Fic: Armour
Title: Armour
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP
Word Count: 1600
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: The first time they have sex, Sherlock doesn't even take off his coat.
AN: Written for a kink meme prompt
The first time they have sex, Sherlock doesn't even take off his coat.
John's on an adrenaline high and Sherlock's high on his own bloody cleverness, his own stupid, reckless cleverness. John doesn't even mean to - he doesn’t intend to - but the moment the door of the flat thumps shut all that adrenaline just pours out.
First it's words, because words are easy, words are familiar. But the closer Sherlock gets the less words there are. Until there isn't room for any more of them, and Sherlock's mouth is cold from outside, fingers not quite smooth on John's neck and then his mouth is open and the kiss is angry in the same way the words were. But it's better, it's more than better, it's fantastic, and the faintly hysterical part of John's brain that wants to know what the hell he's doing is drowned in white noise.
There's briefly, jarringly, a moment where there are disturbing similarities to another situation - another time and another place when Sherlock saw fit to tug his jacket off. But then it's gone, because Sherlock never kissed him then, never crowded him against the wall. There were never gloveless hands pushing up inside his shirt, cold from outside, leaving chilled lines across his ribs and chest, brushing his nipples and stealing all his breath. Sherlock crushes whatever there is left of that memory. Murmuring words into the kiss that sound like 'intolerable' and 'infuriating' and 'mine.'
John's helpless to do anything but grunt agreement while his shirt's stripped down his arms with the sort of determination that Sherlock usually only brings to reluctant experiments and criminals. His shoes get lost somewhere near the chair and John ends up leaning against the wall trying to drag air while Sherlock bites the side of his neck with more enthusiasm than kindness. John hisses in a way that Sherlock seems to think means 'do it again'
Maybe it does.
John's trying to push the heavy coat back off Sherlock's shoulders when one of Sherlock's hands catches both his wrists and moves them over his head, pins them to the wall. His long fingers squeeze hard enough to grate John's wrist bones together. It's a sharp stab of pain which gets cross-wired, goes the wrong way and leaves him hard and gasping.
"Sherlock, fuck, fuck."
There's almost certainly going to be fallout from this - they don't do this - they're not this. John doesn’t know whether it's madness, or adrenaline, or just this nasty habit he's developed of doing what Sherlock says - what he wants - before he's managed to think it through.
Sherlock's free hand is digging inside his jeans, tugging open the button and zip and then pulling everything down. Denim and cotton sliding down John's legs in a series of angry pushes. He has to step out of them before he stumbles and Sherlock kicks the pile away.
It doesn't hit John until then that Sherlock has managed to lose his scarf but he's still wearing everything else, including his damn coat. And John is wearing nothing but one bloody sock. Naked and hard, with nowhere to hide when Sherlock presses in close and pins him there, kisses him once, roughly, before easing away far enough to speak
"You'd let me fuck you like this wouldn't you?" Sherlock's voice isn't even close to as flat as he thinks it is, tone hard and then soft and then breathless.
John inhales sharply, feels both sides of Sherlock's coat slide against his skin. The fingers on his wrists tighten and the pain makes him gasp out Sherlock's name.
Sherlock's close enough that John can feel him breathing, close enough that he's all warmth and soft press of wool.
"Up against the wall, barely any preparation, all need and mindless savagery. You'd like me to take you like that."
John can't stop the noise which makes its way out of his throat, short, choked and desperate. He doesn’t fucking care that he's probably not even close to young enough, or flexible enough, or probably light enough to manage it. That's exactly what he wants.
"Yes - fuck - that, I want that," he bites out.
Sherlock's eyes flash, something bright and sharp and hungry and nothing like John's ever seen before. He lets go of John's hands and they fall, stinging and numb. One of them shoves its way into Sherlock's hair and the other finds the lining inside his first pocket, pulling him in all the way. Sherlock, still fully dressed, presses into him again, hard inside his expensive trousers.
John's kissing him with no finesse at all, groaning into it like Sherlock is actually going to fulfil his promise. His pulse is roaring in his ears and Sherlock's hands won't stay still, sliding and catching on every naked part of John they find. Greedy and fascinated.
"Turn around." It's not a request.
John groans shakily and obeys, possibly against his better judgement. There's a strange pause, sweat cooling on his skin and then Sherlock's palm is flat on his back, smoothing up and then down. His hand vanishes, then comes back with the fingers slippery and John's breath rushes out loud and ragged. He has no idea where Sherlock got lubrication, probably one of the many pockets of his coat. John manages his name, syllables strung-out like a plea when Sherlock pushes a finger inside him.
It slides in deep and John's head hits the wall with a gentle thud, breath coming back hot and damp onto his face.
"Sherlock."
There's a slow, hard push that leaves him groaning, fingers pressed into the wall.
"Touch yourself."
John gasps, hand dropping instantly to curl around the hardness of his dick, all weight and warmth and desperate need to be touched. He hisses and strokes himself, enough to satisfy the ache, but not enough to lose the sensation of being penetrated.
Sherlock fingers him slowly, curiously, watching the way he reacts, the way his hips twitch and his breathing goes short and messy. The way he tightens around his fingers and groans.
"I want to fuck you." The admission is soft, guilty almost. But there's a shade of accusation there too. Something harsh in the depth of his voice.
"Oh Jesus." John squeezes himself and breathes against the wall, all desperate hot flares of breath at the sound of a zip and the slow drift of heavy material against the back of his legs.
Sherlock's urging him up onto his toes in a way that he knows he won't be able to manage for long. Insane, insane, fucking insane - and then there's hard pressure against where he's barely lubricated, steady and uncomfortable and insistent. He groans and presses his forehead into the wall and tries to relax into it. This is going to hurt, if not now then later and he's an idiot for letting Sherlock do this. For encouraging him with low, desperate panting breaths and soft words and noises. John's an idiot for not letting anything like common sense stop him.
"I'm not going to be able to hold this position for long," he warns and his voice comes out thready and soft. Like Sherlock has wrecked him already.
Sherlock says his name, stunned and more than a little desperate, as if he can't quite believe John's letting him do this. John groans and laughs breathlessly into the ugly wallpaper because he doesn't even know how they got here. It's all a blur of desperate arousal and Sherlock's quiet demands. None of which John refused. John can feel the sharp grip of Sherlock's fingers round his waist, they slip and slide between there and the curve of his thigh. John gets the impression Sherlock wants to watch what he's doing, wants to watch John take him, and the position is frustrating him.
Sherlock's other hand is spread on the wall, pale fingers digging in. The open sides of his coat slide ticklishly against John's sides and the curve of his hip. The fact that Sherlock is still completely dressed, that John's the one stripped naked and pinned and fucked, it makes all the words catch in his throat and stay there. There's nothing but the greedy, naked want of it all. The slow, driving thrusts that are opening him up in a way that's reckless and shameless and far, far too intimate. They hover just on the edge of painful, and it isn't until then that John realises he's saying Sherlock's name too, over and over.
His leg hurts and he doesn’t even care because he's so close, so fucking close that he can feel it, the heavy, tight weight of it and he's gasping and pushing back, hand working on himself too quick and too hard.
He's going to come and judging by the impatient hard-edged rhythm swaying his body into the wall Sherlock won't be too far behind.
God he doesn’t want this to end - but just like that it does. John swears and gasps, everything suddenly hot and white at the edges and so good he can't breathe. There's wetness sliding down the wall and over his own fingers and he's clenching down around the hard weight inside him. There's a strangled mess of a word breathed into his ear.
Sherlock stills and comes, so deep it feels obscene, all warmth and pressure and John's shaking, palm flat on the wall, forehead rolling there when Sherlock eases out of him and then takes John's weight, coat draped around them both.
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP
Word Count: 1600
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: The first time they have sex, Sherlock doesn't even take off his coat.
AN: Written for a kink meme prompt
The first time they have sex, Sherlock doesn't even take off his coat.
John's on an adrenaline high and Sherlock's high on his own bloody cleverness, his own stupid, reckless cleverness. John doesn't even mean to - he doesn’t intend to - but the moment the door of the flat thumps shut all that adrenaline just pours out.
First it's words, because words are easy, words are familiar. But the closer Sherlock gets the less words there are. Until there isn't room for any more of them, and Sherlock's mouth is cold from outside, fingers not quite smooth on John's neck and then his mouth is open and the kiss is angry in the same way the words were. But it's better, it's more than better, it's fantastic, and the faintly hysterical part of John's brain that wants to know what the hell he's doing is drowned in white noise.
There's briefly, jarringly, a moment where there are disturbing similarities to another situation - another time and another place when Sherlock saw fit to tug his jacket off. But then it's gone, because Sherlock never kissed him then, never crowded him against the wall. There were never gloveless hands pushing up inside his shirt, cold from outside, leaving chilled lines across his ribs and chest, brushing his nipples and stealing all his breath. Sherlock crushes whatever there is left of that memory. Murmuring words into the kiss that sound like 'intolerable' and 'infuriating' and 'mine.'
John's helpless to do anything but grunt agreement while his shirt's stripped down his arms with the sort of determination that Sherlock usually only brings to reluctant experiments and criminals. His shoes get lost somewhere near the chair and John ends up leaning against the wall trying to drag air while Sherlock bites the side of his neck with more enthusiasm than kindness. John hisses in a way that Sherlock seems to think means 'do it again'
Maybe it does.
John's trying to push the heavy coat back off Sherlock's shoulders when one of Sherlock's hands catches both his wrists and moves them over his head, pins them to the wall. His long fingers squeeze hard enough to grate John's wrist bones together. It's a sharp stab of pain which gets cross-wired, goes the wrong way and leaves him hard and gasping.
"Sherlock, fuck, fuck."
There's almost certainly going to be fallout from this - they don't do this - they're not this. John doesn’t know whether it's madness, or adrenaline, or just this nasty habit he's developed of doing what Sherlock says - what he wants - before he's managed to think it through.
Sherlock's free hand is digging inside his jeans, tugging open the button and zip and then pulling everything down. Denim and cotton sliding down John's legs in a series of angry pushes. He has to step out of them before he stumbles and Sherlock kicks the pile away.
It doesn't hit John until then that Sherlock has managed to lose his scarf but he's still wearing everything else, including his damn coat. And John is wearing nothing but one bloody sock. Naked and hard, with nowhere to hide when Sherlock presses in close and pins him there, kisses him once, roughly, before easing away far enough to speak
"You'd let me fuck you like this wouldn't you?" Sherlock's voice isn't even close to as flat as he thinks it is, tone hard and then soft and then breathless.
John inhales sharply, feels both sides of Sherlock's coat slide against his skin. The fingers on his wrists tighten and the pain makes him gasp out Sherlock's name.
Sherlock's close enough that John can feel him breathing, close enough that he's all warmth and soft press of wool.
"Up against the wall, barely any preparation, all need and mindless savagery. You'd like me to take you like that."
John can't stop the noise which makes its way out of his throat, short, choked and desperate. He doesn’t fucking care that he's probably not even close to young enough, or flexible enough, or probably light enough to manage it. That's exactly what he wants.
"Yes - fuck - that, I want that," he bites out.
Sherlock's eyes flash, something bright and sharp and hungry and nothing like John's ever seen before. He lets go of John's hands and they fall, stinging and numb. One of them shoves its way into Sherlock's hair and the other finds the lining inside his first pocket, pulling him in all the way. Sherlock, still fully dressed, presses into him again, hard inside his expensive trousers.
John's kissing him with no finesse at all, groaning into it like Sherlock is actually going to fulfil his promise. His pulse is roaring in his ears and Sherlock's hands won't stay still, sliding and catching on every naked part of John they find. Greedy and fascinated.
"Turn around." It's not a request.
John groans shakily and obeys, possibly against his better judgement. There's a strange pause, sweat cooling on his skin and then Sherlock's palm is flat on his back, smoothing up and then down. His hand vanishes, then comes back with the fingers slippery and John's breath rushes out loud and ragged. He has no idea where Sherlock got lubrication, probably one of the many pockets of his coat. John manages his name, syllables strung-out like a plea when Sherlock pushes a finger inside him.
It slides in deep and John's head hits the wall with a gentle thud, breath coming back hot and damp onto his face.
"Sherlock."
There's a slow, hard push that leaves him groaning, fingers pressed into the wall.
"Touch yourself."
John gasps, hand dropping instantly to curl around the hardness of his dick, all weight and warmth and desperate need to be touched. He hisses and strokes himself, enough to satisfy the ache, but not enough to lose the sensation of being penetrated.
Sherlock fingers him slowly, curiously, watching the way he reacts, the way his hips twitch and his breathing goes short and messy. The way he tightens around his fingers and groans.
"I want to fuck you." The admission is soft, guilty almost. But there's a shade of accusation there too. Something harsh in the depth of his voice.
"Oh Jesus." John squeezes himself and breathes against the wall, all desperate hot flares of breath at the sound of a zip and the slow drift of heavy material against the back of his legs.
Sherlock's urging him up onto his toes in a way that he knows he won't be able to manage for long. Insane, insane, fucking insane - and then there's hard pressure against where he's barely lubricated, steady and uncomfortable and insistent. He groans and presses his forehead into the wall and tries to relax into it. This is going to hurt, if not now then later and he's an idiot for letting Sherlock do this. For encouraging him with low, desperate panting breaths and soft words and noises. John's an idiot for not letting anything like common sense stop him.
"I'm not going to be able to hold this position for long," he warns and his voice comes out thready and soft. Like Sherlock has wrecked him already.
Sherlock says his name, stunned and more than a little desperate, as if he can't quite believe John's letting him do this. John groans and laughs breathlessly into the ugly wallpaper because he doesn't even know how they got here. It's all a blur of desperate arousal and Sherlock's quiet demands. None of which John refused. John can feel the sharp grip of Sherlock's fingers round his waist, they slip and slide between there and the curve of his thigh. John gets the impression Sherlock wants to watch what he's doing, wants to watch John take him, and the position is frustrating him.
Sherlock's other hand is spread on the wall, pale fingers digging in. The open sides of his coat slide ticklishly against John's sides and the curve of his hip. The fact that Sherlock is still completely dressed, that John's the one stripped naked and pinned and fucked, it makes all the words catch in his throat and stay there. There's nothing but the greedy, naked want of it all. The slow, driving thrusts that are opening him up in a way that's reckless and shameless and far, far too intimate. They hover just on the edge of painful, and it isn't until then that John realises he's saying Sherlock's name too, over and over.
His leg hurts and he doesn’t even care because he's so close, so fucking close that he can feel it, the heavy, tight weight of it and he's gasping and pushing back, hand working on himself too quick and too hard.
He's going to come and judging by the impatient hard-edged rhythm swaying his body into the wall Sherlock won't be too far behind.
God he doesn’t want this to end - but just like that it does. John swears and gasps, everything suddenly hot and white at the edges and so good he can't breathe. There's wetness sliding down the wall and over his own fingers and he's clenching down around the hard weight inside him. There's a strangled mess of a word breathed into his ear.
Sherlock stills and comes, so deep it feels obscene, all warmth and pressure and John's shaking, palm flat on the wall, forehead rolling there when Sherlock eases out of him and then takes John's weight, coat draped around them both.