* A bit of breathplay ahead*
As strong as he is despite his slenderness, as vicious as he can be when provoked, Sherlock Holmes isn't a rough man.
Oh yes, he can be all sorts of butch when taken over by his let's burn stuff! jones, he can feign a certain devil-may-care macho when John wants that sort of titillation, but Sherlock's always favoured his brains over his brawn. In short, Sherlock is not turned on by force.
However…
Sherlock is emphatically turned on by force of will.
He learned this a summer midnight his and John's first year together. A night when they were on the roof of 221B and John bared his body and he had wanted and wanted so much he trembled with it. He tugged and clutched at Sherlock before Sherlock could more than halfway take down trousers and pants, he'd arched up and pulled down and so Sherlock had given as hard as he knew how, knowing that afterward John's back would be scratched raw by the press of rough roof tiles and Sherlock's weight on him. And yet he did and did because John begged fierce and he so much loved that slightly-bloody evidence after that Sherlock never felt regret, only pride that he'd pleased John.
So no, Sherlock doesn't get off on force, or domination, or pushing past John's boundaries, but that night Sherlock learned he gets off when John pushes himself using Sherlock's body.
So Sherlock held his breath the harder Loki pressed Sherlock's hands against his own throat, he moaned the louder Loki moaned, and without struggle he gave in to being forced to force.
And oh Loki was drunk with it. He murmured something in another language, his tongue thick, the words slurred, not at all struggling against the pain of Sherlock's thumbs digging hard at his windpipe.
Not unless struggling looks like eyes-closed bliss, like a chin lifted high the better to bare so much pale skin, not unless struggling sounds like a dark keening, a babble that even in another tongue Sherlock understood was pleading.
And again the god was laughing—he never stopped really, this creature of mischief—as if Sherlock were digging fingers into ribs and belly, not the tender flesh of his throat.
Loki's a strong man, an immortal man. Deprive him of breath and he'll yet live, but Loki does feel pain. As if to verify this debatable fact, he pressed harder against Sherlock's hands and started to choke and gag and laugh harder, and probably he'd have gone on and on and so strangely on except there was…there was…
…pained grunting…
…hurt groaning…
…and…
"Oh."
Eyes flying open, cough-choke-gasping, Loki let go.
Sherlock stumbled away, rubbed one wounded and deep-bruised hand with the other. And, no longer held fast, Loki went to hands and knees.
Head hanging between his shoulders the god retched as his abused throat convulsed and though he wanted to laugh he couldn't. What he could do was cough hollow, hoarse, low, and crawl to Sherlock's legs, pressing his body against them, a great cat wanting-needing the feel of the trembling hand reaching down to stroke.
"Oh I love you."
…
Sherlock stopped breathing.
For a moment John continued wheezing open-mouthed at Sherlock's groin. He was probably a little bit drooling in the slightly unattractive way of the mucus ill, but no one seemed to notice or care. The spit just further slicked a hard-on that for the last hour had been gently beading its own bit of slick. But that's beside the point. The point was that soon after Sherlock stopped, John jerked upright (the tissue box that had been half resting on his head flew into the air and nearly tipped off the bed).
Listing woozily John barked, "Inhale!"
Because John's seen Sherlock do this before, just a very few times over the years. Holding his breath—his rarest tell for fear.
"Now!"
Sherlock stuttered jagged on an inhale, exhaled just as shakily, then blinked and nodded. He started to say, "I'm sorr—" but never finished because John clapped a sweaty hand over his mouth.
The good doctor growled, a tissue sticking out of each nostril not at all reducing his bad arse mother fucker-type vibe.
"Why?"
Why? Why?
Oh this was too much. No, seriously, Sherlock usually gets where John's going with this sort of thing: No shame, no regret, no denying true feelings blah blah blah, but this? This was ridiculous. Surely he should be jealous, annoyed—
"I asked why?"
John knuckled a tissue more deeply into his nostril with one hand, realised he still had the other clapped over Sherlock's mouth. He removed it.
The only way to get the words out was to shove them out, so Sherlock did. "Because I don't want to…to…I don't want to hurt you."
John's scowl softened, his shoulders drooped, and weighed down by the solidity of the mucus occupying his entire braincase, John tipped over until he was back in Sherlock's lap. He sighed and then sighed again and to soothe himself he shoved his clogged nose against Sherlock's cock and breathed deep. The heady scent did indeed soothe, and so eventually John tut-tutted, said softly, "I know you don't sweetheart. I'm sorry. I know it seems as if stuff like this should be wrong, but that's not right. What we do is wrong or right, that's all. You've never lied to me—"
Sherlock opened his mouth because that was the mission he'd given himself about ten seconds ago, speak because John asked you to, Sherlock Holmes, and John asks for so very, very little.
"Actually I—"
John, slightly grumpy again, batted at the air. "I don't mean fibs about bat feces in the butter dish, or the fact that it was you who drained a dozen raw eggs and put the unbroken shells back in the fridge—I mean I didn't exactly suspect ninjas on that one Sherlock—what I mean is you've never lied to me and I don't care about anything else. Nothing else. Absolutely nothing else. You could shag a dozen ponies—"
John stopped, backed up quickly, took another tack. "—you can love who you love or be loved, I don't care so long as you're happy. No, I mean I do care, because you make me happy, but Sherlock, I just…you're…" John realised higher brain function was at this point beyond him so he took a deep, deep breath and whispered, "Please, don't be sorry."
Sherlock curled himself down around John's hair-mussed head. He wrapped that head in long arms and kissed a fever-moist brow. He said "I love you," so softly against the shell of a perfect ear, and then he said, softer still and as if crooning endearments. "Hand me the tissue box."
John did.
Sherlock sat up, box cupped in one hand, John's chin in the other, and he continued.
…
Loki didn't wait for an answer because he's sorta crazy yes, but not a fool. He was grateful that Sherlock didn't say anything back because if he'd been kind and parroted the words, that kindness would have been a lie and if he'd actually loved Loki…
…well that love would be completely mad.
Loki's gently unhinged and he likes it that way. Yet he knows that if he'd found Sherlock before Sherlock found John, they not only would have loved each other, they'd have eaten each other alive.
It would not have been sane what they would have wanted from one another, it would not have been sustainable or healthy or right.
It would have been nova-bright and it would have burned them both. The immortal would have survived those flames, but the mortal? Oh he would have been nothing but tinder turned to ash.
This Sherlock was better, this one's spine was fortified with Watson iron, this one's heart was stout with the certainty of love. This Sherlock was strong where it mattered and weak where it did the most good. This Sherlock might not love him like the other would have, but this one would survive him and that was even better.
Loki stropped Sherlock's legs with his lean body, a tail-less cat quite-near purring with every touch of the long-fingered hand that reached down to him and stroked.
"My brother's afraid of hurting me," the god said hoarsely, apropos of everything. "So of course that's all I want him to do."
It'd be a long, long time—even in time as measured by gods—before Loki and Thor would reach an understanding that gave them both what they needed, but they would reach it. In the meantime the fine-boned immortal would seek diversion by way of his own body's destruction, and his gentle-hearted brother would mourn this fact.
But now was for now, and now was for the sinuous strop of a mad god against a mad man's legs, for wondering what would happen next, for delighting in the fact that he didn't know.
And then he did.
Stilling for a few long and quiet seconds against long legs, eyes closed, Loki giggled when he felt Sherlock jump.
"How many of me could you pleasure, do you think?" A voice like Loki's voice whispered. "How many of me could you take?"
Loki looked up to see his own body standing behind Sherlock, arms crossed over the detective's suddenly panting chest. Loki idly wondered if he should make another clone, but had an even better idea than that.
"Or maybe," said the god's clone, giggling just like the god, "Maybe something else again."
The hands clasped over Sherlock's heart grew larger, the sleeves encasing his arms the dark of a fine suit, and the voice a deep and measured baritone.
"No," whispered Sherlock, as Sherlock stepped from behind him with a grin.
"What do I fear? Myself?" asked the Loki clone now turned Sherlock clone. "But Sherlock loves Sherlock; that is, I am I."
…
"Mother fucking fuck."
Sherlock closed his eyes and clutched the tissue box against his chest with one hand, held tight to the man in his lap with the other.
Again the good doctor whispered reverently, "Mother fucking fuck."
No one said much for awhile, then John said matter-of-factly, "You didn't even really watch the movie Sherlock. I mean you did, but you flounced so much, you groused and melodramatically banged your head against the wall and otherwise were such a grade A royal git that I ended up having to watch the whole thing again after you finally passed out in my lap. How you absorbed so much I will never know. And you're quoting Shakespeare. You didn't even see that play with me that time and—"
Realising he'd completely wandered from the question he wanted to ask, John finally said, "Are you going to have sex with yourself Sherlock? Or, you know, a half dozen Lokis? I ask because I may need a decongestant first since I'm already a little bit hyperventilating. I mean I don't know if there's a limit on how many of those clones he can make. You could end up riding a battalion."
John clutched hard at his still-erect security blanket. The owner of that blanket winced.
"Sorry, sorry. I got really turned on just then." To stop himself from thinking about Sherlock perching himself on a veritable chorus line of cock, John reached for a tissue from the box. In reflex Sherlock clutched the box harder. What ensued was a few seconds of struggle as each over-aroused man tried to lay claim to the tissue box.
Finally Sherlock shook his head and realised what he was doing. He stopped hyperventilating himself and handed John a tissue with a whispered, "I'm sorry."
John took the tissue, shoved it up his nostril next to the one already there, took another, shoved it up the other. He then belatedly removed the old tissues which entailed reseating the new ones. After this moist comedy of errors he said, "The only reason I'm not currently begging Mrs. Hudson to give me my gun back so I can put myself out of my own mucus misery is this dream. Okay? Do you get it? This. Is. The. Best. Thing. Ever."
John petted his security blanket. His security blanket swelled a little bit, then coyly beaded a bit more pre-come to show its thanks.
"I love you," whispered Sherlock.
"I lo—" began John, then he sneezed both tissues out of his nose, and sprayed spit all over Sherlock's cock.
John Watson's husband tut-tutted. He swabbed everything everywhere with a fresh tissue. He tossed all used items onto the floor. He handed John two more tissues.
After everyone was well0situated again, John said, "—ove you. So. Are you, uh, going to literally go fuck yourself?"
John's giggle was only a very little bit deranged.
Sherlock smiled. Then he said, "Since you ask…"
I've been writing a great deal of not!porn for the book and I'm serious, I can't even tell you how restful it was to write the word cock again. I don't think there's going to be as big a gap between this and the next chapter...
