Fair warning: this story is pure porn and it involves guns being inserted into various orifices. It contains heavy elements of BDSM and edge-play. If it doesn't sound like your cup of tea, I won't think less of you for clicking the back button. Otherwise, lots of people have been asking for Dom!John. It's arrived. Enjoy!
A lot of the time, John acted like a doctor. He was gentle. Sherlock fondly referred to it as, caretaker mode. When he got into it, John would cook Sherlock food and drag him to bed when he wasn't getting enough sleep. He'd make sure the bills got paid and that Sherlock didn't put himself into too many ridiculously life threatening situations. At least, not unless John was following right behind, carrying his Sig Sauer. Ready to put a whole lot of lead in anybody who tried to mess with them.
But then sometimes, Captain Watson came out. And my, that was a lot more fun. John the soldier was careful, but he was not gentle. He was measured, cruel, and swift in his retribution.
Sherlock's favorite time to fuck was when John felt like a solider.
It was always rough. Exciting. Heady. Dangerous.
Sometimes Sherlock would wear John's dog tags and refer to him only as Captain. He liked the way the small pieces of metal bounced and clanked when John shoved him down onto all fours and fucked him until he couldn't think anymore.
He liked when John choked him. Smacked him. Pinned him down and milked his prostate with nothing but his fingers until he was right on the edge—made him beg for release. Beg for John to touch his cock so he could come.
But the absolute best thing was when John brought the gun to bed with them.
God, Sherlock loved the feel of it. The cold metal against his skin. Of course, John always emptied it before they played. He'd do it in front of Sherlock, as if to reassure him.
Sherlock wished he wouldn't.
Nothing excites me more than the thought of you putting a loaded gun in my mouth and forcing me to suck it. It'd be better if you took the safety off. I might come just thinking about it.
But that wasn't the sort of thing you said.
And John was ever so accommodating. He'd shove Sherlock down onto his knees and force the barrel of the gun between his teeth. He'd let Sherlock cry and squirm, and he wouldn't stop. Not unless Sherlock gave the right hand signal, or said red. And that was part of John's beauty. He took the safewords at face value, and he let Sherlock proceed in wonderful sorts of theatrics. The sorts of things that sent other people reeling.
Sherlock liked to struggle. To be scared. And he was often too good of an actor for people to feel entirely comfortable with it.
John, however, never seemed particularly bothered by it. In his book, it was all fine.
Sometimes they'd just play with the gun. Other times they'd play out a scene. On that particular day, they were playing hostage.
Sherlock's hands were cuffed to the poles on the back of one of the chairs from the kitchen. A thick, black strip of cloth was tied over his eyes. His shirt and trousers were unbuttoned, exposing him as much as possible.
John was alternating between shoving his cock and the metal barrel of his Sig between Sherlock's lips. The detective was having a wonderful time guessing which he'd get next every time John pulled back.
The drool ran down his chin, making him feel sloppy and used. His prick throbbed, screaming for attention. It became more difficult to focus with each passing second. He was supposed to be struggling. Begging to be released. But he couldn't think about a whole lot more than how badly he wanted John's cock inside him.
"Tell me what you know, or I swear to god I'll pull the trigger and splatter your pretty brains all across the floor!" John barked, in that wonderful, low growl.
"You'd best kill me, then," Sherlock said as calmly as he could.
"You think I'm joking?"
A deafening shot rang through the room. Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin. Because that wasn't a blank. No. He could tell the bloody difference. John had just fired an actual bullet. Into the wall? That's what it sounded like.
Sherlock had just been sucking on a loaded gun.
The wave of arousal crashed through him before he could have another single thought. Oh god. How had John known?
John slapped him across the face, and Sherlock let out a small whimper. Then he pressed the warm metal against Sherlock's neck. It nearly burned. He could smell the gunpowder.
For a moment, he thought he was going to come. Right there. All John would have to do was barely brush against him, and that would be it. The adrenaline sang through his veins in the most wonderful way. Accelerating his heart rate. Making it difficult to breathe.
But then John unlocked the handcuffs. Well, the ends connected to the chair. Rearranged, so there was just one cuff hanging from Sherlock's right arm. The warm barrel of the gun pressed into the back of Sherlock's neck.
"Stand… slowly." John's voice was measured. Deep. Oh so dangerous.
Sherlock felt like his knees might give out at any moment, but he managed to struggle to his feet. John nudged him along, guiding him with a hand on his shoulder. They stumbled through the flat.
Normally, Sherlock wouldn't have had any trouble navigating without his sight. After all, he had the flat layout memorized. That was why he became cross when people moved things around. But at that particular moment, his brain seemed to have ceased all higher function. All he could think was—loaded gun, John, yes, god yes.
They eventually walked through a doorway. John grabbed Sherlock's hip and spun him around so they were almost chest-to-chest. The handcuffs clicked into place once again, binding his hands in front of him.
John gave him a firm shove and Sherlock fell backwards onto the mattress.
He lifted his hips when John grabbed the waistband of his trousers and yanked them down. He hadn't been wearing shoes or pants when they started. Fuck. The feeling of his bare arse against the cool, cotton sheets while the upper part of him was still clothed. Glorious.
The sound of a drawer opening echoed dully through the room. Sherlock's skin vibrated in anticipation. The mattress sagged slightly as John kneeled at the edge of it. He used the gun to nudge Sherlock's legs apart. That was why he loved the man, because of his attention to every filthy little detail.
Sherlock drew his legs, up, feet flat on the bed, knees bent, to give John better access. Because, really, the scene had already gone to shit, and he couldn't care less. John let out a dark little chuckle. Then a slick finger pressed at Sherlock's entrance. He shuddered and John's first knuckle slipped inside him.
Then he just kept going. John squirmed his finger around, in a nearly exploratory manner for a minute or so. But John being a doctor did have its advantages. He always knew exactly how to find Sherlock's prostate.
The first time he nudged across that tense little bundle of nerve endings, Sherlock let out an unapologetic moan. It only seemed to encourage John further, because he established a steady rhythm. Adding fingers as he went. Nudging against exactly the right spot, over and over again, until Sherlock began to wonder if he'd actually melt into the mattress.
He was writhing around and panting like a wanton little slut. He should feel ashamed. He didn't.
"John," he practically whined, "please."
"What's that, pet?" John laughed breathlessly. "Did you want something?"
"Fuck me."
"I intend to. But not quite yet."
John kept up the wonderful motion with his fingers, but his weight shifted. He reached upward to tug at the blindfold until it slid off. Sherlock blinked and his eyes adjusted to the light. John looked utterly wrecked. He was sweating. Irises barely visible, a tiny blue ring around the stretched black holes of his pupils.
Sherlock groaned, bucking back against John's fingers.
The Captain smiled, and reached for something.
The gun. Oh fucking hell. The gun. He trailed the barrel down Sherlock's abdomen, brushing against the head of his cock. And the game nearly ended right there. But John just kept the metal moving. Further and further down between Sherlock's thighs.
He withdrew his fingers slowly. Sherlock stopped breathing. Because John squeezed more lubricant into his hand and then he slicked it onto the gun.
Neither of them spoke. John just maintained a searing eye contact as he nudged the muzzle against Sherlock's fluttering, sloppy entrance.
Sherlock couldn't watch. He couldn't look away. It seemed that every synapse in his brain had fizzled out. His entire universe was condensed down to that single point of contact. Metal and skin.
John pushed. Sherlock's flesh gave. His muscle stretched around the intrusion. The gun was inside him.
A full-body shudder coursed through the detective. His head dropped back, and he made a noise that might have been a sob, but he couldn't be certain. There's a loaded gun inside me. If John pulled the trigger, the bullet would rip through my internal organs. Would I die instantly? Perhaps, if it made it all the way to my heart. Perhaps it would puncture a lung. And I'd die of asphyxiation.
Sherlock couldn't move. He was frozen and limp in the same breath. Cornered prey. He'd accepted his situation. Drowned in the overwhelming danger.
John began to move the gun slowly, driving it further into Sherlock's body, before carefully withdrawing, and repeating. Objectively, it was kind of like a metal dildo. The shape wasn't quite right. It stretched him in an odd way. But it didn't matter.
Because Sherlock's blood had all rushed to his cock, and to the surface of his skin. Sweating. He'd never felt so hot. Every single nerve ending in his body was tense with anticipation. The fire radiated out from the pit of his stomach. His heart pounded in his throat, in his brain.
He'd never been so aroused in his life.
The barrel grazed against his prostate. The shock of tingling, aching pleasure nearly destroyed him.
"Right there," he barely whispered. Because he could barely talk. He was torn between screaming in ecstasy, and crying because he wasn't sure he could take the intensity of it.
John smiled. And then he fucked Sherlock with the gun, just like he'd fucked him with his fingers. Slow, measured, steady, hitting the right target every single time.
All sense of propriety abandoned, Sherlock cried. He moaned. He begged for moremoremore. John kept his pace, exactly how he wanted it. The bonfire in Sherlock's belly threatened to consume his entire being.
He sat on the direct edge of orgasm. All he needed was John to reach up and just touch his cock. Once, perhaps twice. He knew better than to try himself. He wasn't allowed to touch his own prick when the Captain was around. The punishments that came after that were not fun. They often involved housework instead of whips or cock worship.
"Oh—I'm so—ugh—I'm so close," Sherlock panted.
Every motion of the loaded gun was threatening to send him reeling over the edge. His cock be damned. Sherlock wasn't the type that experienced orgasm through prostate stimulation alone. He enjoyed it. But he always needed that little extra push.
Except, right then, it felt an awful lot like he was in free fall.
He felt his muscles starting to constrict, as a horrible sort of tension began to build. He couldn't take it. He just couldn't. His internal muscles coiled, clamping down. It hurt. It felt bloody wonderful.
He was trembling. Inhuman sounds forced their way out of his throat.
"That's it, love," John murmured, "come for me."
And that sent Sherlock spiraling over the edge.
He got entirely lost in the synchronous spasm of every muscle in his body. The pulsing wave of pleasure singed through him. His cock twitched, spitting stripes of ejaculate across the creamy skin on his stomach.
His brain flooded with an intoxicating mixture of neurotransmitters. Oxytocin, adrenaline, dopamine.
And then, blankness.
He didn't register John withdrawing the gun, or unlocking the handcuffs. He barely noticed John's tongue in his mouth. John was on top of him, rutting against him. Moaning. Shuddering. Going still. Adding his own come to the mess on Sherlock's stomach.
They were both quite sticky.
John's fingers tangled in Sherlock's dark curls.
"All right?" He asked softly.
"Amazing," Sherlock's voice sounded tight and almost hoarse. "God, John… I didn't think you'd ever…" he couldn't even form the words.
"You thought it was loaded, didn't you?" John chuckled.
Sherlock suddenly snapped back to attention. "What? You mean it wasn't?"
John propped himself up on an elbow. "My real gun, the one I fired, is still in the living room. I just fucked you with a copy, full of dummy rounds—and you didn't notice."
He looked entirely too pleased with himself. Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. "Well I was blindfolded."
"You didn't even notice that I'd filed down the sight. It would have hurt a lot more if I hadn't. Apparently, even geniuses get thrown off when they're aroused."
"Stop it, you're ruining the moment."
John planted a soft, rather chaste kiss on Sherlock's mouth, and then he rolled off of him. Sherlock sulked for perhaps a minute or two, before he let John gather him into his arms. They lay on their sides. John liked to be the big spoon, despite his height. It was one of those things Sherlock would have usually protested if it were anyone else.
But with John it was acceptable.
He listened as John's breathing slowed. The smaller man usually became quite drowsy after orgasm. It was a bit endearing.
"Thank you," Sherlock said quietly, when he was certain John had almost fallen asleep.
"You're welcome."
John squeezed him gently.
Lazy afternoon sunlight streamed in the window above them. Sherlock was tired. Sore. Sated. Happy. He couldn't imagine a more perfect moment.
I had far too much fun with this. It's probably not a good thing that I've started lurking kink meme. Ah well.
Written for the prompt:
There's just not enough gunplay in this fandom to satisfy me, and none that I know of that involves John actually fucking Sherlock with his gun.
I'd like to see a fic where, unbeknownst to Sherlock, John has replaced the live ammo in his gun's magazine with dummy rounds, and filed down the sight (maybe a duplicate gun to foil Sherlock's observational skills-not like he'd not notice a filed sight, right?) The idea is that Sherlock absolutely believes the gun is loaded when John fucks him with it, and is insanely aroused by the perceived danger.