some lovely Sherlock-y goodness.
~~*~~
If they are going to do this, going to have this sex-thing between them, and it seems that they are, all evidence points to this continuing, to Sherlock waking mornings and sleeping nights with John Watson bare against him-
If they are doing this, then Sherlock needs data. He needs every shred of information, every piece to the puzzle that is John Watson.
He has catalogued the different ways John smells, from the back of his neck to the inside of his elbow. The small of his back tastes different than the bony curve of his ankle.
His fingertip against Sherlock's tongue is rougher than the thin skin at the lobe of his ear and the sounds John makes vary from throaty groans to startled, hiccoughing laughter when Sherlock buries his face into John's armpit and inhales deeply, identifying faint traces of sweat overlaid thickly with his deodorant. A generic brand, cheap, 95p at the shops, and whenever he smells it, even years from now, slightly changed as the company altered its formula, it will always make him think of John.
The lines that edge his eyes change, vanish when his eyes go wide as Sherlock slides between his spread legs, palming the hard line of his thighs, fingers catching behind his knees and drawing them up. They deepen, tighten, the first time Sherlock pushes inside him, his entire face tightens into something similar to pain and not quite. Sherlock watches, fascinated, the way his face changes with each rock of his hips, more enchanted by every minute alteration in John than with the feel of his own cock moving inside him.
It catches up to him eventually, this sex-thing, this orgasm-chase, his own pleasure spiralling out, tingling up his spine in a match to John's damp gasps, the slick-wet sound of their bodies moving together. Altogether gorgeous, and he categorizes the higher pitch of John's gasps, the increased use of profanity, a garbled mix of pleading and fuck, fuck, hard, s'good, fuck me harder. He extrapolates the closeness of orgasm in comparison to the faint pinch of John's nails digging into his shoulders, he deduces the very instant John is on the edge of coming, the way he goes brutal-tight inside, his knees clenching where they are curled over Sherlock's arms.
He mourns that he can't know the exact temperature of John's semen as it splashes hotly against his chest, four uneven stripes of wet heat against his chest that drip ticklishly downward and he hates the hot, sweet rush of his own orgasm, hates the distraction of coming, and despises the interference of his own sharp moan, overshadowing the moment John's breathing evens out from ragged, desperate gulps of air.
Even so, the disruption of his own climax allows him to collapse slowly down on to John without excuses, cultural norms give him permission to sprawl over John, press his ear against his chest and count the beats of his heart, identifying his pulse rate, determining when it slows. Each deep, rhythmic thump is perfect to his ear.
Sherlock already knows the consistency of John's semen and he can identify his sperm sample with 95% accuracy from a slide. That knowledge doesn't stop him from sliding a hand down John's belly, rubbing his fingers through the tacky, drying streaks.
To his delight, John sighs softly at the touch, one drowsy exhale that is a deviation of his normal post-orgasmic lassitude. A minute change, a slight aberration and it only makes Sherlock want more. He wants to knows every smell, every taste, everything.
"My resting heart rate is about 65 beats per minute," John told him, sleepily, and Sherlock doesn't question the offered information, snatches it greedily and adds it to his mental catalogue. He listens as it slows, as John's breathing alters into sleep, and counts each throb.
-fin