Bonds We Make
Title: Bonds We Make
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,600
Warnings: Angst, werewolf au
Summary: Werewolf Sherlock and human John have a casual, no strings attached relationship going on until the day Sherlock bites him and seals the mating process without John's knowledge.
Written for a prompt on the kink meme.
---
They would have been alright if it hadn't been for John's insistence that Sherlock top. Up until that point, Sherlock was content with being the "bottom", as it’s called. John is and likely always has been a generous, giving lover and he'd make sure that Sherlock was never left unfulfilled. Now it’s true that Sherlock's baser instincts had been demanding that he mount John, particularly when the full moon grew near, but Sherlock has always been able to ignore the urges. After all, he prided himself on being able to control the desires that raged in most people. Or at least, he had.
The taste of John's blood is still rich and vivid in his mouth, coating his teeth, lingering on his tongue. He licks his lips and bows his head, digging his blunt nails into the backs of his hands so hard that it stings with pain. Stupid. How could he have been so bloody stupid? The thought of being the one on top, being able to look down at John and have free access to John's body, being accepted into John, was utterly intoxicating. Truthfully he hadn't protested very hard when John first broached the idea. And John, sweet simple John, had no idea what he was getting into, or what it meant when Sherlock bit him hard on the back of the neck as they both orgasmed.
That was a week ago and their “no strings attached” relationship has temporarily ended, possibly permanently, on the grounds that John has found a new romantic attachment in the form of a cute barista that he's been flirting with for months now. John is out with her right now and Sherlock can picture it so vividly: the way she'll run her hands down John's arms, the way their fingers will intertwine. Maybe she'll lean over and kiss him if she's daring or she'll bat her eyes coyly and wait for him to make the first move if she's not. If things go well John might go home with her, might strip and expose all of that lovely skin, explain away the bites and scratches left by Sherlock as a one time thing.
An animalistic growl of rage, so raw and rough that his throat aches from the effort of making it, rips its way out of Sherlock's chest. Agitated, he rises to his feet and begins to pace, feeling overly confined in the flat. 221b is home, his territory, but he feels the desire to be out in the fresh air, to run through London, the city he knows so well. But at the same time he doesn't want to leave, needs to be here in case John returns. He needs to know that John still belongs to him, that this bond that he's forged through sex and blood hasn't destroyed everything they have. The wolf side of him, a collection of everything Sherlock abhors, demands that he go and track down their mate and for one split shining second Sherlock feels that they're in perfect agreement.
And he could do it - find John. The connection between them is bright and new, still, not yet worn down by rejection or a lack of contact. He could find John.
But.
The sound of the door closing downstairs makes his ears prick up instinctively. He doesn't stop pacing, doesn't know that he could even if he needed to, but keeps an eye on the door as John climbs the stairs. Mrs Hudson is out for the night so it's just the two of them and John opens the door agonizingly slowly, revealing his best blue shirt, the one he wears when he's on the pull. His hair is mussed like he's been running his hand through it repeatedly, but his expression is calm, decisive, and he does not look surprised at seeing Sherlock's state of anxiety. Sherlock swivels towards him, nose twitching, and instantly recognizes the scent that clings to John like a rotting film.
"Mycroft," he snarls, the first word he's spoken in ages. "Where is he? What were you doing with him? Did he touch you?" It takes his mind a second to understand, to catch up with his body, and when it does he inwardly recoils. He's got John pinned to the wall, his face shoved into the space between John's shoulder and head, breathing deeply and searching for any hint, anything, that Mycroft might've tried to challenge his claim.
"You know," John says casually, like he's not being sniffed by his flatmate slash occasional lover, "I didn't know much about werewolves. Not many people do. Even after moving in with you I never thought I should do much research. I expect that's my fault, not looking into things before the two of us jumped into bed and tested the limits of your control."
Sherlock freezes. "Mycroft," he breathes and this time the word is a curse, the worst sort he can think of.
"He explained a few things to me," agrees John. He cups Sherlock's face and guides his head up so that they're looking into each other's eyes. "Like why I was having such a miserable time on my date. It’s poor form to be revolted every time your date touches you, you know. Oh, and also what it means when a werewolf bites someone during sex. And let me tell you, a sex talk of any kind with your brother is something I could have lived my life without."
It feels so good to be this close to John that it almost physically hurts to pull away, but Sherlock does it. "Yet you came back," he says, retreating to the far side of the room. He doesn’t understand this. Why didn’t John just leave? Even now he wants to pin John to the rug and fuck him, reaffirm their bond, but he doesn't have a right to do that, and he may be unschooled in what's considered polite but even he knows that's a bit not good.
"Yes, I did. Funny thing about werewolf bonds." And now John's voice has gone very gentle. "Apparently they only form when there's a reason."
He says nothing.
"Mycroft suggested it could even be love."
John can be bloody fast when he wants to be. He tackles Sherlock before Sherlock gets more than a couple of steps towards the door and they both go crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Sherlock growls again and fights to escape but something in him shies away from the idea of hurting John so he can’t put his full strength into it, and John can also be bloody strong, and in no time at all he’s got Sherlock pinned to the ground. John, blast the man, looks cool and calm in spite of the wrestling match, like this is an everyday occurrence for him.
“You know, you’re such a bastard sometimes,” he says conversationally. “You could have just told me. I might have even let you do it.”
“No human would ever want to willingly mate with me - with a werewolf,” Sherlock hisses, hating the fact that he’s being restrained. This is all wrong. “It’s forever. Permanent. If you agree - you’d never be rid of me.”
“Because I was going to leave regardless? For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, I shot a man for you the day after we met. These people you’re talking about, the ones who don’t want to mate with werewolves, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t do that either.” John’s hands squeeze his wrists lightly and then gradually ease up on the pressure. He leans down closer and Sherlock’s nose is flooded with a combination of John and Mycroft. It makes him feel sick to his stomach.
A snarl is the only warning John gets before Sherlock moves. For all of John’s strength he’s no match for a werewolf this close to the full moon who is on the verge of losing control; he hooks a foot beneath John’s thigh and twists, flipping them around so that Sherlock is on top. The look of shock on John’s face makes him smirk. “Still want to be with me, John?”
“Yes,” John says without hesitation. “You’re a madman and a wanker and a bastard and I can’t believe you mated me without telling me what was going on, but - ”
His words are lost in the kiss Sherlock yanks him into as his hands roam frantically over John’s body, yanking at clothing, desperate to feel skin against skin after having been denied. John helps, lifting his hips and moaning when Sherlock’s greedy hands wrap around his cock. By now Sherlock is intimately familiar with exactly what John likes. He settles between John’s thighs and strokes hard and firm, wringing helpless little whining cries and savouring the delicious sound of each one. His teeth itch, wanting to sink into warm flesh, to make the connection that much stronger.
“Can I,” he says, “Can I - ”
“God yes, fuck me already.” John is panting, his cheeks flushed a pretty red, hair damp with sweat. He whimpers when Sherlock presses into him and it has to burn with so little preparation, with only the half bottle of lube from the sofa cushions there to ease the way, but Sherlock doesn’t stop, can’t stop, and as soon as he’s in he’s out and then in and out and in, a frenzy that leaves him without enough air to breathe but which feels so right, so good, that he couldn’t stop even if John begged him to. And John just moans and cries and holds on, hands gripping the edge of the rug, body shaking and cock slapping against his belly with every ragged thrust.
And slowly, as the room fills with a heady combination of sweat and sex, Mycroft’s scent disappears entirely, until the only thing left is them.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,600
Warnings: Angst, werewolf au
Summary: Werewolf Sherlock and human John have a casual, no strings attached relationship going on until the day Sherlock bites him and seals the mating process without John's knowledge.
Written for a prompt on the kink meme.
---
They would have been alright if it hadn't been for John's insistence that Sherlock top. Up until that point, Sherlock was content with being the "bottom", as it’s called. John is and likely always has been a generous, giving lover and he'd make sure that Sherlock was never left unfulfilled. Now it’s true that Sherlock's baser instincts had been demanding that he mount John, particularly when the full moon grew near, but Sherlock has always been able to ignore the urges. After all, he prided himself on being able to control the desires that raged in most people. Or at least, he had.
The taste of John's blood is still rich and vivid in his mouth, coating his teeth, lingering on his tongue. He licks his lips and bows his head, digging his blunt nails into the backs of his hands so hard that it stings with pain. Stupid. How could he have been so bloody stupid? The thought of being the one on top, being able to look down at John and have free access to John's body, being accepted into John, was utterly intoxicating. Truthfully he hadn't protested very hard when John first broached the idea. And John, sweet simple John, had no idea what he was getting into, or what it meant when Sherlock bit him hard on the back of the neck as they both orgasmed.
That was a week ago and their “no strings attached” relationship has temporarily ended, possibly permanently, on the grounds that John has found a new romantic attachment in the form of a cute barista that he's been flirting with for months now. John is out with her right now and Sherlock can picture it so vividly: the way she'll run her hands down John's arms, the way their fingers will intertwine. Maybe she'll lean over and kiss him if she's daring or she'll bat her eyes coyly and wait for him to make the first move if she's not. If things go well John might go home with her, might strip and expose all of that lovely skin, explain away the bites and scratches left by Sherlock as a one time thing.
An animalistic growl of rage, so raw and rough that his throat aches from the effort of making it, rips its way out of Sherlock's chest. Agitated, he rises to his feet and begins to pace, feeling overly confined in the flat. 221b is home, his territory, but he feels the desire to be out in the fresh air, to run through London, the city he knows so well. But at the same time he doesn't want to leave, needs to be here in case John returns. He needs to know that John still belongs to him, that this bond that he's forged through sex and blood hasn't destroyed everything they have. The wolf side of him, a collection of everything Sherlock abhors, demands that he go and track down their mate and for one split shining second Sherlock feels that they're in perfect agreement.
And he could do it - find John. The connection between them is bright and new, still, not yet worn down by rejection or a lack of contact. He could find John.
But.
The sound of the door closing downstairs makes his ears prick up instinctively. He doesn't stop pacing, doesn't know that he could even if he needed to, but keeps an eye on the door as John climbs the stairs. Mrs Hudson is out for the night so it's just the two of them and John opens the door agonizingly slowly, revealing his best blue shirt, the one he wears when he's on the pull. His hair is mussed like he's been running his hand through it repeatedly, but his expression is calm, decisive, and he does not look surprised at seeing Sherlock's state of anxiety. Sherlock swivels towards him, nose twitching, and instantly recognizes the scent that clings to John like a rotting film.
"Mycroft," he snarls, the first word he's spoken in ages. "Where is he? What were you doing with him? Did he touch you?" It takes his mind a second to understand, to catch up with his body, and when it does he inwardly recoils. He's got John pinned to the wall, his face shoved into the space between John's shoulder and head, breathing deeply and searching for any hint, anything, that Mycroft might've tried to challenge his claim.
"You know," John says casually, like he's not being sniffed by his flatmate slash occasional lover, "I didn't know much about werewolves. Not many people do. Even after moving in with you I never thought I should do much research. I expect that's my fault, not looking into things before the two of us jumped into bed and tested the limits of your control."
Sherlock freezes. "Mycroft," he breathes and this time the word is a curse, the worst sort he can think of.
"He explained a few things to me," agrees John. He cups Sherlock's face and guides his head up so that they're looking into each other's eyes. "Like why I was having such a miserable time on my date. It’s poor form to be revolted every time your date touches you, you know. Oh, and also what it means when a werewolf bites someone during sex. And let me tell you, a sex talk of any kind with your brother is something I could have lived my life without."
It feels so good to be this close to John that it almost physically hurts to pull away, but Sherlock does it. "Yet you came back," he says, retreating to the far side of the room. He doesn’t understand this. Why didn’t John just leave? Even now he wants to pin John to the rug and fuck him, reaffirm their bond, but he doesn't have a right to do that, and he may be unschooled in what's considered polite but even he knows that's a bit not good.
"Yes, I did. Funny thing about werewolf bonds." And now John's voice has gone very gentle. "Apparently they only form when there's a reason."
He says nothing.
"Mycroft suggested it could even be love."
John can be bloody fast when he wants to be. He tackles Sherlock before Sherlock gets more than a couple of steps towards the door and they both go crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Sherlock growls again and fights to escape but something in him shies away from the idea of hurting John so he can’t put his full strength into it, and John can also be bloody strong, and in no time at all he’s got Sherlock pinned to the ground. John, blast the man, looks cool and calm in spite of the wrestling match, like this is an everyday occurrence for him.
“You know, you’re such a bastard sometimes,” he says conversationally. “You could have just told me. I might have even let you do it.”
“No human would ever want to willingly mate with me - with a werewolf,” Sherlock hisses, hating the fact that he’s being restrained. This is all wrong. “It’s forever. Permanent. If you agree - you’d never be rid of me.”
“Because I was going to leave regardless? For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, I shot a man for you the day after we met. These people you’re talking about, the ones who don’t want to mate with werewolves, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t do that either.” John’s hands squeeze his wrists lightly and then gradually ease up on the pressure. He leans down closer and Sherlock’s nose is flooded with a combination of John and Mycroft. It makes him feel sick to his stomach.
A snarl is the only warning John gets before Sherlock moves. For all of John’s strength he’s no match for a werewolf this close to the full moon who is on the verge of losing control; he hooks a foot beneath John’s thigh and twists, flipping them around so that Sherlock is on top. The look of shock on John’s face makes him smirk. “Still want to be with me, John?”
“Yes,” John says without hesitation. “You’re a madman and a wanker and a bastard and I can’t believe you mated me without telling me what was going on, but - ”
His words are lost in the kiss Sherlock yanks him into as his hands roam frantically over John’s body, yanking at clothing, desperate to feel skin against skin after having been denied. John helps, lifting his hips and moaning when Sherlock’s greedy hands wrap around his cock. By now Sherlock is intimately familiar with exactly what John likes. He settles between John’s thighs and strokes hard and firm, wringing helpless little whining cries and savouring the delicious sound of each one. His teeth itch, wanting to sink into warm flesh, to make the connection that much stronger.
“Can I,” he says, “Can I - ”
“God yes, fuck me already.” John is panting, his cheeks flushed a pretty red, hair damp with sweat. He whimpers when Sherlock presses into him and it has to burn with so little preparation, with only the half bottle of lube from the sofa cushions there to ease the way, but Sherlock doesn’t stop, can’t stop, and as soon as he’s in he’s out and then in and out and in, a frenzy that leaves him without enough air to breathe but which feels so right, so good, that he couldn’t stop even if John begged him to. And John just moans and cries and holds on, hands gripping the edge of the rug, body shaking and cock slapping against his belly with every ragged thrust.
And slowly, as the room fills with a heady combination of sweat and sex, Mycroft’s scent disappears entirely, until the only thing left is them.