Ok, folks, fair warning, this chapter contains borderline explicit sex. I get anxious about ffnet policies, so I revised this a bit to be more at the "Mature" level; if you want the "Explicit" version, hop over to AO3. (Strangely, it's not as different as you might expect; a few more details, a few additional terms, that's all.)
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The waxing moon lit their path as they walked away from Serenity. John skirted around the dying fire and headed for the treeline. Sherlock trudged behind him, carrying his large duffel and the violin case.
"Leaving will only make things worse," Sherlock said to John's back.
"Eh. Maybe I want to make things worse," he joked, though his heart wasn't in it.
"Where are we going?" Sherlock demanded.
"Somewhere more . . . private," John answered. Sherlock remained silent, and John allowed himself a moment of pride for getting the man to pause his complaining. He found a spot to his liking about fifty feet into the woods-close enough to the ship to be safe, but beyond a cluster of trees so that they could not be easily seen.
"Do you want a fire?" John asked, setting his bags against the base of a massive sequoia. He removed his jacket and tucked it gently on top of the pile.
"It's not likely to get cold tonight."
John grinned at him, and with a twinkle in his eyes said, "Nope." Sherlock startled and John's smile widened. The flirting threw him, and it thrilled John to see the controlled facade waver and crack. He reached into his bag and pulled out two big woolen blankets, dark grey and rough against his hands, and straightened one out upon the ground.
"Nicked these off Serenity."
Sherlock put his own bags down and then took off his great coat and laid it next to John's jacket. "Manage to nick any dessert?" he asked, coming to sit on the blanket next to John.
John produced a small glass jar from where it had been tucked inside his waistcoat, and offered it to Sherlock, who took it and unscrewed the lid. It looked like mud, but the smell was intoxicating.
"John."
"Don't say I never get you nice things," John said. Sherlock smiled up at him and then looked down at the jar again. It had warmed from its proximity to John's body, and when he dipped a long index finger into it, John was reminded suddenly of finger painting as a child, the tactile sensation of warm, wet paint on his hands as he and Harry made an absolute mess in the back yard.
All thoughts of childhood fled, though, as Sherlock's finger came up covered in an ooze of chocolate hazelnut spread, which Sherlock then popped into his mouth. He actually closed his eyes as he swallowed.
John sat still before him, body warming all over at the sight of Sherlock giving in to hedonistic pleasure, at the sound of him sucking his own finger clean.
"I could just watch you eat that and die happy," he said, his voice lowering. Sherlock met his eyes and smiled around his finger, pulling it out slowly through his glistening lips.
Sherlock responded by dipping two fingers into the jar and bringing them up to John's face, hovering at his lips.
"You needn't deny yourself, John," he said, touching the chocolate to John's lips. John parted the slightest bit, his eyes locked on Sherlock's like a dare. Sherlock pressed gently, smearing the smooth, slightly oily dessert against John's lips, onto his teeth.
John opened his mouth. Sherlock's fingers curled inside, and John scraped them clean with the edges of his teeth. His tongue wound around Sherlock's fingers, and he sealed his lips and swallowed, Sherlock's fingers filling his mouth.
Sherlock's breath quickened, and his body sank towards John. He moved his lips to John's ear, his fingers still in John's mouth as John's tongue licked them in lazy circles.
"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, his chest rising and falling against John's. His fingers withdrew to John's cheek to let him answer.
"The truth?" John asked, his own breath ragged.
"Obviously," Sherlock answered.
"I want . . . " He hesitated. Really, it was a big step, and Sherlock was supposedly a novice at all this.
Sherlock's other hand came around to the front of John's trousers, pressing against John's already hardening length, and growled into John's ear.
"Tell me," he ordered.
John groaned, tilting his hips to press himself into Sherlock's hand, which squeezed around him.
"Now."
Fuck it. He'd probably deduced it already anyway.
"I want to be inside you," John confessed.
Sherlock's hand stroked firmly against him, and John whimpered.
"No, it's more than that, John. What do you want?" Sherlock insisted, his hand slipping down to cup him through the layers of fabric.
John swallowed. He brought his hands to Sherlock's face, lifting his gaze to meet Sherlock's silver blue eyes. His voice was deep and clear. "I want you to let me fuck you, here, your back on the ground, looking up at the trees and the stars while I come inside you."
John remained perfectly still.
Sherlock's hand retreated from John's crotch and came up to John's other cheek.
"Yes," Sherlock said, holding John's face.
John blinked. "Yes?"
"Yes," Sherlock repeated in his darkest voice, and his hands let John go, moving down to his own belt and starting to unbuckle it.
John huffed out the breath he had been holding and he leaned forward, lips seeking Sherlock's. He planted a kiss on his soft, crazy hair, pressed another against his temple, scraped his teeth along an earlobe.
"Yes, yes," Sherlock dismissed, giving John a quick kiss on the lips. "Get undressed," he said, and he returned his full attention to ridding himself of his clothing as quickly as possible.
"Yes, sir," John mumbled, his fingers flying at the buttons on his shirt.
Sherlock giggled, and soon both of them had divested themselves of shoes and clothes.
They stood, naked, facing each other. Sherlock pressed a palm against his own throat, and John watched with hungry eyes as Sherlock ran his hand his hand along his chest, over the gentle curve of his belly, and down to grasp his erection.
John watched as Sherlock teased himself, essentially displaying himself for his lover.
Lover. Christ, John thought. It still didn't feel real, despite the evidence presented.
Sherlock took a step forward, and John felt Sherlock's other hand come to grip him, fingers firm and dry. Their height difference became obvious, as there was no comfortable way to align themselves while standing, but Sherlock simply continued working them both, elegant fingers dancing over sensitive skin. John moved his own hands around to Sherlock's back, sliding them firmly down along the satisfyingly plump contours of his arse. John grinned at the feel of Sherlock's flesh filling his hands, the give beneath his fingers. He raked his nails over the soft skin, over and over until he felt the warm little welts beneath his fingertips, until Sherlock was whimpering against John's neck.
"Lie down," John said. Sherlock released him to comply, and John went to his duffel, pulling out a small tube and a soft cloth and dropping them near Sherlock's hip. Sherlock bent one leg and dropped it loosely to the side, lazily touching himself with just the tips of his fingers, and John was mesmerized.
"Again. Could just watch you do that all night," John said.
"Another time," Sherlock answered, reaching up to John with his other hand. "I believe we have other plans for tonight."
John half-smiled at that, and took Sherlock's hand, lowering himself alongside Sherlock, who immediately pulled John on top of him instead.
John lined their bodies up and supported himself on his hands. At the feel of Sherlock's fingers caressing him, John couldn't help pushing gently into Sherlock's hands.
"You've done this before," John concluded.
"Yes," Sherlock answered. "Does that bother you?"
"Of course," John said immediately, smiling.
Sherlock smiled back.
A thought occurred to John and his features clouded. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Yes, I've had anal intercourse. Once."
John stilled. "And . . . how was it? For you, I mean?" he clarified, grimacing at his wording.
Sherlock squinted as though trying to think of a precise answer. "Tolerable."
John's eyes widened. "Well, that's not-" He stopped to rephrase. "We can do better than that," he managed.
"Well, yes, I expect so," Sherlock answered primly, and John smiled, leaning down and kissing him. Sherlock responded eagerly, his lips rushing to meet him, his tongue pushing into John's mouth. John's smile subsided, his affection escalating into an intense rush of desire again as he resumed moving his hips in time with their kisses.
"If there's anything," John began between kisses, "you don't want to do, if you want to stop for any reason-" He bent down for another kiss. "Say 'stop'."
Sherlock smirked. "How imaginative."
John frowned at him.
"I never do anything I don't want to do, John," he answered back. His expression softened. "But I can't imagine anything I wouldn't want done to me, if you're the one doing it."
The emotion Sherlock had allowed to enter his eyes, the sincerity in his voice-the rarity of it!-increased the sense of the surreal that surrounded them.
"Good," John said, though that hardly expressed the entirety of his response. "That's good," he repeated, his voice thick with emotion.
John reached down to kiss Sherlock again, slow kisses filled with heat and clear intent. He adjusted his weight, sliding himself along Sherlock's body until he could kneel between his legs. His hands came to rest on Sherlock's hips, and then his mouth slipped over Sherlock's length, intending to overwhelm him with sensation. Sherlock quivered and sighed in response, and one of his hands slid along John's scalp.
"John." Sherlock moaned loudly
"Relax," John said against his belly. "I'll give you what you want," he murmured, dropping a kiss near his navel.
Sherlock exhaled slowly, deliberately, and John reached for the tube he'd placed on the blanket earlier. Sherlock tensed slightly as he felt the gentle pressure of John's finger.
"It's all right," John whispered. "Whatever you want."
As John felt Sherlock relax, he continued until he was pressing in a slow, predictable rhythm.
Sherlock's groan rumbled in his throat, and he canted his hips to meet John's little movements.
"More."
John complied, Sherlock relaxed into the movement. Pliant. Ready.
John looked up then, seeking his lover's eyes, and Sherlock returned his gaze, his eyes half-closed, pupils wide.
"Are you-"
"Yes," Sherlock panted.
John reared up to fetch the tube again, preparing himself. He moved to settle between Sherlock's sprawled legs.
"Up, love," he said gently, tapping behind Sherlock's knees, and Sherlock obeyed readily, lifting his thighs up along John's sides as John planted one hand near Sherlock's shoulder. He stared down into Sherlock's face, the fluttering eyelids, the slack lips. He pressed himself inside.
The sensation threatened to overwhelm him immediately as Sherlock sucked in his breath sharply. John quickly moved his hand up to the other side of Sherlock to support himself.
He dropped his chin and took a deep breath.
"All right?" he asked, grimacing.
Sherlock seemed to make a conscious effort to relax. He dropped his heels against the small of John's back, and the tension in his thighs ebbed away. John felt the grip around him loosen the slightest bit.
"Yes," Sherlock answered, his voice deep and dark. "Now, move."
John still watched Sherlock's face intently. Though he wanted to maintain a slow pace, his mind felt fuzzy from the physical sensations assailing him. Each slide drew sounds from Sherlock that John had never heard him make before. The noises thrilled him, made him want to make it last as long as he could, that he might hear Sherlock's pleasure, see the desire in his eyes, his flushed cheeks.
"So gorgeous," John muttered. "So perfect."
Sherlock deliberately tightened around him, and John dropped his head on Sherlock's chest and growled.
Sherlock ran his hands up John's forearms, over his shoulders, and John looked up to see Sherlock's eyes focused on his. His fingers migrated over John's chest, coming to tease and pull at each nipple, and John rewarded him with another deep, slow push. Sherlock pressed his heels into John's arse and arched his back, and John shuddered.
"Touch yourself," John whispered. He leaned forward for a kiss. "I want to see you."
John straightened his arms and watched as Sherlock's hand travel down his body. John's eyes returned to Sherlock's face. Sherlock seemed to nod once, and then deliberately look away. Look up.
At the trees.
At the stars.
John looked down, at the grey blanket rough beneath his hands and knees, at Sherlock's slender fingers. Something clicked inside John, asking him to give up entirely on the idea of restraint, and he surrendered.
"Yes," Sherlock hissed, and John increased his pace, the pleasure building the tension in his own body.
"More," Sherlock urged, digging his heels in and arching to meet him. "You said 'fuck'," Sherlock reminded him, and hearing the word come from Sherlock's lips, in his roughened, deep as night voice spurred John on.
Each thrust came deep and fast now, with John grunting with effort, with the pain of need. Sherlock cried out into the night air as their bodies met noisily, inelegantly, and John felt himself so close, so close.
"Now," John managed to gasp seconds before his entire body tensed. He felt Sherlock's muscles go rigid as well, heard him groan, and at the feel of the orgasm rippling through Sherlock, he felt his own crushing wave of pleasure sweep through him.
He dropped his head to Sherlock's chest, butting against his collarbone as the aftershocks worked through him. Sherlock was breathing roughly, and his limbs seemed to give out, legs slipping downwards and arms falling to his sides.
John reached around blindly for the cloth he'd dropped on the blanket earlier. He tidied them both up, Sherlock languid and compliant. John disposed of the cloth and fetched their coats, the second blanket, and his gun.
"Here," he said, bunching up Sherlock's coat like a pillow and tucking it beneath his head. He did the same with his own jacket, set the gun within reach, and then lay down, settling the blanket around them both.
Sherlock migrated into John's arms, resting his head on John's good shoulder.
"So," John said, sliding his fingers into Sherlock's hair. "Tolerable?" he asked, grinning.
Sherlock laughed against his skin. "Brilliant," he said, nuzzling at his chest.
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Notes: Well, hope that eases the pain of the Mal/Inara frustrations in the previous chapter...
Thanks go out again to Armada, Jude, Kate and Snog for input and hand-holding throughout this chapter.
A little heads up, also: I intend to continue posting a chapter a week, but real life is about to get six kinds of hectic. I'll post on my tumblr if the next chapter will be late for any reason; you can also track the #fireflylock tag on tumblr. I seem to be the only human using it.
