Righto fellow Johnlock porn addicts, we are now starting to move the stories from my account (Drifta) to here. Have fun!
Warnings: Right, I am going to give this one STRICT warnings. DO NOT READ if you don't like SLASH, DUB CON, BDSM, DIRTY LANGUAGE, and loads of SWEARING.
Disclaimers: We do not own Sherlock and I think the actors should be wildly thankful (or resentful) that we don't, considering the hijinks the two of us think up….
Summary: Ah yes, the wonders of RPing with someone who knows exactly what you're thinking. Another PWP from my good friend Calabash( u/3676389/Wheres_My_Calabash) and I. She is the goddess who is writing John's parts so perfectly, while I, mere mortal that I am, do my best to write a Sherlock that lives up to him.
ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP. Sherlock needs his secret stash, he needs his fix, but John refuses to tell him where he's hidden it. What will Sherlock resort to in order to win the secrets from his stubborn lover?
Sherlock's fingers could not sit still; they kept twitching and moving about with a life of their own. He was sitting on the sofa, his eyes fixed on the wall, his lips moving without making a sound. He could see John sitting comfortably in his arm chair from the corner of his eye. Sherlock's face twitched, his nose scrunched up. He was getting restless. He hadn't had a case for three days now.
He was bored.
There was a movement to his left, John calmly flipping the page of his papers. Damn him. He knew the state Sherlock was in. He knew what Sherlock needed. Damn, damn, damn, DAMN. 'I NEED THEM, JOHN.' He suddenly burst out, jumping up from his spot on the sofa and leaping over the end table only to sit in the chair opposite him and fidget with the sleeve of his dressing gown. He glanced at John who still hadn't made a sound. 'Where. Are. They?' He demanded.
John's eyes did not move from the paper. He turned another page, slowly, painfully slowly, and he lifted his eyebrows, his forehead furrowing a bit. "Where are what, Sherlock?" he asked nonchalantly, crossing his legs. "Oh, look, that American actress is on the stage next week, we should get tickets and go. We never go anywhere." Inside, he snickered. He could see Sherlock twitching out of the corner of his eye, and it was amusing. At least, it was at the moment. He was well aware that a storm was on the way, and Hurricane Sherlock was nothing to be trifled with. But a case would turn up. It always did. And it was John's job to keep him clean and healthy until Sherlock was on the hunt again.
"What do you think, Sherlock?"
'DAMN THE ACTRESS, DAMN THE TICKETS, AND DAMN YOU.' Sherlock was on his feet again, this time throwing papers and books in the air, upending the new potted plant John had gotten to replace the old one Sherlock had destroyed in one of his many experiments. He stopped and his head whipped around to look at John. 'You look nice today, special occasion? Nah, that's not it. You have someone you need to impress. Planning on going out later? Got your hair cut, is that a new razor? It works much better than your old one.' Sherlock continued, trying to ease that nagging feeling in the back of his head. He needed a cigarette. 'DAMN IT ALL.' He raced to the mantle and looked in the pot where John had last hidden them. 'Where's my secret stash, John? What have you done with it this time!' He heard John snort and his head whipped around again, but this time his voice was softer, more controlled. 'What is it, John? Something funny?' His eyes narrowed. He scrutinized John's face, the way his eyebrows were raised ever so slightly. Sherlock gasped and his eyes popped open. In an instant he had gone to their room. Soon he was on all fours on the floor, searching under the bed. Not there. 'FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!' He screamed and charged back into the living room. 'WHERE HAVE YOU PUT THEM, JOHN?'
John looked up from the newspaper at last, blinking into the outburst, leaning backwards as Sherlock thrust his face down close to him, those cold eyes intimidating. He quirked his mouth, shrugging. "Don't know what you're talking about," he sang, folding the paper and plopping it on the coffee table. He stood, fists clenched, staring up defiantly into Sherlock's enraged face. "You don't need them," he said firmly. Then he wheeled on his bare foot, and marched into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "I'll put on the kettle. You'll feel better after a nice cuppa. And Mrs. Hudson brought us a plate of biscuits. Fancy a biscuit, Sherlock?" He knew what the answer would be, but he refused to turn into a barking maniac, just because Sherlock was. And he wasn't going to give up thelocation that easily. Bloody hell, no. Sherlock was the captain of self-control, the self-proclaimed master of his own body, his own mind. John wanted to test that theory. He knew Sherlock could quit. He didn't even need the patches. He just needed to turn that brilliant mind to the task, and John was... helping.
Sherlock glared daggers into John's retreating back. He was bored, he needed excitement. He needed his cigarettes. He NEEDED a case. Calming down a little he took a deep breath. 'John,' he started quietly, attempting a smile but only managing a grimace. John turned around to give him that look that said 'nice try, Sherlock, I wasn't born yesterday'. Sherlock snarled and stamped his foot on the floor. He left the room again, looking for the stash of cigarettes he knew John kept around in case of emergencies. Soon their bedroom was a disaster zone. The blankets had been ripped off the bed, the clothes thrown on the floor, drawers upended, shoes tossed this way and that, papers flying about, books discarded. That's when Sherlock spotted them. His eyes widened as they fell upon the cool glint of metal handcuffs hidden in the back of John's personal cabinet right next to a hand gun John liked to keep handy. Suddenly an idea blossomed in Sherlock's mind; he let out a pure evil smirk as he heard John's footsteps behind him.
Sherlock knew how he was going to make john reveal the whereabouts of his cigarettes AND have a bit of fun doing it.
"Sherlock, what the hell." John stood in the midst of their bedroom, staring about at the mess and growing angrier by the second. It was one thing to go rooting about. It was another altogether to completely destroy the order he had worked so very hard to restore after making the decision to cohabitate in the same room. It had not been an easy decision; Sherlock's bedroom frequently swung from immaculately clean, almost sterile, to cluttered and filthy, sometimes within the same day. John was a neat man. He liked order, and he had precious little of it in the rest of the flat, so his bedroom was his sanctuary. However... since lately he'd slept more nights in Sherlock's bed than his own... the decision to move in was a logical one. It came with compromise; Sherlock's experiments were restricted to other areas of the flat, and John made him promise to try, just try, to keep the space clean. Now... "Damn it, Sherlock." John bent over, beginning to snatch his socks and shorts from the floor. He muttered to himself under his breath, shaking his head. It wasn't going to work. He wasn't giving up the cigarettes. He began to toil in silence, bending down, gathering the piles.
Sherlock sat on his haunches for a few moments, completely still, waiting for John to move into the perfect position. There! John had straightened up holding a pair of shoes in his hands, his back to Sherlock. Sherlock was behind him in a matter of seconds, his arms closed around John's muscular frame, his chin resting on John's shoulder. 'I am sorry, John.' he said in a deep, slightly breathy voice. He could feel John relax and he smiled. John was just starting to turn around when Sherlock grabbed John's wrists and twisted them behind his back, using a little more force than necessary. Before John could protest Sherlock had clipped the handcuffs on him and with one graceful movement, pushed him onto the bed.
John grunted as his face hit the mattress. Oh, no you don't, he thought fiercely, and he twisted around, glaring up at the younger man that towered over the bed. "Sherlock. Take these off me right now. I'm not getting you the damned cigarettes. This is pointless. I won't tell, and you can't make me." And John meant it. He even smiled grimly at that lean, pale face. "You don't need them, Sherlock."
'I NEED something, John. You wouldn't understand. That funny little brain of yours could never comprehend what I FEEL. I've stopped using for you, damn it. The cigarettes are all I have left!' he hissed, ignoring the look of hurt that crossed John's face. Sherlock's lip twitched in a haughty sneer as John struggled to get up. He shoved John roughly back onto the bed and pushed up so that he was laying on his backside, his feet dangling off. Sherlock grabbed a particularly expensive and disgusting tie he had been given as a gift from a grateful client and brandished it like a weapon. 'You will tell me, John,' he said softly, his eyes glittering. He practically lifted John from where he was laying and sat him down at the head of the bed, then straddling him; he used the tie to anchor John to the headboard. All the while John struggled fiercely, letting out loud angry shouts. Sherlock ignored him and sat down on John's legs. 'You might just want to give up now, John.'
John was furious. No, John was bloody enraged. His neck was crimson, and the vein in his temple throbbed as Sherlock dragged him about like a rag doll, those wiry arms unbelievably strong. His kicks and bucking was to no avail... the slender detective had his arms over his head and fastened securely to the headboard of their bed in a matter of seconds. John thrashed, cursing loudly. "Untie me now, Sherlock, or I swear to you, you will regret it!" The muscles in John's brown arms flexed and rolled, and he gasped for air as Sherlock straddled his thighs, smirking the whole while. "Oh... Fuck, Sherlock, when I get my hands on you..."
Sherlock shook his head. 'You brought this on yourself.' Sherlock quickly leaned back as John tried in vain to head-butt him. Tsking impatiently, Sherlock grasped a handful of the sandy blonde hair atop John's head and yanked it up. 'Do not do that again.' He whispered dangerously pronouncing each consonant with vice-like control and perfection, his voice low and silken.
John hissed in sharp pain as Sherlock's fingers yanked hard at his hair, and his anger flared once more. The heat of it coursed through him, igniting behind his eyes, and he snarled, bringing one leg up swiftly in an attempt to knock his lover off balance. He used the weight of his body to try and upend Sherlock. If he could only throw him off for a few seconds, John's agile, rough fingers could work off the tie, and he knew there the keys to the cuffs were.
Sherlock slammed John's head against the wood behind him, not hard enough to do lasting damage, but enough to get his point across. 'I told you, behave!' He thrust John against the headboard, leaning all his weight against him, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. 'You wouldn't like me when I'm angry, John.' And with that he kissed John angrily, gnashing his teeth against John's lips, tasting blood.
"Mmmph!" John felt all the air leave his body as he was slammed roughly against the headboard, and the edges of his vision went dark. A spike of panic shot through him, tingling in his extremities and settling like a lead weight in his gut. Sherlock's words barely registered as he reeled, his mouth falling open, and Sherlock took that as an invitation, thrusting himself forward to bite at John's mouth, those teeth tearing the silken softness of his lips, and John arched, frantic. He could taste his own blood, and Sherlock was lapping at it, his ice blue eyes aflame. Fuck. Fuck. John was in trouble.
Sherlock leaned back from the kiss, panting heavily. Shit, he thought, that was rather arousing. His fingers prodded John's chest, searching until they found what they were looking for. With a vicious tweak, Sherlock pinched a nipple through the jumper. He heard John's sharp intake of breath and that only egged him on. He shot an arm out, somewhere on the night stand there should be an army knife. Sherlock thought to himself. John needed the damn jumper off and since it wasn't a bloody button up, Sherlock would have to resort to more drastic measures. Ah! His eyes widened in pleasure. 'Found it.'
John's face blanched. He had all but frozen in shock when Sherlock kissed him, bit him, and pinched him, but... "Oh.. Sherlock. Sherlock, not the jumper, please, please, it's my best one, Sherlock..." He hated the sound of his own pleading, but... this was a joke, this had to be a joke. Sherlock wasn't this sadistic. He met those silver eyes, and he felt his heart drop into his chest. Suddenly the only sound he could hear was Sgt. Donovan's nasally, unpleasant voice, echoing around the walls of his skull. He's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored. John began to pant heavily as Sherlock held the knife up to those curious, wicked eyes, studying it, deducing, reading its life history on the scratched surface. "Sherlock," he tried again. "Put it away. Please don't come near me with that thing."
Sherlock cocked his head and smiled a wide smile. 'You should have just given me what I wanted, John. Now we have to go about this the hard way.' Slowly, almost lovingly Sherlock brought the knife to the top of John's jumper, right next to his tanned neck. With one fluid movement he sliced through the thick cloth, making sure not to nick John in the process.
Once Sherlock was finished he placed the knife carefully down on the night stand and gave John a curious look. 'You're scared. Good. You should be.' Slowly, very slowly he flicked open each button on the plaid shirt that was standing in the way of Sherlock's goal. 'There,' he sang out, 'that's much better.' Sherlock ran a hand over John's smooth chest and dug his nails in. 'Isn't it?'
John yelped, his eyes wide, but it was not at the pain. He sucked in a mouthful of air, turning his face away. Damn Sherlock. Damn him. His heart began to thud erratically in his chest, and he tried in vain to regulate his breathing as Sherlock's fingernails pinched and clawed at the flesh on his abdomen. He struggled against his bonds, now desperate to get away. The pain was irritating, and annoying, but certainly not unbearable. What was unbearable was the sudden knowledge that he was sporting a full, throbbing, hasty erection, and at any moment, Sherlock would either sit back on his haunches and feel it, or he would simply take one look at John's face, and see it written all over his flushed expression, plain as day. "Get. Off." John grated, rage coloring his voice.
'Oh John, John, John, John,' Sherlock breathed reverently, kissing John's neck, 'has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?' The kiss turned into a bite and Sherlock lifted his head up, licking his lips. He lowered his eyelids halfway, a lazy expression on his face as he lightly traced John's chest with the pads of his fingers before twisting the two pink nipples. Sherlock sat back to survey his handiwork and that's when he felt it, the hardness between his partner's legs. Sherlock let out a low laugh that reverberated through his chest. 'Right,' he said 'let's start with the riding crop.'
Nononononononono... John clenched his teeth as he felt Sherlock lean back, felt that slender body stiffen when it came into contact with his erection, felt the laughter bubbling in Sherlock's chest. Damn. Bloody hell. Bastard. He groaned aloud, wishing desperately that Sherlock would have gagged him as well, at least then he wouldn't be making such humiliating noises as two firm buttocks ground down on him, and he bucked up into them involuntarily. "No," he moaned, tossing his head and glancing down at his own chest, at the sweat glistening there, at the rosy nipples, normally so soft and brown, now bright red and very hard. "Don't you fucking dare, Sherlock. No. No." He said it over and over again, but his eyes could not help but flick from his own hard cock, trapped beneath denim and cotton pants, and Sherlock's raging hard on that he was making no effort whatsoever to hide. It was beautiful. It tented his trousers, gorgeous, big, twitching. John cursed. Oh he would make Sherlock pay for this.
Sherlock leaned over to where the riding crop sat underneath the bed; quickly retrieving it he looked at John's cock and gently brushed it with a leather end of the riding crop. He could feel John move a little, trying not to arch into the pressure. Suddenly, Sherlock flicked the leather object against John's stomach, leaving a faint red line. 'Behave or I will use this,' he sat back on top of John again and brought the riding crop up to the tanned, chiselled jaw, tracing it lovingly. 'Don't think for a moment that I won't.' He could hear John's gulp and patted his cheek with the butt of the riding crop. Then, without warning he ground down onto John's erection, rocking his hips with maddeningly precision and force.
"Oh, FUCK!" John cried out before he could stop himself, the smell of the leather in his nostrils, his body jolting with pleasure as Sherlock lined up against his crotch and began to grind, slowly, with lovely, painful pressure. The red welt on his stomach burned, and he found himself rising to meet Sherlock's hips, his chest shuddering, his arms straining at the handcuffs. "A...All this for your effing cigarettes?" he whimpered, head thrown back. The riding crop was tracing his shoulders now, and sliding down to tease at each sore nipple.
Sherlock's lips drew back on his teeth as he gave John a wide smile. 'Yes!' He said, his eyes popping wide open for a few seconds. 'I want those cigarettes, John...' Sherlock slid the riding crop down to prod at the tent in John's pants. 'I NEED those cigarettes.' He slapped John's left hip sharply and bit the older man's collarbone almost hard enough to draw blood, almost. Sherlock sat still for a moment, pondering his next move. 'Tell me where they are, John.' Not that I'll let you go, not yet. He cupped John tightly through his pants before letting go and fiddling with the hook on his jeans. 'Won't you tell me?' he looked up through his bangs at John, lips parted, his tongue barely visible between them.
John was panting heavily now. He closed his eyes, unable to look up at that face, that beautiful, wicked, porcelain face anymore. He felt the leather against his cock, and he mewled low in his throat. Sherlock's fingers were at his waistband, and he felt the rush of an impending fuck blast through his senses. Oh, he lived for these moments, the moments where he realized that Sherlock wanted him, that he was going to take him because he wanted him, and Sherlock took what he wanted. And right now, he wanted John. The doctor spread his legs a little, a completely instinctive reaction, and he swallowed, hard. "You want me to tell you where they are?" he whispered.
'What do you think?' Sherlock asked, pulling John's trousers down. He looked at the stiff cock for a second before he adjusted himself a little and bent his head down, licking it through the cotton blend of John's navy blue boxers. He wasn't going to make this easy for John, he wasn't going to give John what he wanted right away, oh no. John was going to have to scream a little first. Payment for withholding Sherlock's needs.
John thrashed again, trying to hold his hips still, failing miserably. His toes curled in the sheets, and he arched, gasping, his eyes wide and blinking rapidly. "They... they're..." He waited until Sherlock paused, and their eyes met. John took a deep breath. "They're up your arse, Sherlock, now let me the FUCK out of here!" He was quite pleased with himself. He bucked again, on purpose this time, and once more tried to free himself from the weight of his terrifying lover.
Sherlock's eyes glinted and he brought the riding crop down hard on John's hip. Lips curled he grabbed John's hair again, twisting it painfully, he slammed that beautiful head against the board once more, and like before he violently kissed John, mashing their lips together, biting his tongue. Sherlock's hands yanked John's boxers off, leaving angry red nail marks as he did so. 'Don't PLAY with me, John Watson!' He roared, kneading John's erection roughly, grabbing the riding crop and slapping John's chest with it. 'I want my CIGARETTES.' He bit John's stomach and pulled the thick light brown pubic hair with a vengeance.
John screamed. He didn't mean to, but the dual pain and pleasure from the sting of the riding crop and Sherlock's knee against his naked cock was too much. He flailed beneath him, begging incoherently, and then something inside of him snapped. His eyes flew open. His lips parted. And John Watson began to moan, arching INTO Sherlock's tugging, INTO the teeth, INTO the knee on his groin. "Fuck," he whispered again, but this time, even he could hear the plea in that one word. Sherlock halted, frozen on the spot, and John whined immediately, thrusting upwards, his body trembling. He didn't speak again, but lowered his head to his chest... a gesture of submission. There was a low rumble in his throat, a tremor, and his cock was aching, and hard. He bit his lip, crimson.
Sherlock's cock twitched at the sight of John slumped repentantly before him. Oh fuck, he moaned a little without meaning to. 'John,' he crooned pushing his knee even harder against John's throbbing cock, 'you are so surprising. Tell me, do you like it when I do this?' Sherlock bit one of John's already abused nipples. 'Do you like it rough, John?' He asked sweetly, digging his nails in John's inner thigh, moving against him, creating friction between them. 'Do you like it when I talk dirty?' he asked softly, 'do you like feeling like this?' He looked into John's eyes, bringing his face so close to his lover's that they were almost touching. 'Do you like being my slut? My beautiful, breath taking slut?' Sherlock removed his knee and sat perfectly still, waiting for John's response. Sherlock was excited; all thoughts of the cigarettes had flown from his aroused brain.
John held his breath, his eyes huge and boring into those wide, crystal, glassy gaze. He tried to stop himself. He tried to bring his mind back from whatever dark recess it had retreated to. But try as he might, as he searched his soul for the strength to retain his dignity, to protest... all he found was Sherlock, staring at him with that hungry, feral look, and his mouth formed the words he could not stop. "Yes," he breathed, a low sob escaping his lungs. "Yes, yes, more Sherlock, give me more." He spread his legs wide on the mattress for emphasis, and whimpered, his eyes darting swiftly to the riding crop, still clenched in a thin, white hand. He caught his breath, his cock jumping against Sherlock's, and he shivered. What the hell had Sherlock done to him? The burn on his stomach sent searing pain throughout his frame, and he sighed, welcoming it. "Please more."
Sherlock's breath came out in a long satisfied sigh. 'Well then, my adorable little tart,' he slapped John's thigh with the back of his hand, 'I shall have to give you what you want, won't I? Because that's what lovers do. They. Give. Their. Partners. What. They. Want.' Each word was punctuated with a light blow with the riding crop to sensitive parts of John's anatomy. 'Isn't that so, John?' He bit John's lower lip, drawing blood. 'So tell me, you filthy little strumpet, what do you want? Do you want me to give it to you? Do you want me to fuck you senseless? Hmmmm?' He dug his nails into John's side. 'How badly do you want it, John? Show me.' Sherlock tapped John's legs with his riding crop encouragingly. 'Show me.'
With each blow of the crop, John cried out, wantonly, his mouth falling open, his face scrunched up and frantic. He moaned into Sherlock's bite, and jerked up, snarling and snapping at him in return, held down only by his restraints. "You know what I want!" he cried out, wriggling his ass back against the mattress, angry once more. But it was a fast burning fury, and quickly dissolved as Sherlock traced the handle of the crop up his thigh, over his balls, and against the pink puckered opening below. John shouted, a long string of curse falling from his bloody lips, and he rocked against it, little begging noises pouring from him. "Yes, Sherlock, yes, yes, please, give it to me.. Fuck me... Make me filthy, make me dirty, fuck me, I've been so very, very bad..."
Sherlock let out a wicked little laugh. He was going to give John what he wanted, oh yes, exactly what he wanted...Sherlock stopped tracing the riding crop around John's arse hole and without bothering to prepare him, pressed hard, forcing the object to enter John. He felt John's whole body tense up, muscles spasming with pain and pleasure. Sherlock slid it out and then rammed it back in again, palming his own aching erection as he did so, devouring John with his eyes. Watching that beautiful body writhe in ecstasy, sweat glistening off him, his body covered in red welts and scratch marks. Oh God, Sherlock slid his hand into his pyjama trousers and grasped his cock, giving it loving attention as he continued to fuck John with the riding crop. Moaning in delight as the whines of pleasure and humiliation sprang from John's throat.
This was wrong, this was wrong, this was... oh fuck. John began to move against the foreign object, his eyes rolling back as Sherlock slid the leather crop in and out of him, angling it, brushing him deep inside, letting it scrape the spongy walls of his body, slowly at first, then faster and deeper as Sherlock's own arousal heightened, and John gaped as the tall man began to stroke himself as he fucked John... with the riding crop. He was fucking him with a fucking riding crop. John began to rasp, his breath jagged and hitching, and he rolled with the thrusts, eyes growing wider with each one. "Yes," he gasped, shuddering, looking down with longing at his untouched cock. "Fuck.. Sherlock... Oh that feels so good, more, Sherlock, oh fuck, more, more please... Fuck me with it, Sherlock, harder... HARDER..." His legs were seizing up they were spread so far. John flushed again. He lifted his thighs, opening himself up even more, and immediately, the crop handle jammed his prostate. He screamed, loud, high pitched, helpless. "OH FUCK ME RIGHT THERE!"
Sherlock almost came from hearing those words being ripped from John's throat. 'Shit! Fuck!' He stroked himself harder, faster. 'Oh CHRIST!' He began to fuck John in earnest, shoving the riding crop into John's dirty hole without holding back, over and over. He could practically see the orgasm coming up, working its way from deep down inside John, screaming to be set free. 'Oh FUCK, John!' John's body was too perfect, the way he squirmed, the way he tried fucking himself against the riding crop. Sherlock wondered vaguely why he had never thought of this before, why he had never even thought to use the riding crop on John a long time ago. He watched John convulse, his chest expand, his eyes widen, his arms tense up, his legs jerk. Oh fuck, he's cumming. 'Oh fuuuuck' Sherlock groaned.
"...I... I... Sherlock.. I can't.." He couldnt hold back. Bloody hell, he wasn't even touching his cock, and the orgasm was beginning to light little fires behind his field of vision, and his body was tightening, and his balls were taut, and... "Sherlockkkkk!" John arched completely off the bed, his arse clenched tightly around the crop buried deep within him, and he shouted at the top of his lungs as he came, his cock shooting thick streams of milky seed, hard, hard enough to land on his face, in his hair, on Sherlock's neck, and he kept his eyes open the whole time, meeting his lover's intent gaze with a lustful moan. John was coming completely undone, and the thought that he was cumming with Sherlock's hand clutching a leather riding crop, and he was still fucking him with it, fast and desperately, kept him shooting, over and over. He stayed on that high as long as he could manage, and as he sank back at last, trembling and near to tears, John blinked up at his flat mate, whimpering, "Sherlock... show me your cock. Cum on my face. Do it. Now."
That was it, Sherlock could take it no longer. He moved close to John, his cock level with John's face and with one last pump he came all over John's face, 'Ah! Fuuuuuuuuuuuck! John! Ah!' He watched his cum land on John, covering his nose, lips, cheeks, dripping from his gorgeous chin. He let out a loud moan as he watched John desperately try to lap up the semen surrounding his lips. 'God, John,' Sherlock gasped, leaning forward and kissing his lover passionately. 'You are fantastic, you know that? Absolutely fucking amazing.' Sherlock leaned against him, feeling John's heaving chest against his own. Slowly, very slowly he pulled the riding crop from John and looked at with a pleased grin on his flushed face. 'That was...' he trailed off, not bothering to finish his sentence. He knew John understood exactly what he meant.
John lay very still beneath Sherlock as the man leaned on his chest. The blast of pleasure was slowly disintegrating, leaving behind several less enjoyable sensations. He breathed steadily through his nose. What the bloody hell was that? He'd just been pinched, bit, smacked, slammed, and fucked with a leather crop. and he'd loved every second of it. "Sherlock?"
'Yes?' Hummed Sherlock, still a little rubbery from the intense orgasm. He'd never come that much without entering John before.
John nestled his nose into the matted dark curls on Sherlock's head. They were sweaty, and smelled of sex. The entire room smelled of sex. It was rather marvellous. "I'm not telling, you know."
Sherlock let out a tired laugh, 'oh, I don't need those anymore. This was far more satisfactory.' And with that he hugged John, bounced up and walked happily to where the keys were hidden. He looked at them thoughtfully for a moment and then back at John. Frowning thoughtfully he picked them up and tossed them in the air, catching them, then tossing them again. He repeated this action several times as he advanced on John. 'I wonder...' an evil smirk lit up his face, 'should I make a spot of tea?' He jingled the keys playfully.
John sat up as straight as he could on the bed, wincing as he felt the dull throb begin deep inside of him. His stomach burned where the welt was beginning to raise. His lip ached where Sherlock had bit it, and he could still taste blood. His entire body was covered in scratches. "Sherlock. If you ever want to touch me again, you'll get your gorgeous arse over here right fucking now."
Sherlock laughed happily and swooped down on his lover, smothering him with light kisses. 'Yes sir.' he unknotted the tie and unlocked the handcuffs, sighing theatrically as he did so. 'I love you.'
John rubbed his wrists, noting the bright scarlet chafing. He smirked. A small part of him dearly hoped Mycroft would find a reason to pick him up tomorrow. How would he react to seeing John, swollen lip, tell-tale wrist markings, scratches, bruises, oh yes, that would be fun. He leaned in, and brushed his bloody mouth across Sherlock's. "I love you." He stood swiftly, snatching at his clothes and turning to stalk towards the door. "Clean up this room right now. You're taking me shopping for a new jumper."
Sherlock's lips quirked, 'the jumper was hideous, anyway, John. Besides, you really don't need them...I wouldn't mind it if you walked around in nothing but your skin while in our flat.' He dodged John and disappeared through the doorway in two long strides. Popping his head back he looked John up and down. 'How about I get you an apron instead?' and with a wink he was gone.
I desperately wanted the summery to read like this:
Sherlock: I'm not saying that someone gets fucked with a riding crop, but someone gets fucked with a riding crop and it isn't me...
But I knew that probably wouldn't sit well with the Rules and Guidelines for submissions…
Please review, the more reviews we get the better we write, and the better we write the more loving our boys get. (And is it just me or do they need to add a kink genre...because I know I'D use it a lot...)