Filled - Part 3/4
anonymous
September 27 2010, 21:03:57 UTC
Almost before he had finished, Sherlock was tugging John up the bed and muttering, ‘Fuck me, John, please, fuck me’ and groping for the tube of lubricant that had rolled to the side. Gritting his teeth at the feeling of a warm, slick hand pulling on his erection, John nevertheless nudged forwards as Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest and let himself sink inside in one slow, easy slide.
Sherlock, thanks to the previous experience that John was trying hard not to think about, just took a couple of deep breaths and shifted his legs so that his knees rested either side of John’s ribs, and John could lean down and kiss him.
‘Go on then,’ he murmured, when John just lay there, concentrating fiercely on Sherlock’s sensual, post-coital kisses rather than on the tight heat surrounding his cock that was giving him goose bumps.
‘A minute,’ John gritted out, ‘give me a minute to…get used to it.’
Sherlock smirked at him and lazily slid his hand down his stomach, fingers and palm still slippery with lubricant. At the sight of Sherlock’s long fingers curling around his cock, John squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. Occasionally, if it had been a while since the last time they slept together (which in this case it had, a case having kept the pair of them on the run for days until they collapsed) Sherlock would come two or even three times before they passed out for the night. It was something that John loved to see, each and every time, almost as much as he loved to hold Sherlock close afterwards, when he was limp and trembling and entirely wrung out.
Drawing a deep breath through his nose and exhaling it through his mouth, John gradually started to rock forward, in gradual increments. Fortunately, he thought, this wasn’t going to take long - Sherlock hadn’t really lost his erection after the first round and he had already lapsed into breathy murmurs of broken French.
After a few minutes John was unable to resist and shoved forward once, hard, into Sherlock before getting a grip and resuming his previous slow, steady pace. But Sherlock was having none of it.
‘Oui! Ah oui, comme ça, c’est parfait…plus fort, Jean, s’il te plaît…s’il te plaît…plus fort…’
As Sherlock gasped and squirmed and tried to rock his hips into John’s thrusts more forcefully, John complied. ‘Plus fort’ was one command he was definitely getting the hang of, since he generally heard it moaned or gasped or snarled at him almost every time he was fucking Sherlock and, as if on cue, Sherlock’s head fell back against the pillow and his hands reached to grasp John’s buttocks, pulling him close.
‘Touche-moi, Jean,’ he pleaded, ‘je t’en prie…touche-moi…fais-moi jouir...’
Failing utterly to understand, it was only when Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and brought it down between his legs that John understood. He squeezed Sherlock’s erection and started stroking it in time with his thrusts as Sherlock bit his lip and his hand reached up to trace delicate, feverish patterns over John’s shoulder blade, digging in hard as John rubbed his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock.
A particularly urgent moan tore its way from Sherlock’s throat, his thighs gripping hard around John’s ribs, and the hand wasn’t dug into his back suddenly seized John’s flexing wrist in a death grip.
‘Putain, ça y est,’ Sherlock gasped. ‘Oh Jean…j’vais…j’vais jouir…encore-’
The rest of his words were lost in a soft incoherent cry as Sherlock finally lost the ability to speak any of his languages, and John bit his lip hard as he watched his lover coming apart beneath him for the second time, his pale skin flushed and his beautiful face contorting in such agonised ecstasy that John almost wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the sudden wet heat slicking his fingers was blood.
Filled - Part 4/4
anonymous
September 27 2010, 21:08:12 UTC
When Sherlock had stopped groaning in his ear and the hand on his wrist was signalling Let go now as tactfully as possible, John braced his wet hand on the sheets by Sherlock’s head and finally, finally let himself thrust forward. Encouraged by Sherlock’s soft sighs of ‘Ouais…ouais…vas-y, mon coeur…prends ton plaisir…’, John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck and let himself feel the tight, slick heat sliding around his cock, hear the gentle moans that told him how pleasurable Sherlock was finding this, and (when he opened his mouth) taste the salt of his lover’s sweat when he raised his head to press kisses blindly along the side of Sherlock’s face.
‘T’es magnifique,’ Sherlock whispered into his ear, the tickle of breath making John gasp and shove harder into him. ‘Je t’aime…je t’adore…’
‘Oh God.’ John could feel the familiar tension low in his belly, could feel his body coiling to come…Christ, he was so ready to come…
‘Crie pour moi,’ Sherlock murmured against his hair, his baritone voice not quite so smooth as usual. ‘Laisse-moi t’entendre crier lorsque tu jouis, mon cheri…’
With the last of his fleeing brainpower, John gasped, ‘Don’t…don’t understand…’
Sherlock switched back to English, unexpectedly, raking his short nails down John’s damp spine. ‘Let me hear you when you come…let me hear you scream…’
Jesus. Trust Sherlock to manage to be just as sexy speaking English as groaning endearments in French, and John bit his lip hard as instinct took over. In the last few thrusts before he came, John felt a hand cradling his face and a thumb gently but firmly pulling his lip free of his teeth, and he couldn’t stop himself crying out as he finished, his toes curling and his back arching as he buried himself as deeply as he could inside his lover.
Afterwards John found that his muscles were shivery, the sweat on his back cooling, and Sherlock’s hands gently coaxed him down and cradled him against his chest, brushing his hair back off his forehead. As John lay there, catching his breath and feeling Sherlock’s heart pounding in the chest beneath his cheek, he thought contentedly that while a skill with languages was a wonderful talent to have (Sherlock stopped stroking John’s hair long enough to draw the duvet over them both and switch off the bedside light), there were nevertheless some things that could be said best without words.
--End--
NB - in case the dialogue needs clarification (although I would have thought that most of it was possibly self-explanatory!), it works if you feed it into Google Translate. I checked, obssessive soul that I am...
Re: Filled - Part 4/4chibibbleSeptember 27 2010, 21:21:19 UTC
YOU HAVE INDUCED FRENCH KINK. fffffffff, I love French~ ;______; (the fact I understood everything made me disgustingly proud and um, please, I'm yours forever).
Re: Filled - Part 4/4selenityshiroiSeptember 27 2010, 22:29:13 UTC
I know barely any French and, since the French I do know was learned between the ages of 9 and 13 (and mostly forgotten in the 15 years since), the little I do know is mostly irrelevant to the words used in this fic.
Re: Filled - Part 4/4koshartuSeptember 30 2010, 03:26:32 UTC
...
That was really, really uitheuwithiuewh hot. I took 3 years of French...I surprised myself with how much I remembered. But I also learned some shiny, new words. Thanks you awesome person, you.
De-anoning...kate_learOctober 3 2010, 12:20:11 UTC
Er, hello. Anon would be me, & I'm really pleased you liked it so much! I wasn't sure how well I'd managed it, hence the Anon posting. Thanks for the encouragement!
Re: Filled - Part 4/4
anonymous
September 30 2010, 21:55:23 UTC
As someone who has just dropped A Level French because it was making her life a living hell, thank you for reminding me why I wanted to learn it in the first place...
... ...
It's fucking sexy :L
Such a hot story, and my French knowledge was enough that I knew most things :L
Sherlock, thanks to the previous experience that John was trying hard not to think about, just took a couple of deep breaths and shifted his legs so that his knees rested either side of John’s ribs, and John could lean down and kiss him.
‘Go on then,’ he murmured, when John just lay there, concentrating fiercely on Sherlock’s sensual, post-coital kisses rather than on the tight heat surrounding his cock that was giving him goose bumps.
‘A minute,’ John gritted out, ‘give me a minute to…get used to it.’
Sherlock smirked at him and lazily slid his hand down his stomach, fingers and palm still slippery with lubricant. At the sight of Sherlock’s long fingers curling around his cock, John squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. Occasionally, if it had been a while since the last time they slept together (which in this case it had, a case having kept the pair of them on the run for days until they collapsed) Sherlock would come two or even three times before they passed out for the night. It was something that John loved to see, each and every time, almost as much as he loved to hold Sherlock close afterwards, when he was limp and trembling and entirely wrung out.
Drawing a deep breath through his nose and exhaling it through his mouth, John gradually started to rock forward, in gradual increments. Fortunately, he thought, this wasn’t going to take long - Sherlock hadn’t really lost his erection after the first round and he had already lapsed into breathy murmurs of broken French.
After a few minutes John was unable to resist and shoved forward once, hard, into Sherlock before getting a grip and resuming his previous slow, steady pace. But Sherlock was having none of it.
‘Oui! Ah oui, comme ça, c’est parfait…plus fort, Jean, s’il te plaît…s’il te plaît…plus fort…’
As Sherlock gasped and squirmed and tried to rock his hips into John’s thrusts more forcefully, John complied. ‘Plus fort’ was one command he was definitely getting the hang of, since he generally heard it moaned or gasped or snarled at him almost every time he was fucking Sherlock and, as if on cue, Sherlock’s head fell back against the pillow and his hands reached to grasp John’s buttocks, pulling him close.
‘Touche-moi, Jean,’ he pleaded, ‘je t’en prie…touche-moi…fais-moi jouir...’
Failing utterly to understand, it was only when Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and brought it down between his legs that John understood. He squeezed Sherlock’s erection and started stroking it in time with his thrusts as Sherlock bit his lip and his hand reached up to trace delicate, feverish patterns over John’s shoulder blade, digging in hard as John rubbed his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock.
A particularly urgent moan tore its way from Sherlock’s throat, his thighs gripping hard around John’s ribs, and the hand wasn’t dug into his back suddenly seized John’s flexing wrist in a death grip.
‘Putain, ça y est,’ Sherlock gasped. ‘Oh Jean…j’vais…j’vais jouir…encore-’
The rest of his words were lost in a soft incoherent cry as Sherlock finally lost the ability to speak any of his languages, and John bit his lip hard as he watched his lover coming apart beneath him for the second time, his pale skin flushed and his beautiful face contorting in such agonised ecstasy that John almost wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the sudden wet heat slicking his fingers was blood.
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‘T’es magnifique,’ Sherlock whispered into his ear, the tickle of breath making John gasp and shove harder into him. ‘Je t’aime…je t’adore…’
‘Oh God.’ John could feel the familiar tension low in his belly, could feel his body coiling to come…Christ, he was so ready to come…
‘Crie pour moi,’ Sherlock murmured against his hair, his baritone voice not quite so smooth as usual. ‘Laisse-moi t’entendre crier lorsque tu jouis, mon cheri…’
With the last of his fleeing brainpower, John gasped, ‘Don’t…don’t understand…’
Sherlock switched back to English, unexpectedly, raking his short nails down John’s damp spine. ‘Let me hear you when you come…let me hear you scream…’
Jesus. Trust Sherlock to manage to be just as sexy speaking English as groaning endearments in French, and John bit his lip hard as instinct took over. In the last few thrusts before he came, John felt a hand cradling his face and a thumb gently but firmly pulling his lip free of his teeth, and he couldn’t stop himself crying out as he finished, his toes curling and his back arching as he buried himself as deeply as he could inside his lover.
Afterwards John found that his muscles were shivery, the sweat on his back cooling, and Sherlock’s hands gently coaxed him down and cradled him against his chest, brushing his hair back off his forehead. As John lay there, catching his breath and feeling Sherlock’s heart pounding in the chest beneath his cheek, he thought contentedly that while a skill with languages was a wonderful talent to have (Sherlock stopped stroking John’s hair long enough to draw the duvet over them both and switch off the bedside light), there were nevertheless some things that could be said best without words.
--End--
NB - in case the dialogue needs clarification (although I would have thought that most of it was possibly self-explanatory!), it works if you feed it into Google Translate. I checked, obssessive soul that I am...
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That was unbelievably hot and sexy and filthy, anon. So many kudos to you! *worships*
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fffffffff, I love French~ ;______; (the fact I understood everything made me disgustingly proud and um, please, I'm yours forever).
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:D
Your use of French in this story made me spontaneously burst out in Swedish, which almost never happens. 0.0
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*is still incoherent*
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Plus, John's learning French!
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But, FUCK, that was hot!
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So HOT.
/faints
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I learned that, despite being able to read French, I sadly do not know the dirty words.
Thank you for teaching them to me.
(Also: TEN YEARS OF FRENCH CLASSES WERE CLEARLY NOT IN VAIN.)
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That was really, really uitheuwithiuewh hot. I took 3 years of French...I surprised myself with how much I remembered. But I also learned some shiny, new words. Thanks you awesome person, you.
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Please to be de-anoning so I can follow you in a stalker-like manner and possibly obsessively read anything/everything else you've written ;)
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It's fucking sexy :L
Such a hot story, and my French knowledge was enough that I knew most things :L
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