Sherlock!Rentboy (alternative plot) (Part Thirteen)
A/N: Yes, here it is! Another sporadic installment of Sherlock!Rentboy, just to get your hopes up that maybe, one day, I'll actually finish the dang thing!
In theory, I'll write more over the weekend, and have more to post by Sunday afternoon/Monday...Let's not hold our breath, shall we?
Meanwhile, please enjoy, and comment like the grand commenters you know you are! :)
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His hand was cramped well before they got back to Baker St; but Sherlock didn't care, and Tommy didn't make any comment, didn't pull away from his grasp.
That wasn't until they got inside the front door.
Then Sherlock found himself shoved up against the wall, with Tommy voraciously attacking his mouth, digging his hands down the front of his trousers.
Sherlock moaned. He was tired of this; sore, and the extended kisses from Tommy meant that he could now detect the taste of Allen on Tommy's lips, in Tommy's mouth. It sickened him, and he contemplated actually fighting Tommy off.
But then, he probably wouldn't be able to score. He sighed, and let Tommy persevere.
“You want me?” Tommy asked in a growl as he ground his hips against Sherlock.
Sherlock was disinterested in rhetorical sex questions: even before he'd begun this work he found them tedious, but he murmured encouragingly anyway. Best not to try and engage the other parties in conversation, he'd learnt.
“You like that? You want me to fuck you hard - so hard that you come without me even touching you?”
“Please,” Sherlock begged, and Tommy thought it was a request for his cock, not a desperate plea for more heroin, more coke, whatever, something, anything to make it all go away.
It wasn't too difficult to pretend that he was engaged in the activity - Tommy misinterpreted his shivers of revulsion as shudders of desire, and frankly, wasn't paying close enough attention to Sherlock to notice his honest reactions anyway.
Tommy's hand was not adept enough to make Sherlock's arousal materialise, and after a couple of moments of unsuccessful endeavouring, Sherlock diplomatically ushered them both upstairs, citing the excuse that he didn't want to wake Mrs. Harris.
“Fuck her.” Tommy murmured aggressively, although he followed Sherlock up the stairs willingly enough. “Actually, you know what? Maybe I should fuck her! That’d shut the old bat up! Give her something to keep her quiet! She can even bring her knitting needles along, the kinky old cow!”
He was shouting now, making jerky darts towards 221A, hindered only by Sherlock’s desperate clinging to his upper arm.
Where is this coming from? Sherlock’s mind raced. Tommy hasn’t even seen Mrs. Harris, let alone had any opportunity to have some sort of negative interaction with her.
With a huge effort, Sherlock yanked Tommy to him, halting the other man mid-tirade.
“Come upstairs,” Sherlock offered, nuzzling deliberately at Tommy’s neck. “Take me upstairs,” he said. “I want you to fuck me while I’m off my head. Fuck me until I can see straight again.” he urged, pulling at Tommy’s clothes just enough to encourage him upstairs, plying him with kisses all around his neck and collarbone: this reduced his height; this made him appear less like he was the one with the power.
He didn’t need to see Tommy’s face to know the man changed his mind; the altered pose, adjusted muscle tensions told Sherlock everything.
He asked anyway, pleadingly: “Do you want that? Do you want to fuck me?”
“Yeah.” Tommy affirmed eagerly, stepping blindly into the illusion of control Sherlock had made for him. “I’m gonna fuck you into your senses!” he laughed, as they bounded up the last few steps.
Sherlock was shaking as he turned back from closing the door to 221B, fingers fumbling at the lock. He didn’t know what it was: tiredness, desperation, and he didn’t care particularly, didn’t have time to care.
“What do you want?” Tommy demanded, feeling in his pockets as he made his way into the living room.
“Want...?” Sherlock asked vaguely, muddled again. “You.” he attempted, reaching out to just touch Tommy, to make his brain centre on something. All or nothing, his brain demanded. This in-between was no good.
“Idiot.” Tommy shrugged him off, disinterested. “What high do you want? I got given some E tonight, haven’t tried it yet. Plenty of coke still, you know.”
“Please.” Sherlock requested, walking backwards into the bedroom with his hands around Tommy’s wrist. “You choose. Please.”
“Will you lick it off my cock?” Tommy asked, teasing Sherlock more than the other man could bear right now.
“Yes!” Sherlock begged, laying himself onto the bed, tears in his eyes. Everything was excruciating to him now. He’d do anything for it to go away.
Tommy smiled hungrily at Sherlock’s broken plea, attributing his desperation to lust alone.
“Fuck, yes.” he moaned, quickly working to break open a silver packet of coke. Some tipped onto the sheets in his urgency, but who gave a fuck?
“You’re such a good whore - look at you, all needy and wanting so much more. You just can’t get enough cock, can you? No wonder you’re in this line of work. Don’t worry, I’m gonna give you so much cock, you’re not gonna know what to do with it all. You won’t be able to walk straight for a week? Fuck that, you’re not gonna be able to walk straight for a month, fucker...” Tommy’s words went on and on, while he tried to get the silver packet open properly.
“Yes.” Sherlock agreed flatly, eyes fixed on the coke, and then considered that this wasn’t enough, that he had to say something more. “No.” Was that right? He wasn’t sure, and Tommy didn’t correct him.
“Here.” Tommy said suddenly, and thrust the packet into Sherlock’s hands so that he could pull his trousers off. It was difficult, with his erection in the way, but Tommy made short work of them regardless, tossing them into the corner.
Sherlock hadn’t noticed, still fixated. He drew the packet closer to his face, licked a little bit just with the tip of his tongue.
“Ah - ah - ah!” Tommy chastised, as he knelt on the bed, grabbing the packet back and slapping Sherlock’s wrist playfully. It was only playfully, but Sherlock was so sensitive, too sensitive, and he moaned at the sharp contact.
Tommy chuckled at Sherlock’s perceived neediness, and, with one hand tightly tangled in Sherlock’s hair to hold him in place, proceeded to consume his mouth unforgivingly. With all his urgency, he misjudged the pressure, forced the angle, and rather than nipping at Sherlock’s lip, he bit.
Sherlock would have sworn he could taste blood, had he been able to think of anything other than ‘fucknoshitfuckgetoutgetoutgetowfuck’ and contorting his body in a wild attempt to break Tommy’s hold.
Finally, Tommy pulled away, panting.
He pushed Sherlock’s head down to his cock, completely hard now, and Sherlock shook.
Oh god, I’m going to get - going to be -
His body couldn’t withstand the conflicts of pain and desire.
“Make it wet, so it sticks.” Tommy was saying, and Sherlock darted forward to obey, laving Tommy’s cock to excess with his tongue, wanting to make sure that this bit was right, that it would work.
Tommy moaned with pleasure at Sherlock’s erratic actions; lust playing a much larger part than any requirement for technique.
“Stop.” he growled after a couple of minutes, roughly shaking Sherlock’s head and dragging his mouth away.
Sherlock elicited a pained whine.
“Shut up.” Tommy instructed, focusing on sprinkling the drug onto his dick. Mostly, the granules stuck to Sherlock’s saliva, in little hodge-podge clusters, but some missed, falling into the hand Tommy was holding beneath.
The packet was emptied before Tommy stopping shaking all the contents out, and he couldn’t remember how much was meant to have been in that twist.
“Here. It’s yours.” He explained, shoving his hand into Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock caught on instantly, grasping Tommy’s wrist and attending closely to every detail. He sucked carefully, devotedly on each of Tommy’s fingers in turn, flicking his tongue over the webbing at the base, only easing off when Tommy groaned, “Come on.” and thrust his hips, demanding the attention to be relegated.
“Mine?” Sherlock asked; a rhetorical confirmation, and didn’t care for the answer, diving into Tommy’s lap, tongue working hard to chase down every atom of coke sticking to the other man’s cock.
Tommy shuddered. “Oh fuck, oh fuck - yeah...” he moaned, running his hand down the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock stiffened, hoping that he wouldn’t be shoved closer. He didn’t want to have to fight his gag reflex. Not now. But Tommy’s hands drifted lower, settling between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, and Sherlock relaxed minutely. He was being allowed free reign. Good.
It soon became apparent that there were no more miniscule crystals to be found, and Sherlock’s technique changed in recognition of this; focusing more energy on bringing Tommy off, than anything else.
A reflexive thrust into his mouth prompted Sherlock to dig his thumbs firmly - but not painfully - into Tommy’s hips, and sooner than the other man had anticipated, he was coming, with a tirade of swearing, a plethora of incoherent shouts, and a gradual judder to a halt.
“Juh...” Tommy breathed, bonelessly sprawled over an equally lifeless-looking pillow. “Jesus, you’re good at that.” he managed on his second try.
“Hmm.” Sherlock replied, running his tongue over his lips thoughtfully. Much better. The pain was undetectable now.
Let tomorrow come.
He drifted off, barely registering the movement of the bed as Tommy left the room.
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Part Fourteen
In theory, I'll write more over the weekend, and have more to post by Sunday afternoon/Monday...Let's not hold our breath, shall we?
Meanwhile, please enjoy, and comment like the grand commenters you know you are! :)
----
His hand was cramped well before they got back to Baker St; but Sherlock didn't care, and Tommy didn't make any comment, didn't pull away from his grasp.
That wasn't until they got inside the front door.
Then Sherlock found himself shoved up against the wall, with Tommy voraciously attacking his mouth, digging his hands down the front of his trousers.
Sherlock moaned. He was tired of this; sore, and the extended kisses from Tommy meant that he could now detect the taste of Allen on Tommy's lips, in Tommy's mouth. It sickened him, and he contemplated actually fighting Tommy off.
But then, he probably wouldn't be able to score. He sighed, and let Tommy persevere.
“You want me?” Tommy asked in a growl as he ground his hips against Sherlock.
Sherlock was disinterested in rhetorical sex questions: even before he'd begun this work he found them tedious, but he murmured encouragingly anyway. Best not to try and engage the other parties in conversation, he'd learnt.
“You like that? You want me to fuck you hard - so hard that you come without me even touching you?”
“Please,” Sherlock begged, and Tommy thought it was a request for his cock, not a desperate plea for more heroin, more coke, whatever, something, anything to make it all go away.
It wasn't too difficult to pretend that he was engaged in the activity - Tommy misinterpreted his shivers of revulsion as shudders of desire, and frankly, wasn't paying close enough attention to Sherlock to notice his honest reactions anyway.
Tommy's hand was not adept enough to make Sherlock's arousal materialise, and after a couple of moments of unsuccessful endeavouring, Sherlock diplomatically ushered them both upstairs, citing the excuse that he didn't want to wake Mrs. Harris.
“Fuck her.” Tommy murmured aggressively, although he followed Sherlock up the stairs willingly enough. “Actually, you know what? Maybe I should fuck her! That’d shut the old bat up! Give her something to keep her quiet! She can even bring her knitting needles along, the kinky old cow!”
He was shouting now, making jerky darts towards 221A, hindered only by Sherlock’s desperate clinging to his upper arm.
Where is this coming from? Sherlock’s mind raced. Tommy hasn’t even seen Mrs. Harris, let alone had any opportunity to have some sort of negative interaction with her.
With a huge effort, Sherlock yanked Tommy to him, halting the other man mid-tirade.
“Come upstairs,” Sherlock offered, nuzzling deliberately at Tommy’s neck. “Take me upstairs,” he said. “I want you to fuck me while I’m off my head. Fuck me until I can see straight again.” he urged, pulling at Tommy’s clothes just enough to encourage him upstairs, plying him with kisses all around his neck and collarbone: this reduced his height; this made him appear less like he was the one with the power.
He didn’t need to see Tommy’s face to know the man changed his mind; the altered pose, adjusted muscle tensions told Sherlock everything.
He asked anyway, pleadingly: “Do you want that? Do you want to fuck me?”
“Yeah.” Tommy affirmed eagerly, stepping blindly into the illusion of control Sherlock had made for him. “I’m gonna fuck you into your senses!” he laughed, as they bounded up the last few steps.
Sherlock was shaking as he turned back from closing the door to 221B, fingers fumbling at the lock. He didn’t know what it was: tiredness, desperation, and he didn’t care particularly, didn’t have time to care.
“What do you want?” Tommy demanded, feeling in his pockets as he made his way into the living room.
“Want...?” Sherlock asked vaguely, muddled again. “You.” he attempted, reaching out to just touch Tommy, to make his brain centre on something. All or nothing, his brain demanded. This in-between was no good.
“Idiot.” Tommy shrugged him off, disinterested. “What high do you want? I got given some E tonight, haven’t tried it yet. Plenty of coke still, you know.”
“Please.” Sherlock requested, walking backwards into the bedroom with his hands around Tommy’s wrist. “You choose. Please.”
“Will you lick it off my cock?” Tommy asked, teasing Sherlock more than the other man could bear right now.
“Yes!” Sherlock begged, laying himself onto the bed, tears in his eyes. Everything was excruciating to him now. He’d do anything for it to go away.
Tommy smiled hungrily at Sherlock’s broken plea, attributing his desperation to lust alone.
“Fuck, yes.” he moaned, quickly working to break open a silver packet of coke. Some tipped onto the sheets in his urgency, but who gave a fuck?
“You’re such a good whore - look at you, all needy and wanting so much more. You just can’t get enough cock, can you? No wonder you’re in this line of work. Don’t worry, I’m gonna give you so much cock, you’re not gonna know what to do with it all. You won’t be able to walk straight for a week? Fuck that, you’re not gonna be able to walk straight for a month, fucker...” Tommy’s words went on and on, while he tried to get the silver packet open properly.
“Yes.” Sherlock agreed flatly, eyes fixed on the coke, and then considered that this wasn’t enough, that he had to say something more. “No.” Was that right? He wasn’t sure, and Tommy didn’t correct him.
“Here.” Tommy said suddenly, and thrust the packet into Sherlock’s hands so that he could pull his trousers off. It was difficult, with his erection in the way, but Tommy made short work of them regardless, tossing them into the corner.
Sherlock hadn’t noticed, still fixated. He drew the packet closer to his face, licked a little bit just with the tip of his tongue.
“Ah - ah - ah!” Tommy chastised, as he knelt on the bed, grabbing the packet back and slapping Sherlock’s wrist playfully. It was only playfully, but Sherlock was so sensitive, too sensitive, and he moaned at the sharp contact.
Tommy chuckled at Sherlock’s perceived neediness, and, with one hand tightly tangled in Sherlock’s hair to hold him in place, proceeded to consume his mouth unforgivingly. With all his urgency, he misjudged the pressure, forced the angle, and rather than nipping at Sherlock’s lip, he bit.
Sherlock would have sworn he could taste blood, had he been able to think of anything other than ‘fucknoshitfuckgetoutgetoutgetowfuck’ and contorting his body in a wild attempt to break Tommy’s hold.
Finally, Tommy pulled away, panting.
He pushed Sherlock’s head down to his cock, completely hard now, and Sherlock shook.
Oh god, I’m going to get - going to be -
His body couldn’t withstand the conflicts of pain and desire.
“Make it wet, so it sticks.” Tommy was saying, and Sherlock darted forward to obey, laving Tommy’s cock to excess with his tongue, wanting to make sure that this bit was right, that it would work.
Tommy moaned with pleasure at Sherlock’s erratic actions; lust playing a much larger part than any requirement for technique.
“Stop.” he growled after a couple of minutes, roughly shaking Sherlock’s head and dragging his mouth away.
Sherlock elicited a pained whine.
“Shut up.” Tommy instructed, focusing on sprinkling the drug onto his dick. Mostly, the granules stuck to Sherlock’s saliva, in little hodge-podge clusters, but some missed, falling into the hand Tommy was holding beneath.
The packet was emptied before Tommy stopping shaking all the contents out, and he couldn’t remember how much was meant to have been in that twist.
“Here. It’s yours.” He explained, shoving his hand into Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock caught on instantly, grasping Tommy’s wrist and attending closely to every detail. He sucked carefully, devotedly on each of Tommy’s fingers in turn, flicking his tongue over the webbing at the base, only easing off when Tommy groaned, “Come on.” and thrust his hips, demanding the attention to be relegated.
“Mine?” Sherlock asked; a rhetorical confirmation, and didn’t care for the answer, diving into Tommy’s lap, tongue working hard to chase down every atom of coke sticking to the other man’s cock.
Tommy shuddered. “Oh fuck, oh fuck - yeah...” he moaned, running his hand down the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock stiffened, hoping that he wouldn’t be shoved closer. He didn’t want to have to fight his gag reflex. Not now. But Tommy’s hands drifted lower, settling between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, and Sherlock relaxed minutely. He was being allowed free reign. Good.
It soon became apparent that there were no more miniscule crystals to be found, and Sherlock’s technique changed in recognition of this; focusing more energy on bringing Tommy off, than anything else.
A reflexive thrust into his mouth prompted Sherlock to dig his thumbs firmly - but not painfully - into Tommy’s hips, and sooner than the other man had anticipated, he was coming, with a tirade of swearing, a plethora of incoherent shouts, and a gradual judder to a halt.
“Juh...” Tommy breathed, bonelessly sprawled over an equally lifeless-looking pillow. “Jesus, you’re good at that.” he managed on his second try.
“Hmm.” Sherlock replied, running his tongue over his lips thoughtfully. Much better. The pain was undetectable now.
Let tomorrow come.
He drifted off, barely registering the movement of the bed as Tommy left the room.
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Part Fourteen