Disclaimer: Roses are red. Violets are blue, I do not own, You do not sue.
A.N. By popular demand, here is the smut ending. A few things I feel the need to point out: sex is not really my area; this is the second time in my life that I write smut; the first I write het. As such, I might even have written something entirely off putting, though I hope not. I don't usually beg for reviews, but let me know how I did, and if I should refrain from ever writing more smut, pretty please?
"Let's do this properly, then. Bed," John declares.
She nods and marches to her room. It's closer. She's busy hurriedly undressing, when his hands still hers.
"It's not a race, Sheryl. Let me enjoy this, mmh?" he murmurs. It might be because it's a necessity in gay sex, but John quite enjoys foreplay. He was looking forward to pay attention to every new inch of skin revealed, and he's suddenly offered the equivalent of an all-you-can-eat buffet. He's not complaining, (he's not mad) just...a bit overwhelmed by all the beauty suddenly before him. Well versed in Sheryl-speak, he reads correctly an hesitant look. "I won't change my mind, promise," he reassures.
She relaxes and lets John take charge. Anything he wants. As long as that is – God, finally – her. She's already naked from the waist up (she can be remarkably efficient), and he undoes the uncomfortable chest binding for her before taking a step back and just – looking. What if he doesn't like it? Still, she refuses to fidget.
"Magnificent," he breathes reverently.
She shouldn't have worried. The usual elation at John's praise warms her, this time tenfold as usual. She wonders if she's blushing with it. That would be acceptable anyway, wouldn't it?
"So many choices. What to do, mmh?" he ponders.
She has no words to answer him, too jittery with anticipation.
He starts by kissing behind her ear, earning a shiver. Then little kisses along her jaws, and then one on her neck. She whines, protesting wordlessly, and he comes back to kiss her properly. On the mouth, exploring it with teasing little licks and dancing with her tongue until they're both completely breathless. Then he resumes paying attention to her voluptuous neck, lciking his way down to the clavicle, his hands busy caressing her back.
She tugs at his clothes because the disparity isn't fair, dammit! He appears to agree, because after blowing against a wet patch of skin, making her shiver again, he assists her in getting him equally half-naked. She doesn't comment on him, too fascinated (John's not just a man – he's a world) to remember to actually use words of praise. Instead, she lets her hands run all over him, wishing to commit every last detail of his dear, dear body to memory.
Sadly, she keeps getting distracted during the saving process by his kisses and caresses, first feather light, then more satisfying. He's teasing her, not getting to the point – not even to her chest, and they'll never actually have sex if this goes on – and she retaliates by nibbling on him, here and there, staying just this side of marking him like she'd love to (but maybe he wouldn't like that), or raking her nails against his skin when he's, in her opinion, dillydallying.
At last, he's finally on her chest, caressing first, then sucking on one nipple while toying with the other, and she groans hoarsely. Then he switches sides, and when he stops, before he can toy with her any longer, she pulls him to her for another deep, incandescent kiss. Then she queries, "Are we going to lose our pants anytime this year, or do you want to wait until you rip through them?" with a pointed, sensuous rolling of her hips against his. She's not begging for it (she hopes), but so help her, she'll start to soon if he doesn't make good on his promise.
At her actions, he groans deeply, but then has the gall to chuckle lightly. Thankfully, he concedes. "As you wish." John liberates her of her clothing, all in a swift move, feeling her impatience, before doing the same to himself. Then he scoots down, at the end of her impossibly long legs, and caresses her calves.
Scared that he'll start teasing – again – this time making his way up, and aware that she might scream if this happens, she glowers at him and orders pithily, "Up here, John."
He laughs again, in utter happiness, and this time she laughs with him. He still stalls, kissing both her inner thighs once, playful, and she whines. She can't help it. Either he does something or she'll go mad with want. She'll lose her mind, Scotland Yard will lose their consultant and it'll be all John's fault.
Then – finally – he's really making love to her. With all the build-up to it, she expected the act to be somewhat frantic. Instead the rhythm he sets up is slow and steady, and so utterly tender that she's in serious danger of being completely overwhelmed by all the feelings she usually is so careful to confine as best she can. Especially when she tries to goad him into hurrying, and he gently chides, "No rushing yet. Making love here, remember?"
"John." It's a plea, a moan, a prayer, don't say it – I can't cope – and more and love me all packed together. "John John John John."
"Sher," he echoes throatily, voice broken with affection and not a little disbelief at a dream really come true.
After a while, he steadily picks up the pace. She loses the ability to form words – even his utterly loved name – and is left to broken noises and moans. Her orgasm, when it comes, is explosive – otherworldly – and makes him follow. They scream each other's name.
After, she surprises them both by cuddling him, holding onto him for dear life. He does not protest, but smiles beatifically. Oxytocin is really the most wonderful thing.
"I might get addicted to this," she confesses, daring. (What if it was a one-off? Oh please don't let it be.)
"I'd love if you did," he replies, depositing one affectionate kiss on her temple. None of them has still said, "I love you," as such, but they'll work on that.