Fic: Hearts Filthy Mess, 6/7 | Sherlock (BBC) | NC-17 | Sherlock/Greg, Sherlock/John
Title: Hearts Filthy Mess
Authors: aeron_lanart, fred_bear aka
Jennybel75, mandatorily
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Pairings: Sherlock/Greg, Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17 overall for language, concepts and smut.
Spoilers: Spoilers up to and including S2 ep1
Warnings: Beware of the Angst! Slight injury in the service of a case.
Summary: "You see but you do not observe." John discovers that impressions, like nail varnish, can hide much beneath an impenetrably opaque surface.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, though this incarnation is the responsibility of a certain Mr Moffat, Mr Gatiss and the BBC. No copyright infringement intended, no profit made; this is just for fun!
A/N 1: Written in collaboration for this prompt on the Sherlock kink meme friending post -
John has a bit of a kink for pretty boys in eyeliner (he refers to it as guyliner). He suspects it comes from listening to lots of Bowie as a kid and watching Rocky Horror once too often with Harry. One day John comes home to find Sherlock wearing guyliner, maybe for a case, maybe for an experiment. It makes John all hot, bothered and wibbly. Bonus points if Sherlock's wearing the type of clothes you'd go out goth clubbing in. Can also be read at AO3.
Please note that the fic is complete, so, if you're reading, you won't have to wait for months for an update!
This is the chapter with the smut, so feel free to skip it it if that ain't your thing.
Hearts Filthy Mess
*
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
*
~ Chapter 6 ~
*
The press of Sherlock's mouth against his own was unexpected - startling - but very definitely not unwelcome, and never would be.
It was awkward at first, a clash of teeth and tongues, the bruising push of lips, like being devoured by something feral. But, John wasn’t in the mood to surrender, not after the night he’d had. He was in the mood to claim.
He poured himself savagely into the kiss, trying to communicate everything he was, everything he felt with tender brutality; his pain, his obsession, his uncomfortable jealousy and his unlooked for desire, all wrapped up in his sheer need to make Sherlock understand without the use of inadequate words. It was no gentle first kiss between tentative lovers, it was a battle with John screaming 'this is who I am, this is what I want' in the only way he felt was left to him, bringing into play all the passion that he usually kept safely locked away.
To his utmost joy, and utter surprise, Sherlock responded in kind, seemingly happy that John had wrested control of the kiss, and content to follow his lead. John was lost in the wet, sucking, biting heat of Sherlock's mouth. Never in a million years would he have anticipated such deliciously bold ferocity from him, not when he'd assumed - obviously wrongly - that Sherlock would view an expression of such physical need as distasteful at best. He'd never been so glad to be proved wrong.
John was hot, so hot, it felt as if he was being burned alive -- scorching skin and warm mouths and fire flashing through his veins. The anger and hurt and resentment of the night were melting off into desire, need and want. He felt Sherlock’s hands leave his shoulders, slide up and up and into his hair, but John was having none of that, either. He allowed Sherlock to control just about everything else in his life, but not this, not now.
His old combat training resurfaced and he used his own hands to break the hold, taking advantage of Sherlock’s momentary confusion to pivot their bodies and slam them into the wall. And, fuck, yes, this was so much better because now they were pressed together, chest to chest and hip to hip. John tilted his hips, just a fraction, and… fuck... Right there. The friction was perfect, dragging along his dick and sending sparks along his spine. He was surprised, thrilled, to feel the long smooth line of Sherlock’s cock straining against his fly, and at the sounds Sherlock made as John tightened his grip and pulled him in closer.
"John," Sherlock gasped, as he thrust against him, and it became obvious pretty damn quickly that there were entirely too many bloody clothes separating them. There would be time later for niceties and finesse, but desperation was riding John hard, causing him to fumble with Sherlock’s fly, and he was getting nowhere fast. Finally, fucking finally, he managed to get it open. He made quick work of his own, and they slid together, cocks bumping against each other, trapped between their bodies.
There was a scramble of hands, as each reached for the other’s cock. They gave up on kissing, foreheads falling to each other’s shoulders, gasping breaths and moans lost in the crooks of necks. Sherlock smelled like smoke, sweat and sex and John breathed him in like a man dying from oxygen deprivation. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s dick and began to work the foreskin up and down, exposing the head on each down-stroke. Sherlock followed his lead, long deft fingers stroking, squeezing, burning like tongues of fire against him. They found a rhythm, a kind of dance where hands collided and knuckles grazed, with John’s hand moving, slip sliding skin on skin and Sherlock’s thumb brushing just the right place on the underside of John’s dick. John felt like he was hurtling towards a head-on collision without considering the outcome. It was reckless; perfect and he had no idea if he would survive, nor whether he cared.
"God, yes, Sherlock. Just there," he moaned against Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock obliged him and kept his hand moving at a steady pace while his teeth and tongue began an exploration of John’s ear, nipping at the lobe, licking around the shell and dipping inside briefly, his breath heavy, damp and warm against John’s skin. He shuddered, which drew a laugh from Sherlock, a deep rumble in his chest that John felt right down to his toes.
It was the laugh that tipped him over the edge into the abyss and he fell, hard. John's orgasm slammed into him with unprecedented force and his knees buckled as he came all over himself, Sherlock’s hand and the lust-provoking PVC trousers. Seeing the evidence of his spent desire splattered stark and white across the shiny PVC was enough to make his cock attempt to give one last twitch of interest. He was filled with a sort of giddy possessiveness which made his heart constrict, and feelings like mine, claim and always rose up unbidden to burn unsaid behind his lips.
John reached up, splayed one hand against Sherlock’s jaw, and watched him fall apart, his lip caught between his teeth and head bouncing against the wall in time to the jerking of John’s other hand on his dick. John wasn’t sure whether he’d seen anything so compelling, so erotic in his life. He rubbed his palm over Sherlock’s slit, using the pre-come to ease his way, moving faster, gripping tighter. Sherlock trembled and pressed himself hard against the wall as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.
"Come on, Sherlock. Just let go."
It was as if Sherlock had been waiting for that command, for someone to take over and break him apart, to let him shatter and fall into pieces. A strangled groan escaped his lips as he came, coating John’s hand as he drove into John’s fist, riding the wave of his orgasm to the end. Sherlock slumped against the wall, his eyes glazed and his breath coming in heaving gasps. John let his thumb brush across Sherlock's parted lips before he moved his hand to rest against the wall, he seriously needed the extra support it provided. His other hand was a sticky mess of rapidly cooling come and he debated adding handprints to Sherlock's abused PVC trousers, but decided against it when Sherlock wobbled precariously. His own jeans were also a mess so John carelessly wiped his hand on a clear patch of denim, shifting slightly to accommodate the movement more easily.
Sherlock’s knees finally gave way and he crumpled to the floor, an elegant heap of dishevelled clothes. He looked completely satisfied and much more comfortable than John, who still had his hand braced flat against the wall in order to keep himself from falling. He glanced down at Sherlock, who was sprawled on the floor looking utterly debauched, and decided that remaining upright in the face of what had just happened was too damn difficult. Joining Sherlock on the floor seemed like a much better idea than hanging onto the wall, alone. He gently eased himself down and settled against Sherlock’s side.
*
Chapter 7
Authors: aeron_lanart, fred_bear aka
Jennybel75, mandatorily
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Pairings: Sherlock/Greg, Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17 overall for language, concepts and smut.
Spoilers: Spoilers up to and including S2 ep1
Warnings: Beware of the Angst! Slight injury in the service of a case.
Summary: "You see but you do not observe." John discovers that impressions, like nail varnish, can hide much beneath an impenetrably opaque surface.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, though this incarnation is the responsibility of a certain Mr Moffat, Mr Gatiss and the BBC. No copyright infringement intended, no profit made; this is just for fun!
A/N 1: Written in collaboration for this prompt on the Sherlock kink meme friending post -
John has a bit of a kink for pretty boys in eyeliner (he refers to it as guyliner). He suspects it comes from listening to lots of Bowie as a kid and watching Rocky Horror once too often with Harry. One day John comes home to find Sherlock wearing guyliner, maybe for a case, maybe for an experiment. It makes John all hot, bothered and wibbly. Bonus points if Sherlock's wearing the type of clothes you'd go out goth clubbing in. Can also be read at AO3.
Please note that the fic is complete, so, if you're reading, you won't have to wait for months for an update!
This is the chapter with the smut, so feel free to skip it it if that ain't your thing.
Hearts Filthy Mess
*
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
*
~ Chapter 6 ~
*
The press of Sherlock's mouth against his own was unexpected - startling - but very definitely not unwelcome, and never would be.
It was awkward at first, a clash of teeth and tongues, the bruising push of lips, like being devoured by something feral. But, John wasn’t in the mood to surrender, not after the night he’d had. He was in the mood to claim.
He poured himself savagely into the kiss, trying to communicate everything he was, everything he felt with tender brutality; his pain, his obsession, his uncomfortable jealousy and his unlooked for desire, all wrapped up in his sheer need to make Sherlock understand without the use of inadequate words. It was no gentle first kiss between tentative lovers, it was a battle with John screaming 'this is who I am, this is what I want' in the only way he felt was left to him, bringing into play all the passion that he usually kept safely locked away.
To his utmost joy, and utter surprise, Sherlock responded in kind, seemingly happy that John had wrested control of the kiss, and content to follow his lead. John was lost in the wet, sucking, biting heat of Sherlock's mouth. Never in a million years would he have anticipated such deliciously bold ferocity from him, not when he'd assumed - obviously wrongly - that Sherlock would view an expression of such physical need as distasteful at best. He'd never been so glad to be proved wrong.
John was hot, so hot, it felt as if he was being burned alive -- scorching skin and warm mouths and fire flashing through his veins. The anger and hurt and resentment of the night were melting off into desire, need and want. He felt Sherlock’s hands leave his shoulders, slide up and up and into his hair, but John was having none of that, either. He allowed Sherlock to control just about everything else in his life, but not this, not now.
His old combat training resurfaced and he used his own hands to break the hold, taking advantage of Sherlock’s momentary confusion to pivot their bodies and slam them into the wall. And, fuck, yes, this was so much better because now they were pressed together, chest to chest and hip to hip. John tilted his hips, just a fraction, and… fuck... Right there. The friction was perfect, dragging along his dick and sending sparks along his spine. He was surprised, thrilled, to feel the long smooth line of Sherlock’s cock straining against his fly, and at the sounds Sherlock made as John tightened his grip and pulled him in closer.
"John," Sherlock gasped, as he thrust against him, and it became obvious pretty damn quickly that there were entirely too many bloody clothes separating them. There would be time later for niceties and finesse, but desperation was riding John hard, causing him to fumble with Sherlock’s fly, and he was getting nowhere fast. Finally, fucking finally, he managed to get it open. He made quick work of his own, and they slid together, cocks bumping against each other, trapped between their bodies.
There was a scramble of hands, as each reached for the other’s cock. They gave up on kissing, foreheads falling to each other’s shoulders, gasping breaths and moans lost in the crooks of necks. Sherlock smelled like smoke, sweat and sex and John breathed him in like a man dying from oxygen deprivation. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s dick and began to work the foreskin up and down, exposing the head on each down-stroke. Sherlock followed his lead, long deft fingers stroking, squeezing, burning like tongues of fire against him. They found a rhythm, a kind of dance where hands collided and knuckles grazed, with John’s hand moving, slip sliding skin on skin and Sherlock’s thumb brushing just the right place on the underside of John’s dick. John felt like he was hurtling towards a head-on collision without considering the outcome. It was reckless; perfect and he had no idea if he would survive, nor whether he cared.
"God, yes, Sherlock. Just there," he moaned against Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock obliged him and kept his hand moving at a steady pace while his teeth and tongue began an exploration of John’s ear, nipping at the lobe, licking around the shell and dipping inside briefly, his breath heavy, damp and warm against John’s skin. He shuddered, which drew a laugh from Sherlock, a deep rumble in his chest that John felt right down to his toes.
It was the laugh that tipped him over the edge into the abyss and he fell, hard. John's orgasm slammed into him with unprecedented force and his knees buckled as he came all over himself, Sherlock’s hand and the lust-provoking PVC trousers. Seeing the evidence of his spent desire splattered stark and white across the shiny PVC was enough to make his cock attempt to give one last twitch of interest. He was filled with a sort of giddy possessiveness which made his heart constrict, and feelings like mine, claim and always rose up unbidden to burn unsaid behind his lips.
John reached up, splayed one hand against Sherlock’s jaw, and watched him fall apart, his lip caught between his teeth and head bouncing against the wall in time to the jerking of John’s other hand on his dick. John wasn’t sure whether he’d seen anything so compelling, so erotic in his life. He rubbed his palm over Sherlock’s slit, using the pre-come to ease his way, moving faster, gripping tighter. Sherlock trembled and pressed himself hard against the wall as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.
"Come on, Sherlock. Just let go."
It was as if Sherlock had been waiting for that command, for someone to take over and break him apart, to let him shatter and fall into pieces. A strangled groan escaped his lips as he came, coating John’s hand as he drove into John’s fist, riding the wave of his orgasm to the end. Sherlock slumped against the wall, his eyes glazed and his breath coming in heaving gasps. John let his thumb brush across Sherlock's parted lips before he moved his hand to rest against the wall, he seriously needed the extra support it provided. His other hand was a sticky mess of rapidly cooling come and he debated adding handprints to Sherlock's abused PVC trousers, but decided against it when Sherlock wobbled precariously. His own jeans were also a mess so John carelessly wiped his hand on a clear patch of denim, shifting slightly to accommodate the movement more easily.
Sherlock’s knees finally gave way and he crumpled to the floor, an elegant heap of dishevelled clothes. He looked completely satisfied and much more comfortable than John, who still had his hand braced flat against the wall in order to keep himself from falling. He glanced down at Sherlock, who was sprawled on the floor looking utterly debauched, and decided that remaining upright in the face of what had just happened was too damn difficult. Joining Sherlock on the floor seemed like a much better idea than hanging onto the wall, alone. He gently eased himself down and settled against Sherlock’s side.
*
Chapter 7