A/N: Porn fic, frankly. Title stolen from the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem, found here: w w w. poemhunter [dotcom] / poem / love-is-not-all /
Suffice it to say that the poem includes such lines as "rise and sink and rise and sink again" and "moaning for release." xD! (Though it's nowhere near as dirty as I just made it sound. It's actually rather beautiful and I've had it memorized for years. And I only named the fic after it was written. Edna just came in handy. =p)
Men That Sink
John was getting impatient. Sherlock was teasing him. John lay sprawled, panting from the heat and Sherlock hadn't even touched him yet. It was all in the buildup. Sherlock's breath whispering over John's skin, his fingers ghosting.
John let out a shuddery gust of breath when Sherlock's lips almost, almost pressed against his.
"Not yet, John," Sherlock whispered. "Not yet."
John huffed and was about to say something scathing when Sherlock gave in and touched him. Just a little. Just the pads of his fingers sweeping John's chest.
But it was enough to have John's complaint freeze in his throat and morph itself into a throaty moan.
Sherlock was simultaneously a fucking bastard and bloody brilliant.
He'd taken to sex like, well, like Sherlock took to anything. He studied it with a scientific obsession until he'd all but mastered it. And when he put all his knowledge into action, he turned the science into an art.
And now, he was artistically driving John insane.
John's dick twitched when Sherlock's fingers moved lower. They stopped just shy of the needy member. Sherlock smirked.
He knows just what he's doing, John thought. Knows exactly how to drive me mad with want.
John watched Sherlock through lust-clouded eyes. Even in his sex-muddled mind, John could see Sherlock wearing his assessing-deduction look. He was measuring John- what he liked, what made him tense or moan louder, how much he could take. He'd worn it the first time they'd had sex and had ruthlessly used what he'd learned each time thereafter.
Sherlock dragged his lips from John's face to his chest, feathering kisses and nibbles on his neck, collar, and pectorals until he could lave John's nipples to glistening peaks. When John squirmed under him, Sherlock moved down his stomach to finally, finally! give some much needed attention to John's aching prick.
John tangled his hands in Sherlock's curls, holding him where he'd finally gotten him to go. At first Sherlock tortured John's cock like he had the rest of him, ghosting breaths and fingers and never actually touching him, but he soon took John in hand and practically swallowed him.
John's hands tightened before they went boneless, the shock of such a change in pace enough to scatter any thoughts that might have wandered into his head.
Sherlock licked and sucked and gently scrapped John with his teeth until John was gasping and all but whimpering, so ready for this release he could barely stand it. And then Sherlock was gone. Leaving John leaking and pulsing and so achingly hard that it was painful.
"Sherlock," John said gruffly. It was both heavy parts passion and annoyance because this was not the time for Sherlock to not finish the job.
Sherlock just smirked at him and began lathering himself in lube before moving well greased hands to John's body. He plucked at the tip of John's penis like he would the strings on his violin. Tuning. Putting him in perfect pitch with Sherlock's body.
When John's body arched off the bed, seeking further attention, Sherlock released him. John almost cried out at the loss of contact. And then Sherlock was hauling John to his feet. John came up unsteadily. This was not the best time for sturdy legs.
And Sherlock was pulling him toward the living room, toward the chair that rocked without actually being a rocking chair. Sherlock deposited John into the chair and his weight threw it back and then forward a few times. Sherlock's smirk returned accompanied by a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
He leaned down and brought John's legs around his hips so he could position himself at John's well-loved hole. The chair gave again under John's weight, making it and John tilt back and making Sherlock's job easier.
And then Sherlock eased into John. But just until the head of his penis breached John's body. And Sherlock kept them like that, just the tip of him sitting inside John's entrance.
John squirmed, felt the muscles within him clench, try to pull Sherlock further in, but Sherlock wouldn't relent. He kept himself positioned just inside of John, then tilted John's chair back so that he almost slid out of him. Then he brought the chair forward and pushed, letting himself sink further, the chair doing half his work for him.
John moaned. Finally, he got to feel Sherlock in him, and at such an angle as to almost fill him completely. And Sherlock continued on like that, rocking the chair as if he was making love to it. Sliding out when he tilted it back, thrusting forward when it brought John back toward him.
And all John had to do was feel. And moan. And squirm. And pull Sherlock back into him whenever he pulled too far out. He locked his ankles together behind Sherlock's back and raised his hips a little higher, letting Sherlock sink a little deeper this time.
John groaned. Why the hell had they never tried this before? Sex in a rocking chair was heavenly.
And then Sherlock's lips were upon him. His forehead, his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, before Sherlock brought them crashing down on John's own. Sherlock kissed him like he was trying to suck the life from John's lips, the sense from his head. And if the latter was his aim, he was succeeding. John tangled his tongue with Sherlock's and allowed Sherlock to control the rocking of his chair and the thrusting of his own hips. He was never so glad for Sherlock's multitasking ability as just that minute.
And John could feel his orgasm approaching- the tingling in his spine, the tightening in his balls, the flush creeping its way up his body. It made his kissing sloppier, his tongue leaving Sherlock's mouth and lapping haphazardly around his face. Sherlock didn't seem to mind. He captured John's tongue again when he could, and nuzzled his face into john's neck when he couldn't.
And Sherlock sped up, a sign of his own approaching release. And with a few more well placed thrusts and sinking of John's body onto him, Sherlock exploded inside of John. And John was close, so close, had been close for too long now. And with Sherlock shuddering atop him and pulsing within him, John could hold back no longer and watched himself come all over their combined stomachs. He lost track of how much he'd come undone, riding the waves of ecstasy, but when he came back down from paradise, Sherlock was kneeling on the floor, his body still intimately connected to John's and his head resting in the hollow of John's neck.
John raised a heavy arm to tangle his hand in Sherlock's curls. They stayed like that for awhile, until the air cooled around them.
A/N: I promised my Johnlock group smut awhile ago. Better late than never, yeah? And I have nothing to say about inspiration for this except you lot encourage porn and there happens to be a chair here that rocks but is not a rocking chair. That is all. And I hope you all enjoy! [: