I've been wanting to do 'beheaded boyfriends' for a while, and though I already posted a fill (FFN, s/10940158) for this prompt, the song 'Apex Predator' (lyric vid youtube, watch?v=mdpt4W7_XNg / MV youtube, watch?v=bxVkAAh2D7M) got ahold of me and wouldn't let go. Anon may or may not thank me for this second fill.

Prompt originally received 2014-08-16, and the first prompt was filled 2015-01-01.

Mon Petit Faucon: French; My Little Falcon

Cross-posted from AO3 same-day.

Your head upon a stick / Would look really sick / But they would call me crazy / For the way I spoke to it
I'd ask about its day / Did it miss me while I was away? / Tight lipped from the stitches / It wouldn't have much to say
The rest would be kept / In a tight little dress / Propped up in the corner / A perfect little pet
Locked in a box / So I can keep stock / A trophy to show me / That all is not lost
-'The Apex Predator', Otep

The lock to the professor's lavatory gave way in seconds under Sherlock's picks, and he tucked them back into the pocket of the great coat John had gifted him on their anniversary as he slipped from the empty hallway inside. As soon as the door was closed and locked, he was undoing his trousers and pulling out the erection they'd only barely contained. Carefully, he balanced the birdcage in the crook of his arm as he opened the little door on the front to coax John's detached head to life. Sherlock cupped a cheek cool from hours of separation and stroked the pad of his thumb over chapped lips until they parted and he was able to press the digit inside and down onto the soft palette of a damp tongue. Glazed blue eyes blinked blearily at him and John let out a confused groan.

"It's time to eat, mon petit faucon," he murmured, sliding his hand from the tan cheek and pressing more fingers into his boyfriend's mouth to ease it open. The young man was delightfully helpful under the guidance of Sherlock's fingers and his murmured words of encouragement. When he felt satisfied with the laxness of the med student's jaw, the ballet dancer pulled his fingers free and wrapped all ten digits around the metal strands holding the birdcage together, keeping the construct firm in his grasp. Just beyond the little door, John's mouth waited, open and obedient, and it was through the metal and flesh openings that Sherlock guided his cock.

As often happened during long periods of beheading, John's mouth was slightly dry, and it created a sort of friction that made the ballet dancer want to lose control and buck wildly into the man's throat. But he'd already been punished for doing that once. So he kept his hips slow, pushing into the increasingly wetter passage of John's oesophagus.

It was a sight, as it always was, to watch his cock disappear into his boyfriend's mouth, to feel the smoothness of his unresisting muscles, not stopping until his testicles were pressing to that solid, shaved chin and his glans was pressing against the blood- and saliva-slicked bottom of the cage. He took a moment to relish the feel of cool muscles around his cock before pulling the cage slightly away and then bringing it back forward, letting John's throat pull his cock back inside.

Mycroft had informed him that if he were to remain in university, and continue to receive his trust fund, Sherlock was required to actually attend his classes. Sherlock knew quite well that his brother knew that he couldn't stand the stupidity of his lecturers, that if he got bored enough to pull John's birdcage from his desk to his lap, that he would inevitably duck out to the loo with John's head. So even though every thrust into the cool damp of his boyfriend's mouth drained stress from his muscles like poison from a wound, he couldn't take his time. Loo breaks were approximately seven minutes and he had wasted a quarter of one dashing to the hall, and spent another two thirds of one preparing his love so he wouldn't harm him. He would need to make this quick. Luckily, he had developed a Pavlovian arousal to pulling John's cage into his lap, and he'd been hard for the better part of the last half hour.

He made short work of his arousal, letting the lavatory door take take the brunt of his weight with his shoulders as he did his best to control the thrust of his hips and the tug on the cage in his hands. It didn't make it easy when his boyfriend kept moaning around him, his muscles, even disconnected from the rest of his body as they were, vibrating around his cock and making his blood burn with white-hot lust. He wanted to toss his head back, lose himself in it, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the hazy blue ones leaking tears. Sherlock regretted that, even if he could bend double to press his lips and tongue to those trails of salt water, the cage was in his way.

With eighty-five seconds to spare, Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut as he came, hips slowing so he could feel the way John's throat worked around him, swallowing his semen as he orgasmed. He didn't stop until his legs were trembling with over-stimulation, and he pulled back just enough to leave his glans just inside his boyfriend's mouth, smiling at the feel of the limp tongue trying to lap at his slit, eager even in his fog to consume every last drop. Knowing he only had thirty seconds left, Sherlock pulled out entirely and stroked John's cheek with fingers cramping from the strain of holding the cage before closing the little door and tucking himself away.

He was only seven seconds late back to the lecture.

There wasn't a day that went day by that Sherlock didn't receive condolences or pitying looks for the caged head that swung from his fingers when he was between classes, or that rested on his desk or in his lap during class, or that sat below the barre to watch him during ballet practice. Strangers and classmates and professors saw John's unresponsiveness and seemed to assume that his brain had been damaged, perhaps in whatever automobile accident that made his body unrecoverable, so the rumours seemed to go. These rumours were of no end of amusement to the young ballet dancer, especially when he was staring at the true cause.

As much as he loved John's head in a cage, he liked John on his hands and knees, horizontal on their bed, better, his wrists and ankles bound and split by spreader bars that were leashed to the bed to keep the headless body immobile. Best of all, Sherlock had rigged a machine to repeatedly work a dildo into his boyfriend's arse, and a second one to work another into the headless neck. Though, the second dildo was less silicone and more John's detached penis and testicles, restricted with a cock ring.

The body on the bed shifted restlessly and the head in the cage dangling from his fingers let out a strangled groan. Sherlock smiled softly and carefully set the cage on John's own back, balancing it carefully along the curve of his spine before dropping his bag to the side and stripping. It was a relief, to finally remove his clothes from his arousal-heated skin, to let his renewed erection free and bob in the cool air as he moved to their side table to pull out the lube and the double-ringed open-mouth gag*.

"Let us give you some time free from the cage for a little bit, mon petit faucon," Sherlock said with a smile as he carefully removed the delicately-wired dome from its base and tossed both pieces to the empty half of the bed.

The rugby player's mouth was just as easy to work open as it had been a few hours ago in the professors' lavatory, and the dancer was careful to not overextend or open the mouth too wide before he slide the metal ring between the chapped lips. He had to be equally cautious fastening the straps behind his boyfriend's head, not wanting to catch any of the golden strands in the silver buckle. He couldn't help but stop and stare at the sight once he was done before placing the severed head back on the bird cage base and moving around the foot of the bed to where the second machine was still rotating John's dismembered member into his own neck.

A moment of quiet contemplation allowed the genius the chance to turn the machine off when it would stop at the further point in its rotation, and he removed John's cock from the rod, tenderly wiping the blood free from the red, swollen flesh. He pressed a kiss to the leaking glans, tonguing the slit and humming at the musky flavour as he walked back around the bed and picked his boyfriend's head back up.

John's cock was thicker than his own, and while the man's oesophagus had easily taken his own cock, he had to be much more careful with his boyfriend's, especially going in from the throat rather than the mouth. He had to cradle the detached head in the crook of his elbow and gently ease apart the cleanly cut passage with his fingers before he could rest John's glans against John's own oesophagus, and gently work it inside.

Tears spilled from bright blue eyes and the body on the bed began to shake and tremble in earnest as Sherlock slowly pushed his boyfriend's cock into his own throat, and up into his own mouth, but the ballerino was remained unconcerned. True pain was something he never wished on the man he loved, and said man had already been instructed to snap his fingers should anything ever be more than he could handle. No. This, this was pleasure. The pleasure of having something tight and wet around a cock and the pleasure of having a hearty cock filling mouth and throat.

The young genius did not stop his insertion until John's testicles were resting against the base of his own neck, and the head of his cock was blooming out from between the metal bars. Satisfied, Sherlock carefully balanced the base of John's cock in his palm and raised the head to his face, tracing his tongue around the chapped lips split wide by the gag before he enclosed the whole of the glans in his own lips and sucked lightly. The tanned and muscled body on the bed jerked in its restraints as a bead of musk welled on Sherlock's tongue and he smiled around the mouthful before pulling off with a lingering lick of his tongue.

John's arse was still soaking wet and dripping lubrication from where Sherlock had filled his arse with nearly half a bottle's worth before leaving for classes earlier that morning, and one long finger traced the swollen red rim into which the dildo was still penetrating like clockwork. He pressed the tip of his finger inside and John moaned in the cradle of the dancer's elbow, the body twitching as the vibrations of his throat affected the cock stuffed in it. Sherlock smiled and pressed the entirety of his finger inside, licking his lips at the feel of slick muscle below the pad of his finger and the way the already-stretched hole took his intrusion with ease.

"I have dreamed of being back inside you all day, mon petit faucon," he murmured as he eased a second finger in along the first.

The dildo grazed his knuckles every time it pulled out and pushed back in, and after a moment, Sherlock began to thrust opposite the silicone, working on loosening his lover even further. He liked John tight, but he didn't like to hurt him in places that still could hurt. The rugby player's body had been shaking since he'd left for his classes that morning, and it only increased with the smooth insertion of the third finger. His petit faucon's mouth, normally dried out early in the day, was beginning to drool, copious amounts of saliva leaking from the corners by the time Sherlock pulled his fingers free, slicked up his cock with lube, and climbed up on the bed behind his boyfriend, kneeling behind the young man and bracketing John's knees with his own.

"Hold on tight, amour," Sherlock instructed as he placed the the tip of his cock against the hole being opened on repeat by the familiar silicone, unbothered by the way the fake cock rubbed against the underside of his own cock with every pass.

The genius moved the sweat-damp head from the crook of his elbow to both hands and raised it to his face, suckling the dark red tip as he began to rock his hips forward in pace with the dildo. Together, flesh and silicone alike worked their way into the tight arse, the silicone entering completely with each rotation of the rod, the flesh gaining ground with every roll of pale hips. It was both pain and pleasure to enter such tightness so slowly, but Sherlock held true, knowing he had enough time to take it as slow as he needed to.

When he was finally seated fully within, Sherlock stilled, his mouth going slack around the head of John's cock and his eyes falling closed to take in the sensations. It was strange, and perfect, to feel the slick muscles tightening around him every time the dildo pulled away, only to feel them opening like the petals of a flower to accommodate the incoming slide of silicone. It was a fairly novel feeling, double penetration not something that he allowed them often; it was a delicacy for the both of them that he rarely indulged in. Too many treats would spoil the appetite, so the saying went. But today, he fully planned on indulging.

"One day," Sherlock murmured, his lips brushing the leaking slit with every word, "I'll show you how this feels because words cannot properly describe the way your body covets my cock. The sensation is… mmm magnifique."

John whimpered around the cock in his mouth as tears streamed down his cheeks. "Mmm!" he pleaded wordlessly.

"'Move'?" the genius asked before he ran his tongue along a salty tear track.

"Mmm!" the rugby player begged more forcefully, fresh tears gushing from his clenched shut eyes.

"All right then," he ceded with a wicked smile. "Anything for my most beloved pet."

Sherlock took a deep breath and let the rhythm of the still-active machine sink into his mind, waiting until it pushed in before he pulled out. His boyfriend's next whimper was cut off when he thrust in while the dildo retreated and simultaneously sucked the sensitive glans back into his mouth. The body below his seized as when he set-up a regular rhythm of fucking: the pace of his hips slow enough to match the machine's, ensuring that either the dildo or his cock was in contact with the fit man's prostate at all times; and sucking: his lips and tongue ruthlessly snogging the sensitive cockhead.

He hadn't been lying or 'dirty talking' when he'd told his love the feeling was indescribable. The pleasure of those muscles rippling around him, of feeling his own arousal stroked by the rippling heat, massaging him, coaxing his orgasm higher and tighter, was beyond words. The taste of precome flooding his tongue only served to satisfy him on a primal and emotional level, knowing that he could arouse and please his boyfriend in such a way.

Even as his release drew closer, he didn't bother speeding up the movement of his own hips, wanting to keep the barrage of sensation against the sensitive prostate consistent so he could delight in the slow building burn. In himself, not in John. John would have been on the verge of orgasm for hours, his prostate stimulated by the dildo and his cock by the muscles in his own neck. The precome on his tongue was a near constant drip, a beg in itself for full release, a plea to spill across his tongue. Feeling merciful, he decided to oblige.

Easily keeping his pace, Sherlock gingerly shifted John's head in his hands so he could get at the cock ring's snaps. The second they came undone beneath his fingers, the body below and around him began to seize and writhe as his mouth was flooded by come. He swallowed each pulse as it came until the convulsion of muscles pillowing his cock forced his throat closed and his pelvis to seal to John's arse.

The still-rotating rod kept the dildo constantly grazing Sherlock's cock as it passed into the rugby player's body, and the unrelenting prostate stimulation kept the contractions around him ongoing. For the ballerino, it was just on the other side of painful, and he savoured the lingering warmth and tingling under his skin as he continued to lick the little pulses of semen from the slit of his boyfriend's cock. John, however, had yet to still, the hours of orgasm delay making him more sensitive than usual, and the machine giving him no time to recuperate from the pleasure overload.

When the genius' erection had softened, he pulled out and his gaze immediately fastened to the fluttering hole leaking his come. The silicone was valiantly trying to push the liquid back into the wet heat, but the combined girth of Sherlock's cock and the dildo's had stretched John too wide. As much as the dancer loved filling his lover, he loved seeing the evidence of the pleasure the bound man had caused him moving in a slow slide down the inside of rock hard thighs just as much.

It was only his internal clock signalling the approach of practice that had the ballerino stumbling off the bed before his legs had fully regained their strength and grace. They legs shook like a newborn fawn's as he moved about the room and he had to balance himself on the furniture just to dress himself in his ballet kit. By the time he'd finished, enough mobility had returned to his limbs that he was able to return John's set-up to the way it had been when he'd left that morning and returned just a short while ago.

John's cock was carefully extracted from his throat and cleaned off before being placed back on the other rod, and the machine carefully rotated to place the dismembered member back in the rugby player's throat, this time sans cock ring. The machine with the dildo was stopped with the silicone still inside the slowly closing arsehole, but away from the prostate to give his boyfriend a small reprieve. A cloth was dampened with water from a bottle on the desk, and the dried trails of saliva and tears were cleaned, followed by a quick rub through the short hair to help rid it of some of the sweat. John didn't begin to stir until Sherlock was placing his head back on the cage's base.

"Sh'l'ck," the smaller man slurred. The ballerino paused in picking up the wire dome and then placed it back on the bed, moving his fingers instead to the curves of hard cheekbones.

"There you are, mon petit faucon," he greeted warmly with a soft smile and softer kiss. For the first time that day, John was able to participate, and Sherlock eagerly brought their tongues together in a slow, affectionate glide.

"You know," the med student muttered when they finally broke apart, "I really hate when you call me that." Despite his words, or perhaps in support of them, the bright blue eyes remained averted and the still-flushed cheeks darkened further. "Why do you insist on that stupid pet name?"

"Because when you are unrestrained, your size is a disguise that hides your power. But despite that power, you let me bind you like this, play with your body how I want, take your head with me to classes while I leave the rest of you in a state of perpetual orgasm denial. Mon. Petit. Faucon." The more he spoke, the darker John's face got and the wetter his eyes became. "All right?"

"All right," his stubborn boyfriend echoed. Sherlock would have been suspicious at the speed of agreement if not for all the usual, adorable signs of John unable to process his flattery.

"It's time for practice. Would you like to accompany me?" he asked, petting the golden hair in even strokes.

John sighed, but Sherlock knew he would relent. A moment later- "Yeah, okay."

"Brilliant," the genius said with a smile, a copy of the praise his lover often delivered after a deduction.

The other student's face began to redden again and he ducked down to place a quick, chaste kiss against the chapped lips before swooping the cage dome from the duvet and reattaching it to the base. He left the birdcage on the bed and quickly reactivated the machines, a loud moan sounding in the room as the dildo resumed its repetitive pressing of the likely still-sensitive prostate, and John's cock began working itself back into his neck.

John may not understand his reasons for setting him up the way he did, but the genius liked knowing that, while he was indeed withholding orgasm from his boyfriend, he was still providing stimulation to the two most sensitive parts of the young man's body. He had yet to work out how he could stimulate the delectable nipples, but it was not an obstacle he feared would remain triumphant over the power of his mind.

Sherlock shouldered his bag, lifted the cage into his arms, and carefully locked their room's door when he backed into the hallway, aware as he always was of who might catch a glimpse of his restrained boyfriend. One of the few things he feared in life, besides John finally growing tired of him, was of someone breaking into their room and taking advantage of the treat within, and he had installed extra locks on the door to ensure his beloved's safety (against the university's policies, as John had unhelpfully pointed out when he'd done it).

The ballerino had just stepped into the on-campus dance studio when the caged head in his arms made an odd gurgling sound, and come spilled from between the parted lips. In a typical show of rebellion against the laws of physics when it came to how the severed head reacted with the left behind body, the dildo must have spread and pushed the semen all along John's oesophagus. Rather than dripping off the severed stump of the tanned neck, it had somehow transported itself into the doctor-to-be's throat and moved up to instead drip from his lips. The genius had stopped trying to figure out how it all worked, and diverted his attention to determining the limit of perverse things he could do with all the possibilities available to him.

Such as opening the little door open in seconds to lick away the mess before it could slide down the firm chin to join the dried blood and saliva at the bottom of the cage. Despite John having just come, it had only taken Sherlock's thirty minute walk for him to orgasm again, but there were too many variables to determine if the speed of his release was due solely to the hours-long orgasm denial prior, or perhaps because of the high sensitivity caused by recent orgasm. He'd have to do more tests later. But as he set his bag and John's birdcage against the back wall, the only question on his mind was whether or not the reserve of semen in his lover's testicles would last their recital rehearsal.

FIN

*the gag: extremerestraintsDOTcom/open-mouth-gags_153/the-deep-throat-gag_6123DOThtml

The wording and phrasing fought me this entire fic, but at last, author prevailed. I do want fanart of the sex scene, and one day, maybe I'll even have the funds to commission it.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you thought, good or bad, in the Comments, and if bad, please be constructive so that I may better my writing! :3 Also, if you liked the story enough to want to promote/rec it on tumblr, instead of creating a new post, please reblog my original post (themadkatter13fanfiction tumblr, post/110563043878)! Thank you so much! You are, of course, also more than welcome to follow me on tumblr as well! :3 Tschüß~