A/N: This story is written around a series of 21 gifs (VERY nsfw) and since those can't be supported on this platform, I strongly suggest you go to my AO3 account (there is a link on my profile page) and read it there: the visuals are delicious, I promise you. Also, you can go to my Tumblr (also has a link on the profile page) and do a search for "Johnlock Gif Story". The Tumblr version, however, is much shorter than the one on AO3. Beta'd by ScienceofObsession (thank you lovie!)
A Study in Sensuality (or, That Johnlock Gif Story)
John eyed the student who was seated at the front of the class, so far to the left as to be completely isolated from the others. His profile wasn't unfamiliar to John's intense scrutiny. He was most often seen smoking in front of the organic chemistry building where John himself spent an inordinate amount of time, as a Pre-Med student. What was unusual was that this was the first class they had shared and it had nothing to do with the sciences.
Photography.
It was an elective for John. Just a way to blow off a little steam, get an easy A. Today the professor would assign the mid-semester project, and they had to partner up for that. John licked his lips, screwed his courage to the proverbial sticking place, and rose from his normal seat in the middle of the auditorium. He grabbed his notebook and satchel, straightened his shoulders, gave himself an unconscious little nod of encouragement and strode down the steps to the front. When he reached the bottom, he turned with carefully learned military precision to the left and marched straight over to the boy sitting there.
"Hello," John said, when the young man looked up. His expression was reserved, assessing… almost unnervingly judgemental. John's spine straightened rebelliously under the perusal. "I know you from O-Chem," he plowed on. (John also knew him from the pole-dancing the boy did on Saturday nights at the club on the edge of town, but he thought it was politic not to mention that.)
The youth dropped unnaturally light, piercing, feline-shaped eyes slowly from John's face to his feet and then lifted them back up again.
"John Watson," he said, and John jolted at the unexpectedly deep, mellow tone of his voice. "Pre-Med. Army Cadet Force. Third year. Top 10% of your class. Rugby player, scrum-half I'd wager. Injured in sixth form, slight limp remaining: right leg."
John opened his mouth, to say what, he didn't know, but the amazing young man cut him off with a flicker of short, thick eyelashes so fleeting that his silvery eyes momentarily flashed.
"Bisexual, although you mostly date women. You're attracted to me. I've watched you watching me for two years now. And, of course, you're an enthusiastic attendant of my shows at The Voodoo Lounge."
John choked on his tongue and was utterly unsuccessful at suppressing a flaming blush. His mouth fell open, but all that came out was an embarrassing uhhhh.
"You're here to ask me to partner with you for the project. I accept." He rippled in the chair where he lounged until he seemed to indicate the seat to his right with an elegant gesture of one shoulder. "Please. Sit. My name is Sherlock Holmes."
John dropped into his chair with a complete, startled, lack of grace. "Er-."
Sherlock cast him a sidelong glance and the fleeting hint of a smile softened his angular face. "It's a pleasure to meet you, John."
*/*/*
John's walk back to his flat (thank god he no longer had to live on campus, or with flatmates) was extra brisk, which was the only way he allowed himself to express his incredulity and joy. His thumb and forefinger were pinched tight around a scrap of paper upon which his professor had scribbled their topic: "Sensuality." And Sherlock had written his cell number on the back.
Sherlock.
Sherlock.
If ever a name had matched such an prodigious, unusual, beautiful person, it was this. Sherlock Holmes.
And their project was Sensuality. Ohmygod. Sherlock embodied sensuality, and John could. not. wait. to get him in front of the camera. Sherlock had nonchalantly agreed to model, stipulating only that John not capture his face; and all the way home John had imagined what he would do as the photographer. How he would pose Sherlock.
He had rich material to draw from, having faithfully memorized all of Sherlock's moves from working the pole. John's body buzzed and broiled while his mind flooded with images of pale skin, a bowed body taut with muscle and limned in sweat under hot lights, an unsubtle swivel of hips against the rigid sleekness of the pole grasped between sinewed thighs. He held his satchel tightly in front of his crotch as he fumbled for his keys, tortuously hard.
John burst into his flat and had scarcely closed the door behind him before he dropped his bag and ripped off his shirt, leaned against the wall. His heart hammered in his chest as he pushed his hand into his jeans, unbuttoning only enough to access his cock.
The rumbling, velvet timbre of Sherlock's voice played in his ears as he widened his legs and jerked himself to a swift and sloppy completion.
*/*/*
Sherlock rapped on John's door at 4:30 on Friday. John straightened out a pillow on the lounger, turned his iPod down a bit and nearly stumbled over his tripod as he hurried to answer. Sherlock stood before him, surprisingly tall, casual in a button-up and jeans, and John couldn't stop his blush. "Hi," he said, feeling like a doofus.
Sherlock's eyes crinkled, although his mouth didn't reflect the smile. He looked over John's head to the desperately cleaned flat beyond, eyes taking in the lounger, the tripod and camera, and the lighting - a strobe, diffuser and sync cord that John had checked out from the department stash.
"Um. Come in." John jolted backwards and accidentally jammed the door knob into his ribs as he stepped aside so that Sherlock could enter.
John sucked in a sharp breath when Sherlock's arm dragged against his chest as he passed. It seemed… deliberate. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. "I've got beer, bourbon, wine…" He had spent an hour at the liquor store getting a wider selection than the cheap red he usually drank, had optimistically (and stupidly) spent half his monthly budget.
"No, thank you," Sherlock rumbled. And then there was the faintest hint of a wink and a smile as he continued, "We'll save that for after, shall we?"
"Um, yes. Ok." John undid the top couple of buttons on his own shirt. Was it getting hotter in here? He wiped damp palms on his trousers and turned on the camera, adjusting the lights and reflector. "Yes. Erm. Sensuality, then. And, well, you know I've seen you dancing, so, obviously, it should be you… who… um…"
He trailed off as Sherlock began to undo his shirt. His eyes locked onto John's, held him like industrial magnets, and the nascent undulation of his body instinctively synchronizing with the music in the background (Portishead, John's favorite). "Aren't you going to take pictures?" Sherlock reminded him, and John stumbled back behind the camera.
He focused, framing so that Sherlock's face wasn't visible, biting on his lip at the image onscreen: Sherlock's shoulders and chest, his rolling torso, the sheer, erotic confidence in his bearing. "God, yes," he said, voice scratchy, when Sherlock's shirt hit the floor with a soft noise, and began to click one picture after the other, the soft strobe flashing with each one.
"Can we." John cleared his throat. "Can we get a few more shots of you… doing this? Maybe with some different backgrounds, like, against that wall, maybe, um, in the light?"
Sherlock was gliding to the tiny foyer before John had finished speaking. John moved the lights, trying to compliment and enhance the slanted rays of the setting sun, and then awkwardly drooled behind the lens as Sherlock popped the button on his jeans, long fingers toying deliberately with the zip before drawing it down a bit.
Half undressed, Sherlock's body appeared even longer and leaner than it did with clothes on, and John appreciated every pale, snaking centimeter of it.
John's breaths were soft. Quiet. Rapid, in and out of his open mouth as he watched Sherlock gyrate to the music. John allowed his gaze to wander, and the camera followed, rapid clicking archiving shots which could possibly be turned in for a grade: a soft curl caught around the lobe of Sherlock's ear; a mole above his collarbone and the tiny shadow it cast off and on as Sherlock squirmed; the strength implicit in the long, strong veins that detailed his arms.
Without warning, Sherlock slid down the wall until he stretched on the floor, and John's first, hysterical thought, was Thank god I mopped today, which was not as absurd as it sounded when he considered that the mop water had been distinctly grey and gritty when he had finished. Now the floor was clean enough to lick, and that's what John found himself wanting to do. Lick it. With Sherlock on it. Lick Sherlock actually, and damn the floor, although he'd honestly take what he could get. But holy mother of god, the controlled, wave-like oscillation as Sherlock twisted upon the hardwood planks, muscles supple and dynamic under lustrous skin, the sculpted detail of navel and nipple, of abdominis, pectoralis, oblique and dorsi, the fluid strength exhibited in his motion.
John finally moved his focus back to Sherlock's face and found him smirking.
"Do you think we've got enough shots of this?" Sherlock asked. His pale features were tinted with a slight flush across cheekbones and chest. His fingers were long and restless, flicking against each other before migrating to his chin. Without waiting for an answer, he rose to his feet, uncurling like a vine, and carelessly slid free of his trousers, stepping over to the lounger.
"Oh," John breathed. "Um. Yes. Certainly it-" he wasn't able to finish. Sherlock threw himself (gracefully, the bastard) back until he was reclined, appearing utterly relaxed and unselfconscious. Then, leveling a challenging stare at John, he began to work the elastic of his pants down as the music changed.
John accidentally inhaled his spit and doubled over hacking, wheezing in stuttering gulps of air and flushing puce from both humiliation and asphyxiation. Sherlock didn't even pause, and John quickly straightened out, manning the camera as the briefs were shimmied away and tossed into the corner.
The cock that had been hidden behind plain cotton was rising right before John's avid stare, long and pink and very straight. For a moment Sherlock was still, spread against the sheet John had thrown down as a backdrop, both hands clasped around his erection.
John had the sudden understanding that any pictures taken henceforth would be for their personal use. He had never, even in the concupiscent daydreams of the past week, thought that Sherlock would take the shoot so far, in such a direction. He wasn't complaining, of course he wasn't, and there was no way he would stop with the camera because these shots were gold and he wanted them forever. He was eager, if a bit nervous, wondering how far Sherlock would go. Wondering what the rules would be. Wondering if his own participation was invited.
John retrieved his tongue from the outer edge of his lip and hurried forward to adjust the strobe lights, the reflector, the tripod closer to the foot of the chaise. He stopped next to Sherlock's side, hovered a hand over a curiously square and masculine knee, afraid to touch. "Are you alright?" he asked. "Too hot? Too cold? Need a drink?"
Sherlock pursed his mouth. "I'm fine, John," he said impatiently. "This is nothing compared to stage lighting and an entire show." He bent his leg and raised it up, so that John's hovering hand was suddenly firmly wrapped around the bony plate of his patella. Stiff hairs prickled at the palm of John's hand, warm skin hard against his own. Sherlock was giving him permission to touch, and John had to suppress a shudder at the thought. He ticked his thumb across the sensitive skin inside Sherlock's knee, and watched breathlessly as his pupils dilated, bowed lips opening, moistened by a pink tongue.
John knelt on the edge of the lounger before he even knew what he was doing, and his hand swept through crisp hairs to curl around a long, muscled calf. His blood siphoned south, rushing and sizzling through his veins as it plumped his own cock, filling it with heat and urgency. "Is it, maybe, perhaps-"
"Perhaps lube," Sherlock interrupted. His legs fell open, and John's hand was empty once more.
Sherlock pulled on his cock, and his face broke into an unexpected, brilliant, genuine, crooked smile, quirked open on the left side, showing tooth and gum. "Don't want to get sore during the shoot…"
John was off on the errand so fast he nearly left a sonic boom behind him, and skidded back into the room with a tube of jelly: utilitarian, but fully effective. Sherlock extended his arm, with the air of a raja requesting grapes, and John eagerly squirted a stripe onto his palm and then returned to the camera to record the show.
The clicking of the camera, the ongoing flash of the strobe, were hypnotic, weaving into a rhythm with the music to create a new world, a private one, familiar rules and inhibitions checked at the door. John was entranced by Sherlock's wrist working at his cock, thick and oiled, long fingers looped gently around its girth. The relaxed weight of his other hand rested at its base, fingers delicately toying with his bollocks. John quickly set the camera to automatic, not willing to take his eyes from the show on the chaise.
Sherlock began to moan. No part of him was still, and the slick squelching of his grasp on his cock, the shameless way he pushed into his own hand, the the ticking of the clock on the wall, all coalesced into a wave that crested in the close air of the room, crashing against John and sending him staggering forward, lured by the surge and flow of Sherlock's body. He dropped to his knees at Sherlock's feet.
"Sherlock," he groaned, shockingly loud and jarring. "Sherlock. I need to-. Please let me-" A drop of sweat clung to John's temple, then plunged down to drip off the side of his jaw as if it had decided the hell with it, and John wanted that abandon as well. Panting, wild with arousal, John pulled at the collar of his shirt, suffocating, desperate for the privilege of contact.
Sherlock lifted his head, face strained and glistening with perspiration and grumbled at him, "Touch me, then. John. Fuck. You want an engraved invitation?"
Thank god.
So John did. Groaned as he threw his shirt behind him and leaned his weight on Sherlock's knees, lunging forward until his face was close enough to get knocked by Sherlock's hand, knuckles dragging across his cheek as Sherlock twisted his wrist. John gasped a little, rendered high just from breathing in musk and lube, the tangy, heavy, hot scent of sex. Colorless eyes burned at him, angled and set off by dark hair, curls damp and sketching circles across Sherlock's forehead. John watched and watched, needed it like breathing, dropped his eyes to the scattering of moles that embellished fair skin, dropped further to the purple head of the cock, appearing and disappearing just under his nose.
He opened his mouth and licked, and for the first time that day, that hopeful motion of his tongue was fruitful, washing across sharp knuckles, velvety plump skin, gathering the liquid bitter flavor of precome and lube. He wanted more, bowed in further, pressing Sherlock's knees outward until they were flat against the sheet, opened his mouth wide to engulf everything he could, fingers and cock, slurping rudely in an effort to create suction.
Sherlock released himself, flung his hands over his head and arched his back deeply. "Yes," he growled, and John growled back, wordless, sliding a hand up one shaking thigh to enclose Sherlock's scrotum, massage underneath, slyly press against his arsehole, conveniently lubed from excess dribbling fluids. He shoved his own pants down enough to free his straining cock, grinding it on the foot of the chaise as he worked his mouth up and down Sherlock's length, finger twisting its way inside him, to the gratifying accompaniment of Sherlock's low cries.
John groaned, and sucked, and slobbered, until Sherlock was slick and dripping with saliva and lube and precome, undulating against the lounger, heels occasionally lifting to dig into John's back before dropping again. The music thumped like a heartbeat, and Sherlock stuttered nonsense words as John worked him over, filthy as he could get.
John pulled off Sherlock's cock for a quick inhale, and it slapped wetly down against his belly. "Lemme," John could hardly recall language. "Lemme just-" he grabbed behind Sherlock's knees and rolled him up, folding his legs against his chest, exposing his arse.
Whimsically, ridiculously, John thought it was like a flower, just for a moment, just until he could get his mouth on it, until he could tongue it open, taste Sherlock from the inside like he'd been fantasizing about since he'd first seen him dance.
Sherlock melted for him. Allowed himself to be manipulated, positioned; and then to be licked. Nibbled. Sucked. Breached. John's tongue was an extension of the heartbeat of the music. Thump, thump, tha-thump. In and out, swirling and lapping and stabbing by turns, as Sherlock shook and gasped under his hands.
John felt Sherlock's body begin a pulsing suction against his tongue, and Sherlock's legs trembled as the moaning, the choked, incoherent syllables grew in volume. Sherlock suddenly made a violent, wheezing noise and swung his arms down, around his folded legs, to grab hard at John's shoulders and push him away from his arse.
"Stop." His voice was wrecked, rusty and deep and cracking. "Stop."
John flung himself back, appalled, blood flashing icy in his veins, thinking he'd dreadfully, terribly misjudged the situation. "I'm so sorry-" He wiped at the lewd wetness on his cheeks and chin. "Oh, god, Sherlock-"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and pinched his cock at the base in a familiar gesture, staving off an orgasm. Grey eyes sharpened, though, as he realized John's apprehension. "You've got my consent, John. Jesus."
John inhaled, but Sherlock evidently was determined to never let John complete a sentence. "I need you to fuck me." He nudged John back with an imperious tone and then stood on clearly wobbly legs. "Not here. I want a bed."
John staggered to his feet, graceless, eager and relieved. "Of course. Of course. Oh, god, yes, come on-" But before guiding Sherlock to the back of the flat, he first pulled him down, crazy with the need to kiss him.
Propitiously, Sherlock kissed back, unflustered by where John's mouth had been. He curled his body down, hands so long and heavy against John's shoulder blades, catching the wing of his scapula and lifting in for the kiss. It was their first, but there was nothing innocent or hesitant about it, lips pressed tight against each other, teeth cutting and hard, tongues eager and selfish, going everywhere they wished. John bit down on the full lower lip of his study partner, tugged it into the questionable harbor of his own mouth, and sucked hard until he was distracted by Sherlock's hands on his arse, the domineering push of his cock against John's belly.
Sherlock recovered his lip, nipped at John's own, and repeated, "Bed."
John turned away only to be stopped by a low chuckle. "Aren't you bringing the camera, John?"
*/*/*
Sherlock lay, relaxed across the covers, as John fumbled with the tripod, the damn lights, the fucking inconvenient reflector. Sherlock just watched him work, eyes so slitted that merely the gleam of his irises showed, and one hand lazily held his cock. His whole bearing proclaimed that he was waiting and impatient. John alternated gritting his teeth and licking his lips as he set up the camera, selecting auto (something like 45 pictures a minute, he thought) and focusing on the bed. On Sherlock, provocatively posed and expectant.
"Come on, John," he urged at last, and John gave up on the final strobe and crawled onto the bed, pinning Sherlock by one arm, breathing in the intoxicating scent of his cock, chasing it with his mouth as Sherlock writhed.
"Sherlock," he complained at last. "Stay still." But Sherlock didn't, and John had to hold him down with both hands on Sherlock's elbows, knees spread over Sherlock's thighs, body curling down until he could shove his face over Sherlock's elusive cock, hammer it down his own throat until he gagged against the head of it. Heat spread over his face, waterfalling down his neck and his chest, and he shouted against his mouthful, causing Sherlock to roll and writhe even more.
"John. John. John-" Sherlock breathed his name following each convulsive pull from John's mouth, and his back arched until his hips lifted away from the bed. "More. Give me more."
And John obliged, opening his mouth to free Sherlock's cock, rolling off his body and flipping him over, shoving at his hips and spreading his knees wide until he was chest down, arse at the proper height. For a long moment John just looked at him, at the deeply concave sweep of his arched back, the tension and beauty in his spine and hips, the desperation in his quiet keen, the sweat that dewed his skin. Oh, holy fuck, he thought. How did this ever happen to me. And: I'm never letting him go. I can't let this go. What a gift.
Sherlock didn't care about his silent epiphany. Just ground his hips like a cat in heat, rubbing against John's thighs, and thoughts that included words died an unlamented death. John applied a little lube, palming the head of his cock, tugging at his foreskin with an anticipatory groan, and then dribbled a bit down Sherlock's arse. His exquisite, pale, rounded, needy arse.
He slipped his cock along the seam, poking teasingly at Sherlock's hole before sliding along the length of his crack, rutting between these heavy muscles. He lost himself in the friction and the warmth, the cadence of Sherlock's hips as he moved forward and back. He was mesmerized by his own cock, appearing and disappearing under his thumbs, rising to Sherlock's coccyx and beyond, before pulling back to nudge where Sherlock wanted it, teasing against his perineum and bollocks.
Finally he could delay no longer. The next thrust placed him deep inside Sherlock, who barked in relief, sinking under John's onslaught, and the feel of him pulsing around John's distended flesh was the closest John had ever come to a religious experience.
John draped himself over Sherlock's back, hips working in a primitive rhythm, pushing in to take what he wanted, to claim his partner, drawing back to tease, for momentum, to gather the force to sink himself inside again.
Sherlock gasped underneath him, skin hot and damp under John's belly and chest, fingers of one hand desperately tangled in the duvet while the other lifted to cover the back of John's head, holding him tightly while John sucked his mark onto Sherlock's shoulder, pulsing in and out all the while.
Then Sherlock pushed him over, squirmed onto his back, dazed, expression wild as he reached up for John. "Do it like this, John." He wrapped his legs around John's hips and pulled him in, urgent and perturbed. "Like this. You're not hitting the right spot. John! I need you to-"
John soothed him, his agitation disconcerting. "Okay, okay, Sherlock. I've got you." He tugged Sherlock closer to his lap, opening his thighs to lower himself, get down to Sherlock's level. He blew a cooling little breeze gently on Sherlock's chest as he worked his cock back inside of him, guiding it with one hand while the other stroked through Sherlock's hair, traveled down to his neck. John kissed him when he'd seated himself, licked inside his mouth and then the hollow at the base of his throat, sipping the salted sweat that pooled there.
He aimed carefully, watching Sherlock's face, angling his hips until he found it, the sweet spot, and Sherlock went rigid underneath him, a hoarse sound torn from him as he flung his head back. "There! There, John, oh, fuck, god, do it. Go, do it!" and blunt fingernails dug into John's sides as Sherlock groaned and coiled underneath him.
John drew back and let go, hammered hard, each thrust forcing a deep cry from Sherlock, who pulled him in almost angrily, unseeing, his eyes focused inwards. "More, more. John, John, John do it," he cried.
So John did; worked until his every muscle quivered and burned. "Touch yourself," he gritted, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's neck, enhancing the arch of it, until all he could see was the strain of Sherlock's throat, the seeking lift of his ribs, and finally the frantic motion of his arm as he did as John instructed, relentlessly fisting his cock.
It didn't take more than a few seconds before Sherlock shuddered, pyretic ribbons of ejaculate spattering across his body, covering dark moles, shining like rivers on alabaster flesh. The shivering convulsions of Sherlock's frame, the clench of the walls around John's cock precipitated John's own orgasm, so intense as to be nearly painful, but transcendent all the same, pushing semen deep inside Sherlock, claiming him internally, aggressively. John collapsed with a shout, aftershocks milking him further. He could feel his seed bathing the head of his cock, liquid heat surrounding sensitive skin. He liked to think that Sherlock felt it as well, the burning and the power and the ownership of it.
John nuzzled his head to the side, rubbing his nose into Sherlock's ear and licking at his neck. Sherlock flopped his arms across John's back with a deep sigh and a quiet huff of laughter. John giggled back. Giggled. His body thrummed like a wire, resonant with pleasure and happiness. He hunched his hips forwards a few times just to hear the catch in Sherlock's breath, the clawing of his hands into John's skin, as his cock dragged across the over-worked nerves inside Sherlock's arse.
He pushed up with a groan and looked down at the man he'd never actually spoken to before this week. He couldn't restrain his grin as he wiped his face with one shaky hand, considerately preventing sweat from dripping down onto Sherlock (who didn't look as though he cared at all.) He glanced over at the camera, still clicking away, taking shot after shot. "Think we got anything good?" he asked, surprised to hear how raspy his voice sounded.
Sherlock gave him his unique, irregular smile, expression bright underneath a certain degree of justifiable fatigue. "I'm sure there's something," he drawled.
John giggled again (god, he felt drunk) and pulled out, both of them wincing. "Fucking hell," he agreed, certain there wasn't a single picture stored on that camera that he wouldn't want to look at repeatedly and in detail. As he fell back onto his heels, Sherlock groaned theatrically and rolled over, arse lifted high. John's breath caught in his chest, hands thrown out to grab at Sherlock's hips, hold him still. "Oh my god," he muttered. "Oh, fucking mother of god, you look-. I can't even-." He swallowed, tonsils and uvula cementing to the sides of his throat as he stared, cock twitching in his lap. "Don't move, Sherlock. I'm going to take one more picture."
Sherlock made some sound into John's pillow, but held still while John threw himself off the bed for the camera, switching to manual, aiming and focusing for one last shot.
And then, after placing the camera on the small nightstand, he curved reverent hands around Sherlock's hips once again, drawn in like a moth to light, like a bee to honey, like a John to a Sherlock, and licked his come back into Sherlock's opened, rosy hole. Tucked it in with his tongue and then sucked it back out, bitter and salted and earthy and warm, while Sherlock moaned quietly beneath him.
It was the beginning of a beautiful partnership.
And their first project together got a raised eyebrow and a well-earned A+.