FILL: 1/2
anonymous
December 13 2010, 05:21:14 UTC
Sarah likes John, despite the occasional insanity of his life. She really does. If she were to be perfectly honest, it only endears him to her. He's attentive, and he's patient, and when she finally allows her into his bed, he's an astonishingly good lover.
But then there's Sherlock. Sarah hates him at first, for his incessant texts and his constant presence, even when he's not physically there. John talks about their latest cases with glowing admiration that she wishes he'd spare for her a little more often. She knows John's been with men, but also that he wouldn't leave her for Sherlock even if given the chance. Sherlock is very clearly not the kind of man who forms attachments the way normal people do, and Sarah can tell John needs that kind of thing, and has pinned his affections squarely on her.
But Sherlock keeps looking at her, with those too-pale eyes that strip her down to the bone. She knows he can tell everything about her at a glance even if John prevents him from saying any of it aloud.
Several months in, she's kidnapped again. When she's safe and John takes her home, Sarah pulls off his clothing and shoves him onto her bed, relief and the memory of John taking a firing stance, face stern and resolute, blending together and burning through her veins.
She doesn't think of Sherlock then, his careful hands removing her gag and restraints.
She thinks of it the next morning, though, still half asleep with a satisfied ache between her legs. John's in the shower; Sarah can hear him making pleased morning-after sounds over the water and it makes her feel vaguely guilty that her subconscious keeps supplying her with the feel of long gloved fingers on her skin. She thinks of Sherlock pulling the gag away and kissing her, slow but deep, and leaving the rope on her wrists while peeling everything else away.
When John comes out, Sarah pulls him back to bed, focussing on the reality of his sturdy frame, trying to blot out the images in her mind of long lean limbs, pale as moonlight.
She tries to avoid Sherlock after that, but it's impossible. She tells John to ignore Sherlock's texts when they're out at a restaurant, but when John complies, the man himself shows up less than five minutes later and drags John away with a veiled look of impatience.
She gives up after a few more weeks, lets John take her back to their his flat to curl up on the couch and watch a film after an awful day at the clinic. She's long ago gotten used to the clutter, the more-laboratory-than-kitchen with its attendant samples and experiments in unexpected places. But the possible presence of Sherlock makes her nervous.
"Don't worry," John says to her, picking up on her mood if not the real reason. "He won't be back for hours." He smiles reassuringly, and Sarah lets him tuck her under his arm, even though she knows where this is going. Sure enough, by the end of the film, John's rucked up her skirt and peeled away her stockings, her blouse unbuttoned and damp prints on the pale blue cotton of her bra.
FILL: 2/2
anonymous
December 13 2010, 05:23:29 UTC
He's got two fingers beneath the edge of her knickers, his teeth set into the soft inside of her thigh, when the door opens behind her. "Don't mind me," Sherlock comments coolly. "I'll be in my room. Carry on." He sweeps past them and disappears down the short hallway past the kitchen.
John tucks his face against her leg and laughs silently, his fingers curling back and away from her. She reaches her hand down and touches his face. "Well?" she says, giving him a challenging look. "As you were."
A disbelieving chuckle escapes him. "What, really? He'll hear us."
"I don't care," she says defiantly. Something shifts in his eyes, adds a thrilling edge to his smile as it fades, and he bends his head again to exhale wetly against the cloth of her knickers. She winds her fingers in his hair and hangs on for dear life.
He outdoes himself this time. Sarah can't keep her eyes open. All she knows is that one moment, she's watching John happily humming against her clit, two fingers crooked just so inside her, and the next, she's looking at the door to the hallway and Sherlock's there, half-hidden by the shadows.
"Oh, God," she says, shocking herself with how loud she is, how wanton she sounds. Of course Sherlock likes watching. She wonders if he'd come over if she beckoned, let her run a hand up his thigh towards the tented line in his trousers, if John would mirror the motion on the other side. "Yes," she says, keeping her eyes locked with that piercing gaze even as John drags her to the edge of reason. "God, yes," she says, tightening her grip on John's hair and arching upwards as she comes.
John kisses his way back up her body, burying his face in her neck. She doesn't take her eyes off Sherlock, afraid that he'll disappear if she so much as blinks. "All right, then?" John asks into her hair. "Sarah?" He follows her gaze, and she can feel his indrawn breath the moment he spots Sherlock in the doorway.
There is a long moment of quiet.
John exhales, a ragged edge to it that could be anger or something else. The hard line of his erection twitches low against Sarah's hip, and that decides her. She curls a reassuring hand around the back of John's neck, and raises the other towards Sherlock.
"Come on, then," she calls quietly, beckoning to Sherlock with a soft smile. "If you like."
Gah! Fuck me, that is exactly what I wanted! Exactly! Just that sharp intake of breath as she realises they're being watched. Thank you so so much!! :D Nnnnggg...
author!anon
anonymous
December 13 2010, 05:34:23 UTC
Yay! I am glad you liked it; I don't think I've ever gone from 'hm, this sounds like it needs filling' to 'POST' so fast before in my life. Thanks for the brain-scorchingly hot prompt!
...and I *may* write more, but I'm not sure where to go from here. The possibilities! They overwhelm me! ^_^
Re: author!anon
anonymous
December 13 2010, 05:36:51 UTC
That image of him just standing in the shadows was what made me think of it and you captured it perfectly. I don't know why; I mean, it's kind of creepy... XD
I will give you many, many internets if you decide to write more. For now though I'm going back for a reread :D
FILL: 3/?
anonymous
December 14 2010, 20:08:34 UTC
Sherlock doesn't move, and for one heart-rending moment, Sarah thinks she's erred badly. Then slowly, painfully slowly, his hand drifts up to his collar, unbuttons the top of his shirt. John's breath ghosts across her face, an unsteady gasp. The rest of the buttons follow, and she shifts, grinding up against John's thigh.
When Sherlock reaches the waistband of his trousers, he lets his hand fall, almost negligently dragging the edge of his thumb across his fly. His eyes flicker closed, once then twice, at the sensation, the narrow pale vee of his exposed chest rising and falling into light and shadow as his lungs work.
She lifts her hand again, wanting to touch so badly that her teeth ache, but Sherlock ignores her, pivots on one foot, and disappears again down the hallway.
His bedroom door opens, but it does not close, a long band of light on the floorboards an answering challenge.
She looks at John. He's still staring at the empty doorway. "All right?" she murmurs quietly, trailing fingers down the side of his face. He blinks and turns to her, not quite meeting her gaze.
"Um," he says, the tip of his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "I don't," he says, laughing a little. "What-" She pulls him down for a kiss, making it sweet and reassuring but adds a wicked little bite to his lower lip at the end that makes him groan and buck his hips.
"Whatever you want, love," she says. "It's all fine." She doesn't know why this makes him laugh, but she winds her arms around him as the fit shakes through him.
"What do you want?" he asks, words muffled, forehead tucked in the crook of her neck.
I want filthy, awful, amazing sex with both you and your flatmate, she thinks to herself, but decides on, "I'm up for whatever."
He looks up at her sideways. "Really?"
She swats the back of his head affectionately. "Yes, really. If you want us to go, get up now, I can't stand dithering about it any longer."
John scrambles upright, clutching the undone belt of his jeans to keep them up with one hand. He lifts her to her feet with the other, pulling her close and giving her a searing kiss. She realises how she must look, hairdo straggling down in messy strands, blouse gaping and skirt rumpled. Her knickers are lost somewhere at the end of the couch. It doesn't matter; she feels giddy and dreamy, as if none of this is real.
She leads the way. Behind her, John curses about condoms under his breath and goes back to snag them from her purse. Sherlock's door is cracked open, the light almost blinding after the dim lighting from the television. The first thing she notices when she enters the room is that it's absolutely crammed with bookshelves, the only exposed patch of wall above the headboard.
That's all she has time to notice before Sherlock has her in a steely grip, spinning her round against one of those shelves, her arm twisted at the small of her back. His other hand seeks between her legs, up under her skirt, and she gasps in shock and suddenly blazing arousal.
"Hang on," she hears John say. "What-"
"Do you know why she likes you, John?" Sherlock interrupts, his voice low and rough and intimate against her neck. "You're safe. The only violence in you is to protect. She probably thinks of you in uniform or with your gun when she gets off." Each emphasised word is a rough drag of a fingertip between her folds, unerring and unrelenting. She tries to remember how to breathe and keep standing simultaneously. "That's not what she sees in me." His voice is a snarl, his erection burning a brand in the small of her back.
But then there's Sherlock. Sarah hates him at first, for his incessant texts and his constant presence, even when he's not physically there. John talks about their latest cases with glowing admiration that she wishes he'd spare for her a little more often. She knows John's been with men, but also that he wouldn't leave her for Sherlock even if given the chance. Sherlock is very clearly not the kind of man who forms attachments the way normal people do, and Sarah can tell John needs that kind of thing, and has pinned his affections squarely on her.
But Sherlock keeps looking at her, with those too-pale eyes that strip her down to the bone. She knows he can tell everything about her at a glance even if John prevents him from saying any of it aloud.
Several months in, she's kidnapped again. When she's safe and John takes her home, Sarah pulls off his clothing and shoves him onto her bed, relief and the memory of John taking a firing stance, face stern and resolute, blending together and burning through her veins.
She doesn't think of Sherlock then, his careful hands removing her gag and restraints.
She thinks of it the next morning, though, still half asleep with a satisfied ache between her legs. John's in the shower; Sarah can hear him making pleased morning-after sounds over the water and it makes her feel vaguely guilty that her subconscious keeps supplying her with the feel of long gloved fingers on her skin. She thinks of Sherlock pulling the gag away and kissing her, slow but deep, and leaving the rope on her wrists while peeling everything else away.
When John comes out, Sarah pulls him back to bed, focussing on the reality of his sturdy frame, trying to blot out the images in her mind of long lean limbs, pale as moonlight.
She tries to avoid Sherlock after that, but it's impossible. She tells John to ignore Sherlock's texts when they're out at a restaurant, but when John complies, the man himself shows up less than five minutes later and drags John away with a veiled look of impatience.
She gives up after a few more weeks, lets John take her back to their his flat to curl up on the couch and watch a film after an awful day at the clinic. She's long ago gotten used to the clutter, the more-laboratory-than-kitchen with its attendant samples and experiments in unexpected places. But the possible presence of Sherlock makes her nervous.
"Don't worry," John says to her, picking up on her mood if not the real reason. "He won't be back for hours." He smiles reassuringly, and Sarah lets him tuck her under his arm, even though she knows where this is going. Sure enough, by the end of the film, John's rucked up her skirt and peeled away her stockings, her blouse unbuttoned and damp prints on the pale blue cotton of her bra.
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John tucks his face against her leg and laughs silently, his fingers curling back and away from her. She reaches her hand down and touches his face. "Well?" she says, giving him a challenging look. "As you were."
A disbelieving chuckle escapes him. "What, really? He'll hear us."
"I don't care," she says defiantly. Something shifts in his eyes, adds a thrilling edge to his smile as it fades, and he bends his head again to exhale wetly against the cloth of her knickers. She winds her fingers in his hair and hangs on for dear life.
He outdoes himself this time. Sarah can't keep her eyes open. All she knows is that one moment, she's watching John happily humming against her clit, two fingers crooked just so inside her, and the next, she's looking at the door to the hallway and Sherlock's there, half-hidden by the shadows.
"Oh, God," she says, shocking herself with how loud she is, how wanton she sounds. Of course Sherlock likes watching. She wonders if he'd come over if she beckoned, let her run a hand up his thigh towards the tented line in his trousers, if John would mirror the motion on the other side. "Yes," she says, keeping her eyes locked with that piercing gaze even as John drags her to the edge of reason. "God, yes," she says, tightening her grip on John's hair and arching upwards as she comes.
John kisses his way back up her body, burying his face in her neck. She doesn't take her eyes off Sherlock, afraid that he'll disappear if she so much as blinks. "All right, then?" John asks into her hair. "Sarah?" He follows her gaze, and she can feel his indrawn breath the moment he spots Sherlock in the doorway.
There is a long moment of quiet.
John exhales, a ragged edge to it that could be anger or something else. The hard line of his erection twitches low against Sarah's hip, and that decides her. She curls a reassuring hand around the back of John's neck, and raises the other towards Sherlock.
"Come on, then," she calls quietly, beckoning to Sherlock with a soft smile. "If you like."
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Nnnnggg...
And of course the obligatory cry for MOAR!!!
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...and I *may* write more, but I'm not sure where to go from here. The possibilities! They overwhelm me! ^_^
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I will give you many, many internets if you decide to write more. For now though I'm going back for a reread :D
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I mean, that would be grand. Carry on. *ahem*
*goes off to kill many internets to lay at the altar of author!anon*
Mycroft says "requiter Shylock", so either he's gone all Shakespearean on us or our diffident consulting detective should be satisfied.
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(The comment has been removed)
I will let the idea of continuing percolate a bit. I *had* thought that it was at a fine stopping point, but now...
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--authoranon
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When Sherlock reaches the waistband of his trousers, he lets his hand fall, almost negligently dragging the edge of his thumb across his fly. His eyes flicker closed, once then twice, at the sensation, the narrow pale vee of his exposed chest rising and falling into light and shadow as his lungs work.
She lifts her hand again, wanting to touch so badly that her teeth ache, but Sherlock ignores her, pivots on one foot, and disappears again down the hallway.
His bedroom door opens, but it does not close, a long band of light on the floorboards an answering challenge.
She looks at John. He's still staring at the empty doorway. "All right?" she murmurs quietly, trailing fingers down the side of his face. He blinks and turns to her, not quite meeting her gaze.
"Um," he says, the tip of his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "I don't," he says, laughing a little. "What-" She pulls him down for a kiss, making it sweet and reassuring but adds a wicked little bite to his lower lip at the end that makes him groan and buck his hips.
"Whatever you want, love," she says. "It's all fine." She doesn't know why this makes him laugh, but she winds her arms around him as the fit shakes through him.
"What do you want?" he asks, words muffled, forehead tucked in the crook of her neck.
I want filthy, awful, amazing sex with both you and your flatmate, she thinks to herself, but decides on, "I'm up for whatever."
He looks up at her sideways. "Really?"
She swats the back of his head affectionately. "Yes, really. If you want us to go, get up now, I can't stand dithering about it any longer."
John scrambles upright, clutching the undone belt of his jeans to keep them up with one hand. He lifts her to her feet with the other, pulling her close and giving her a searing kiss. She realises how she must look, hairdo straggling down in messy strands, blouse gaping and skirt rumpled. Her knickers are lost somewhere at the end of the couch. It doesn't matter; she feels giddy and dreamy, as if none of this is real.
She leads the way. Behind her, John curses about condoms under his breath and goes back to snag them from her purse. Sherlock's door is cracked open, the light almost blinding after the dim lighting from the television. The first thing she notices when she enters the room is that it's absolutely crammed with bookshelves, the only exposed patch of wall above the headboard.
That's all she has time to notice before Sherlock has her in a steely grip, spinning her round against one of those shelves, her arm twisted at the small of her back. His other hand seeks between her legs, up under her skirt, and she gasps in shock and suddenly blazing arousal.
"Hang on," she hears John say. "What-"
"Do you know why she likes you, John?" Sherlock interrupts, his voice low and rough and intimate against her neck. "You're safe. The only violence in you is to protect. She probably thinks of you in uniform or with your gun when she gets off." Each emphasised word is a rough drag of a fingertip between her folds, unerring and unrelenting. She tries to remember how to breathe and keep standing simultaneously. "That's not what she sees in me." His voice is a snarl, his erection burning a brand in the small of her back.
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Please help save my f5 key by posting more...
That first paragraph just about killed me. Nnnnnnnggg!
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I do not write like this often. But the images in my brain, they must be shared-! O.o
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