Fic: Bikini: Extended Edition
Title: Bikini: Extended Edition
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Crossdressing, crack, flagrant abuse of swimwear
Word Count: 2500
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: 'This morning I woke up to find Sherlock in my bikini'
AN: I was doing 'finish the sentence' prompts the other day and this one got a little out of hand. I was going to leave it to languish in comments forever. But no, sod it, I'm going to put it up here. 2500 words of hastily written crossdressing swimwear crack. miya_tenaka I blame you for everything <3
It came free with a magazine. John can't remember for the life of him why he originally bought the magazine. Possibly Sherlock needed one of the articles to match someone's nail polish to a crime scene. Or maybe he matched the typeface to a threatening letter or something. Either way, it came free, in a little plastic packet sellotaped to the cover.
It's just a basic sort of bikini, bright red, long dangly ties to hold it together. John had torn it off and tossed it across his room. Then completely forgotten about it
He doesn't expect - he doesn't expect to wake up one completely average Monday morning and find Sherlock wearing it.
He's standing in the middle of the flat, in the process of tying the dangly ties into perfect neat little bows either side of his hips.
John wonders for a very long minute whether he's still asleep.
Eventually he decides that he's not.
"Why are you wearing a bikini?" Why does John's voice sound so far away?
Sherlock swivels on bare feet and eyeballs him.
"Good, you're up, come here."
"What?" John's lost all understanding of the English language. Because that makes no sense at all.
He feels like this is the sort of moment where he should know things. There are important things which he thinks he should know right now. Before things become awkward.
Sherlock leans over just a little, and the bikini top shifts in confusing ways.
Then there are narrow fingers on John's wrist and suddenly he's a lot closer to Sherlock-in-a-bikini. Probably too close, much too close.
He may be accidentally staring.
...
He's aroused.
Oh god, John's actually genuinely and inappropriately aroused.
And it's all Sherlock's fault.
He tells himself not to look down.
Don't look down.
Don't look -
Nrgh.
Sherlock turns around and John's left with the barely adequate stretch of red fabric across his arse and the long dangling tie trailing from the back of his neck that flitters about Sherlock's waist and spine like some sort of dangerous snake.
John wants to move it, wants to touch it - do something with it. Possibly just make it stop swishing back and forth.
Sherlock's saying something, which is probably important. But John doesn't have a clue what it is. He should probably go back to his room and - go back to his room.
"Sherlock, I don't think -"
Sherlock completely ignores his mental breakdown and tugs him forward a little.
"Yes, you're doing a marvellous job of hiding your completely unexpected arousal - flattering, really, and interesting - might be useful as well, more authentic."
"More authentic for what?" John asks numbly.
Sherlock reaches down, picks something up and tosses it at him.
When John turns it round he realises he's holding a bottle of suntan lotion.
His brain, which had been doing an admirable job of managing to function, skids off somewhere confusing.
"Sherlock," he tries, and his voice is dry and cracked and pathetic. He's trying to work out how to say 'I can't rub lotion on your mostly naked body because I'm having a sexual identity crisis.' If he's not careful he's probably just going to blurt that out.
But Sherlock is already slithering his way down to the floor, arms folded, red dangly fabric ties curving and sliding across his waist.
John does nothing but stare for a moment. Mostly at things he's certain he shouldn’t be staring at.
"John?" There's irritated impatience there.
John sighs and shuffles closer. "This isn't exactly how I pictured spending the morning. I thought I'd have coffee, maybe some toast, read the paper."
"Boring," Sherlock mutters into his own arm.
John stares at the hand holding the bottle of lotion, and the mad genius currently wearing a bikini on the floor of their flat.
"You do realise you probably couldn't be boring if you tried?"
Sherlock snorts, which sounds a lot like mockery, even though John meant it as an honest compliment.
John's done this before, obviously, he knows the logistics. And granted Sherlock has all the straps in the right places (or where the right places should be at least) but it all seems suddenly more confusing than it has any right to.
More...
Just more.
"What exactly am I doing here - I mean obviously I know what I'm doing - you want me to just put it on you?"
"Just do what you'd do normally," Sherlock says.
"Right," John mutters, because of course Sherlock would be completely unhelpful. Nothing about this is normal, really.
He upends the bottle and isn't surprised at all to find out that Sherlock has acquired expensive suntan lotion that smells like something exotic. He rubs it between his fingers until it's warm.
Though Sherlock probably doesn't deserve it.
Sherlock's warm under his fingers, he can't have been undressed long, just long enough to work his strangely long limbs into the bikini. For whatever purpose he originally intended. If he'd had a purpose, maybe this is just something Sherlock does because he's Sherlock.
Maybe every last Monday in a month Sherlock puts on a bikini and demands his flatmate oil him up.
And he hates his brain for phrasing it like that.
Hates it.
He flounders for a moment, wondering where to start touching. Where it would be safe to start touching. If anything about this can be considered 'safe.' He settles for Sherlock's shoulders, that's fairly neutral territory. He's touched Sherlock's arms before, and this is almost like a massage, just long, stroking lines, the mindless press and push of expensive lotion along Sherlock's slender arms and across his sharp shoulders.
Moving down is something of a problem.
It's impossible to ignore exactly what he's doing then. Because his fingers drift under the dangling ties of the bikini top, smoothing lotion over the curve of Sherlock's back until John's throat is completely dry and he's hard enough to feel the heavy constriction of his own jeans. Holding in a groan when the sensation of Sherlock's slippery naked skin gets a little too much.
God, this is all Sherlock's fault.
When John falls down to the shallow of Sherlock's spine he tries to do it quickly and cleanly without thinking about it. Which is difficult, because his fingertips keep sneaking under the waist of the briefs and threatening to skim across the top of Sherlock's arse.
He forces himself to stop, decides that he'll move down to Sherlock's legs, legs are safe. Then after that he can go back to his room, lock the door and fuck his own fist so hard he sees stars. He won't even care that Sherlock will know, that he'll probably be able to hear him.
And then they will never mention this again.
Five minutes later John comes to the conclusion he's an idiot. Because he realises that he's been sliding his hand up and down Sherlock's thigh for the past few minutes for no other reason than the shivery little spike of lust he gets when his thumb shifts under the elastic of the bikini briefs.
So, yes, John has apparently failed dramatically at pretending he's not getting off on this, on the way Sherlock hasn't protested, doesn’t protest when he decides 'to hell with it' and lets his entire thumb shifts under the briefs, lets it curl round the barely-there curve of his arse.
John's so hard now that's it's useless worrying whether he should be ashamed about it. So hard there's probably no way he could make it upstairs. It's a twinge of discomfort every time he leans forward. But he can't stop. God help him he can't stop.
He's almost daring Sherlock to comment now. Because the idea that this area doesn’t already have enough lotion on it is fooling no one. He slides in further, a thumb and two fingers under that tight stretch of red fabric.
Sherlock's skin is shiny and warm and the whole flat smells like expensive suntan lotion and possibly guilt. Sherlock is still completely silent, not saying a word under the increasingly daring slides and digs of his fingers.
John wonders what it would take, what Sherlock would protest.
Whether he would protest anything?
Or just let John do whatever the hell he wanted in the name of experimentation.
His fingers dig in, just a little.
"Sherlock?" John's voice shakes all the way out.
"Hmm?" Sherlock still sounds perfectly relaxed, like he hasn't noticed John's obviously non-scientific approach to suntan lotion application.
John's leans over, just a little.
"I'm either going to stop doing this and go back upstairs, or I'm going to fuck you." He doesn't quite mean to be that honest, and it sounds obscene phrased like that. But he suspects now would really not be a good time for them to get confused. "It's your choice."
His thumb is still rolling a scandalous path down the crease of Sherlock's arse. They're half way to obscene already - probably already there.
Sherlock doesn't say a word, but his thighs part further in answer, slowly, pointedly.
John swears under his breath and on the next slow slide of his thumb, he lets it push inside. It's slippery enough to sink in easily, to leave John's teeth in his lower lip at how much he suddenly wants to drag the bikini bottoms sideways and just push in.
"Get up on your knees," John growls.
Sherlock inhales sharply through his nose and unfolds his hands. He lays them flat on the floor, pushing back. Until he's fully upright and his hands are loose at his sides. He's so damn tall. John's other arm ends up round his waist, fingertips sliding down to find the waist of the briefs.
John finds something he's not sure he expected, something that makes him groan and press a shaky kiss against the curve of Sherlock's shoulder. Because he's hard, all the way hard, cock a tight, curved line where it's still mostly held in the briefs.
"Oh, god, do you have any idea what you look like, any idea how much I want you?"
"Yes," Sherlock says, low and vicious like he knows exactly what he's been doing to John.
John tugs the bikini bottoms to one side, thumb still shifting in and out of Sherlock in a way that's threatening every ounce of control he has.
"Tell me you want this," he demands. "Tell me I can do this."
"If you don't, I will go out and find someone who will," Sherlock growls out. It's an idle threat and John knows it, but god, god. The thought of it has his hand fisting in Sherlock's hair and tugging his head back. Which gets him a noise, quietly strangled, and that destroys any hope of this not getting out of hand.
So fucking out of hand.
The lotion's still close enough that John doesn't have to stop touching Sherlock when he reaches for it, though he gets a long streak of it on the carpet in his impatience.
Sherlock's so impossibly slippery and it's easy, far too easy to get two fingers into him. The noise he makes, broken and shocked, like he hasn't - doesn't - John can't even make sentences in his own head. It's probably too soon before he presses in with three, working Sherlock open in rough pushes that are more half-drunk arousal and desperation than care.
He'll feel guilty about that later, when Sherlock isn't pushing back into his hand and making demanding noises that vibrate through his back into John's cheek.
John's fairly sure he rips the button off his jeans getting them open and down over his hips.
He holds the material of the briefs to one side when he pulls back on Sherlock's waist, urges him back into his lap, until he's positioned just right. Sherlock's own weight pushes him down onto his cock.
John's fingers grip his waist - too hard - leave the skin slippery, fingertips dragging over his hipbones where they curve close to the surface.
He tries, desperately, to remember how to breathe.
Sherlock's the one making the noises now, stunned little gasps of air and a low hiss that tells John maybe he didn't spend quite long enough stretching him out. But Sherlock keeps going, keeps pushing until he's sat back in John's lap, all spread thighs and bare skin and insane tightness. John's hand slides up his chest, finds the material of the top, fine fabric and dangling ties and he pushes one side up, shoves his hand underneath.
"John."
John bites into Sherlock's shoulder at the choked sound of his own name, and very slowly pushes up, the slow roll of it leaving Sherlock's next breath caught in his throat.
He's so fucking slippery in John's hands, thighs tensing and relaxing when John carefully urges him to move. Biting down on the greedy urge to just push him where he can take whatever he wants. But Sherlock is a fast learner, there's barely a minute of awkwardness before he's moving. Quick, little shoves of his hips and John's swearing, one hand on his waist the other still pushed under the bikini top, face turned into the dark curls of Sherlock's hair.
"You're going to make me come," John says helplessly.
Sherlock shudders and growls and pushes back hard enough that John can feel the sparking echoes of it all the way through him.
Oh, yeah, this has completely gotten out of hand.
He presses his face deeper into Sherlock's hair.
"God, you're so much, always so much, want to push you down, want to fuck you so hard -"
Sherlock grunts, snatches John's hand off his waist pulls it forward, wraps both around the hard jut of his cock. John doesn’t have to be told twice and he follows Sherlock's rhythm, short, quick pulls that leave Sherlock making noises like he can't think at all.
The slow, uneven pushes of Sherlock's hips turn greedy, verging on rough, and John's leg is burning in quiet, angry pain. The material of the briefs is cutting into his fingers but he doesn't even care. Not when Sherlock gasps every time John's breath flares across throat. Not when he's a long line of tightness and movement and skin that John knows at some point he'll have to stop touching. But not yet - fuck - not yet.
Sherlock comes first, nails digging into John's thigh, noise making it half way out of his throat before John's hand is wet and Sherlock is all shake and tightness and pleasure.
John can't hold it under the extra stimulation. He comes on a groan, face buried, arm tight around Sherlock's waist.
Fucking best idea ever.
Sherlock goes dead weight, breath rushing out of him, thighs completely slack. He's gasping quietly, like he hadn't been as prepared as he'd thought for any of that.
John holds him in his lap, smoothes hair out of his face and strokes the skin of his waist until his breathing slows.
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Crossdressing, crack, flagrant abuse of swimwear
Word Count: 2500
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: 'This morning I woke up to find Sherlock in my bikini'
AN: I was doing 'finish the sentence' prompts the other day and this one got a little out of hand. I was going to leave it to languish in comments forever. But no, sod it, I'm going to put it up here. 2500 words of hastily written crossdressing swimwear crack. miya_tenaka I blame you for everything <3
It came free with a magazine. John can't remember for the life of him why he originally bought the magazine. Possibly Sherlock needed one of the articles to match someone's nail polish to a crime scene. Or maybe he matched the typeface to a threatening letter or something. Either way, it came free, in a little plastic packet sellotaped to the cover.
It's just a basic sort of bikini, bright red, long dangly ties to hold it together. John had torn it off and tossed it across his room. Then completely forgotten about it
He doesn't expect - he doesn't expect to wake up one completely average Monday morning and find Sherlock wearing it.
He's standing in the middle of the flat, in the process of tying the dangly ties into perfect neat little bows either side of his hips.
John wonders for a very long minute whether he's still asleep.
Eventually he decides that he's not.
"Why are you wearing a bikini?" Why does John's voice sound so far away?
Sherlock swivels on bare feet and eyeballs him.
"Good, you're up, come here."
"What?" John's lost all understanding of the English language. Because that makes no sense at all.
He feels like this is the sort of moment where he should know things. There are important things which he thinks he should know right now. Before things become awkward.
Sherlock leans over just a little, and the bikini top shifts in confusing ways.
Then there are narrow fingers on John's wrist and suddenly he's a lot closer to Sherlock-in-a-bikini. Probably too close, much too close.
He may be accidentally staring.
...
He's aroused.
Oh god, John's actually genuinely and inappropriately aroused.
And it's all Sherlock's fault.
He tells himself not to look down.
Don't look down.
Don't look -
Nrgh.
Sherlock turns around and John's left with the barely adequate stretch of red fabric across his arse and the long dangling tie trailing from the back of his neck that flitters about Sherlock's waist and spine like some sort of dangerous snake.
John wants to move it, wants to touch it - do something with it. Possibly just make it stop swishing back and forth.
Sherlock's saying something, which is probably important. But John doesn't have a clue what it is. He should probably go back to his room and - go back to his room.
"Sherlock, I don't think -"
Sherlock completely ignores his mental breakdown and tugs him forward a little.
"Yes, you're doing a marvellous job of hiding your completely unexpected arousal - flattering, really, and interesting - might be useful as well, more authentic."
"More authentic for what?" John asks numbly.
Sherlock reaches down, picks something up and tosses it at him.
When John turns it round he realises he's holding a bottle of suntan lotion.
His brain, which had been doing an admirable job of managing to function, skids off somewhere confusing.
"Sherlock," he tries, and his voice is dry and cracked and pathetic. He's trying to work out how to say 'I can't rub lotion on your mostly naked body because I'm having a sexual identity crisis.' If he's not careful he's probably just going to blurt that out.
But Sherlock is already slithering his way down to the floor, arms folded, red dangly fabric ties curving and sliding across his waist.
John does nothing but stare for a moment. Mostly at things he's certain he shouldn’t be staring at.
"John?" There's irritated impatience there.
John sighs and shuffles closer. "This isn't exactly how I pictured spending the morning. I thought I'd have coffee, maybe some toast, read the paper."
"Boring," Sherlock mutters into his own arm.
John stares at the hand holding the bottle of lotion, and the mad genius currently wearing a bikini on the floor of their flat.
"You do realise you probably couldn't be boring if you tried?"
Sherlock snorts, which sounds a lot like mockery, even though John meant it as an honest compliment.
John's done this before, obviously, he knows the logistics. And granted Sherlock has all the straps in the right places (or where the right places should be at least) but it all seems suddenly more confusing than it has any right to.
More...
Just more.
"What exactly am I doing here - I mean obviously I know what I'm doing - you want me to just put it on you?"
"Just do what you'd do normally," Sherlock says.
"Right," John mutters, because of course Sherlock would be completely unhelpful. Nothing about this is normal, really.
He upends the bottle and isn't surprised at all to find out that Sherlock has acquired expensive suntan lotion that smells like something exotic. He rubs it between his fingers until it's warm.
Though Sherlock probably doesn't deserve it.
Sherlock's warm under his fingers, he can't have been undressed long, just long enough to work his strangely long limbs into the bikini. For whatever purpose he originally intended. If he'd had a purpose, maybe this is just something Sherlock does because he's Sherlock.
Maybe every last Monday in a month Sherlock puts on a bikini and demands his flatmate oil him up.
And he hates his brain for phrasing it like that.
Hates it.
He flounders for a moment, wondering where to start touching. Where it would be safe to start touching. If anything about this can be considered 'safe.' He settles for Sherlock's shoulders, that's fairly neutral territory. He's touched Sherlock's arms before, and this is almost like a massage, just long, stroking lines, the mindless press and push of expensive lotion along Sherlock's slender arms and across his sharp shoulders.
Moving down is something of a problem.
It's impossible to ignore exactly what he's doing then. Because his fingers drift under the dangling ties of the bikini top, smoothing lotion over the curve of Sherlock's back until John's throat is completely dry and he's hard enough to feel the heavy constriction of his own jeans. Holding in a groan when the sensation of Sherlock's slippery naked skin gets a little too much.
God, this is all Sherlock's fault.
When John falls down to the shallow of Sherlock's spine he tries to do it quickly and cleanly without thinking about it. Which is difficult, because his fingertips keep sneaking under the waist of the briefs and threatening to skim across the top of Sherlock's arse.
He forces himself to stop, decides that he'll move down to Sherlock's legs, legs are safe. Then after that he can go back to his room, lock the door and fuck his own fist so hard he sees stars. He won't even care that Sherlock will know, that he'll probably be able to hear him.
And then they will never mention this again.
Five minutes later John comes to the conclusion he's an idiot. Because he realises that he's been sliding his hand up and down Sherlock's thigh for the past few minutes for no other reason than the shivery little spike of lust he gets when his thumb shifts under the elastic of the bikini briefs.
So, yes, John has apparently failed dramatically at pretending he's not getting off on this, on the way Sherlock hasn't protested, doesn’t protest when he decides 'to hell with it' and lets his entire thumb shifts under the briefs, lets it curl round the barely-there curve of his arse.
John's so hard now that's it's useless worrying whether he should be ashamed about it. So hard there's probably no way he could make it upstairs. It's a twinge of discomfort every time he leans forward. But he can't stop. God help him he can't stop.
He's almost daring Sherlock to comment now. Because the idea that this area doesn’t already have enough lotion on it is fooling no one. He slides in further, a thumb and two fingers under that tight stretch of red fabric.
Sherlock's skin is shiny and warm and the whole flat smells like expensive suntan lotion and possibly guilt. Sherlock is still completely silent, not saying a word under the increasingly daring slides and digs of his fingers.
John wonders what it would take, what Sherlock would protest.
Whether he would protest anything?
Or just let John do whatever the hell he wanted in the name of experimentation.
His fingers dig in, just a little.
"Sherlock?" John's voice shakes all the way out.
"Hmm?" Sherlock still sounds perfectly relaxed, like he hasn't noticed John's obviously non-scientific approach to suntan lotion application.
John's leans over, just a little.
"I'm either going to stop doing this and go back upstairs, or I'm going to fuck you." He doesn't quite mean to be that honest, and it sounds obscene phrased like that. But he suspects now would really not be a good time for them to get confused. "It's your choice."
His thumb is still rolling a scandalous path down the crease of Sherlock's arse. They're half way to obscene already - probably already there.
Sherlock doesn't say a word, but his thighs part further in answer, slowly, pointedly.
John swears under his breath and on the next slow slide of his thumb, he lets it push inside. It's slippery enough to sink in easily, to leave John's teeth in his lower lip at how much he suddenly wants to drag the bikini bottoms sideways and just push in.
"Get up on your knees," John growls.
Sherlock inhales sharply through his nose and unfolds his hands. He lays them flat on the floor, pushing back. Until he's fully upright and his hands are loose at his sides. He's so damn tall. John's other arm ends up round his waist, fingertips sliding down to find the waist of the briefs.
John finds something he's not sure he expected, something that makes him groan and press a shaky kiss against the curve of Sherlock's shoulder. Because he's hard, all the way hard, cock a tight, curved line where it's still mostly held in the briefs.
"Oh, god, do you have any idea what you look like, any idea how much I want you?"
"Yes," Sherlock says, low and vicious like he knows exactly what he's been doing to John.
John tugs the bikini bottoms to one side, thumb still shifting in and out of Sherlock in a way that's threatening every ounce of control he has.
"Tell me you want this," he demands. "Tell me I can do this."
"If you don't, I will go out and find someone who will," Sherlock growls out. It's an idle threat and John knows it, but god, god. The thought of it has his hand fisting in Sherlock's hair and tugging his head back. Which gets him a noise, quietly strangled, and that destroys any hope of this not getting out of hand.
So fucking out of hand.
The lotion's still close enough that John doesn't have to stop touching Sherlock when he reaches for it, though he gets a long streak of it on the carpet in his impatience.
Sherlock's so impossibly slippery and it's easy, far too easy to get two fingers into him. The noise he makes, broken and shocked, like he hasn't - doesn't - John can't even make sentences in his own head. It's probably too soon before he presses in with three, working Sherlock open in rough pushes that are more half-drunk arousal and desperation than care.
He'll feel guilty about that later, when Sherlock isn't pushing back into his hand and making demanding noises that vibrate through his back into John's cheek.
John's fairly sure he rips the button off his jeans getting them open and down over his hips.
He holds the material of the briefs to one side when he pulls back on Sherlock's waist, urges him back into his lap, until he's positioned just right. Sherlock's own weight pushes him down onto his cock.
John's fingers grip his waist - too hard - leave the skin slippery, fingertips dragging over his hipbones where they curve close to the surface.
He tries, desperately, to remember how to breathe.
Sherlock's the one making the noises now, stunned little gasps of air and a low hiss that tells John maybe he didn't spend quite long enough stretching him out. But Sherlock keeps going, keeps pushing until he's sat back in John's lap, all spread thighs and bare skin and insane tightness. John's hand slides up his chest, finds the material of the top, fine fabric and dangling ties and he pushes one side up, shoves his hand underneath.
"John."
John bites into Sherlock's shoulder at the choked sound of his own name, and very slowly pushes up, the slow roll of it leaving Sherlock's next breath caught in his throat.
He's so fucking slippery in John's hands, thighs tensing and relaxing when John carefully urges him to move. Biting down on the greedy urge to just push him where he can take whatever he wants. But Sherlock is a fast learner, there's barely a minute of awkwardness before he's moving. Quick, little shoves of his hips and John's swearing, one hand on his waist the other still pushed under the bikini top, face turned into the dark curls of Sherlock's hair.
"You're going to make me come," John says helplessly.
Sherlock shudders and growls and pushes back hard enough that John can feel the sparking echoes of it all the way through him.
Oh, yeah, this has completely gotten out of hand.
He presses his face deeper into Sherlock's hair.
"God, you're so much, always so much, want to push you down, want to fuck you so hard -"
Sherlock grunts, snatches John's hand off his waist pulls it forward, wraps both around the hard jut of his cock. John doesn’t have to be told twice and he follows Sherlock's rhythm, short, quick pulls that leave Sherlock making noises like he can't think at all.
The slow, uneven pushes of Sherlock's hips turn greedy, verging on rough, and John's leg is burning in quiet, angry pain. The material of the briefs is cutting into his fingers but he doesn't even care. Not when Sherlock gasps every time John's breath flares across throat. Not when he's a long line of tightness and movement and skin that John knows at some point he'll have to stop touching. But not yet - fuck - not yet.
Sherlock comes first, nails digging into John's thigh, noise making it half way out of his throat before John's hand is wet and Sherlock is all shake and tightness and pleasure.
John can't hold it under the extra stimulation. He comes on a groan, face buried, arm tight around Sherlock's waist.
Fucking best idea ever.
Sherlock goes dead weight, breath rushing out of him, thighs completely slack. He's gasping quietly, like he hadn't been as prepared as he'd thought for any of that.
John holds him in his lap, smoothes hair out of his face and strokes the skin of his waist until his breathing slows.