Sherlock100 42/100 #52 Fire
Title: The Candle Light Affair
Characters: Sherlock/John
Prompt: Hot wax kink. John holding a candle over Sherlock's chest and thighs, watching him squirm as the hot wax drips down his skin...
Word Count (if fiction): 700
Rating: R
Summary: A silent flicker from the corner of his eye reminds John of the candle and the red wax.
Spoilers: First season
Warnings: Not terribly graphic sex, but sex nonetheless
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock or John
My table: http://marill-chan.livejournal.com/4488.html
Grasping for a handful of the comforter, he lifts his chin towards the ceiling and presses his eyes shut tight. The only light in the room is from the burning red candle which is sitting on the beside table accruing wax for the next bit of foreplay. They are both completely naked, their clothes long forgotten on the floor, the warmth of their garments replaced my hot kisses and fumbling hands. Now Sherlock has been subdued by John’s roguish strength and he lays compliantly on his back as his partner lovingly sketches his body with lips and fingertips, especially on hard muscles and sharp bones.
Hushed tones remind Sherlock that he is loved, that he is beautiful and brilliant. A silent flicker from the corner of his eye reminds John of the candle and the red wax. Rocking back to rest on his calves, John takes the candle in his hand and rubs his other over the pale, perfect canvas before him.
“So gorgeous,” he says in awe. He tips the candle experimentally above Sherlock’s pronounced hip bone. A pinch of wax splatters there, burning for a few seconds before it hardens. Sherlock’s face shifts downward to watch, even as the rest of him remains still and expectant.
John’s arm stretches upward, the candle still tipped, and it leaves a long, thin line of wax from Sherlock’s groin to his throat. Sherlock’s breath shudders and he exhales through his mouth as he waits out the pain. When the trail of wax has had a chance to harden over his skin, some of it seeping into pores and conforming to his shape, Sherlock is keening for more of the blissful pain. John’s fingers are occupied at the base of Sherlock’s cock, twisting up and down the shaft, his thumb running over the head so softly, almost torturously so. He holds the candle back upright so more wax can gather around the wick and he leans forward, still stroking Sherlock’s erection, keeping the candle out by his side and steady as a gun, and he presses his lips against Sherlock’s open mouth. Sherlock moans into John’s throat, needy and drunk with sensation.
Every kiss is desperate; every stroke of John’s hand conveys his desire. Sherlock wills himself away from the edge of pleasure, strains against the assault of impending orgasm, trying to make it last, trying to get John to drip more of the liquid heat over him. John sees his predicament and for a few moments, he strokes faster and kisses harder, just to drive the man wild, just for him. He stops with only a few seconds to spare. Sherlock manages to catch himself and he is panting. He confesses his adoration for John, like a guilty man telling his sins, like a criminal finding relief for his conscience. John moves to Sherlock’s chin, kissing there and then going further down to draw out a purple mark from Sherlock’s neck.
John leans himself back to resting on his shins and knees and then carefully lets the wax drip from the candle once more, this time over Sherlock’s thighs, the red fluid running down the sides of Sherlock’s legs and onto the bed, and thickening around coarse hair. Sherlock’s fingers twist into the comforter and he bites his lip as the wax runs down towards more sensitive areas. John goes back to stroking.
All the wax has been spent once more, and John sets the glistening candle back on the bedside table, his full attention gone back to Sherlock’s erection, Sherlock’s hips, his chest and his mouth. The thought of his come mixing with the hardening red wax sends Sherlock’s into waves of orgasm at last. John moans as Sherlock does, taking almost as much pleasure in the release. Sherlock stays perfectly immobile for minutes afterwards, his body a work of art, a painting gifted to him by his lover. John’s hand rests on Sherlock’s shoulder as he lays beside him, his legs giving out from holding their position for so long. They forget about the candle, which eventually flickers out and leaves them. John’s fingers start to compulsively chip away the wax covering Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock allows it. They fall asleep, John’s fingers stretched across Sherlock’s thin frame, and Sherlock half-covered in cooled wax.
Characters: Sherlock/John
Prompt: Hot wax kink. John holding a candle over Sherlock's chest and thighs, watching him squirm as the hot wax drips down his skin...
Word Count (if fiction): 700
Rating: R
Summary: A silent flicker from the corner of his eye reminds John of the candle and the red wax.
Spoilers: First season
Warnings: Not terribly graphic sex, but sex nonetheless
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock or John
My table: http://marill-chan.livejournal.com/4488.html
Grasping for a handful of the comforter, he lifts his chin towards the ceiling and presses his eyes shut tight. The only light in the room is from the burning red candle which is sitting on the beside table accruing wax for the next bit of foreplay. They are both completely naked, their clothes long forgotten on the floor, the warmth of their garments replaced my hot kisses and fumbling hands. Now Sherlock has been subdued by John’s roguish strength and he lays compliantly on his back as his partner lovingly sketches his body with lips and fingertips, especially on hard muscles and sharp bones.
Hushed tones remind Sherlock that he is loved, that he is beautiful and brilliant. A silent flicker from the corner of his eye reminds John of the candle and the red wax. Rocking back to rest on his calves, John takes the candle in his hand and rubs his other over the pale, perfect canvas before him.
“So gorgeous,” he says in awe. He tips the candle experimentally above Sherlock’s pronounced hip bone. A pinch of wax splatters there, burning for a few seconds before it hardens. Sherlock’s face shifts downward to watch, even as the rest of him remains still and expectant.
John’s arm stretches upward, the candle still tipped, and it leaves a long, thin line of wax from Sherlock’s groin to his throat. Sherlock’s breath shudders and he exhales through his mouth as he waits out the pain. When the trail of wax has had a chance to harden over his skin, some of it seeping into pores and conforming to his shape, Sherlock is keening for more of the blissful pain. John’s fingers are occupied at the base of Sherlock’s cock, twisting up and down the shaft, his thumb running over the head so softly, almost torturously so. He holds the candle back upright so more wax can gather around the wick and he leans forward, still stroking Sherlock’s erection, keeping the candle out by his side and steady as a gun, and he presses his lips against Sherlock’s open mouth. Sherlock moans into John’s throat, needy and drunk with sensation.
Every kiss is desperate; every stroke of John’s hand conveys his desire. Sherlock wills himself away from the edge of pleasure, strains against the assault of impending orgasm, trying to make it last, trying to get John to drip more of the liquid heat over him. John sees his predicament and for a few moments, he strokes faster and kisses harder, just to drive the man wild, just for him. He stops with only a few seconds to spare. Sherlock manages to catch himself and he is panting. He confesses his adoration for John, like a guilty man telling his sins, like a criminal finding relief for his conscience. John moves to Sherlock’s chin, kissing there and then going further down to draw out a purple mark from Sherlock’s neck.
John leans himself back to resting on his shins and knees and then carefully lets the wax drip from the candle once more, this time over Sherlock’s thighs, the red fluid running down the sides of Sherlock’s legs and onto the bed, and thickening around coarse hair. Sherlock’s fingers twist into the comforter and he bites his lip as the wax runs down towards more sensitive areas. John goes back to stroking.
All the wax has been spent once more, and John sets the glistening candle back on the bedside table, his full attention gone back to Sherlock’s erection, Sherlock’s hips, his chest and his mouth. The thought of his come mixing with the hardening red wax sends Sherlock’s into waves of orgasm at last. John moans as Sherlock does, taking almost as much pleasure in the release. Sherlock stays perfectly immobile for minutes afterwards, his body a work of art, a painting gifted to him by his lover. John’s hand rests on Sherlock’s shoulder as he lays beside him, his legs giving out from holding their position for so long. They forget about the candle, which eventually flickers out and leaves them. John’s fingers start to compulsively chip away the wax covering Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock allows it. They fall asleep, John’s fingers stretched across Sherlock’s thin frame, and Sherlock half-covered in cooled wax.