Fic: Wake Me With Your Mouth - 1/1 (BBC Sherlock)
Title: Wake Me With Your Mouth
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 2.8k
Betas: vyctori an seijichan
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: When John sends his groggy flatmate to bed, he doesn't expect to play alarm clock a few hours later.
Warnings: Explicit sex, consensual sleep sex.
“I’m going to claw my eyes out,” Sherlock announces, tugging against John’s grip on his wrists. “I am going to tear them from my skull and dissolve them in acid.” Though the verbal protest is bombastic in the extreme, the physical counterpart is exceedingly token. At least the stupid git isn’t going to keep John from dampening a flannel for him.
“Or you could take an antihistamine and not blind yourself.” John turns the tap on and soaks the flannel while Sherlock plunks himself down on the closed lid of the toilet. “Or, maybe-I know this is going to sound absurd, but hear me out-you could maybe not experiment on ragweed when you know you’re allergic to it.” John hands over the flannel and Sherlock promptly drops his face into it, groaning.
“It wasn’t this bad before.”
“The kitchen wasn’t full of it before. That might be important.”
“It is, yes, thank you, John. Go clean it out, won’t you?” Holding the flannel across his eyes with one hand, fingers splayed, he flaps his other hand at John in dismissal.
John folds his arms, refusing to budge. It’s not exactly the way he’d planned to settle down before bed. He’d been looking forward to a nice shag, as a matter of fact. “You brought it in, you take it out.”
“I’d die,” Sherlock moans. Both hands against the flannel now, pressing the cloth into his face. He tries to grind the heels of his palms against his eyes until John tugs on his wrists again.
“You won’t die.”
“Save me, John. Protect me from the vile weed.”
“Save you from yourself, you mean. Look, if you take something and go lie down in your room, I’ll clear out the ragweed. If you lie down quietly.”
Sherlock sulks far too much for a man getting exactly what he wants. “Fine. I’ll render myself unconscious, happy?”
Yes, please, John thinks but doesn’t say.
Sherlock snorts anyway, not at all needing his eyes to guess John’s thoughts. He holds out his hand. “Give me your phone. Mine’s in the kitchen with the demon plant.”
“Will you stop whinging?”
“Yes.”
John hands over his mobile. He watches for a moment, marvelling at how Sherlock tilts his head back to balance the flannel and then operates John’s mobile blindly.
“Demon plant, John.”
John sighs. “Right, yes, getting it.”
Half an hour of hauling bin bags and scrubbing surfaces later, John finds Sherlock passed out on top of his duvet, the flannel drooping off the side of his face. Though stupid enough to fill the kitchen with pollen, the git has at least had enough sense to change into his pyjamas. Expecting the notoriously light sleeper to startle awake, John taps his leg. “You okay?”
Sherlock doesn’t budge.
John shakes his knee.
Sherlock groans.
A long dormant, typically quiet piece of John’s mind begins to shout. If Sherlock ever slept this soundly, they wouldn’t need separate bedrooms. “Sherlock.” He leans over his idiot and checks his pulse. Sherlock begins squirming, long arms reaching, and John catches one of his hands. “Sherlock.”
“Mm?”
“How many did you take?”
Sherlock flops onto his side and snuffles into his pillow. The flannel falls off, revealing a face more pale than puffy.
“Sherlock.” John jabs him in the side.
“Two.”
“Is this your typical reaction?”
“Mmhm.”
John sighs, sitting down on the duvet. Slowly, his heart stops pounding. No fever, no rapid heartbeat, but after the roof fiasco, John still can’t trust the man not to kill himself. If it’s to be overdose, antihistamines are an unlikely option. At least there’s that. John pets his hair a bit until Sherlock mashes his face against John’s hip. “Where’s my phone?”
“Hm?”
“Phone.”
Sherlock snickers. “Pants.”
“What?”
Sherlock snickers all the more, grinning against John’s jeans. “Pants.”
“What are you, twelve? That’s not-oh, Christ, you’re serious.”
Sherlock begins giggling, honest to God giggling, curling in on himself.
“Still not funny.” John reaches down for a basic inspection, just to prove it, and, no, not a joke. “That is not sanitary.” He shifts down the bed, rolling Sherlock onto his back as much as the man’s shaking frame will allow. Without access to Sherlock’s bum, John slaps his hip instead. “Not funny. C’mon, lift.”
With some squirming and flailing and absolutely no help from Sherlock, John strips off Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. With even less help from Sherlock and considerably more squirming, John fishes his mobile out of the flap of Sherlock’s briefs. The plastic is warm and John can’t quite make out if this is a moment to be turned on or repulsed. He pockets his mobile instead and bullies Sherlock under the duvet. Just to be an arse, John even tucks him in and kisses him on the forehead. When Sherlock’s complaints amount to no more than a mumble, John knows it’s time to leave and let him sleep.
Waking to his mobile’s most obnoxious alarm, John slaps his hand down on his bedside table and feels around for it. He blinds himself with the display screen and groans. Blinking and tentative on the second attempt, John discovers a calendar appointment set for three in the morning. Though he’s momentarily mystified, the name of the appointment clears up a number of questions.
Wake me with your mouth. SH
John shuts his mobile, drops it onto his chest, and lies in the dark with his eyes closed. Sleep beckons. Nice, warm sleep. His mind wanders as he drifts off anew. When his mobile goes off with a quiet beep at three-fifteen, he squints calmly at the second message.
Please. SH
John rubs his thumb over the screen. He checks the calendar for any future appointments and finds a third alarm set to go off in fifteen minutes. This one is called I want you. SH When John reads it, Sherlock’s voice whispers through his thoughts, a hot, phantom breath against his ear.
With a sigh, he sits up and swings his legs out of bed. He leaves his mobile behind. The walk downstairs is cold and creaking, lit only by ambient London light and the digital microwave display through the kitchen door. The sounds of an old house urge John on to the warmth of another bedroom.
He eases the bedroom door open. Inside, the foot of the bed is illuminated by a faint square of light. Above this patch, Sherlock curls on his side, more bundle than man. As John guides the door slowly back to its resting place, Sherlock shifts beneath whispering cloth.
John freezes.
Sherlock sleeps on.
The first step away from the door is the most cautious, but the creak of Sherlock’s floor is nothing compared to that of the stairs. Slowly, John sits down behind Sherlock’s back and peers at his faint form. He waits for some sign that Sherlock is merely faking, some impatient motion or sound. Instead, he watches the play of Sherlock’s eyes beneath their lids, the smooth, even quality of his breathing. Slightly congested, but otherwise fine. REM cycle.
As softly as he can, John touches Sherlock’s shoulder through the duvet. Sherlock doesn’t respond. John spreads his hand, widening the contact. He imagines he can see the moment when Sherlock’s body recognises him.
Leaning on an elbow, John lowers his mouth to the back of Sherlock’s neck, to where his curls brush the collar of his threadbare t-shirt. There, he presses a slow, warm kiss, more hot breath than pressure. A low sound for that, a content little reward.
Sherlock smells of warmth and sleep, of laundry detergent and the aftermath of his experiment in the kitchen. Nearly a day removed from the shower, his hair smells only faintly of his shampoo. Motionless, his skin seems softer, his body at once more solid and less substantial. The more John kisses his neck, the more this changes, the more Sherlock shifts, pressing sluggishly into the contact. Trapped beneath the duvet, Sherlock’s arm attempts to reach for something, perhaps John.
John pulls back, standing to ease a corner of the duvet out from beneath Sherlock. He pulls the drawstring of his pyjama bottoms before shucking both them and his pants. His t-shirt, he keeps. He returns onto the bed, into the bed properly, slotting himself up behind Sherlock. Muscles shifting, Sherlock curls his back, his spine pressing into the heat of John’s front. Deliciously indulgent, a deep hum vibrates through his chest and into John’s hand atop his sternum.
Soft presses of lips grow into the hard press of tongue against skin that usually makes Sherlock twitch. Tonight, he merely groans and gropes at the hand upon his chest. John lets him pull his hand down to the warm cotton of his pants. John touches him lightly, gently, and Sherlock tugs at his wrist all the harder. His grip is hard enough to hurt, and John promptly twists free. Bossy git, even asleep.
“None of that,” he whispers, nosing against Sherlock’s ear. He removes his hand entirely to touch himself instead, to rub the head of his prick against the small of Sherlock’s back, up beneath his shirt. It’s nice, warm. John could rub one out like this and doze a bit, maybe wake up after a bit and take care of Sherlock then.
As if guessing John’s thoughts even now, Sherlock makes a high little sound, an annoyed whine. He reaches for John’s hand once again, misses, and has a lovely, frustrated moment with John’s bum.
John shushes him softly, letting go of himself to pet Sherlock’s side through his shirt. Sherlock relaxes into him, his head rolling back against John’s. Kissing his neck and rocking against his back, John unbuttons his shirt and slips his hand inside. Sherlock’s arm moves against his. This noise is familiar, very much so, and it’s John’s turn to catch Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock groans, twisting in his grip, perhaps on the verge of waking. As quickly as he dares, John rises onto his elbow to press open-mouthed kisses beneath Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock melts accordingly.
Slowly, John releases Sherlock’s hand, waits to be certain Sherlock isn’t about to start touching himself again, and then eases down Sherlock’s back. When Sherlock squirms, John presses him onto his front. Sherlock’s hips begin to grind into the bed in lazy circles. John feels the motion more than he sees it, but the indulgence of the act is plain throughout Sherlock’s body, all the way up into the nuzzling of his cheek into his pillow.
Contorting himself somewhat, John ducks his head beneath the duvet and eases up Sherlock’s shirt. When he finds the curve of Sherlock’s spine and licks up the smears of his own precome, Sherlock jerks beneath his hands and mouth, groaning. Christ, that’s lovely. All is hot and muffled beneath the covers, but Sherlock above all else. He’s slightly damp in his warmth, too hot to be called clammy. He smells amazing down here, the scent of his arousal clinging to his thrusting hips.
John mouths at the slant of skin where back becomes bum, wondering what sort of turn Sherlock’s dreams have taken. Pornographic, he hopes. Whatever’s going on in that brain of his, John certainly knows the progression of his body, the way Sherlock likes to drag his cock back and forth against the bulge in John’s trousers before pressing hard against him. Sherlock’s moved past the side-to-side and well into a slow, insistent push. If John keeps him going like this, he could have him rutting. God, he could make Sherlock come from fucking the bed. Make him come in his pants.
He rises onto all fours, his head tenting the duvet, his hair filling with static. One hand fondles the swell of cotton-clad bum. The other presses into the sheet as John returns his lips and tongue to skin. Nothing hard, nothing sudden. Each time Sherlock groans and twists beneath him, John’s certain he’s woken. John eases his ministrations only for Sherlock to let out an irritated rumble. Though still straining for friction and trapped within his pants, Sherlock settles down with a sigh the moment John resumes fondling him.
Best not to risk much longer. Though John’s certainly complied with the letter of Sherlock’s request for his mouth, he’s yet to fulfil the spirit.
Bunching himself up, he kisses lower, licks lower. He kneads his way down Sherlock’s arse with both hands before dropping his head. When he licks Sherlock’s thigh up under his pants, Sherlock lets out a startled groan. His arms audibly shift about. John does it again, again, pulling aside grey cotton to wriggle his tongue until he has Sherlock keening.
Sherlock’s legs fight to spread and John attempts to let them, adjusting his position and pulling at Sherlock’s pants. Too late to get them down now, not without waking him up.
“John...”
Waking him up the rest of the way, John mentally amends. He presses his mouth as closely as he can get it, still not quite able to reach Sherlock’s hole as well as he’d like. Weight lifting to his knees, Sherlock pushes back, shoving his arse against John’s face, and John turns his mouth aside to bite Sherlock’s bum instead.
With a hoarse shout, Sherlock collapses onto his side. For one disorienting moment, his legs sandwich John’s head beneath the duvet. John scrambles up to find Sherlock lying on his own arm, his expression befuddled, his trapped hand still attempting to reach for his own prick.
“I was about to,” John explains. He shoves at Sherlock’s hip. Slowly at first and then with a great collapse, Sherlock sprawls onto his back like a shifting stack of books. His arms flop against his sides even while his hips nudge the air.
Taking pity at last, John eases Sherlock’s cock out of his pants, leaving the waistband against his sack. Sherlock can’t stay still beneath his hands. Both hands required on him now. God, it hurts not to wank.
“John, suck me. John, John, do it. Suck me.”
John takes him into his mouth, just the head, and he keeps sucking even when Sherlock bucks weakly up.
“More,” Sherlock gasps. “More, more, more, more, fuck.”
John shoves down Sherlock’s hips, presses them hard against the mattress as Sherlock strains. It wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock’s tried to roll them over to fuck John’s mouth, but he’s hardly about to pull off the move now. One of Sherlock’s heels hits against John’s back. Sherlock’s hands fly to John’s head. John tongues at Sherlock’s slit, tongues and sucks, and the sound Sherlock makes is nothing like a warning. His prick hardens, jerking inside John’s mouth. John rides it out, pulls him through.
Swallowing, John crawls up Sherlock’s body. Sherlock breathes hard with his mouth open, his eyes shut. When John lowers his head, Sherlock lifts his chin for the kiss. John gives it to him, wet and sloppy and tasting of come. Sherlock sucks on his tongue until John’s cock grows envious, which isn’t very long at all.
“You now.” John shifts against him, rises up. Sherlock’s eyes grow wide and dark, the remainder of his face slack in drowsy contentment. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue a little bit, just a little. Not a tipped point of a tongue, but a flat cup, a little curve.
“That’s it, that’s it,” John encourages.
Sherlock rolls onto his side, flops a hand at John, and mumbles, “Here’s fine.”
John has to stand a bit, has to grab the headboard and plant one cold leg onto the floor, but it’s worth it, oh God, is it worth it to see Sherlock slack and overwhelmed. The ever-present buzz of his thoughts is now a silent hush, not turned off, but simply never on. All he can process is John, only John, John filling up his head like the cock filling up his mouth.
John tries not to choke him, he tries, he really does, but perhaps Sherlock moves or maybe John’s grip on the headboard shakes like his trembling arm. Sounding half-strangled, Sherlock makes one loud noise of surprise, but he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t pull off and snap at John to finish it himself. No, he doesn’t stop.
Sherlock grabs him by the hip instead. Sherlock grabs him and tugs him close and John hovers on the edge, hovers on fucking tiptoe before the rush wells up, before Sherlock’s mouth takes him. He shakes and shivers, at once burning hot and terribly cold, clothed only in a t-shirt and an intimate, choking kiss.
Trembling, he pulls out. Sherlock spits and sputters, and with one more gasp, he’s fine. He sighs and nuzzles into the pillow, his nose nearly touching John’s spat-out come.
Laundry in the morning, John thinks vaguely. Ragweed pollen in Sherlock’s clothing. He’ll have to take care of that. So decided, he climbs into bed, pulls the duvet over them both, and follows Sherlock back to sleep.
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 2.8k
Betas: vyctori an seijichan
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: When John sends his groggy flatmate to bed, he doesn't expect to play alarm clock a few hours later.
Warnings: Explicit sex, consensual sleep sex.
“I’m going to claw my eyes out,” Sherlock announces, tugging against John’s grip on his wrists. “I am going to tear them from my skull and dissolve them in acid.” Though the verbal protest is bombastic in the extreme, the physical counterpart is exceedingly token. At least the stupid git isn’t going to keep John from dampening a flannel for him.
“Or you could take an antihistamine and not blind yourself.” John turns the tap on and soaks the flannel while Sherlock plunks himself down on the closed lid of the toilet. “Or, maybe-I know this is going to sound absurd, but hear me out-you could maybe not experiment on ragweed when you know you’re allergic to it.” John hands over the flannel and Sherlock promptly drops his face into it, groaning.
“It wasn’t this bad before.”
“The kitchen wasn’t full of it before. That might be important.”
“It is, yes, thank you, John. Go clean it out, won’t you?” Holding the flannel across his eyes with one hand, fingers splayed, he flaps his other hand at John in dismissal.
John folds his arms, refusing to budge. It’s not exactly the way he’d planned to settle down before bed. He’d been looking forward to a nice shag, as a matter of fact. “You brought it in, you take it out.”
“I’d die,” Sherlock moans. Both hands against the flannel now, pressing the cloth into his face. He tries to grind the heels of his palms against his eyes until John tugs on his wrists again.
“You won’t die.”
“Save me, John. Protect me from the vile weed.”
“Save you from yourself, you mean. Look, if you take something and go lie down in your room, I’ll clear out the ragweed. If you lie down quietly.”
Sherlock sulks far too much for a man getting exactly what he wants. “Fine. I’ll render myself unconscious, happy?”
Yes, please, John thinks but doesn’t say.
Sherlock snorts anyway, not at all needing his eyes to guess John’s thoughts. He holds out his hand. “Give me your phone. Mine’s in the kitchen with the demon plant.”
“Will you stop whinging?”
“Yes.”
John hands over his mobile. He watches for a moment, marvelling at how Sherlock tilts his head back to balance the flannel and then operates John’s mobile blindly.
“Demon plant, John.”
John sighs. “Right, yes, getting it.”
Half an hour of hauling bin bags and scrubbing surfaces later, John finds Sherlock passed out on top of his duvet, the flannel drooping off the side of his face. Though stupid enough to fill the kitchen with pollen, the git has at least had enough sense to change into his pyjamas. Expecting the notoriously light sleeper to startle awake, John taps his leg. “You okay?”
Sherlock doesn’t budge.
John shakes his knee.
Sherlock groans.
A long dormant, typically quiet piece of John’s mind begins to shout. If Sherlock ever slept this soundly, they wouldn’t need separate bedrooms. “Sherlock.” He leans over his idiot and checks his pulse. Sherlock begins squirming, long arms reaching, and John catches one of his hands. “Sherlock.”
“Mm?”
“How many did you take?”
Sherlock flops onto his side and snuffles into his pillow. The flannel falls off, revealing a face more pale than puffy.
“Sherlock.” John jabs him in the side.
“Two.”
“Is this your typical reaction?”
“Mmhm.”
John sighs, sitting down on the duvet. Slowly, his heart stops pounding. No fever, no rapid heartbeat, but after the roof fiasco, John still can’t trust the man not to kill himself. If it’s to be overdose, antihistamines are an unlikely option. At least there’s that. John pets his hair a bit until Sherlock mashes his face against John’s hip. “Where’s my phone?”
“Hm?”
“Phone.”
Sherlock snickers. “Pants.”
“What?”
Sherlock snickers all the more, grinning against John’s jeans. “Pants.”
“What are you, twelve? That’s not-oh, Christ, you’re serious.”
Sherlock begins giggling, honest to God giggling, curling in on himself.
“Still not funny.” John reaches down for a basic inspection, just to prove it, and, no, not a joke. “That is not sanitary.” He shifts down the bed, rolling Sherlock onto his back as much as the man’s shaking frame will allow. Without access to Sherlock’s bum, John slaps his hip instead. “Not funny. C’mon, lift.”
With some squirming and flailing and absolutely no help from Sherlock, John strips off Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. With even less help from Sherlock and considerably more squirming, John fishes his mobile out of the flap of Sherlock’s briefs. The plastic is warm and John can’t quite make out if this is a moment to be turned on or repulsed. He pockets his mobile instead and bullies Sherlock under the duvet. Just to be an arse, John even tucks him in and kisses him on the forehead. When Sherlock’s complaints amount to no more than a mumble, John knows it’s time to leave and let him sleep.
Waking to his mobile’s most obnoxious alarm, John slaps his hand down on his bedside table and feels around for it. He blinds himself with the display screen and groans. Blinking and tentative on the second attempt, John discovers a calendar appointment set for three in the morning. Though he’s momentarily mystified, the name of the appointment clears up a number of questions.
Wake me with your mouth. SH
John shuts his mobile, drops it onto his chest, and lies in the dark with his eyes closed. Sleep beckons. Nice, warm sleep. His mind wanders as he drifts off anew. When his mobile goes off with a quiet beep at three-fifteen, he squints calmly at the second message.
Please. SH
John rubs his thumb over the screen. He checks the calendar for any future appointments and finds a third alarm set to go off in fifteen minutes. This one is called I want you. SH When John reads it, Sherlock’s voice whispers through his thoughts, a hot, phantom breath against his ear.
With a sigh, he sits up and swings his legs out of bed. He leaves his mobile behind. The walk downstairs is cold and creaking, lit only by ambient London light and the digital microwave display through the kitchen door. The sounds of an old house urge John on to the warmth of another bedroom.
He eases the bedroom door open. Inside, the foot of the bed is illuminated by a faint square of light. Above this patch, Sherlock curls on his side, more bundle than man. As John guides the door slowly back to its resting place, Sherlock shifts beneath whispering cloth.
John freezes.
Sherlock sleeps on.
The first step away from the door is the most cautious, but the creak of Sherlock’s floor is nothing compared to that of the stairs. Slowly, John sits down behind Sherlock’s back and peers at his faint form. He waits for some sign that Sherlock is merely faking, some impatient motion or sound. Instead, he watches the play of Sherlock’s eyes beneath their lids, the smooth, even quality of his breathing. Slightly congested, but otherwise fine. REM cycle.
As softly as he can, John touches Sherlock’s shoulder through the duvet. Sherlock doesn’t respond. John spreads his hand, widening the contact. He imagines he can see the moment when Sherlock’s body recognises him.
Leaning on an elbow, John lowers his mouth to the back of Sherlock’s neck, to where his curls brush the collar of his threadbare t-shirt. There, he presses a slow, warm kiss, more hot breath than pressure. A low sound for that, a content little reward.
Sherlock smells of warmth and sleep, of laundry detergent and the aftermath of his experiment in the kitchen. Nearly a day removed from the shower, his hair smells only faintly of his shampoo. Motionless, his skin seems softer, his body at once more solid and less substantial. The more John kisses his neck, the more this changes, the more Sherlock shifts, pressing sluggishly into the contact. Trapped beneath the duvet, Sherlock’s arm attempts to reach for something, perhaps John.
John pulls back, standing to ease a corner of the duvet out from beneath Sherlock. He pulls the drawstring of his pyjama bottoms before shucking both them and his pants. His t-shirt, he keeps. He returns onto the bed, into the bed properly, slotting himself up behind Sherlock. Muscles shifting, Sherlock curls his back, his spine pressing into the heat of John’s front. Deliciously indulgent, a deep hum vibrates through his chest and into John’s hand atop his sternum.
Soft presses of lips grow into the hard press of tongue against skin that usually makes Sherlock twitch. Tonight, he merely groans and gropes at the hand upon his chest. John lets him pull his hand down to the warm cotton of his pants. John touches him lightly, gently, and Sherlock tugs at his wrist all the harder. His grip is hard enough to hurt, and John promptly twists free. Bossy git, even asleep.
“None of that,” he whispers, nosing against Sherlock’s ear. He removes his hand entirely to touch himself instead, to rub the head of his prick against the small of Sherlock’s back, up beneath his shirt. It’s nice, warm. John could rub one out like this and doze a bit, maybe wake up after a bit and take care of Sherlock then.
As if guessing John’s thoughts even now, Sherlock makes a high little sound, an annoyed whine. He reaches for John’s hand once again, misses, and has a lovely, frustrated moment with John’s bum.
John shushes him softly, letting go of himself to pet Sherlock’s side through his shirt. Sherlock relaxes into him, his head rolling back against John’s. Kissing his neck and rocking against his back, John unbuttons his shirt and slips his hand inside. Sherlock’s arm moves against his. This noise is familiar, very much so, and it’s John’s turn to catch Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock groans, twisting in his grip, perhaps on the verge of waking. As quickly as he dares, John rises onto his elbow to press open-mouthed kisses beneath Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock melts accordingly.
Slowly, John releases Sherlock’s hand, waits to be certain Sherlock isn’t about to start touching himself again, and then eases down Sherlock’s back. When Sherlock squirms, John presses him onto his front. Sherlock’s hips begin to grind into the bed in lazy circles. John feels the motion more than he sees it, but the indulgence of the act is plain throughout Sherlock’s body, all the way up into the nuzzling of his cheek into his pillow.
Contorting himself somewhat, John ducks his head beneath the duvet and eases up Sherlock’s shirt. When he finds the curve of Sherlock’s spine and licks up the smears of his own precome, Sherlock jerks beneath his hands and mouth, groaning. Christ, that’s lovely. All is hot and muffled beneath the covers, but Sherlock above all else. He’s slightly damp in his warmth, too hot to be called clammy. He smells amazing down here, the scent of his arousal clinging to his thrusting hips.
John mouths at the slant of skin where back becomes bum, wondering what sort of turn Sherlock’s dreams have taken. Pornographic, he hopes. Whatever’s going on in that brain of his, John certainly knows the progression of his body, the way Sherlock likes to drag his cock back and forth against the bulge in John’s trousers before pressing hard against him. Sherlock’s moved past the side-to-side and well into a slow, insistent push. If John keeps him going like this, he could have him rutting. God, he could make Sherlock come from fucking the bed. Make him come in his pants.
He rises onto all fours, his head tenting the duvet, his hair filling with static. One hand fondles the swell of cotton-clad bum. The other presses into the sheet as John returns his lips and tongue to skin. Nothing hard, nothing sudden. Each time Sherlock groans and twists beneath him, John’s certain he’s woken. John eases his ministrations only for Sherlock to let out an irritated rumble. Though still straining for friction and trapped within his pants, Sherlock settles down with a sigh the moment John resumes fondling him.
Best not to risk much longer. Though John’s certainly complied with the letter of Sherlock’s request for his mouth, he’s yet to fulfil the spirit.
Bunching himself up, he kisses lower, licks lower. He kneads his way down Sherlock’s arse with both hands before dropping his head. When he licks Sherlock’s thigh up under his pants, Sherlock lets out a startled groan. His arms audibly shift about. John does it again, again, pulling aside grey cotton to wriggle his tongue until he has Sherlock keening.
Sherlock’s legs fight to spread and John attempts to let them, adjusting his position and pulling at Sherlock’s pants. Too late to get them down now, not without waking him up.
“John...”
Waking him up the rest of the way, John mentally amends. He presses his mouth as closely as he can get it, still not quite able to reach Sherlock’s hole as well as he’d like. Weight lifting to his knees, Sherlock pushes back, shoving his arse against John’s face, and John turns his mouth aside to bite Sherlock’s bum instead.
With a hoarse shout, Sherlock collapses onto his side. For one disorienting moment, his legs sandwich John’s head beneath the duvet. John scrambles up to find Sherlock lying on his own arm, his expression befuddled, his trapped hand still attempting to reach for his own prick.
“I was about to,” John explains. He shoves at Sherlock’s hip. Slowly at first and then with a great collapse, Sherlock sprawls onto his back like a shifting stack of books. His arms flop against his sides even while his hips nudge the air.
Taking pity at last, John eases Sherlock’s cock out of his pants, leaving the waistband against his sack. Sherlock can’t stay still beneath his hands. Both hands required on him now. God, it hurts not to wank.
“John, suck me. John, John, do it. Suck me.”
John takes him into his mouth, just the head, and he keeps sucking even when Sherlock bucks weakly up.
“More,” Sherlock gasps. “More, more, more, more, fuck.”
John shoves down Sherlock’s hips, presses them hard against the mattress as Sherlock strains. It wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock’s tried to roll them over to fuck John’s mouth, but he’s hardly about to pull off the move now. One of Sherlock’s heels hits against John’s back. Sherlock’s hands fly to John’s head. John tongues at Sherlock’s slit, tongues and sucks, and the sound Sherlock makes is nothing like a warning. His prick hardens, jerking inside John’s mouth. John rides it out, pulls him through.
Swallowing, John crawls up Sherlock’s body. Sherlock breathes hard with his mouth open, his eyes shut. When John lowers his head, Sherlock lifts his chin for the kiss. John gives it to him, wet and sloppy and tasting of come. Sherlock sucks on his tongue until John’s cock grows envious, which isn’t very long at all.
“You now.” John shifts against him, rises up. Sherlock’s eyes grow wide and dark, the remainder of his face slack in drowsy contentment. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue a little bit, just a little. Not a tipped point of a tongue, but a flat cup, a little curve.
“That’s it, that’s it,” John encourages.
Sherlock rolls onto his side, flops a hand at John, and mumbles, “Here’s fine.”
John has to stand a bit, has to grab the headboard and plant one cold leg onto the floor, but it’s worth it, oh God, is it worth it to see Sherlock slack and overwhelmed. The ever-present buzz of his thoughts is now a silent hush, not turned off, but simply never on. All he can process is John, only John, John filling up his head like the cock filling up his mouth.
John tries not to choke him, he tries, he really does, but perhaps Sherlock moves or maybe John’s grip on the headboard shakes like his trembling arm. Sounding half-strangled, Sherlock makes one loud noise of surprise, but he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t pull off and snap at John to finish it himself. No, he doesn’t stop.
Sherlock grabs him by the hip instead. Sherlock grabs him and tugs him close and John hovers on the edge, hovers on fucking tiptoe before the rush wells up, before Sherlock’s mouth takes him. He shakes and shivers, at once burning hot and terribly cold, clothed only in a t-shirt and an intimate, choking kiss.
Trembling, he pulls out. Sherlock spits and sputters, and with one more gasp, he’s fine. He sighs and nuzzles into the pillow, his nose nearly touching John’s spat-out come.
Laundry in the morning, John thinks vaguely. Ragweed pollen in Sherlock’s clothing. He’ll have to take care of that. So decided, he climbs into bed, pulls the duvet over them both, and follows Sherlock back to sleep.