Prompting Part XXIV
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IMPORTANT! Spoilers for aired episodes are now being allowed on this area of the meme, without warning. If you do not want to encounter spoilers, please prompt at our Spoiler-Free Prompt Post.
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Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post
IMPORTANT! Spoilers for aired episodes are now being allowed on this area of the meme, without warning. If you do not want to encounter spoilers, please prompt at our Spoiler-Free Prompt Post.
( Read more... )
John dropped the hand he’d had clamped around the back of Sherlock’s neck. He licked his lips. Just a tiny stroke of the tip of his tongue. It wasn’t a nervous gesture, some tique; rather someone making sure sweat didn’t foul his actions. “Adrenaline, you say? Yes, it could be that, I suppose, that’s making me want to fuck you through these stupid bastard railings.”
“I…”
“But what about when you’re sulking barefoot around the flat torturing the violin, and I just want to bend you over the end of the sofa, yank those fucking stupid pyjamas down and spank and shag the snot-nosed, toffee-nosed bratiness out of you? To leave you sobbing and whimpering when you can’t fight or take any more? To use your fucking violin rosin for lube, if I’m feeling charitable? Is that adrenaline?”
The heat and force of the last word made Sherlock recoil. He gawped, his eyes flicking slightly from side to side to take in everything about John, trying to upload this stream of unbelievable data his normally lightning-fast brain couldn’t process. And he still didn’t believe. Didn’t trust. Didn’t dare. Was this some atavistic urge? Did John the soldier think they wouldn’t get out of this fight alive and so was -
“Or when you’re high on the triumph of solving a case and I want to jump you, to ride that rush with you, make you ride me, until I’m wrung dry? What the fuck’s that? And oh my fucking God, Sherlock, when you’re getting dressed with your door half open and I walk past and see you in that fucking purple shirt and boxers, and it’s all I can do not to kick the door in, strip you naked, and just fucking take you, kicking and struggling on your own bed, until you’re stuffed full of me? I’d leave you swimming in me. What the fuck do you call that, genius?”
“Why…haven’t you?” Sherlock hadn’t know he was going to speak until the words pushed free of his clogged throat. He didn’t recognise his own voice.
“Why? Because we’re…”
Sherlock watched John cycle through a list of nouns and reject each and every one, flatmates, particularly. John was no hypocrite.
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Sherlock raised an eyebrow, watching John compute, cool under fire, grace under pressure. Then John grabbed at him again, ran his hand up Sherlock’s lapel and along the back of his collar to entice him near, close, so close, they shared breath. It took all of Sherlock’s willpower not to moan or incline his head into John’s cradling hand.
“I’m going to kiss you,” came the shade of John’s voice. “No; don’t close your eyes. You’re not usually a coward.”
Had he shut his eyes? If he had, at that he forced them open and watched. Watched and felt John press against his chin, then his cheek, those lips he’d always filed as kissable touching him, mapping his face before moving to his mouth. He didn’t know if it lasted seconds or minutes, but did know his lips softened under the caress, invited John in. Not to take, this time, but to learn. To understand. Sherlock tried not to let his chest move with his breaths, because he was afraid of trembling, scared John would hear his heart pounding.
“You don’t…kiss like a virgin,” said John, finally. Still calm, still flat.
“Had many, have you?” Sherlock didn’t know how to moderate his voice over the thumping of his heart and the beating of his blood. He thought his voice might have rung out into the still stale air of the alley.
“Does it matter? I’m gonna have you. Fuck this fence!” John grabbed at it with his cuffed hand and shook it.
“I’d rather you fucked me.”
“Planning on it.” John looked steadily, intently at Sherlock. “We’re going to need to coordinate.”
Sherlock snapped his wits together enough to assess the situation. “Go to your right.” He was quietly gratified he had to repeat his simple-enough instructions. Was John as affected as he was? He stretched up and freed the cuffs’ chain, then helped John get over the spiked railing. “Stupid place for railings,” he commented, aiming for cool, refusing to relinquish the lead to John. It might have been John’s area, his territory, but he wouldn’t surrender, not even when John’s body nudged him into the corner, backed him hard against the brickwork. “Are you satisfied now that you’ve trapped me?”
John threw out a short chuckle that contained no amusement. “Sherlock, I’ll only be satisfied when I’ve stripped off those fancy, nancy clothes and seen if that blush I’ve put on your face goes all the way down your chest. Or if I can make it.” He crowded against Sherlock, banging into evidence of his arousal and staring hard into Sherlock’s eyes as he shaped it with his hand. It surprised Sherlock just how badly he wanted to push into John.
“Is it the situation, the threat, the danger that turns you on?” Sherlock’s voice was lower than usual as he questioned. Because he still didn’t -
“You turn me on. As if you didn’t know. Fucking tease.” John knocked again with his hips.
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“Yes, genius; I want you. I don’t know if you’ve done this before, but God, Sherlock, we’re doing this now. I’m going to suck you and make you lose that control, that disdain you have for your body and its needs. I want to see those calculating eyes mist over and hear those sarcastic lips gasping my name.”
This was tipped into his ear as John pressed against him. John stepped back a little to run his hands over Sherlock. Sherlock, rock hard by now, bit back a gasp as John stroked his arms, his chest - everywhere their confinement allowed him to reach. John dropped to his knees and attacked Sherlock’s flies, the handcuff jerking Sherlock’s trapped wrist too. John had Sherlock’s trousers open and his cock jutting free before Sherlock even understood his intention.
“You’re gorgeous.” The judgement was delivered flatly. and the bald words were much more arousing than any rhapsodic sonnet could ever be. Because it was John pronouncing them, with the same implacable truth he brought to all their dealings. Sherlock jumped when John licked the tip of his cock. He would have stumbled, fallen, even, had the junction of the two walls not supported him. When he looked down, John was smiling at the way he was trembling. All Sherlock could do was rest his cuffed hand on John’s head as he braced himself against the crumbling brickwork with the other. He wished John could talk or share the sensations he was receiving in some way. He wanted to touch the textures and taste the flavours John was experiencing along with him. The occasional moan John gave wasn’t enough.
Sherlock tangled his fingers in John’s hair, and John took this as a signal. He opened his mouth and engulfed the head of Sherlock’s cock. When Sherlock’s hips twitched, sliding his prick against John’s tongue, John let it slide farther in, his free hand wrapping into a fist to grip the base tightly. He sucked hard. Sherlock let out a loud, inarticulate moan, grinding into John.
“Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about.” John looked up, wiping his mouth. “Touch yourself, Sherlock. Show me.”
“No. You’ll do it.” Sherlock stared down, still arrogant, yet shivering as the cold air met his wet cock. John stared back. Blank. Implacable. “Please,” Sherlock found himself adding. “I need you to. I need you. I want you. You know I do.”
“Yeah.” And John’s reply seemed to encompass more than this, this sordid back alley fumble. He bent low and swallowed Sherlock down in a tight, controlled movement of heat and constriction. And then Sherlock did cry out John’s name. He wanted this moment, his first, his only, to go on, to never cease, but he had no experience, no tricks to resist John’s technique, the blinding rhythm and pace demanding Sherlock’s response.
His release. One which started in his balls and which weakened his entire body as it broke over him, powerful, undeniable. He tried to explain, to communicate with John by tugging on his hair, to push him off, but there was no time and John’s mouth stayed on Sherlock as he climaxed, shaking at the force, shuddering with the aftershocks. John settled Sherlock’s coat around them and grasped him round the knees when they looked likely to give out. Sherlock bent forwards, his torso resting against John’s solidity. As he always had. He tried to obey John’s earlier words and keep watching, but knew his eyes had closed against the white light of his orgasm.
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“Love your neck. I think you know and drive me crazy with all the scarves.”
“Didn’t know. Didn’t. Wouldn’t have,” whispered Sherlock in a broken reply.
“I don’t mind.” John pressed in and licked. “Makes it more of a treat to see. And feel.”
Sherlock could smell his own semen on John and belatedly caught up with the fact that John had swallowed and drunk him down. He shook with this intimate realisation, and in pressing against John, also understood John was still hard. Of course. He hadn’t come yet. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t fucked you yet.” John’s grin was animalistic. Ferocious. “Might be tricky, but luckily they cuffed my right hand, not the left. I’ve got a condom in my wallet - yes; I know you know - but no lube. Didn’t think I’d be needing it, life on the run and all that. Silly of me.”
“Oh. Here.” Sherlock calmed a trembling hand enough to wriggle a small item from his coat pocket. “I picked this up for you.”
John took the small round blue and white metal pot. “Petroleum jelly?”
“I thought you needed lip salve the way you’re always licking your lips.”
John acknowledged the hit with a backtilt of his head. “Turn you on, does it?”
“Yes.” Sherlock could be honest, when it suited his purposes. “You know it does. Tease.”
“Not teasing.” A sudden fierce move had John yanking at Sherlock, then shoving him over a big box just in front of them. Sherlock felt very exposed and vulnerable even before John flipped his coat up over his shoulders. “Next time I’ll take it slow. Bite every inch of that soft white flesh just to hear the noises you make. Finger you till you come, then keep going. But now…” John hadn’t done Sherlock’s trousers up when he’d finished with him, so it was easy to pull them down now an expose Sherlock fully. Again Sherlock wished so much he could see and experience himself as John was.
“Hold,” commanded John, and after being nudged, Sherlock understood he had to secure the small metal pot while John squeezed and popped the lid free to scoop out some of the yellowy grease. Sherlock set the container down on the box, the support whose far side he had a one-handed death grip on. His other hand was bent behind him.
“Sherlock…” Sherlock tensed and flinched, hypersensitive as John burrowed a blunt finger into his crack and up to his hole. He trailed his finger around it. “You’re… Is this what you want?”
Of course he did. Of course he wanted John’s warmth and pressure and…John.
“Oh Christ. Sherlock! You’re a…You haven’t -”
And Sherlock, still tense but oh-so determined pushed hard against the intrusion, making it breach him. “I’m not now. I have now.” And when he looked over his shoulder back at John, he knew his eyes blazed with triumph. He pressed more onto John, gaining more of him, eliciting, enticing more still. Two fingers. Three. “Finish it. Finish me.” His answer, his reward, was a low moan. But then John withdrew, leaving Sherlock empty and cold. The movement he felt and the noises he heard told him John was putting the condom on. Not fair. He wanted to see. He’d have to imagine. Next time would be for looking and touching.
“Sherlock, you should have more prep. I want to give you more, stretch you thoroughly for me, God, lick you until you’re dripping for me. I don’t want to hurt you. I could never. It’s just I have to be inside you now. Relax. Don’t tense up. Please. Give yourself to me. Can you?”
Sherlock blew out a breath and pushed back, back against not John’s cock demanding entry, as he’d expected, but John’s fingers, massaging and stroking, despite John’s self-proclaimed impatience.
“Oh, your arse. Knew it would be…”
“What?” Sherlock gasped.
“Hungry for me. Made for me,” John replied on a grunt as he pushed in, slow and easy.
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“You’re inside me.” Later Sherlock would berate himself for stating the obvious, for being as stupid as other people.
“Inside you.” Not an echo, more a command.
How was it possible, Sherlock snatched at thoughts as they loomed and jumped, for John to be inside him, to have reached the heart of him? Because he had, in the time they’d been…flatmates. Awful, useless word. But no time for analysis or cataloguing, not with John, John who was his heart, there, thrusting, driving deeper, filling him to the limit, the punishing friction building up heat within him.
“God, Sherlock! Go easy!” He hadn’t been aware he was pushing back. “I’m balls-deep in you.”
Sherlock huffed out a sigh of laughter in accompaniment to John’s warm breath delicious on his neck. Typical of his John. No poetry, no “buried to the hilt” nonsense. Thank God. And he thrilled to the isolated words stuttering from John, first admiration and praise, then broken curses and blasphemies. Sherlock might have surrendered dominance, but he wasn’t powerless here. He was driving John crazy. As usual.
He felt another climax trying to rise when John’s cock struck a spot within him that had him jumping and crying out. Feeling this, John worked the spot again and again, nudging Sherlock to touch himself and Sherlock came undone in a tight rush, the result of the slap of John’s flesh against his, the sound of John’s gasps in his ear, the pleasure-pain burn of John driving deep and hard in him. And then of course the sheer overpowering sensation of John’s deep-groaned release spurting hot within him. Like nothing before.
John clung to him as they both shuddered and panted for breath. He gave a few more pumps, slackening and weakening, and Sherlock clenched around him, forcing them to remain as one in the perfection of it all. He only relaxed enough to let John pull out when John blew on his neck. John was soon back, of course, putting Sherlock to rights, pulling him around. He wasn’t quite as steady as he usually was and his voice caught a little as he whispered, “All you all right?”
Sherlock was still high on the bliss, the delight of what they’d done, what he’d felt. Was still feeling. He let John catch him in tight for an embrace and search his shining eyes and flushed face so he didn’t have to speak mere words to convey his elation. Of course John understood. He even grinned as he held a rubber-legged Sherlock upright and rubbed his nose against Sherlock’s.
“So, I’m the best you’ve ever had, hey?” Oh, his snuffly, cheepy giggle. Sherlock had never found the right adverb for it. Well, he had time. He planned on hearing it a lot. “But God, Sherlock, what a first time. Taken from behind bent over a filthy box in a dark alley while handcuffed! Can’t be well, all you hoped for.”
“Bent over by you? Taken by you? Cuffed to you? It’s more than I ever dared hoped for!” He giggled alongside John until stopped by John’s lips rubbing against his and settling into a deep kiss. Simple, sweet and full of the future. Sherlock raised a hand to touch the strands of John’s fringe that their coupling had disarranged, and only then really remembered the two of them were indeed cuffed together.
“You know, either one of us could pick these cuffs any time,” murmured John.
“I know.”
“Course you do, genius. Well, I’m keeping them handy, so you don’t run off halfway through.”
“You can’t seriously imagine I’ll ever be bored?”
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“Let’s go.” Sherlock tugged at John’s sleeve.
“Where?”
“I think we need…the feminine perspective on all this.”
“Threesome already? You’re never satisfied.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” He smiled almost shyly at John, and of course John stretched up to place a soft kiss on his lips. A siren blared out close by, and Sherlock clutched at his partner.
“Come on, John.”
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