Sherlock BBC!fic - Hands of Iron
Title: Hands of Iron
Author: tseecka
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: 14A?
Summary: Inspired by this pic that I saw on Tumblr; written largely for my dear whreflections because she's wonderful and because she, like me, enjoys a good hand-pinning fic. Enjoy!
Other ways to enjoy this story: Another dear friend of mine who happens to be a huge Holmes fan, as well as British with a GORGEOUS voice, was kind enough to podfic this for me. If you'd like to check it out, you can find her original post on Tumblr here.
John knows he shouldn’t push, knows this thing with Sherlock is still too new-new to him, because Sherlock is new, but to Sherlock this entire idea, that you can touch and feel and kiss and lick and press, and that it is so, so good-it is just too new.
This is not the time to make such suggestions.
But the problem is that Sherlock is mewling into his mouth, and his hands are sliding up and down John’s arms and his leg is pressed deliciously between John’s and he is quite literally kissing John as though his breath is the only air he’ll ever be allowed to have ever again. He’d marvel at how good at this Sherlock is, except it really should be expected. The man sees, notices, catalogues everything, and there is probably an entire room in his mind palace that’s been under lock and key all this time where Sherlock’s stored a repository of information on the right angle for his head, where to place his hands, likely erogenous zones, the lot of it. He’s just never had a reason to open it before. At least…John thinks so. Sherlock isn’t ignorant, but he is inexperienced, and almost a little shy.
Even the great detective knows that emotion has to play into this in some form or another.
So, Sherlock’s got him pressed against the wall, and the weight and proximity and, John won’t lie, the height of him, everything in his body is tense, thrumming with a nervous energy and it’s sending pulses of pleasure straight down the line of his back which he knows Sherlock can probably feel. But he feels…closed in, withdrawn, curled up a bit and he really just needs, but he can’t ask. Not yet, it’s too soon, too new, Sherlock’s poor brain might actually short-circuit.
But then Sherlock’s ducking his head, and his-oh god. Oh god, god that’s good, his teeth are scraping down the side of John’s neck and the mewls are turning into growls, possessive and needy and John’s not sure how it happened but maybe Sherlock isn’t so unsure after all. His hips keep canting of their own accord, slotting his body right up along John’s, rocking them together, and his hands are sliding down his arms, and then-it’s like lightning, fast and unexpected and followed by a rumble of thunder from Sherlock’s chest-Sherlock’s got his fingers wrapped around John’s wrists, and he’s pulling.
Oh god, of course he’d know, even snogging his flatmate out of his sense there’s no way Sherlock could ever stop bloody noticing, and he’s somehow deduced exactly what John needs out of his whole messy thing. He’s got long, violinist fingers wrapped over and around John’s wrists, pressing them back to the wall with a spidery arm that absolutely belies the strength in his muscle, and it’s all John can do to whimper, just softly, and arch his back to test that strength. He groans as he feels the pull in the scar tissue at his shoulder, that sweet ache, and he feels Sherlock smile against his skin.
“Better?” he whispers in a voice that is all mahogany and resonance, and John didn’t actually think he could get any harder, but he is.
“God, yes,” he whispers back, and then Sherlock’s lips are on his again and all he can focus on is the sweet, delicious ache suffusing every part of his body.
Author: tseecka
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: 14A?
Summary: Inspired by this pic that I saw on Tumblr; written largely for my dear whreflections because she's wonderful and because she, like me, enjoys a good hand-pinning fic. Enjoy!
Other ways to enjoy this story: Another dear friend of mine who happens to be a huge Holmes fan, as well as British with a GORGEOUS voice, was kind enough to podfic this for me. If you'd like to check it out, you can find her original post on Tumblr here.
John knows he shouldn’t push, knows this thing with Sherlock is still too new-new to him, because Sherlock is new, but to Sherlock this entire idea, that you can touch and feel and kiss and lick and press, and that it is so, so good-it is just too new.
This is not the time to make such suggestions.
But the problem is that Sherlock is mewling into his mouth, and his hands are sliding up and down John’s arms and his leg is pressed deliciously between John’s and he is quite literally kissing John as though his breath is the only air he’ll ever be allowed to have ever again. He’d marvel at how good at this Sherlock is, except it really should be expected. The man sees, notices, catalogues everything, and there is probably an entire room in his mind palace that’s been under lock and key all this time where Sherlock’s stored a repository of information on the right angle for his head, where to place his hands, likely erogenous zones, the lot of it. He’s just never had a reason to open it before. At least…John thinks so. Sherlock isn’t ignorant, but he is inexperienced, and almost a little shy.
Even the great detective knows that emotion has to play into this in some form or another.
So, Sherlock’s got him pressed against the wall, and the weight and proximity and, John won’t lie, the height of him, everything in his body is tense, thrumming with a nervous energy and it’s sending pulses of pleasure straight down the line of his back which he knows Sherlock can probably feel. But he feels…closed in, withdrawn, curled up a bit and he really just needs, but he can’t ask. Not yet, it’s too soon, too new, Sherlock’s poor brain might actually short-circuit.
But then Sherlock’s ducking his head, and his-oh god. Oh god, god that’s good, his teeth are scraping down the side of John’s neck and the mewls are turning into growls, possessive and needy and John’s not sure how it happened but maybe Sherlock isn’t so unsure after all. His hips keep canting of their own accord, slotting his body right up along John’s, rocking them together, and his hands are sliding down his arms, and then-it’s like lightning, fast and unexpected and followed by a rumble of thunder from Sherlock’s chest-Sherlock’s got his fingers wrapped around John’s wrists, and he’s pulling.
Oh god, of course he’d know, even snogging his flatmate out of his sense there’s no way Sherlock could ever stop bloody noticing, and he’s somehow deduced exactly what John needs out of his whole messy thing. He’s got long, violinist fingers wrapped over and around John’s wrists, pressing them back to the wall with a spidery arm that absolutely belies the strength in his muscle, and it’s all John can do to whimper, just softly, and arch his back to test that strength. He groans as he feels the pull in the scar tissue at his shoulder, that sweet ache, and he feels Sherlock smile against his skin.
“Better?” he whispers in a voice that is all mahogany and resonance, and John didn’t actually think he could get any harder, but he is.
“God, yes,” he whispers back, and then Sherlock’s lips are on his again and all he can focus on is the sweet, delicious ache suffusing every part of his body.