Fic: But, Why?
Title: But, Why?
Author: troublesize
Rating: M15+ or NC-17
Warnings: Mention of emotional turmoil, allusion to past dub-con or non-con, coarse language, a little bit dark. But fluffy as well. Um...? h/c?
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 800 (ish)
Summary: In bed, John asks Sherlock to do something. Characteristically, Sherlock refuses. Uncharacteristically, his reasons are not so petty this time...
Author's Note: I really love stories that come to me all in one go! I'm not entirely where in the ether this one came from, either, sorry. Written in one sitting, unbeta'd (so hopefully there are no bloopers!). Reviews most certainly welcome.
----
“Please don’t.” Sherlock requested, but didn’t withdraw from the tight embrace he and John had found themselves in tonight, clothes scattered across the room vaguely following the pattern of a path leading towards the bed, but only if one really looked.
John chuckled, not understanding. “You’re kidding, right? Go on.” He traced his fingers up the centre of Sherlock’s chest until they met his throat, jaw, and here his hand rested gently, patiently.
“No.” Sherlock insisted, but he was still calm, the knowledge that John wouldn’t get angry with him keeping the potential for his more emotional response at bay. “I really don’t enjoy it.” He took John’s hand gently in both of his, lifting it off his jaw up to his lips, and bestowed it with a smattering of kisses.
“You’re serious.” John concluded, correctly this time. “You’re actually serious. Sherlock… why not?” His confusion added an urgent tone to his voice, but when Sherlock checked his expression through a quick flicker of his eyelashes, he knew all was still well.
He shifted onto his back and sighed, his erection wilting, but hopeful that activities could be resumed. His other brain pieced together the deductions of self that it kept catalogued away. They were the most difficult files to access.
“It’s… unpleasant.” He said ponderously. John leaned over him, half-lying across his body. He needed to see Sherlock’s face. It made sense. The weight pressing down on him could’ve, perhaps should’ve been uncomfortable, Sherlock suspected. But instead, it was somehow… grounding. Reassuring.
“Unpleasant how?” John asked, tucking his chin perfectly in the hollow just next to Sherlock’s clavicle. Sherlock didn’t try to make eye contact any more when John was in that position. He’d learnt it was too much of a strain, and accepted (barely) that he could feast his eyes on his subtly gorgeous love on other occasions.
He stared into the blackness of the room, attempting to find an answer. “It’s an awkward act.” He explained, waving a hand as if to demonstrate. “Inelegant.”
John huffed a laugh, not unkindly, the puff of air sparking a chain reaction when it brushed against Sherlock’s neck, causing his nipples to harden in response. “Sex usually is.” He countered, one hand automatically reaching for Sherlock’s perked nipples as he spoke. “I don’t hear you complaining about inelegance then.” He lowered his head to tongue at the buds.
Sherlock groaned and arched into the hot, wet sensation. “Not… the same.” He gasped out, battling to overcome the heavenly assault on his nerve endings. “At least it… fits, there.” He cast his arm over to cover his face, ashamed at his ineloquent explanation, ashamed at baring himself in front of John - John! who was so perfect, and didn’t have these ridiculous hang-ups.
The arm was gently pushed aside, replaced by John’s face, a few scarce centimetres from his own. “With your lips?” he kissed them, chastely. “With your mouth?” Another kiss, but a tongue swiped inside Sherlock’s mouth to elaborate. “With your throat?” John licked and sucked on the item in question, causing Sherlock to writhe blissfully once more. “‘It’ would certainly fit there, you know.” He smiled still, always smiled.
Sherlock nodded sharply. He knew the exact array, the dimensions, the logistics, but he still didn’t want any of it. He wasn’t making himself clear enough. He tried again, tried to concentrate on how sweetly John’s hand curved over his ribs, how much John fretted when Sherlock’s ribs were too visible, more visible than now. He took a deep breath.
“It’s too rough.” A memory of ‘guiding’ hands tearing his hair instead, bruising on his jaw, and a rawness that took days to subside. “It doesn’t taste nice.” Spitting, gagging, retching - especially if he couldn’t run to a sink in time. It was a mood killer, to be sure. “And it’s degrading.” Bitch, whore, slut, the insults bombarded him, each one a psychological blow, each one completely disregarding his lack of enthusiasm to participate in the first instance.
He hadn’t realised there were tears escaping his eyes until John brushed them away. “It’s okay.” John said soothingly. “Shh.” Light kisses peppered all over to heal each and every one of his hurts. Sherlock didn’t know how John did it, but he managed to wholly wrap himself around Sherlock, providing a very literal barrier between him and the outside world.
“Thank you for telling me.” John said in a whisper, and Sherlock’s heart thudded inside his chest, reminding him how lucky he was to find this man, this warm, loving, considerate man.
There was nothing more to be said this night, and so they remained this way until sleep claimed them, and it didn’t matter what tomorrow would bring because that was tomorrow: a lifetime away, and it didn’t matter because they would work through it together.
--End--
(Bonus A/N: Too schmoopy?? I don't know....I really didn't want it to end on a sad note!!)
Author: troublesize
Rating: M15+ or NC-17
Warnings: Mention of emotional turmoil, allusion to past dub-con or non-con, coarse language, a little bit dark. But fluffy as well. Um...? h/c?
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 800 (ish)
Summary: In bed, John asks Sherlock to do something. Characteristically, Sherlock refuses. Uncharacteristically, his reasons are not so petty this time...
Author's Note: I really love stories that come to me all in one go! I'm not entirely where in the ether this one came from, either, sorry. Written in one sitting, unbeta'd (so hopefully there are no bloopers!). Reviews most certainly welcome.
----
“Please don’t.” Sherlock requested, but didn’t withdraw from the tight embrace he and John had found themselves in tonight, clothes scattered across the room vaguely following the pattern of a path leading towards the bed, but only if one really looked.
John chuckled, not understanding. “You’re kidding, right? Go on.” He traced his fingers up the centre of Sherlock’s chest until they met his throat, jaw, and here his hand rested gently, patiently.
“No.” Sherlock insisted, but he was still calm, the knowledge that John wouldn’t get angry with him keeping the potential for his more emotional response at bay. “I really don’t enjoy it.” He took John’s hand gently in both of his, lifting it off his jaw up to his lips, and bestowed it with a smattering of kisses.
“You’re serious.” John concluded, correctly this time. “You’re actually serious. Sherlock… why not?” His confusion added an urgent tone to his voice, but when Sherlock checked his expression through a quick flicker of his eyelashes, he knew all was still well.
He shifted onto his back and sighed, his erection wilting, but hopeful that activities could be resumed. His other brain pieced together the deductions of self that it kept catalogued away. They were the most difficult files to access.
“It’s… unpleasant.” He said ponderously. John leaned over him, half-lying across his body. He needed to see Sherlock’s face. It made sense. The weight pressing down on him could’ve, perhaps should’ve been uncomfortable, Sherlock suspected. But instead, it was somehow… grounding. Reassuring.
“Unpleasant how?” John asked, tucking his chin perfectly in the hollow just next to Sherlock’s clavicle. Sherlock didn’t try to make eye contact any more when John was in that position. He’d learnt it was too much of a strain, and accepted (barely) that he could feast his eyes on his subtly gorgeous love on other occasions.
He stared into the blackness of the room, attempting to find an answer. “It’s an awkward act.” He explained, waving a hand as if to demonstrate. “Inelegant.”
John huffed a laugh, not unkindly, the puff of air sparking a chain reaction when it brushed against Sherlock’s neck, causing his nipples to harden in response. “Sex usually is.” He countered, one hand automatically reaching for Sherlock’s perked nipples as he spoke. “I don’t hear you complaining about inelegance then.” He lowered his head to tongue at the buds.
Sherlock groaned and arched into the hot, wet sensation. “Not… the same.” He gasped out, battling to overcome the heavenly assault on his nerve endings. “At least it… fits, there.” He cast his arm over to cover his face, ashamed at his ineloquent explanation, ashamed at baring himself in front of John - John! who was so perfect, and didn’t have these ridiculous hang-ups.
The arm was gently pushed aside, replaced by John’s face, a few scarce centimetres from his own. “With your lips?” he kissed them, chastely. “With your mouth?” Another kiss, but a tongue swiped inside Sherlock’s mouth to elaborate. “With your throat?” John licked and sucked on the item in question, causing Sherlock to writhe blissfully once more. “‘It’ would certainly fit there, you know.” He smiled still, always smiled.
Sherlock nodded sharply. He knew the exact array, the dimensions, the logistics, but he still didn’t want any of it. He wasn’t making himself clear enough. He tried again, tried to concentrate on how sweetly John’s hand curved over his ribs, how much John fretted when Sherlock’s ribs were too visible, more visible than now. He took a deep breath.
“It’s too rough.” A memory of ‘guiding’ hands tearing his hair instead, bruising on his jaw, and a rawness that took days to subside. “It doesn’t taste nice.” Spitting, gagging, retching - especially if he couldn’t run to a sink in time. It was a mood killer, to be sure. “And it’s degrading.” Bitch, whore, slut, the insults bombarded him, each one a psychological blow, each one completely disregarding his lack of enthusiasm to participate in the first instance.
He hadn’t realised there were tears escaping his eyes until John brushed them away. “It’s okay.” John said soothingly. “Shh.” Light kisses peppered all over to heal each and every one of his hurts. Sherlock didn’t know how John did it, but he managed to wholly wrap himself around Sherlock, providing a very literal barrier between him and the outside world.
“Thank you for telling me.” John said in a whisper, and Sherlock’s heart thudded inside his chest, reminding him how lucky he was to find this man, this warm, loving, considerate man.
There was nothing more to be said this night, and so they remained this way until sleep claimed them, and it didn’t matter what tomorrow would bring because that was tomorrow: a lifetime away, and it didn’t matter because they would work through it together.
--End--
(Bonus A/N: Too schmoopy?? I don't know....I really didn't want it to end on a sad note!!)