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.
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…’
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‘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.
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