[Author's Note: Well, here it is, and it may well be the smuttiest smut I've ever written. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Enjoy!]
"This is really what you want, love?" John asked gently.
Sherlock's eyes fluttered open again, his translucent gaze open and sincere. "Yes," he growled. "Please," he added, moving restlessly again, trying to push up against John.
John squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then opened them again. "Right," he said decisively. "Get on the bed, then." Sherlock shuddered, the last measure of tension seeming to leave him at John's words.
John shifted back, watching as Sherlock languidly rose to his feet. Sherlock pulled his t-shirt off, but when he reached for his pajama bottoms John stopped him.
"That's for me to do," he said firmly. "On the bed, on your back." He smiled inwardly at Sherlock's wide eyes. He had frozen in place, thumbs still hooked in the waistband of his pajama bottoms, looking a bit lost. "Up you go now," John said more gently.
Sherlock snapped back to attention and obeyed with alacrity, stretching out on the bed. He watched John intently, as if he were a puzzle that needed solving.
"Good," John said. He pulled off his own jumper and shirt, flinching a little as the fabric scraped over the scratches on his back. He'd have to disinfect those later, not to mention the bite on his neck.
"You marked me," he remarked almost idly as he toed off his shoes and pulled off his socks. He saw Sherlock's breath hitch, eyes scanning John's naked torso almost greedily as if searching for the evidence of his own transgressions. John grinned. "Can't say as I blame you. I've certainly marked you enough." He stripped off his jeans and sat on the bed in just his pants, running a thumb gently over the fading love-bites that smudged Sherlock's neck. He hadn't really been rough, but that creamy skin marked so easily.
"But you didn't mean to, did you?" he continued, his voice soft and understanding. "You were out of control. Too lost in your head, just looking for a way out."
"John, please..." Sherlock reached for him and John gathered his wrists up easily, stretching them above his head. Sherlock's gaze met his, a brief flare of surprise lighting those gray eyes before they turned wide and watchful again.
"I should have seen it sooner," John said gently. "You want someone to take you in hand, yeah?"
The flush rose higher on Sherlock's cheeks even as his gaze skittered away. Slowly, experimentally, John pushed down harder on Sherlock's wrists, pinning them more firmly to the bed. There was no disguising Sherlock's response as his eyes closed in bliss, a broken groan escaping his lips.
"Yeah," John said to him, as if he had answered. "That's what I thought." He leaned forward, brushing his lips gently up the blade of Sherlock's cheekbone. "If that's what you need, I can give you that," he whispered, quietly, confidently, into Sherlock's temple. He grazed his teeth down the shell of Sherlock's ear, feeling a tremble of response go through the lean body beneath him. A quick nip to Sherlock's tender earlobe, and then John pulled back.
"Look at me, love," he said, his voice uncompromising. He waited while Sherlock's eyes opened again, finding his. "Is that what you want? You have to tell me."
Outwardly John was confident but inwardly his heart was pounding, his mouth dry as he watched Sherlock seem to struggle with himself. Finally, as if delaying longer would risk changing his mind, Sherlock nodded quickly. Color reddened his cheeks, his lashes coming down to shade his eyes almost shyly.
John let out a long breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. Christ, he hadn't even realized how much he wanted this too. Sherlock was so unpredictable, such a force of nature. John wouldn't change that for anything, but to be able to do something like this for him, to be the one to bring him back when he tipped over the edge and lost control — that thought was achingly seductive. John wanted to be that for Sherlock — the calm eye in the storm of his mind, a tether to sanity when he was adrift in the roiling chaos of his own thoughts. He needed to be that for Sherlock.
"Good," he said huskily, the relief clear in his voice. "That's good." He leaned in further, placing a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lush mouth. "I will always give you what you need," he murmured against those soft lips, feeling the hitch and then sudden rush of Sherlock's warm breath.
When John first saw the miserable flat he had thought how ugly the metal bedframe was, like something that belonged in a prison cell. He would never have imagined how perfectly it was suited for this purpose, two of the metal bars in the headboard spaced ideally for the width of Sherlock's shoulders. He ran his hands up Sherlock's arms, tracing a deep circle in each palm with his thumbs, before guiding each of Sherlock's hands to a bar.
"Hold here," he said firmly. "Don't let go. No matter what."
"Wha — ah!" Sherlock's voice broke as John skimmed a hand down that endless torso, over his nipple. He visibly collected his thoughts and tried again. "What are you going to do?"
John smiled. He leaned down until the length of his body was just skimming Sherlock's, a warm line of skin pressed to skin connecting them from shoulder to hip. He took Sherlock's mouth, kissing soft and deep, before pulling back with a sigh.
"I am going to give you what you need," he whispered, every word heavy with promise. "I am going to make sure that you feel nothing but me, think of nothing but me." He smiled again, kissing the very corner of Sherlock's mouth now, those lush lips parted in surprise and fascination. "And then I am going to fuck you until you can't think at all."
Sherlock moaned at that, the sound harsh and involuntary.
"Mmm," John hummed approvingly, smearing his thumb across Sherlock's mouth. "Let's begin."
He unceremoniously stripped off Sherlock's pajama bottoms, leaving him bare and exposed, sprawled across the small bed. At first he was methodical, almost studious, mapping the bare skin of Sherlock's body with fingertips and mouth. With a surgeon's sure hands he pressed and stroked, lips and tongue following behind to taste and suck every inch of tender skin. Sherlock's frantic arousal seemed to have faded to a dreamy haze. John watched his expression closely, savoring every gasp he wrung from those parted lips, every twitch of sleek muscles he elicited from Sherlock's pliant body.
This, this is what he wanted, what he craved. Breaking past the sharp brittle exterior Sherlock showed to the world to the soft secret warm places — pink tongue and tender skin, fluttering eyelashes and soft little noises of entreaty that John savored and then callously disregarded. Christ it was hard to keep himself focused when John wanted nothing more than to just push inside and pound Sherlock into the mattress, but he clenched his fists and bit his lip and continued to take Sherlock apart slowly, deliberately.
"John," Sherlock sighed, half complaint and half plea, hips pushing unabashedly upwards until by blind luck he managed to smear the head of his cock across John's half-open mouth.
John pinned his hips firmly in place. "Easy now," he said, huffing the words against the rosy taut skin of Sherlock's shaft. He indulged himself for a moment, curling his tongue around and up, and Sherlock's shocked choked noise was everything he could have imagined. "Not quite yet, love," he breathed, pulling away and guiding Sherlock's flailing hands back to the bars of the headboard.
Sherlock made a noise of frustration and John had to surge back up the bed to claim that petulant mouth, his hands wound tight in that dark curly hair, letting Sherlock taste himself bitter and sweet on John's tongue.
When John finally managed to break away his breath was coming in short pants. He didn't think he could hold out much longer, seeing Sherlock stretched long and graceful beneath his body, the gleam of sweat making his alabaster skin luminous.
"Fucking Christ, Sherlock," he whispered into the damp skin of Sherlock's neck — a prayer and a benediction both. "Gorgeous..."
He shook his head a fraction, trying to ground himself. "Eyes closed now," he told Sherlock, his voice rough with arousal as he finally allowed himself to shove his pants down to his ankles and kick them off.
Sherlock obediently closed his eyes even as every muscle seemed to strain forward with tension, forearms and biceps flexing where Sherlock clenched the barred headboard in a white-knuckled grip. John saw the flicker cross Sherlock's face as he heard the cap on the bottle opening and marked the unmistakable sound of John slicking his fingers. Anticipation and the smallest shadow of fear flitted across Sherlock's expression, and John knew that he had made the right decision.
John pressed his face into the soft skin of Sherlock's neck, breathing him in. He felt Sherlock's startled jump as John's slick hand came down to slide luxuriously up and down his cock a few times — not trying to get him off, just keeping him at the edge.
"John," Sherlock groaned, voice low and ragged, and the sound of it thrummed through John's whole body. John had always been good with his hands, and he kept Sherlock distracted with the slow drag of his right hand while John's left hand worked silently, surreptitiously.
If Sherlock wondered why John's breath on his throat had suddenly gone harsh and panting he showed no sign. He pressed greedily up into the stroke of John's palm.
"I can't — ah — oh, John — I need — need more..." The words were falling from Sherlock's lips, his eyes still pressed obediently tight, his whole face stark with need.
"I know, love. Just a moment," John whispered against his skin. He knew he should take more time, prepare himself better, but he didn't care. With a swift move John straddled Sherlock's lean and seeking hips, positioned him, and started to sink down.
"What — oh fuck, what? — John!" Sherlock's eyes flew open, wide as saucers. John bit his lip, trying to relax, to push past the burn and stretch and total unfamiliarity of it all. It did hurt, more than a bit, but John and pain were old friends, and he'd never had a better reason to hurt. So as Sherlock's cock breached his body he bit down harder on his lip until he tasted copper and took that pain, let it roll over and through him, and then let it go.
"Oh — oh — oh — " Sherlock was babbling. He started to tremble, his eyes darting between John's face and the place they were joined as if he couldn't quite comprehend what he was seeing. "You can't — you don't — oh, fuck, John!"
John managed to chuckle despite it all. It wasn't often that he got to surprise Sherlock Bloody Holmes, and in this instance in particular he really should have known, the daft bastard. If there was any concern that an offer made in the exigency of need might be regretted, if there was any pain to be had in an awkward first coupling, then Sherlock should have known that John would take those regrets and that pain unto himself a million times over before he would ever let Sherlock experience them, goddammit. That was the way they were, John and Sherlock, and they would damn sure not be changing things now.
And yet Sherlock hadn't known, because he was looking at John as if he were the most amazing and fascinating creature on earth, and the warmth in those silver eyes made John shudder and sink down faster, until he was suddenly resting on Sherlock's lean hips, fully seated.
"Oh," Sherlock said again, his voice stunned and slurred with pleasure. "Oh, fuck." John realized he had never heard Sherlock curse before tonight. The word seemed harsh and filthy and so incredibly arousing falling from that perfect mouth that it made John's thighs flex experimentally, lifting himself up in a slow, dragging, slide and then sinking back down with a slight grunt of satisfaction. And oh, he could see it now, why people liked this. That was...that was still strange, and a little too full, and yet for some reason also very very good.
Realizing his eyes had drifted closed in sensation, John snapped them open again. His heart, already pounding, thumped erratically at the sight of Sherlock. He looked simply devastated, eyes wide with stunned pleasure, his whole body trembling under John, the tendons of his arms standing out like ropes under the strength of his grip.
"Easy, love," John crooned, petting Sherlock's chest and arms until some of the tension abated. "Too much?"
It was adorable, how frantically Sherlock shook his head. "Don't stop." He gasped in a long, shuddering breath. "It's just...John..." Sherlock seemed almost on the verge of tears as the words failed him, and John couldn't hold back. He reached down, pulling Sherlock's head up, ignoring the twinge where they were joined as he leaned down to ravish that mouth. Sherlock was kissing him back frantically, mumbling incoherent words between kisses. John rode out the initial fury of it and then gentled him slowly with his mouth, soothing him until the kiss turned deep and lazy, as if they had all the time in the world.
They broke apart, gasping for air, and oh, the jolt of pleasure that sizzled through John as he pushed himself back upright. His body had adjusted now, the moments spent lost in the pleasure of Sherlock's mouth put to excellent use. He moved again, slow rocking movements at first, getting used to the feeling of Sherlock's cock nudging up inside him. A little shift in the angle and Jesus Christ, where had this been all his life?
It was a serious effort to pull his attention outwards again but worth it at the view of Sherlock, flushed with pleasure, trying valiantly not to move but betraying himself with frantic little squirms of his hips.
John couldn't help but flash him an amiable smile. "I think I've got the hang of it now," he said, and Sherlock's surprised bark of laughter transformed into a guttural moan as John found a rhythm, raising and lowering himself in a smooth glide.
"Just..." John dug his fingers into the backs of Sherlock's thighs and — brilliant man that he was — Sherlock seemed to understand immediately, bending his knees, bracing John's back.
"Oh that's — that's just gorgeous," John purred. Bolstered against Sherlock's long thighs, their whole bodies slippery with sweat, he could move smoothly now — long slick pushes and pulls, an electric jolt hitting him at the crest of almost every one. Sherlock seemed to fill a space inside him that John had never realized was empty, and it was absolutely exquisite. John's eyes shut tight as he concentrated, moving faster and rougher, trying to get Sherlock as deep as he could go.
"John — nghh — JohnJohnJohn — I'm so close, I can't last..."
John smiled ferally, still riding Sherlock hard and fast, not breaking his rhythm for a moment. "Good," he ground out. He reached out, tugging at Sherlock's right forearm. "Touch me, love."
He saw with satisfaction the effort it took for Sherlock to pry his hand off the bar of the headboard. Both of them groaned aloud to see the white imprint across Sherlock's palm, slowly turning pink. With a mischievous quirk of his mouth Sherlock gazed up at John through his long lashes and then licked a long, luxurious stripe up his palm, following the line of the mark. John watched avidly and then roared as that spit-slick palm wrapped around his neglected cock, stroking confidently.
Then words became impossible, as Sherlock's hand on John's cock matched the fast, hard rhythm John was setting. The only sounds now were the harsh panting of their breath, the slick sounds of their movements, and the metallic clang of the bed as John fucked himself hard, alternately pushing himself onto Sherlock's cock and into his fist, feeling possessed and taken in a way that was entirely new.
"John," Sherlock said one more time, a broken syllable of overpowering need. John closed his eyes for a moment, letting it all wash over him — the smell of musky arousal and salty sweat, the feel of Sherlock, his Sherlock, hard and hot and insistent inside him. Just a little more, just a little more...He opened his eyes again, meeting Sherlock's silver gaze, feeling that ravenous focus consume him.
He had been at the edge for so long his orgasm caught him almost by surprise, a startled shout escaping him as it rushed over his body. His thighs trembled as he tried to ride Sherlock through it, the unfamiliar clenching of his body around Sherlock's unyielding hardness devastating him, sending shock after shock of pleasure through him as he spilled into Sherlock's fist.
"Fuck, fuck..." he groaned, words falling helplessly from his mouth. He was still moving, still pulsing, vision whiting out as he was wracked with pleasure, hands skidding against the sweat-slippery skin of Sherlock's chest. "Come, come, come with me, love..."
Through the haze of pleasure he felt Sherlock bucking violently into him and then oh God, Sherlock was coming too, an overwhelming barrage of sensation — Sherlock's lean body arching between his thighs, Sherlock making harsh desperate noises as he bucked and writhed, the feel of Sherlock pulsing warm and wet inside his body. It was so unbearably intense, so stunningly intimate, that John felt like his skin could barely contain it. He pitched himself forward, arms snaking around Sherlock to hold him tight through the last few aftershocks, pressing their sweaty bodies as close as they could be.
His face buried into Sherlock's damp neck, John felt tears prickling at his eyes, a lump gathering in his throat at the unbearable sweetness of it all. He blinked a few times, cursing himself inwardly for being such a soppy git. It was several minutes before he had his breathing under control and could raise his head, half afraid of what he would see on Sherlock's face.
A wave of tenderness washed over him. Sherlock looked equally destroyed, wide damp eyes watching John with an expression of bewilderment. His left arm was stretched above his head, hand still laxly wrapped around the bar.
With only a small twinge of pain, John pulled himself off Sherlock's softening cock. He reached up and gently pulled Sherlock's arm down, kneading the muscle of the bicep and forearm with his fingertips before rubbing his thumb soothingly over the marked palm. When he let go, Sherlock dropped the arm weightily over John's shoulders, drawing him down again.
Sherlock drew his hand through John's hair, nuzzling his face into the top of his head. "John," he finally said, his voice ragged, and then stopped.
"Yeah," John said. "I know."
[Please review! :-D]