Just a quick fic
This was written for the first challenge of thegameison_sh, and now the results are revealed I can deanon. Now as my friends will know, this month I moved countries, and so I actually wrote this piece just before the deadline. Since I didn't have time to think of much for the prompt, which was "first", I fell back on ... sex. So enjoy this 700ish word jaunt through John's brain... I'd also like to dedicate this to onedergirl29, who is patiently waiting for a fic from me. Soon, my dear, and in the meantime, enjoy this :)
Title: Normal
Rating: 18/NC17 (to be on the safe side)
Warnings: sexual content
It was normal, wasn’t it, to think about - to think about things when you, you know, wanked. Things you wouldn’t normally think about, day to day, that was normal. Didn’t mean you’d really want to do them.
Oh, God.
John breathed out through his nose. It wasn’t normal, no matter what Harry said about how no one was completely straight or gay. John didn’t believe that. It all sounded very nice and plausible coming from Harry, Harry who had known since she was twelve that she liked girls, Harry who had a soft spot for George Clooney (“shouldn’t you like prettier blokes?” he’d asked once, “you know, ones who look more like girls?” and she’d looked at him like he was mental), Harry who might have been scared of telling their parents but had never been scared of being herself. It was alright for her with her English degree and her liberal friends to talk about a “sexuality spectrum” but John knew you were either straight as an arrow or you - weren’t. It was alright for things to happen, sometimes, in the army. People didn’t talk about it but they knew, and it was alright just about to get a handjob from another bloke when there weren’t other options, because it was just about sex, then (and maybe a bit about being lonely but that wasn’t something you admitted to either), but not about being gay. Definitely not.
His erection hurt. Shit, shit. Shouldn’t it go down when he felt like this? Sometimes he thought he got harder when he was embarrassed or ashamed? Sometimes he was worried there was really something wrong with him, that he could have sick crawling doubt in his stomach but still have a hard on when he thought about - But he didn’t let himself think about that when he came. Maybe it wasn’t much of a line, but it was still a line, and it meant he felt alright. And so he pulled down his pyjama bottoms and knocked one off, thinking about Sarah with grim determination. When he came, teeth gritted, it was more relief than pleasure. Now he could go about his day and not think about anything he shouldn’t be thinking about.
Which was all fine, everything was fine. He went to work - lots of people with flu symptoms, definitely not sexy - and he came home and made spag bol, and shouted at Sherlock for spending dinnertime heating up blood in the microwave in ten second bursts (not for the microwaving, just because it was when they were eating - John had learned which battles he could and couldn’t win). It was fine, and he was tired and grumpy enough when he went to bed that he didn’t think of anything except sleep -
- And woke up with his heart pounding with frustration, his own desire shocking him out of his dream. God, God. John curled in on himself in the dark, and his hand found his prick without him really thinking about it. He drew it out through the fly of his pyjama bottoms, and oh fuck, thinking of how it had felt in his dream to be pressed up against him, the feel of Sherlock’s hands on him, his mouth, his mouth -
John came with a strangled sound that he didn’t think to swallow until it was made, and he rolled onto his back. Oh shit, fuck. He was lying here with his hand covered in come and his breath coming in trembling gasps, and he was fucked, wasn’t he? Bloody royally fucked.
At least, John told himself, rolling miserably back onto his side, no one else knew about it, and that thin comfort was about enough to let him go back to sleep.
Sherlock stood silently in the hall for a very long time, until the soft sound of John snoring told him that his flatmate had gone back to sleep. Then he stepped forward, very quietly, and put his hand against the door, fingers resting there for a long moment as his pulse throbbed painfully in his throat. And then, not certain why he had stayed, Sherlock drew back and returned to his own bedroom as quietly as he had left it.
Title: Normal
Rating: 18/NC17 (to be on the safe side)
Warnings: sexual content
It was normal, wasn’t it, to think about - to think about things when you, you know, wanked. Things you wouldn’t normally think about, day to day, that was normal. Didn’t mean you’d really want to do them.
Oh, God.
John breathed out through his nose. It wasn’t normal, no matter what Harry said about how no one was completely straight or gay. John didn’t believe that. It all sounded very nice and plausible coming from Harry, Harry who had known since she was twelve that she liked girls, Harry who had a soft spot for George Clooney (“shouldn’t you like prettier blokes?” he’d asked once, “you know, ones who look more like girls?” and she’d looked at him like he was mental), Harry who might have been scared of telling their parents but had never been scared of being herself. It was alright for her with her English degree and her liberal friends to talk about a “sexuality spectrum” but John knew you were either straight as an arrow or you - weren’t. It was alright for things to happen, sometimes, in the army. People didn’t talk about it but they knew, and it was alright just about to get a handjob from another bloke when there weren’t other options, because it was just about sex, then (and maybe a bit about being lonely but that wasn’t something you admitted to either), but not about being gay. Definitely not.
His erection hurt. Shit, shit. Shouldn’t it go down when he felt like this? Sometimes he thought he got harder when he was embarrassed or ashamed? Sometimes he was worried there was really something wrong with him, that he could have sick crawling doubt in his stomach but still have a hard on when he thought about - But he didn’t let himself think about that when he came. Maybe it wasn’t much of a line, but it was still a line, and it meant he felt alright. And so he pulled down his pyjama bottoms and knocked one off, thinking about Sarah with grim determination. When he came, teeth gritted, it was more relief than pleasure. Now he could go about his day and not think about anything he shouldn’t be thinking about.
Which was all fine, everything was fine. He went to work - lots of people with flu symptoms, definitely not sexy - and he came home and made spag bol, and shouted at Sherlock for spending dinnertime heating up blood in the microwave in ten second bursts (not for the microwaving, just because it was when they were eating - John had learned which battles he could and couldn’t win). It was fine, and he was tired and grumpy enough when he went to bed that he didn’t think of anything except sleep -
- And woke up with his heart pounding with frustration, his own desire shocking him out of his dream. God, God. John curled in on himself in the dark, and his hand found his prick without him really thinking about it. He drew it out through the fly of his pyjama bottoms, and oh fuck, thinking of how it had felt in his dream to be pressed up against him, the feel of Sherlock’s hands on him, his mouth, his mouth -
John came with a strangled sound that he didn’t think to swallow until it was made, and he rolled onto his back. Oh shit, fuck. He was lying here with his hand covered in come and his breath coming in trembling gasps, and he was fucked, wasn’t he? Bloody royally fucked.
At least, John told himself, rolling miserably back onto his side, no one else knew about it, and that thin comfort was about enough to let him go back to sleep.
Sherlock stood silently in the hall for a very long time, until the soft sound of John snoring told him that his flatmate had gone back to sleep. Then he stepped forward, very quietly, and put his hand against the door, fingers resting there for a long moment as his pulse throbbed painfully in his throat. And then, not certain why he had stayed, Sherlock drew back and returned to his own bedroom as quietly as he had left it.