I can't believe I'm actually updating this old account mwahaha. Anyhow, here is a Johnlock PWP fic. This is actually my first smut fic that I've ever written, so any criticism would be useful. :D No really, hit me with it. I need to know.
With that, enjoy!
I swear he's doing this on purpose. John glances at Sherlock walking from the kitchen to the sofa, reading from his corner as his lover lay on the sofa, sprawled all over it for all of five seconds before stretching like a cat. It's sexy - John couldn't deny it. When Sherlock walked to the kitchen earlier, John's eyes immediately went to the sheet around his lover's thin hips. The sheet slipped just a bit every few steps, with more of Sherlock's gorgeous body revealed only for his eyes, and honestly he was getting aroused.
His mind was no longer on the book - the thought of concentrating on the book was tossed out the window the moment Sherlock came in, hair tousled, love bites clearly visible around his neck and in nothing but his damn sheet. John kept up the normalities; asking Sherlock multiple times to put some clothes on (all requests swiftly denied, obviously), asking if he wanted some tea, but his mind kept drifting back to what he could do with Sherlock's body. Oh god.
Sherlock's body on its own is gorgeous, and entirely capable of enticing John into a state of arousal. The love bites that he donned just hastened the process. He felt proud that his lover was so damn sexy (fans threw themselves at him, all of them blatantly rejected), and that his naked body was only meant for his eyes. That privilege allowed John to get familiar with every inch of him. John knew how hot Sherlock's seemingly icy skin could get, how his breathing would quicken when John's fingers wandered to the right places, how his face would get flushed from arousal, biting his lip to prevent himself from crying out too loudly. John knew how to keep Sherlock in a state, and that was something he prided himself on knowing inside out.
Fidgeting in his seat slightly, he become aware of the tight constraint in his pants, and unfortunately these were the type of pants where an outline of his erection could be seen rather clearly. Coughing a little too loudly to cover up any hitches in his breathing, John started to get up from his seat, feeling the warm sensation in his crotch becoming increasingly tighter.
Before he could even take two steps though, he was tackled to the floor by Sherlock, feeling Sherlock's thin but surprisingly muscular legs entwining around his own, the sheets becoming makeshift rope. And he felt it - the feeling of warm skin on his fingers, the tone his tensed muscles created whenever he w- oh god. He was, wasn't he?
Sherlock's hands were completely goal-oriented, doing their best to remove John's belt, pulling off his pants in a frenzy. Being pinned to the floor in a daze, John felt Sherlock's lips pressed against his, his mouth hungry, searching, needing. A sly nibble on John's bottom lip, accompanied by Sherlock's hand around John's member stroking him unbearably slowly allowed Sherlock complete dominance over John. His tongue caressed his, taking complete charge over the situation. Self-control was starting to become less of a priority to John, who was evidently struggling not to cry out as Sherlock broke the kiss, his tapered fingers still stroking John as slowly as he could. A smirk crept onto Sherlock's face, clearly enjoying the position of power he held, having John writhing underneath his grip.
"Fuck, Sherlock," John's breath came in short gasps, watching Sherlock continue at an achingly slow pace. His head lolls backwards, closing his eyes, doing his best to hang onto whatever remained of his self-control. Don't. Don't give in to this public menace of a lover, don't-
Sherlock adjusted his position, straddling John right above his crotch, the weight of his body placing direct and almost unbearable pressure. Sherlock's grip around the base of John's cock refused to waver, leaving him in a state of sheer frustration and Sherlock in absolute glee. Sherlock could tell John wanted that release desperately - he wondered if John was aware of the fact that he was thrusting himself into Sherlock's grip, trying his best (and in vain) to continue stroking him. John allowed a moan escape him as Sherlock indulged him, releasing his grip and letting a finger run from the base to the tip, his breathing becoming further harried.
"Stop it, Sherl- fuck, stop it," John barely gets the words out as Sherlock leans over to kiss John, his hands finally releasing John from his grip. While a flicker of disappointment flashed across John's face (which Sherlock relished), it immediately melted into one of arousal, his hands gripping Sherlock's arms as John's neck fell under siege. It was an interesting thing about Sherlock, really. Whenever they were about to have sex, Sherlock would be rough, almost brutal to John, refusing whatever John asked, even begged. Whenever he kissed though, it was always soft and tender, a far cry from his usual, and much rougher tendencies. A soft kiss to John's lips, a quick nibble to his ear, and then the assault on the neck would begin.
"Sherlock," John rasped, breathing hard, "stop being such a fucking tease."
"No. Not till I hear the words I want, not until you beg." Sherlock eases his grip on John, continuing to straddle John, unmoving. Feeling the absence of Sherlock's hand, John attempts to have his own hand take over, only to feel a sharp pain hit him, courtesy of Sherlock's riding crop.
Pulling him up from the floor, Sherlock abandons the riding crop and throws John to the wall, pins him there, grinding his hips into him hard and fast. His too-long fingers snake around John's chest, one hand stroking John, the other ensuring John's hands were stuck. His lips stopped right next to John's ear, his voice more seductive than usual. "Beg." His fingers spread the pre-come all over, getting more involuntary moans from John. By now he feels unbearably hot, the pressure continuing to mount. Sherlock presses his own erection onto John's back, knowing that John could feel his own hard-on twitch upon contact. "Beg for it, John."
He knows, oh god he knows. John abandons all form of self-control and allows his moans become louder. The pressure, the lack of release - just too much.
"Agh - fine! Fuck me, Sherlock! Oh god please don't stop! " his words become softer toward the end, but Sherlock's heard it.
He's begged. Sherlock smirks, and obliges.
Using his own pre-come as makeshift lube, he redirects his hands to John's hips, holding him there while Sherlock pushes. John's muscles clench down, and Sherlock cannot help but hiss slightly, determined to make sure he lasts longer than John can. A satisfied moan is heard from John, who pushes himself backwards, wanting to feel more of Sherlock in him. He inches his way into John, stopping only when he is entirely impaled on him, stopping for breath. Pulling himself out slightly, Sherlock readies himself and plunges back in. He's achingly hard, fingers digging deep into John's hips.
He thrusts another time, this time much faster and harder than before, causing John to cry out, half out of pain, the other half out of the frustration. With each thrust, the tension, the need for release becomes stronger. He feels Sherlock tighten within him, and knows that he's close too. His hand slides down to his cock, stroking himself in time with Sherlock's thrusts.
Sherlock continues thrusting as he feels the burning sensation start to take over, his climax building, the heat and white noise starting to pound in his head. He lets his head fall onto John's shoulder.
Then, he bites.
The sharp pain causes John to cry out, his seed spilling over. He feels Sherlock's legs spasm, his fingernails digging further into John's hips, and knows that he's come. Sherlock pulls out, tugging on John's hand, leading the both of them to the bed. The two of them fall onto the sheets, with John pulling Sherlock in for a slow, languid kiss, a welcome change from the lustful frenzy just experienced. "That...was fantastic, Sherlock," he leans over to kiss him another time, "thank you."
Sherlock's eyes remain closed, but the corners of his lips are upturned, and John knows he's heard what he's said. Inching himself closer, and letting his head rest on Sherlock's chest, the slow heartbeat lulls him to sleep, with just a white duvet over them as they slept.
/
When he wakes the next day, he notices the strikes from the riding crop had become angry red welts. Jesus, he really got carried away with that damn riding crop. John feels a tinge of pain as his finger runs across them, and the base of his neck feels bruised. Attempting to get up to see the extent of the love bites, he eases himself out of bed, but, feeling sore, allows himself to fall back onto the sheets. Curled up next to him, he sees Sherlock still asleep, his mouth just slightly ajar. Inching over to have Sherlock's forehead touching his, John closes his eyes, and surrenders to sweet bliss.