Fill - part 3/?
anonymous
October 23 2010, 20:53:45 UTC
John returned, and Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as John made tea and updated his blog as he drank it and generally tried to behave like a complete stereotype of A Normal Person. A normal person who had somewhere to be, if the frequent glances at his watch and out of the window were any indication.
‘Off out this evening?’ Sherlock asked innocently, noting John’s slight jump at the sound of Sherlock’s voice.
‘No,’ John answered, just the slightest bit too quickly, before correcting himself with a forced laugh. ‘Well, yes, actually. It’s funny you should ask, because-’
‘Can I have a word with you before you go?’
Without looking to see if John was following, Sherlock led the way into his bedroom and locked the door behind them. He pocketed the key, tucking it into the little case he had purchased that afternoon and turned to face John, who was looking nervous. ‘I was wondering whether you’d prefer Chinese or Italian for dinner this evening?’
John shifted his feet, now looking slightly uncomfortable. ‘Sorry, I’m not actually going to be here for dinner. I’m…off to see Harry again.’
Sherlock noted the slight hesitation before the lie. Bollocks are you going to see your sister, he thought. It was interesting - clearly on some level John was unhappy about lying to Sherlock and wanted to tell the truth, although he knew he never would. Given the nature of this particular truth, Sherlock didn’t blame him.
‘Oh right,’ he said, ‘well, no problem. Another time then.’
‘Yes,’ agreed John, looking relieved that (locked door notwithstanding) this was apparently all Sherlock had wanted to talk to him about. ‘So…can I have the key, then?’
‘Of course.’ Sherlock took the case out of his pocket and, holding it lightly on his palm, offered it to John. ‘It’s in here.’
As John’s hand reached out for the case, he glanced at it and then jerked his eyes back up to meet Sherlock’s gaze in shock. Sherlock allowed himself a small, inward shout of triumph: he’d been right. The case sat on his palm between them: an old cigarette case (early Victorian if he was any judge), with beautiful engraving on the lid and maker’s stamp discreetly on the back.
And made from solid silver.
Hand hovering, John’s nostrils flared and his eyes bored into Sherlock’s own, looking for the slightest hint of knowledge. Sherlock didn’t move a muscle, hanging on determinedly to his expression of innocent geniality as John’s gaze flicked between his eyes, trying to read his thoughts.
‘Problem?’ Sherlock thrust his hand forward just the tiniest bit, encouraging John to take the small box and John managed, ‘No, ‘course not,’ as he picked it up. He turned away almost instantly but Sherlock heard a gasp and a muffled curse as, a second later, the case clattered to the ground at John’s feet.
Fill - part 4/?
anonymous
October 23 2010, 20:55:49 UTC
Silence screamed in the air between them, and Sherlock stepped around John to pick up the case from the floor as John rubbed his hand like a man who had just brushed up against a hot stove.
‘Careful with that,’ Sherlock murmured, suddenly finding it difficult to catch his breath. ‘It’s an antique, you know.’
‘It’s got a sharp edge to it,’ John grunted. ‘Something just nicked my skin. Can you give me the key, please?’
‘Well, be more careful this time.’ Sherlock held the case out to John again, ignoring his request, and when John made no move to take it he breathed, ‘my God. It’s true, isn’t it?’
Instantly, John turned away. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can you give me the damn key, please?’
‘Take it.’ He held his hand out again, and John ignored it.
‘Sherlock, I don’t have time to piss about with you, will you just give me the-’
‘Take it-’
‘Sherlock!’ John shouted in sudden fury and then instantly bit his lip, breathing hard and making a visible effort to stay calm. ‘Just give me the bloody thing.’
‘You can’t touch it, can you?’ Sherlock murmured. ‘God, I thought I knew what was going on but even so, this is incredible.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and this isn’t funny any more. Joke’s over,’ John said tightly.
Sherlock thrust the case forwards again, towards John’s bare hand, and watched as John almost managed to repress his instinctive flinch away from it.
‘You’re a werewolf,’ Sherlock said softly, watching John’s face. ‘It hurts you, doesn’t it?’
Instead of answering, John looked at the window, expression taut and desperate now, and Sherlock read his thoughts.
‘I wouldn’t,’ he answered. ‘If what I’ve read is true then it wouldn’t do you any permanent damage but even so, a man crashing to the ground from a second-floor window would attract rather a lot of attention and possibly an enforced trip to hospital by well-meaning members of the public. I would guess that, at this time of the month, that’s the last thing you want.’
‘You’re being ridiculous.’ John forced a laugh. ‘There’s no such thing as werewolves, they’re just a kids’ story.’
‘Oh, I think I would beg to differ,’ Sherlock answered gently, and watched as John’s expression crumpled. Without looking at Sherlock, he collapsed onto the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.
‘You know,’ John’s voice was muffled through his fingers. ‘I could probably burst my way through that door. Or attack you until you give me the key in self-defence.’
‘Knocking down my bedroom door would definitely draw attention,’ Sherlock said dryly, ‘as well as increasing our rent. And as for attacking me…’ He came to sit next to John on the bed. ‘Very poor threat, since I know you’ll never follow it through. You forget that I know you, John Watson. You’d do better to talk to me.’
When John’s hands didn’t leave his face, Sherlock began speaking. ‘You always know what phase of the moon it is, although you often pretend you don’t, and when you “stay over at Harry’s” it’s always around full moon. You didn’t like the wolfsbane that I brought back two weeks ago and,’ Sherlock gently took one of John’s hands and examined the reddened skin on his fingertips, ‘silver burns you.’ Sherlock brushed John’s palm lightly, watching John’s fingers curl reflexively around his own as he continued, ‘I’ve not yet been able to determine whether you shave your palms…’
The visible corner of John’s mouth twisted up in a reluctant smile and finally he dropped his concealing hand to say, ‘no, I don’t shave my palms, you madman. And nor do my eyebrows meet in the middle, thanks very much. But I do have quite long ring fingers.’ To illustrate, John held out his hands, palms facing away, and now that Sherlock knew what to look for he could see that the third finger on each of John’s hands was indeed very long, disproportionately so for the size of his hands. ‘And by the way, we prefer the word “bimorph”.’
Fill - part 5/?
anonymous
October 23 2010, 20:57:46 UTC
Politically correct werewolves for the 21st century, Sherlock thought, inwardly amused but having more tact than to show it.
Heaving a sigh, John continued. ‘Well, since you’ve got this far on your own I might as well tell you, since I don’t suppose there’s any hope of you dropping this? No. Didn’t think so.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Are you going to change, since it’s full moon?’ Sherlock asked immediately, that clearly being the issue to get out of the way first. If he was about to be confronted with a large carnivore, then he needed at least a bit of warning.
‘No. Contrary to legend and folklore, modern bimorphs don’t have to change when the moonlight hits us, we’ve managed to overcome that. We’re more or less able to change whenever we want to, but at full moon it’s much easier and everything just feels generally…closer to the surface.’ John looked frustrated, and Sherlock tried to imagine how restrictive it must be to try and describe the physical feeling in a language that was completely unsuited to the task. ‘I heal fast, very fast, but I still scar from serious injuries, hence my shoulder. And the old beliefs about wolfsbane and silver still hold true, time hasn’t done anything to change those.’ John flexed his red fingers in Sherlock’s loose clasp. ‘Obviously. It’s frowned upon to take a mate who’s not also a bimorph, but if you do then you’re not supposed to stay with them during full moon.’
Sherlock had been silent during this - once John started speaking it seemed to loosen a dam inside him and the words poured forth - but after the last point John flushed slightly and fell silent.
‘To prevent the possibility of infection?’ Sherlock prompted gently, and John looked puzzled for a moment before his face cleared.
‘No! God no, nothing like that. My…condition is genetic, so there’s really no possible way I could pass it on to you. Christ, Sherlock, I wouldn’t have even touched you if there was a possibility I might give this to you.’
Now John looked slightly offended, and Sherlock squeezed his hand briefly in apology as he tried to delicately ask, ‘So do you become dangerous, then, at full moon?’
John hesitated for a long moment before answering. ‘Yes. Sort of. It would certainly be better if I weren’t here. Will you give me the key now?’
‘Of course not,’ Sherlock huffed. ‘You should know me better than that. What do you mean, “sort of”?’ But when John looked away, clearly not wanting to reply, Sherlock changed tack. ‘You said “we prefer the word ‘bimorph’”. Does that mean that there’s a lot of you, then?’
‘Yes. Not that many, but few hundred, in England at least. There’s an underground network of us all across the UK and Europe; it’s a secret that’s lasted hundreds of years, no government has ever found out about us.’ John looked at Sherlock, suddenly mistrustful and clearly thinking of Mycroft and his ‘minor position in the British Government’. ‘Not so far, anyway. Otherwise we’d all be rounded up and transferred to a secure lab somewhere in Siberia.’
Sherlock supposed he couldn’t really blame John for being wary, since a secure underground lab in a remote location would certainly be the ultimate destination for any werewolf, sorry, bimorph found running around modern-day London. But he wasn’t entirely able to conceal his chagrin at John’s lack of confidence in him.
‘Please,’ he snorted, ‘when have you ever known me to confide in Mycroft about anything? Your secret is safe with me. But how did you manage in Afghanistan?’
John shrugged. ‘During the nights I just made an effort to stay apart from other people. There was always someone who was willing to swap their night guarding shift with no questions asked. And during the day…well. When you’re living in a war zone then there are any number of reasons to be a bit tense and…snappish.’
Fill - part 6/?
anonymous
October 23 2010, 20:59:22 UTC
‘Did you ever change into a wolf while you were out there?’
‘Yes, if I knew that I had complete privacy for a few hours. It’s oddly relaxing, and animal senses are much better for guarding than human ones. Much sharper.’
‘Hmm.’ Sherlock was silent for a moment, digesting the new information, before saying idly, ‘that could have been handy when we were trapped in that swimming pool with Moriarty.’
‘Sherlock,’ the exasperated look that John gave him was so dearly familiar that Sherlock grinned. ‘We had fifteen snipers covering us, and were trapped like rats in a barrel. What the hell good would it have done for one of us to have suddenly turned into a wolf?’
Sherlock tried to look innocently helpful as he suggested, ‘Element of surprise?’ and watched as John giggled briefly.
Sobering, John got up from the bed and moved to the window, watching the last rays of the setting sun touch the house opposite, making it look as though the walls were running with molten gold.
‘I’m going to need that key now, Sherlock,’ John said quietly, turning back around to look at him and leaning against the window frame.
‘First tell me why we’re not meant to be near each other,’ Sherlock countered, pulling the cigarette case out of his pocket and setting it down on his desk with a click. ‘Then I’ll give you the key. You said you’re only “sort of” dangerous. What does that mean?’
‘What if I just want to leave?’ John asked bluntly.
Sherlock tilted his head to the side. ‘The fact that you’ve lingered here talking this long would suggest otherwise. You don’t want to leave; you just feel that you ought to. Why?’
Turning his face away, John stayed stubbornly mute and Sherlock noted, ‘Your cheeks are turning pink, so whatever the reason is you’re embarrassed about it. Given what you’ve already told me, I can’t imagine there’s much else you’d get embarrassed about, unless it was something… oh God, it’s something sexual, isn’t it? It’s something to do with me.’
John’s faint flush deepened. He looked absolutely mortified, and Sherlock quickly crossed the room to kiss him, before John could change his mind about throwing himself through the window. Sherlock hands cradled John’s face as John’s mouth opened readily against his and he kissed him back hotly, hands coming to rest lightly on Sherlock’s waist.
‘John,’ Sherlock murmured against his wet lips. ‘You’ve had my cock in your mouth and up your arse, you’ve fucked me bent over that sofa out there, and I’ve been on my knees sucking you off while you were typing a text to Mycroft-’
‘Don’t remind me,’ John groaned softly, closing his eyes.
‘And I’ve fucking loved every single second of it, do you hear me? So whatever it is, I’m sure you can tell me.’
‘When it’s full moon,’ John said slowly, every word sounding as though it was being wrung from him against his will, ‘my kind get a strong urge to…procreate.’
Involuntarily, Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to John’s groin. ‘So do you transform…down there?’
‘No!’ Interesting. Sherlock had thought it was impossible for John to go any redder than he had been. Clearly he was wrong. ‘No, you loon, everything stays completely normal. Jesus.’ John sighed, defeated. ‘But we can be a bit rough, when we’re…you know. Hence the reason why it’s frowned on to take a human as a mate, and the reason why we’re not meant to be with them at full moon.’
‘So basically,’ Sherlock breathed, a full-blown erotic picture slowly forming in his head, ‘all those nights you’ve been disappearing, you’ve not been at Sarah’s or Harry’s at all, have you? You’ve been-’
‘Locking myself into a cheap hotel room on the other side of London and getting myself off, yes,’ John finished for him. ‘Repeatedly, if you must know.’
Re: Fill - part 6/?
anonymous
October 26 2010, 19:18:32 UTC
Ooooooh. Eeeevellll. Stopping there... it burns. If I might beg for a bottom!John (at some point)? Might, you know, cool the burn down a tad and put smiles :) on faces!
Fill - part 7/17
anonymous
October 27 2010, 20:09:31 UTC
Sherlock couldn’t answer. He felt as though he could hardly breathe. His mind was filled with images of John: John arching his back and scrabbling at sweat-damp sheets as he spilled over his own fingers again and again, John rutting hard into his fist and biting down on his knuckles to stay silent as the cheap hotel mattress squeaked beneath him, John panting up at the ceiling as he stroked himself to yet another solitary climax before falling into an exhausted slumber.
‘Sherlock,’ John murmured, ‘for the last time. It would be better if you were to let me go.’
Dumbly, Sherlock shook his head. Lifting his hands from where they had been resting lightly against John’s neck, he loosened the top few buttons of his shirt and shrugged off his jacket.
Instantly, John averted his eyes from the newly-exposed skin. ‘Sherlock. Don’t.’
Turning away from John, Sherlock dropped his jacket over the back of a chair and toed off his shoes, distantly aware of the scuff marks he was leaving on the heels of the shiny black leather. His hands moved to his waist and he began to unfasten his belt.
Throughout it all, there was no sound in the room other than the rustle of fabric and John’s rapid, shallow breaths. When Sherlock was down to his boxers he stretched out on the bed, running his hands idly over his chest and lingering over his nipples, shivering a little with pleasure and anticipation. He had been half-hard since John’s halting confession of what he had been doing every month, and now he pushed a hand beneath the waistband of his underwear, taking his cock into a loose clasp and stroking himself lightly.
‘…Sherlock…’ John sounded as though he couldn’t breathe, and in response Sherlock drew his cock out through the slit in his boxers, arching his back a little and murmuring in pleasure as he felt himself get harder. He opened eyes that had fallen closed to peer across the room to where John was standing by the window frame, silhouetted in the gloom, and seemingly poised for fight or flight. There was a curious, slightly hunched set to his shoulders, almost as though his body was trying to curl in on itself, and Sherlock recognised it.
‘God,’ he breathed. ‘You’re hard, aren’t you?’
John didn’t answer, but his slight flinch gave him away.
‘Sherlock, I shouldn’t be here,’ he murmured unhappily.
‘And yet-’ Sherlock caught his breath as he used his thumb to slide his foreskin over the head of his cock, ‘here you are.’
He reached down to cup his balls through the soft fabric of his underwear, a small moan escaping him at the sensation, and John twitched as though he had been stung. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered closed and he let himself sigh in pleasure as he tightened his fingers on his now fully-erect cock and began to touch himself.
The next instant the bed creaked under John’s weight and he leaned down to mutter harshly against Sherlock’s mouth, ‘You shouldn’t tease.’
‘Not teasing,’ Sherlock gasped and God, was that really his voice? So desperate and full of longing? ‘It’s not teasing if I’m offering but you’re too scared to reach out and take-’
The rest of his provocation was lost in John’s mouth, crushed hard against his own at last. As they kissed Sherlock heard himself whine embarrassingly, and then moan seconds later as John’s hand replaced his own on his cock. John’s fingers were warm and slightly callused, and his touch on Sherlock’s flesh was sure and practiced. As John’s thumb brushed over the head of his cock, Sherlock’s breath stuttered in his chest and John released him to order, ‘Take those off.’
Sherlock scrambled out of bed to obey, conscious of the whisper of cloth behind him as John stripped quickly and silently, and when he pulled the duvet back and stretched out again, his stomach fluttered with unaccustomed nerves. There was very little that he and John hadn’t done, but this was entirely unlike anything they had ever-
The mattress dipped again under John’s weight and Sherlock’s train of thought was abruptly cut off.
Fill - part 8/17
anonymous
October 27 2010, 20:11:31 UTC
A/N: Thanks for the encouragement! & sorry it took so long to update - my 1st try at writing smut with a supernatural-type theme, & it’s really difficult! Warning: EPIC amounts of smut (duh!) Rimming, slight biting & people being held down, so maybe give it a miss if any of this squicks you.
A moment later John was tugging Sherlock into his arms and kissing him hotly, tongue coaxing his lips open as one hand wandered down to close around his erection, now blessedly free of the entangling underwear. While Sherlock swallowed hard and tried to coordinate his hands enough to touch John in return, John left off from suckling at Sherlock’s lower lip and muttered, ‘I want you to suck me.’
‘Yes,’ Sherlock agreed immediately, unexpectedly turned on by this new, more forward version of John who gave orders in bed. ‘Yes, all right, anything you want.’
Heart pounding, Sherlock slid down the bed to lie between John’s legs. He’d always loved doing this for John, loved the power involved in deciding whether to bring him off hard and fast, or whether to linger and draw it out, until his lips were swollen and his chin wet with saliva and pre-come, and John’s world had narrowed to the sweet ache of Sherlock’s slick grasp around his cock and the hot, wet slide in and out of Sherlock’s mouth.
This time, John had already taken himself in hand and was pointing his erection up towards Sherlock’s mouth, nudging the smooth head against his lips before pushing in and rubbing over his tongue. Obligingly, Sherlock slid his mouth up and down John’s length a few times before pulling off to run his tongue over John’s balls. He buried his face between John’s legs, loving the intimacy of it, loving the way that John’s natural scent was stronger here, made heavier by the musk of male arousal, and took John’s balls into his mouth, sucking gently until John’s legs spread wider and he groaned.
The next instant John was coaxing his head, gently but firmly, back up towards his erection and Sherlock pressed the flat of his tongue against the underside of John’s cock before pulling it back into his mouth. It wasn’t going to take long at all - he could feel John already tensing beneath him, his stomach muscles quivering and back arching, and a few moments later John’s fingers on his shoulder were digging in hard, and John was growling Sherlock’s name as his hips jerked and he spilled into Sherlock’s mouth.
Almost before Sherlock had finished swallowing, John had a bruising grip on his shoulders and was hauling him up the bed and into a messy kiss, wet and open-mouthed. As John pushed his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth to taste himself, Sherlock felt another pang of lust.
‘On your back,’ John muttered breathlessly, and Sherlock scrambled to comply. For a brief, glorious instant John stretched out on top of him, kissing him hard, and Sherlock moaned as John’s weight ground down on his aching cock. Then John was moving, kissing his way down Sherlock’s stomach and occasionally sucking hard enough to make him gasp aloud. He spread his legs in anticipation, swallowing as he felt the brush of John’s hair against his inner thighs and the hot wetness of John’s mouth as he nuzzled open-mouthed kisses into Sherlock’s skin. A sudden, sharp sting made him jump and let out a muffled exclamation, but before he could protest John had moved over to his other leg to repeat the gesture. Despite the arousing aspect of John marking him in such an intimate place, it wasn’t entirely comfortable, and Sherlock was relieved when John raised his head and said, ‘Spread your legs.’
Sherlock parted his legs wider, bringing his feet up to rest flat on the bed, and when he felt John’s closed mouth brushing over the base of his erection he bit his lip, thinking that this was it. Instead, John hands curled round the backs of his legs and pushed, encouraging him to draw his knees up towards his chest as John’s tongue traced a ticklish line over his balls and down and back.
Fill - part 9/17
anonymous
October 27 2010, 20:12:40 UTC
When John’s tongue first touched the entrance to his body, Sherlock jumped and tried to bring his legs down but John still had a warning hand on the back of one thigh and his grip tightened as Sherlock squirmed. They’d never done this before, although Sherlock was of course aware that it was something people sometimes found arousing, and he felt uncomfortably open and exposed as John spread his buttocks and pushed his tongue between them.
After a while John pulled back and Sherlock unwound his fingers from the sheet. His hole felt sensitised, cool as the air hit it, and John leaned up the bed to grab a pillow as Sherlock gulped for air and shivered in anticipation. Because John was taking his time positioning Sherlock how he wanted him, letting him shiver and imagine what was coming.
But then, confusingly, John wasn’t going down on him, he wasn’t pulling Sherlock’s cock into his mouth or reaching for the lubricant to start working his way inside him. John was wedging the pillow under the small of Sherlock’s back and pushing his hips further up so he could crowd closer (Sherlock bit back a cry and tightened his fingers where he was gripping the back of his own knee, holding himself open and exposed for John), laving Sherlock’s hole and pushing a saliva-wet finger slowly inside him.
At last, Sherlock couldn’t take any more. ’John! he groaned frantically, reaching down to grip John’s hair in a sweat-damp palm. ‘John, please…do something…’
At this point, Sherlock had been expecting (hoping, even) that John would get the lubricant and press inside him. What he definitely wasn’t expecting was for John to pull his legs back down to rest on the bed and sit straddling his hips. Sherlock pushed upwards with his hips, sliding his erection between John’s buttocks as John leaned over him, reaching into the nightstand for the small tube.
‘But I thought,’ Sherlock muttered, running his hands down John’s stomach to curl around his renewed erection and trying to cope with the sudden change of expectations, ‘I thought you were going to fuck me.’
John had flipped the cap off the lubricant and was reaching behind himself, forearm flexing where it disappeared behind his hips and he groaned at Sherlock, ‘…not yet…’
And then slippery fingers were gripping his erection, slicking his flesh, and John was leaning back and sinking down against him with hardly any preparation at all.
‘Christ!’ Sherlock gasped, not daring to move. John was unaccustomedly tight around him, doubtless due to John’s preparation that had been frankly perfunctory at best and Sherlock felt paralysed, torn between the twin fears that if he thrust upwards so much as an inch then he would either hurt John or come, because John might be tight around him but God, it was the most excruciatingly pleasurable tightness he’d ever felt.
However, John merely took a couple of deep breaths before catching hold of Sherlock’s hands where they were gripping his waist, fingers curving around his wrists, and the next thing Sherlock knew his hands were being pinned above his head and John was leaning down to kiss him, hard and bruising.
When John started to move, Sherlock had to bite down on his lip. The sensations were overwhelming: John’s fingers tight around his wrists, holding him down against the mattress and immobilising him as John ground down against him. The pillow still wedged awkwardly under his hips, shifting slightly with every rock and squeak of the bedsprings. And John, God, John. John was squeezing Sherlock’s wrists hard and holding him down as his thighs flexed and he fucked himself on Sherlock’s cock, kissing and nipping at Sherlock’s mouth and throat as he canted his hips to ensure that every tight slide of Sherlock’s cock inside him rubbed across his prostate.
Sherlock could already feel the pressure mounting low in his stomach, feel the lift in his balls and his body tensing.
‘John,’ he groaned in warning, ‘not…not going to last long…sorry…’
Fill - part 10/17
anonymous
October 27 2010, 20:15:53 UTC
In reply, John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, sucking and biting at him, sucking hard, and Sherlock grunted as the slight pain backed him down from the edge of orgasm.
‘Mine,’ John growled low in his ear, nipping at Sherlock’s earlobe, ‘mine…’
‘Yes, yours,’ agreed Sherlock, straining against John’s hold, twisting his wrists helplessly and trying to get a hand free to touch John’s cock that he could feel rubbing hard and damp against his stomach, wanting to make John come. But John only gripped harder (Sherlock grunted as he felt the bones of his wrist grinding together) and sped up until he was panting, almost snarling, ‘Yes, yes, God, mine’ and Sherlock felt a sudden hot wetness on his stomach. Almost insane with desire, Sherlock shoved upwards with his hips, fucking John hard and feeling him spasm around him, wanting to come, needing to come right this minute…
His orgasm tore through him, flaying him open with pleasure and making him cry out, and his hands clenched on empty air, twisting fruitlessly as he sought something to hang on to.
As he came back to himself he found John nuzzling the side of his face, capturing his mouth insistently for a kiss as Sherlock dragged in deep, ragged breaths though his nose.
After a few minutes John released his wrists and Sherlock took to opportunity to rub them, trying to ease the soreness without attracting John’s attention and making him feel guilty. But John wasn’t paying attention: John was tracing his fingertips through his come spread across Sherlock’s stomach, pushing them against Sherlock’s flesh and Sherlock glanced down, momentarily confused before he realised that John was rubbing it into his skin, marking him in the most primitive way possible.
Automatically, Sherlock reached out for John and pulled him into another kiss. ‘Yours,’ he murmured against John’s mouth. ‘… yours…’
‘Turn over,’ demanded John huskily, sounding broken and half out of his mind as he tugged at Sherlock’s hips. ‘Please.’
‘All right, all right…’ Sherlock let John push and pull at him until he was lying on his front, his abused pillow shoved down beneath his hips. He wasn’t sure what John wanted, but he had sounded so desperate that Sherlock sought only to reassure him, for despite having been the one on top, it sounded very much as though John was now the one in need of calming.
As it turned out, John apparently wanted to kiss his way down Sherlock’s spine until his nerves were tingling, and then John held him open with his thumbs as his tongue slid down between Sherlock’s buttocks again. Burying his face in his other pillow, Sherlock moaned loudly. It was a stark contrast to the slightly rough sex of just a few minutes ago - John’s tongue was lapping gently at him, circling and caressing and bestowing the lightest of tickling touches until Sherlock felt as though his bones were dissolving.
John seemed as though he would be content to stay there all night, tongue circling and squirming against Sherlock without ever actually penetrating him, but eventually the post-coital pleasure suffusing Sherlock began to collide with the gathering tautness of renewed arousal. It was rare that he would come more than once a night, but then (he moaned again) he supposed that this did count as exceptional circumstances.
When John finally pushed two lubricant-slick fingers inside him, achingly slowly, Sherlock actually cried out. John bit down lightly into the muscle of his arse, making Sherlock squirm and tighten around his fingers as he asked, ‘All right?’
‘Yes,’ gasped Sherlock, heart pounding, before moaning incoherently as he felt John’s fingers crook inside him and a spike of pleasure go through him a moment later.
‘Off out this evening?’ Sherlock asked innocently, noting John’s slight jump at the sound of Sherlock’s voice.
‘No,’ John answered, just the slightest bit too quickly, before correcting himself with a forced laugh. ‘Well, yes, actually. It’s funny you should ask, because-’
‘Can I have a word with you before you go?’
Without looking to see if John was following, Sherlock led the way into his bedroom and locked the door behind them. He pocketed the key, tucking it into the little case he had purchased that afternoon and turned to face John, who was looking nervous. ‘I was wondering whether you’d prefer Chinese or Italian for dinner this evening?’
John shifted his feet, now looking slightly uncomfortable. ‘Sorry, I’m not actually going to be here for dinner. I’m…off to see Harry again.’
Sherlock noted the slight hesitation before the lie. Bollocks are you going to see your sister, he thought. It was interesting - clearly on some level John was unhappy about lying to Sherlock and wanted to tell the truth, although he knew he never would. Given the nature of this particular truth, Sherlock didn’t blame him.
‘Oh right,’ he said, ‘well, no problem. Another time then.’
‘Yes,’ agreed John, looking relieved that (locked door notwithstanding) this was apparently all Sherlock had wanted to talk to him about. ‘So…can I have the key, then?’
‘Of course.’ Sherlock took the case out of his pocket and, holding it lightly on his palm, offered it to John. ‘It’s in here.’
As John’s hand reached out for the case, he glanced at it and then jerked his eyes back up to meet Sherlock’s gaze in shock. Sherlock allowed himself a small, inward shout of triumph: he’d been right. The case sat on his palm between them: an old cigarette case (early Victorian if he was any judge), with beautiful engraving on the lid and maker’s stamp discreetly on the back.
And made from solid silver.
Hand hovering, John’s nostrils flared and his eyes bored into Sherlock’s own, looking for the slightest hint of knowledge. Sherlock didn’t move a muscle, hanging on determinedly to his expression of innocent geniality as John’s gaze flicked between his eyes, trying to read his thoughts.
‘Problem?’ Sherlock thrust his hand forward just the tiniest bit, encouraging John to take the small box and John managed, ‘No, ‘course not,’ as he picked it up. He turned away almost instantly but Sherlock heard a gasp and a muffled curse as, a second later, the case clattered to the ground at John’s feet.
Reply
‘Careful with that,’ Sherlock murmured, suddenly finding it difficult to catch his breath. ‘It’s an antique, you know.’
‘It’s got a sharp edge to it,’ John grunted. ‘Something just nicked my skin. Can you give me the key, please?’
‘Well, be more careful this time.’ Sherlock held the case out to John again, ignoring his request, and when John made no move to take it he breathed, ‘my God. It’s true, isn’t it?’
Instantly, John turned away. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can you give me the damn key, please?’
‘Take it.’ He held his hand out again, and John ignored it.
‘Sherlock, I don’t have time to piss about with you, will you just give me the-’
‘Take it-’
‘Sherlock!’ John shouted in sudden fury and then instantly bit his lip, breathing hard and making a visible effort to stay calm. ‘Just give me the bloody thing.’
‘You can’t touch it, can you?’ Sherlock murmured. ‘God, I thought I knew what was going on but even so, this is incredible.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and this isn’t funny any more. Joke’s over,’ John said tightly.
Sherlock thrust the case forwards again, towards John’s bare hand, and watched as John almost managed to repress his instinctive flinch away from it.
‘You’re a werewolf,’ Sherlock said softly, watching John’s face. ‘It hurts you, doesn’t it?’
Instead of answering, John looked at the window, expression taut and desperate now, and Sherlock read his thoughts.
‘I wouldn’t,’ he answered. ‘If what I’ve read is true then it wouldn’t do you any permanent damage but even so, a man crashing to the ground from a second-floor window would attract rather a lot of attention and possibly an enforced trip to hospital by well-meaning members of the public. I would guess that, at this time of the month, that’s the last thing you want.’
‘You’re being ridiculous.’ John forced a laugh. ‘There’s no such thing as werewolves, they’re just a kids’ story.’
‘Oh, I think I would beg to differ,’ Sherlock answered gently, and watched as John’s expression crumpled. Without looking at Sherlock, he collapsed onto the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.
‘You know,’ John’s voice was muffled through his fingers. ‘I could probably burst my way through that door. Or attack you until you give me the key in self-defence.’
‘Knocking down my bedroom door would definitely draw attention,’ Sherlock said dryly, ‘as well as increasing our rent. And as for attacking me…’ He came to sit next to John on the bed. ‘Very poor threat, since I know you’ll never follow it through. You forget that I know you, John Watson. You’d do better to talk to me.’
When John’s hands didn’t leave his face, Sherlock began speaking. ‘You always know what phase of the moon it is, although you often pretend you don’t, and when you “stay over at Harry’s” it’s always around full moon. You didn’t like the wolfsbane that I brought back two weeks ago and,’ Sherlock gently took one of John’s hands and examined the reddened skin on his fingertips, ‘silver burns you.’ Sherlock brushed John’s palm lightly, watching John’s fingers curl reflexively around his own as he continued, ‘I’ve not yet been able to determine whether you shave your palms…’
The visible corner of John’s mouth twisted up in a reluctant smile and finally he dropped his concealing hand to say, ‘no, I don’t shave my palms, you madman. And nor do my eyebrows meet in the middle, thanks very much. But I do have quite long ring fingers.’ To illustrate, John held out his hands, palms facing away, and now that Sherlock knew what to look for he could see that the third finger on each of John’s hands was indeed very long, disproportionately so for the size of his hands. ‘And by the way, we prefer the word “bimorph”.’
Reply
Heaving a sigh, John continued. ‘Well, since you’ve got this far on your own I might as well tell you, since I don’t suppose there’s any hope of you dropping this? No. Didn’t think so.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Are you going to change, since it’s full moon?’ Sherlock asked immediately, that clearly being the issue to get out of the way first. If he was about to be confronted with a large carnivore, then he needed at least a bit of warning.
‘No. Contrary to legend and folklore, modern bimorphs don’t have to change when the moonlight hits us, we’ve managed to overcome that. We’re more or less able to change whenever we want to, but at full moon it’s much easier and everything just feels generally…closer to the surface.’ John looked frustrated, and Sherlock tried to imagine how restrictive it must be to try and describe the physical feeling in a language that was completely unsuited to the task. ‘I heal fast, very fast, but I still scar from serious injuries, hence my shoulder. And the old beliefs about wolfsbane and silver still hold true, time hasn’t done anything to change those.’ John flexed his red fingers in Sherlock’s loose clasp. ‘Obviously. It’s frowned upon to take a mate who’s not also a bimorph, but if you do then you’re not supposed to stay with them during full moon.’
Sherlock had been silent during this - once John started speaking it seemed to loosen a dam inside him and the words poured forth - but after the last point John flushed slightly and fell silent.
‘To prevent the possibility of infection?’ Sherlock prompted gently, and John looked puzzled for a moment before his face cleared.
‘No! God no, nothing like that. My…condition is genetic, so there’s really no possible way I could pass it on to you. Christ, Sherlock, I wouldn’t have even touched you if there was a possibility I might give this to you.’
Now John looked slightly offended, and Sherlock squeezed his hand briefly in apology as he tried to delicately ask, ‘So do you become dangerous, then, at full moon?’
John hesitated for a long moment before answering. ‘Yes. Sort of. It would certainly be better if I weren’t here. Will you give me the key now?’
‘Of course not,’ Sherlock huffed. ‘You should know me better than that. What do you mean, “sort of”?’ But when John looked away, clearly not wanting to reply, Sherlock changed tack. ‘You said “we prefer the word ‘bimorph’”. Does that mean that there’s a lot of you, then?’
‘Yes. Not that many, but few hundred, in England at least. There’s an underground network of us all across the UK and Europe; it’s a secret that’s lasted hundreds of years, no government has ever found out about us.’ John looked at Sherlock, suddenly mistrustful and clearly thinking of Mycroft and his ‘minor position in the British Government’. ‘Not so far, anyway. Otherwise we’d all be rounded up and transferred to a secure lab somewhere in Siberia.’
Sherlock supposed he couldn’t really blame John for being wary, since a secure underground lab in a remote location would certainly be the ultimate destination for any werewolf, sorry, bimorph found running around modern-day London. But he wasn’t entirely able to conceal his chagrin at John’s lack of confidence in him.
‘Please,’ he snorted, ‘when have you ever known me to confide in Mycroft about anything? Your secret is safe with me. But how did you manage in Afghanistan?’
John shrugged. ‘During the nights I just made an effort to stay apart from other people. There was always someone who was willing to swap their night guarding shift with no questions asked. And during the day…well. When you’re living in a war zone then there are any number of reasons to be a bit tense and…snappish.’
Reply
‘Yes, if I knew that I had complete privacy for a few hours. It’s oddly relaxing, and animal senses are much better for guarding than human ones. Much sharper.’
‘Hmm.’ Sherlock was silent for a moment, digesting the new information, before saying idly, ‘that could have been handy when we were trapped in that swimming pool with Moriarty.’
‘Sherlock,’ the exasperated look that John gave him was so dearly familiar that Sherlock grinned. ‘We had fifteen snipers covering us, and were trapped like rats in a barrel. What the hell good would it have done for one of us to have suddenly turned into a wolf?’
Sherlock tried to look innocently helpful as he suggested, ‘Element of surprise?’ and watched as John giggled briefly.
Sobering, John got up from the bed and moved to the window, watching the last rays of the setting sun touch the house opposite, making it look as though the walls were running with molten gold.
‘I’m going to need that key now, Sherlock,’ John said quietly, turning back around to look at him and leaning against the window frame.
‘First tell me why we’re not meant to be near each other,’ Sherlock countered, pulling the cigarette case out of his pocket and setting it down on his desk with a click. ‘Then I’ll give you the key. You said you’re only “sort of” dangerous. What does that mean?’
‘What if I just want to leave?’ John asked bluntly.
Sherlock tilted his head to the side. ‘The fact that you’ve lingered here talking this long would suggest otherwise. You don’t want to leave; you just feel that you ought to. Why?’
Turning his face away, John stayed stubbornly mute and Sherlock noted, ‘Your cheeks are turning pink, so whatever the reason is you’re embarrassed about it. Given what you’ve already told me, I can’t imagine there’s much else you’d get embarrassed about, unless it was something… oh God, it’s something sexual, isn’t it? It’s something to do with me.’
John’s faint flush deepened. He looked absolutely mortified, and Sherlock quickly crossed the room to kiss him, before John could change his mind about throwing himself through the window. Sherlock hands cradled John’s face as John’s mouth opened readily against his and he kissed him back hotly, hands coming to rest lightly on Sherlock’s waist.
‘John,’ Sherlock murmured against his wet lips. ‘You’ve had my cock in your mouth and up your arse, you’ve fucked me bent over that sofa out there, and I’ve been on my knees sucking you off while you were typing a text to Mycroft-’
‘Don’t remind me,’ John groaned softly, closing his eyes.
‘And I’ve fucking loved every single second of it, do you hear me? So whatever it is, I’m sure you can tell me.’
‘When it’s full moon,’ John said slowly, every word sounding as though it was being wrung from him against his will, ‘my kind get a strong urge to…procreate.’
Involuntarily, Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to John’s groin. ‘So do you transform…down there?’
‘No!’ Interesting. Sherlock had thought it was impossible for John to go any redder than he had been. Clearly he was wrong. ‘No, you loon, everything stays completely normal. Jesus.’ John sighed, defeated. ‘But we can be a bit rough, when we’re…you know. Hence the reason why it’s frowned on to take a human as a mate, and the reason why we’re not meant to be with them at full moon.’
‘So basically,’ Sherlock breathed, a full-blown erotic picture slowly forming in his head, ‘all those nights you’ve been disappearing, you’ve not been at Sarah’s or Harry’s at all, have you? You’ve been-’
‘Locking myself into a cheap hotel room on the other side of London and getting myself off, yes,’ John finished for him. ‘Repeatedly, if you must know.’
Reply
Reply
oh god I can't wait for the rest
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Torture!
Seriously though, loving this. I have a thing for were- bimorphs.
Reply
Reply
‘Sherlock,’ John murmured, ‘for the last time. It would be better if you were to let me go.’
Dumbly, Sherlock shook his head. Lifting his hands from where they had been resting lightly against John’s neck, he loosened the top few buttons of his shirt and shrugged off his jacket.
Instantly, John averted his eyes from the newly-exposed skin. ‘Sherlock. Don’t.’
Turning away from John, Sherlock dropped his jacket over the back of a chair and toed off his shoes, distantly aware of the scuff marks he was leaving on the heels of the shiny black leather. His hands moved to his waist and he began to unfasten his belt.
Throughout it all, there was no sound in the room other than the rustle of fabric and John’s rapid, shallow breaths. When Sherlock was down to his boxers he stretched out on the bed, running his hands idly over his chest and lingering over his nipples, shivering a little with pleasure and anticipation. He had been half-hard since John’s halting confession of what he had been doing every month, and now he pushed a hand beneath the waistband of his underwear, taking his cock into a loose clasp and stroking himself lightly.
‘…Sherlock…’ John sounded as though he couldn’t breathe, and in response Sherlock drew his cock out through the slit in his boxers, arching his back a little and murmuring in pleasure as he felt himself get harder. He opened eyes that had fallen closed to peer across the room to where John was standing by the window frame, silhouetted in the gloom, and seemingly poised for fight or flight. There was a curious, slightly hunched set to his shoulders, almost as though his body was trying to curl in on itself, and Sherlock recognised it.
‘God,’ he breathed. ‘You’re hard, aren’t you?’
John didn’t answer, but his slight flinch gave him away.
‘Sherlock, I shouldn’t be here,’ he murmured unhappily.
‘And yet-’ Sherlock caught his breath as he used his thumb to slide his foreskin over the head of his cock, ‘here you are.’
He reached down to cup his balls through the soft fabric of his underwear, a small moan escaping him at the sensation, and John twitched as though he had been stung. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered closed and he let himself sigh in pleasure as he tightened his fingers on his now fully-erect cock and began to touch himself.
The next instant the bed creaked under John’s weight and he leaned down to mutter harshly against Sherlock’s mouth, ‘You shouldn’t tease.’
‘Not teasing,’ Sherlock gasped and God, was that really his voice? So desperate and full of longing? ‘It’s not teasing if I’m offering but you’re too scared to reach out and take-’
The rest of his provocation was lost in John’s mouth, crushed hard against his own at last. As they kissed Sherlock heard himself whine embarrassingly, and then moan seconds later as John’s hand replaced his own on his cock. John’s fingers were warm and slightly callused, and his touch on Sherlock’s flesh was sure and practiced. As John’s thumb brushed over the head of his cock, Sherlock’s breath stuttered in his chest and John released him to order, ‘Take those off.’
Sherlock scrambled out of bed to obey, conscious of the whisper of cloth behind him as John stripped quickly and silently, and when he pulled the duvet back and stretched out again, his stomach fluttered with unaccustomed nerves. There was very little that he and John hadn’t done, but this was entirely unlike anything they had ever-
The mattress dipped again under John’s weight and Sherlock’s train of thought was abruptly cut off.
Reply
Warning: EPIC amounts of smut (duh!) Rimming, slight biting & people being held down, so maybe give it a miss if any of this squicks you.
A moment later John was tugging Sherlock into his arms and kissing him hotly, tongue coaxing his lips open as one hand wandered down to close around his erection, now blessedly free of the entangling underwear. While Sherlock swallowed hard and tried to coordinate his hands enough to touch John in return, John left off from suckling at Sherlock’s lower lip and muttered, ‘I want you to suck me.’
‘Yes,’ Sherlock agreed immediately, unexpectedly turned on by this new, more forward version of John who gave orders in bed. ‘Yes, all right, anything you want.’
Heart pounding, Sherlock slid down the bed to lie between John’s legs. He’d always loved doing this for John, loved the power involved in deciding whether to bring him off hard and fast, or whether to linger and draw it out, until his lips were swollen and his chin wet with saliva and pre-come, and John’s world had narrowed to the sweet ache of Sherlock’s slick grasp around his cock and the hot, wet slide in and out of Sherlock’s mouth.
This time, John had already taken himself in hand and was pointing his erection up towards Sherlock’s mouth, nudging the smooth head against his lips before pushing in and rubbing over his tongue. Obligingly, Sherlock slid his mouth up and down John’s length a few times before pulling off to run his tongue over John’s balls. He buried his face between John’s legs, loving the intimacy of it, loving the way that John’s natural scent was stronger here, made heavier by the musk of male arousal, and took John’s balls into his mouth, sucking gently until John’s legs spread wider and he groaned.
The next instant John was coaxing his head, gently but firmly, back up towards his erection and Sherlock pressed the flat of his tongue against the underside of John’s cock before pulling it back into his mouth. It wasn’t going to take long at all - he could feel John already tensing beneath him, his stomach muscles quivering and back arching, and a few moments later John’s fingers on his shoulder were digging in hard, and John was growling Sherlock’s name as his hips jerked and he spilled into Sherlock’s mouth.
Almost before Sherlock had finished swallowing, John had a bruising grip on his shoulders and was hauling him up the bed and into a messy kiss, wet and open-mouthed. As John pushed his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth to taste himself, Sherlock felt another pang of lust.
‘On your back,’ John muttered breathlessly, and Sherlock scrambled to comply. For a brief, glorious instant John stretched out on top of him, kissing him hard, and Sherlock moaned as John’s weight ground down on his aching cock. Then John was moving, kissing his way down Sherlock’s stomach and occasionally sucking hard enough to make him gasp aloud. He spread his legs in anticipation, swallowing as he felt the brush of John’s hair against his inner thighs and the hot wetness of John’s mouth as he nuzzled open-mouthed kisses into Sherlock’s skin. A sudden, sharp sting made him jump and let out a muffled exclamation, but before he could protest John had moved over to his other leg to repeat the gesture. Despite the arousing aspect of John marking him in such an intimate place, it wasn’t entirely comfortable, and Sherlock was relieved when John raised his head and said, ‘Spread your legs.’
Sherlock parted his legs wider, bringing his feet up to rest flat on the bed, and when he felt John’s closed mouth brushing over the base of his erection he bit his lip, thinking that this was it. Instead, John hands curled round the backs of his legs and pushed, encouraging him to draw his knees up towards his chest as John’s tongue traced a ticklish line over his balls and down and back.
Reply
After a while John pulled back and Sherlock unwound his fingers from the sheet. His hole felt sensitised, cool as the air hit it, and John leaned up the bed to grab a pillow as Sherlock gulped for air and shivered in anticipation. Because John was taking his time positioning Sherlock how he wanted him, letting him shiver and imagine what was coming.
But then, confusingly, John wasn’t going down on him, he wasn’t pulling Sherlock’s cock into his mouth or reaching for the lubricant to start working his way inside him. John was wedging the pillow under the small of Sherlock’s back and pushing his hips further up so he could crowd closer (Sherlock bit back a cry and tightened his fingers where he was gripping the back of his own knee, holding himself open and exposed for John), laving Sherlock’s hole and pushing a saliva-wet finger slowly inside him.
At last, Sherlock couldn’t take any more. ’John! he groaned frantically, reaching down to grip John’s hair in a sweat-damp palm. ‘John, please…do something…’
At this point, Sherlock had been expecting (hoping, even) that John would get the lubricant and press inside him. What he definitely wasn’t expecting was for John to pull his legs back down to rest on the bed and sit straddling his hips. Sherlock pushed upwards with his hips, sliding his erection between John’s buttocks as John leaned over him, reaching into the nightstand for the small tube.
‘But I thought,’ Sherlock muttered, running his hands down John’s stomach to curl around his renewed erection and trying to cope with the sudden change of expectations, ‘I thought you were going to fuck me.’
John had flipped the cap off the lubricant and was reaching behind himself, forearm flexing where it disappeared behind his hips and he groaned at Sherlock, ‘…not yet…’
And then slippery fingers were gripping his erection, slicking his flesh, and John was leaning back and sinking down against him with hardly any preparation at all.
‘Christ!’ Sherlock gasped, not daring to move. John was unaccustomedly tight around him, doubtless due to John’s preparation that had been frankly perfunctory at best and Sherlock felt paralysed, torn between the twin fears that if he thrust upwards so much as an inch then he would either hurt John or come, because John might be tight around him but God, it was the most excruciatingly pleasurable tightness he’d ever felt.
However, John merely took a couple of deep breaths before catching hold of Sherlock’s hands where they were gripping his waist, fingers curving around his wrists, and the next thing Sherlock knew his hands were being pinned above his head and John was leaning down to kiss him, hard and bruising.
When John started to move, Sherlock had to bite down on his lip. The sensations were overwhelming: John’s fingers tight around his wrists, holding him down against the mattress and immobilising him as John ground down against him. The pillow still wedged awkwardly under his hips, shifting slightly with every rock and squeak of the bedsprings. And John, God, John. John was squeezing Sherlock’s wrists hard and holding him down as his thighs flexed and he fucked himself on Sherlock’s cock, kissing and nipping at Sherlock’s mouth and throat as he canted his hips to ensure that every tight slide of Sherlock’s cock inside him rubbed across his prostate.
Sherlock could already feel the pressure mounting low in his stomach, feel the lift in his balls and his body tensing.
‘John,’ he groaned in warning, ‘not…not going to last long…sorry…’
Reply
‘Mine,’ John growled low in his ear, nipping at Sherlock’s earlobe, ‘mine…’
‘Yes, yours,’ agreed Sherlock, straining against John’s hold, twisting his wrists helplessly and trying to get a hand free to touch John’s cock that he could feel rubbing hard and damp against his stomach, wanting to make John come. But John only gripped harder (Sherlock grunted as he felt the bones of his wrist grinding together) and sped up until he was panting, almost snarling, ‘Yes, yes, God, mine’ and Sherlock felt a sudden hot wetness on his stomach. Almost insane with desire, Sherlock shoved upwards with his hips, fucking John hard and feeling him spasm around him, wanting to come, needing to come right this minute…
His orgasm tore through him, flaying him open with pleasure and making him cry out, and his hands clenched on empty air, twisting fruitlessly as he sought something to hang on to.
As he came back to himself he found John nuzzling the side of his face, capturing his mouth insistently for a kiss as Sherlock dragged in deep, ragged breaths though his nose.
After a few minutes John released his wrists and Sherlock took to opportunity to rub them, trying to ease the soreness without attracting John’s attention and making him feel guilty. But John wasn’t paying attention: John was tracing his fingertips through his come spread across Sherlock’s stomach, pushing them against Sherlock’s flesh and Sherlock glanced down, momentarily confused before he realised that John was rubbing it into his skin, marking him in the most primitive way possible.
Automatically, Sherlock reached out for John and pulled him into another kiss. ‘Yours,’ he murmured against John’s mouth. ‘… yours…’
‘Turn over,’ demanded John huskily, sounding broken and half out of his mind as he tugged at Sherlock’s hips. ‘Please.’
‘All right, all right…’ Sherlock let John push and pull at him until he was lying on his front, his abused pillow shoved down beneath his hips. He wasn’t sure what John wanted, but he had sounded so desperate that Sherlock sought only to reassure him, for despite having been the one on top, it sounded very much as though John was now the one in need of calming.
As it turned out, John apparently wanted to kiss his way down Sherlock’s spine until his nerves were tingling, and then John held him open with his thumbs as his tongue slid down between Sherlock’s buttocks again. Burying his face in his other pillow, Sherlock moaned loudly. It was a stark contrast to the slightly rough sex of just a few minutes ago - John’s tongue was lapping gently at him, circling and caressing and bestowing the lightest of tickling touches until Sherlock felt as though his bones were dissolving.
John seemed as though he would be content to stay there all night, tongue circling and squirming against Sherlock without ever actually penetrating him, but eventually the post-coital pleasure suffusing Sherlock began to collide with the gathering tautness of renewed arousal. It was rare that he would come more than once a night, but then (he moaned again) he supposed that this did count as exceptional circumstances.
When John finally pushed two lubricant-slick fingers inside him, achingly slowly, Sherlock actually cried out. John bit down lightly into the muscle of his arse, making Sherlock squirm and tighten around his fingers as he asked, ‘All right?’
‘Yes,’ gasped Sherlock, heart pounding, before moaning incoherently as he felt John’s fingers crook inside him and a spike of pleasure go through him a moment later.
Reply
Leave a comment