Prompting Part XXXIV
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GUIDELINES
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A.N. this turned out longer than it was meant to be. So off they go to get the weed. Cue hot nerdy/hipster Sherlock when there isn't really need for one.
Sunday morning, seven o’clock, finds Sherlock out of bed and dressed. Sherlock in a ratty wool - cardigan? - that hangs around his thighs, a tight shirt, tight pants, teased hair and thick-rimmed glasses shakes John awake less than five minutes later.
“John. John, its Sunday.”
John sighs, eyes still tight, rebelliously shut, “I know. Let me sleep.”
There’s a pause.
And then the entire weight of Sherlock’s body slams into John’s sleepy form.
“Fuck off,” says John, shout lost in the slam of air leaving his lungs. He fights his way out from under the press of Sherlock’s body through the covers, and once out, pins Sherlock to the bed, squirming wrists trapped under his palms. Its only then that he gets a good look at him.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
Sherlock peers down at himself like he isn’t quite sure.
“It’s from Barry Sherwood’s drawers. Thought I’d try it,” he squirms his nose in an attempt to get the glasses, which have been slightly jolted in the fall, back in a comfortable position on his nose.
John relaxes his hold on the pale wrists a little and leans down to nudge the frames back in place with his own nose, and then press a kiss to Sherlock’s lips.
“You look fit in everything you ever wear and its unfair.”
Sherlock makes a face, “Yes, yes, you poor, ugly thing. Go brush your teeth.”
John breathes out long and slow all over Sherlock’s face in retaliation. “I’ll have you know, that Alice Taylor thinks I’m fit. I bet she would kiss me if I had morning breath.”
“No, she would give you a blowjob, but that’s it. Now go brush your teeth, we’re out of weed.”
John slumps a little, but rolls out of bed and meanders to the far side of the dorm to grab his toothbrush. He roots around for a moment, just in a pair of low slung sweats, dark grey against the tan of his skin. “You’ve got to stop using my toothpaste, where did you put it?”
“Under your French folder,” Sherlock calls over his shoulder, searching through the mess of clothes and books across the floor and in the pile of stuff that props open the lazy creak of John’s cupboard door. He lingers appreciatively, eyes flicking over the roll of muscles as John picks up a few stray shirts and tosses them over his chair.
When John gets back, mouth minted, there is a pile of clothes on his bed. Sherlock is counting out money and shoving it in the pocket of his tight grey jeans. John throws on the pair of slightly looser jeans, the white T-shirt, and the loose army jacket. He tugs at the hem a little, “This smells heavily of cologne.”
Sherlock glances up, and throws John’s wallet at its owner’s chest.
“Come on.”
He tugs open the door and steps through. John follows.
“We both look really gay.”
“Well that’s handy as we are both very gay.”
A few boys lounge on couches in the hallway, half asleep, hair stuck up by hungover nights. “And, as it happens, so is our dealer.”
Sherlock holds open the front door for John and follows him out, “And I’m nearly out of pocket money.”
“Ah.”
“Yes. You wouldn’t be opposed to some light making out in front of a strange man, would you, John?”
“Isn’t that a bit like whoring?” questions John. They duck their heads as they pass by their housemaster’s extension, under the open window.
Sherlock makes a non-committal noise, and John shrugs.
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“Pass it here.”
Its Sunday afternoon and they’ve been blowing smoke rings through the rounds of their lips, tilting their heads to watch them begin to dissipate. The smoke continues through the window, swung open an hour ago to air the room.
“Get your own,” John ignores the lazy curl of a long hand, pale in a blur of smoke, that hangs, expectant under the cigarette between his lips.
“I’m all out,” comes the reply. Its consonants are sharp, vowels round between the bow of his lips. It pouts.
“That’ll be you and your bloody chain smoking.”
Sherlock frowns at the accusation, even as John laughs, shuffling his weight a little from where it rests slouched against the wall. He hands the lit cigarette to Sherlock, who takes a long drag and watches John. Sherlock exhales, bottom lip curling out to blow the smoke in a screen over his eyes.
The pack of cigarettes emerges, victorious, from the folds of the slouchy army jacket, sleeves pushed up around John’s forearms. John waves it in front of him in case Sherlock missed it, and eventually fumbles a cigarette out. He giggles as his fingers slip.
Sherlock, who is watching, giggles too, he can’t help it. The high is soaking in the back of his bones and making his breaths new. “You are completely incompetent.”
“You’re completely incompetent,” shoots back John. There is a pause. Sherlock leans to stub the lit cigarette out. John, leaning against Sherlock’s slide slightly,turns his head to the side and becomes preoccupied with the curve of Sherlock’s neck as he leans. He drags a curled finger down the side of it until he finds the spot that makes Sherlock gasp a little, and leans fully to press his mouth over it.
Wet lips and hot tongue make Sherlock sigh and bare his neck completely, curls pressed against the wall, head tilted back. Wanting.
John pulls back after a moment, the slick sound of his lips parting next to Sherlock’s ear the only prelude to John nudging up the side of his neck to sneak a bite to his earlobe. Sherlock jumps and pushes John’s head away halfheartedly, laughing. John tries for it again, lazy, cheeky grin tugging at his reddened lips. He snaps his teeth together as Sherlock employs both hands tangled in the bright blond of John’s hair to keep the bites at bay.
John wrestles the hands from his hair and relaxes a little, cigarette still between his fingers. Sherlock does too, leaning back against the wall again, slow smile lingering as he watches John carefully.
John, Sherlock’s hands still tangled with his, strokes his thumbs slowly over the captured palms, pressing a kiss to the base of Sherlock’s left thumb.
And then a slow bite. More of a snog, eye contact kept completely.
Sherlock watches him, smile now a smirk.
John lets one of the captive hands go, and it falls to Sherlock’s lap, eye contact kept, as John pushes up one wide sleeve to press another kiss to Sherlock’s wrist. He reaches down to pluck at the other sleeve, distracted to staring at it faintly, confused.
“This is still ridiculous. Who did you get this from again?”
“I took it off Barry Sherwood,” Sherlock’s head is tilted against the wall still, but he watches John’s lips with dark eyes.
John makes a noise that shows he’s listening, as he tugs Sherlock’s arms lightly and Sherlock moves until he is straddling John’s lap comfortably. “He’s the tall one, bit of a dick, yeah?” clarifies John.
Sherlock nods, and John plays with the hem of his shirt.
“I recon we should take it off you then.”
Sherlock nods.
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“Pass it here.”
Its Sunday afternoon and they’ve been blowing smoke rings through the rounds of their lips, tilting their heads to watch them begin to dissipate. The smoke continues through the window, swung open an hour ago to air the room.
“Get your own,” John ignores the lazy curl of a long hand, pale in a blur of smoke, that hangs, expectant under the cigarette between his lips.
“I’m all out,” comes the reply. Its consonants are sharp, vowels round between the bow of his lips. It pouts.
“That’ll be you and your bloody chain smoking.”
Sherlock frowns at the accusation, even as John laughs, shuffling his weight a little from where it rests slouched against the wall. He hands the lit cigarette to Sherlock, who takes a long drag and watches John. Sherlock exhales, bottom lip curling out to blow the smoke in a screen over his eyes.
The pack of cigarettes emerges, victorious, from the folds of the slouchy army jacket, sleeves pushed up around John’s forearms. John waves it in front of him in case Sherlock missed it, and eventually fumbles a cigarette out. He giggles as his fingers slip.
Sherlock, who is watching, giggles too, he can’t help it. The high is soaking in the back of his bones and making his breaths new. “You are completely incompetent.”
“You’re completely incompetent,” shoots back John. There is a pause. Sherlock turns and stubs out the lit cigarette. John, who is leaning against Sherlock’s slide slightly, turns his head to the side and becomes preoccupied with the curve of Sherlock’s neck. He drags a curled finger down the side of it until he finds the spot that makes Sherlock gasp a little, and leans fully to press his mouth over it.
Wet lips and hot tongue make Sherlock sigh and bare his neck completely, curls pressed against the wall, head tilted back. Wanting.
John pulls back after a moment, the slick sound of his lips parting next to Sherlock’s ear the only prelude to John nudging up the side of his neck to sneak a bite to his earlobe. Sherlock jumps and pushes John’s head away halfheartedly, laughing. John tries for it again, lazy, cheeky grin tugging at his reddened lips. He snaps his teeth together as Sherlock employs both hands tangled in the bright blond of John’s hair to keep the bites at bay.
John wrestles the hands from his hair and relaxes a little, cigarette still between his fingers. Sherlock does too, leaning back against the wall again, slow smile lingering as he watches John carefully.
John, Sherlock’s hands still tangled with his, strokes his thumbs slowly over the captured palms, pressing a kiss to the base of Sherlock’s left thumb.
And then a slow bite. More of a snog, eye contact kept completely.
Sherlock watches him, smile now a smirk.
John lets one of the captive hands go, and it falls to Sherlock’s lap, eye contact kept, as John pushes up one wide sleeve to press another kiss to Sherlock’s wrist. He reaches down to pluck at the other sleeve, distracted to staring at it faintly, confused.
“This is still ridiculous. Who did you get this from again?”
“I took it off Barry Sherwood,” Sherlock’s head is tilted against the wall still, but he watches John’s lips with dark eyes.
John makes a noise that shows he’s listening, as he tugs Sherlock’s arms lightly and Sherlock moves to straddle John’s lap. “He’s the tall one, bit of a dick, yeah?” clarifies John.
Sherlock nods as John plays with the hem of his shirt.
“I recon we should take it off you then.”
Sherlock nods.
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John pushes the offending wool from Sherlock’s shoulders and kisses his neck as it falls to blanket their legs. Sherlock’s lips fall open and he bites at his bottom one, hips stuttering slightly as John lets teeth drag over the length of Sherlock’s neck.
“We should - mmm - we should move to a bed,” sighs Sherlock.
John pulls away and sweeps a thumb over the damp, light spot he’s made on the pale expanse of Sherlock’s neck. He kisses it sloppily one last time - no hickeys - and leans back to let Sherlock up. “Your place or mine?” he asks, smile lazy.
“Yours,” replies Sherlock without thought, and kisses John over to the bed.
Its not until John has been deposited on the bed, kiss hazed, panting, and hard, that he voices his objection, “It was my bed last time.”
“You shouldn’t have asked, then,” hums Sherlock lightly and tugs at John’s shirt until its over his head with slight effort from John.
“Its only because you’re a spoilt prat.”
Sherlock kisses him again, dark and wet and leaving needy whimpers between John’s lips, leaning over his body. Later, Sherlock will deny them and John will get hard in his hand and feel the desperate need to kiss the memory back to life again.
Graze of teeth against lips, long, stolen inhales and heavy breaths on separation.
Lips wet, swollen, wanting, they take each others air, foreheads pressed together in resting.
And then Sherlock sits up, straddling John’s waist, and pulls off his own shirt, but not before removing the glasses that John places beside the bed for him.
Once his shirt is off, Sherlock reaches up to tug at his hair slightly, arms self consciously hanging in front of his chest. John leads them away lightly. Touch reverent, lips light, teasing slightly.
“You’re beautiful.”
Sherlock smacks him across the head lightly.
John grins and Sherlock knows he means it but they don’t linger on it for too long.
Instead, Sherlock leans on his elbows, either side of John’s shoulders, and kisses him, open mouthed.
Wet kisses, brushed lips and drags of tongue are what Sherlock leaves down John’s neck. A flick over the right nipple and John tries to cover up a gasp. Sherlock giggles and John drags him up again to kiss it out of him.
Distraction dealt with, Sherlock leaves three kisses on the smooth of John’s stomach, smiling softly, and then mouths across his hips as he pops the button on John’s jeans.
“Lift,” he says.
John lifts his hips and brackets Sherlock’s waist as Sherlock shuffles back to get them completely off along with his pants.
And then Sherlock leans down, propped up on one elbow, and takes the head of John’s dick into his mouth, watching as John parts his lips for a moan and bucks into the wetness.
Sherlock moves back, off of him, and glares.
“Sorry. But fuck, Sherlock.”
Sherlock glares some more, and then, having given John the message, gets comfortable again.
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Sherlock glares some more, and then, having given John the message, gets comfortable again.
He mouths along the heat of John’s cock, and rubs his thumb along the underside of it where his hand is wrapped around the base.
John’s hands leave bunches where he fists the sheets.
He moans, long and low, as Sherlock takes him deeper, and then the noises get more breathy as the underside of his cock is tongued and teased. “Oh, fuck, Sherlock. Sherlock- hhhgngh - Sherlock please.”
He doesn’t quite know what he’s begging for. Only that he needs it.
Sherlock pulls off for a moment and wanks John, tugging lightly at his balls. And then he sucks slowly again, pushing his tongue to explore the foreskin. John watches Sherlock’s curls bob between his legs, and a stray one falls to curl over his eye. The bow of his lips wraps wetly, plush around his cock.
And he almost-
“Jesu- fuck Sher- I’m gonna cum, gonna fucking-”
Sherlock pulls off with a slick, wet pop, the hollow of his cheeks filling out.
They stare at each other with wide eyes, breathing hard, a twin flush over both their chests.
And then Sherlock wraps his hands around John’s dick once again, and takes a long lick up the underside of John’s cock, keeping direct eye contact.
John moans helplessly.
He moans helplessly as Sherlock tongues the slit, as Sherlock wanks his cock, and plays with the wet precum over the sheen of the head and takes a quick taste, lips parted around the tip, as he, with quick twists of his writs, moves the foreskin, and then decides he likes the taste.
He’s swirling the pink of his tongue quickly around the head when John comes with a yell of his name and spurts the heat of his cum over the wet, open pout of Sherlock’s lips.
Sherlock licks his lips and John grins panting.
“My turn,” Sherlock announces.
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