Disguise, part 8b/?
anonymous
May 12 2011, 01:06:35 UTC
~*~
John blinks and looks around the pub. He's nearly done with his second pint, but not nearly ready to leave, so he signals one of the barmaids for another and stretches his hand, rolling his fingers and flexing them inward and out.
Movement catches his eye and he turns automatically. The bloke he'd noticed before, the one barely watching the match, is looking at him. John nods, smiles, then glances away. When John looks back a few moments later he's still looking. John feels his cheeks heat with pleasure, then his stomach drops.
It's probably Sherlock. In another bloody disguise, flirting with John to make him think that someone might be legitimately interested in him, only to dash that adrenaline rush to the ground all over again.
John frowns, looks away. Sometimes reality is far worse than he likes to remember.
~*~
November 1992
Brad licks his way across John's neck, scrapes his bottom teeth against John's skin and makes him gasp, then he moves back and sits on his heels between John's open legs. He splays his hands just above John's knees, then slides them upward, carefully moving over John's inner thighs like a blind man might learn Braille.
John gasps out something that might be words; Brad's hands are teasing him right on the far edge of tickling and he's not sure if any words have managed to stay inside his head at this point.
When Brad gets to the top of John's thighs he slides around to his buttocks and pulls his hips upward, leaning down to kiss his stomach ... over and over.
"Christ. Christ, oh, Christ, Brad."
John has never felt so fucking alive -- not during sport, not upon winning his scholarship, not even the (only) time he tried cocaine. God, he wants this. He wants this so badly and he's not even drunk anymore. He wants night after night of falling into bed with someone who wants him, who will listen to the horror stories of dissection and recitation and evil, vindictive professors. John wants to learn every inch of Brad's body, commit it to memory. He wants this every day: Brad to look at him this way, to gasp his name like he does, to touch him so reverently.
John blinks and looks around the pub. He's nearly done with his second pint, but not nearly ready to leave, so he signals one of the barmaids for another and stretches his hand, rolling his fingers and flexing them inward and out.
Movement catches his eye and he turns automatically. The bloke he'd noticed before, the one barely watching the match, is looking at him. John nods, smiles, then glances away. When John looks back a few moments later he's still looking. John feels his cheeks heat with pleasure, then his stomach drops.
It's probably Sherlock. In another bloody disguise, flirting with John to make him think that someone might be legitimately interested in him, only to dash that adrenaline rush to the ground all over again.
John frowns, looks away. Sometimes reality is far worse than he likes to remember.
~*~
November 1992
Brad licks his way across John's neck, scrapes his bottom teeth against John's skin and makes him gasp, then he moves back and sits on his heels between John's open legs. He splays his hands just above John's knees, then slides them upward, carefully moving over John's inner thighs like a blind man might learn Braille.
John gasps out something that might be words; Brad's hands are teasing him right on the far edge of tickling and he's not sure if any words have managed to stay inside his head at this point.
When Brad gets to the top of John's thighs he slides around to his buttocks and pulls his hips upward, leaning down to kiss his stomach ... over and over.
"Christ. Christ, oh, Christ, Brad."
John has never felt so fucking alive -- not during sport, not upon winning his scholarship, not even the (only) time he tried cocaine. God, he wants this. He wants this so badly and he's not even drunk anymore. He wants night after night of falling into bed with someone who wants him, who will listen to the horror stories of dissection and recitation and evil, vindictive professors. John wants to learn every inch of Brad's body, commit it to memory. He wants this every day: Brad to look at him this way, to gasp his name like he does, to touch him so reverently.
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