Fic: Brick (Sherlock BBC RPF, Benedict Cumberbatch/Martin Freeman, NC-17)
Another for the porn battle.
Brick
Sherlock RPF, Martin/Benedict, NC-17
This is sexual harassment, and Benedict doesn’t have to take it. Martin’s slipped his fingers through Benedict’s own, his palms atop the backs of Benedict’s hands, and it’d be like they were holding hands if Benedict weren’t flipped around and facing the wall. This close he can see imperfections in the brick, an edge of one crumbling, like something had been slammed against it, at one point. Probably not something like Benedict, he’s too light to break much of anything. His face would break instead, probably.
Martin’s fingertips slip up the backs of Benedict’s hands, a slow drag until he circles each wrist, thumb and forefinger. Martin doesn’t have long fingers but Benedict has small wrists, small enough to squeeze. That’s what Martin does, squeezes. He does it hard enough that Benedict expels a breath, harder and louder than he meant to. He licks his lips, tasting rain coming, metallic in the cold night. Martin’s not letting go, because Martin’s testing him. Martin’s always doing things like that, pushing Benedict, seeing how far he can go before Benedict puts a stop to it, says no. His refusal to play along would be the thing that does it, he knows. Martin’s not a bad guy, if Benedict said he was uncomfortable that’d be it, Martin would ease right off, go back to saying perfectly filthy things to Una and flirting inappropriately with Mark. He’d leave Benedict alone, and never again get up close and murmur, “What was it like at Harrow then, did they crown you Head Girl? I bet you were the loveliest in your year,” leaving Benedict to push determinedly past the flush that wanted to rise on his cheeks and purr back, “So you think I’m lovely, do you?”
So Benedict closes his eyes, close enough to the wall that his eyelashes brush brick, and waits to see what Martin will do. “You’re hopeless,” Martin says. He pushes, and Benedict’s cheek scrapes against the wall. It stings. “What if I were a robber? I’d have your wallet, and anything else I wanted off of you before you even bothered to wriggle back.”
Benedict pushes back against him, just to see if he can get a rise out of Martin, and - oh, he has. Now Martin’s the one drawing in a breath, tight and fast. “That your gun?” Benedict asks. He doesn’t back off, even shifts a little. He’ll show him wriggling.
“If you ask if I’m happy to see you, I will bash that pretty face of yours against this brick wall,” Martin says. It’s about as breathless as a threat’s ever been. I win, Benedict thinks, though they were never competing, at least not that he remembers. Maybe they were. He curls his fingers back, brushing them against Martin’s zipper, slips them inside the gap to feel the metal teeth. Trips his fingertips up, slowly up, until he reaches the tab and starts to pull it down. It’s not easy when he can’t see what he’s doing, but Benedict’s dexterous. He can get Martin’s zipper pulled down, all the way, can slide his fingers round and pop the button open. He can reach in, no hesitation, and feel the hard outline of Martin’s cock against the curve of his fingers. He gets a grip around it. “What are you trying to prove?” Martin grits out. He sounds like he hates it and feels like he loves it.
“Nothing at all,” Benedict says lightly. “Why, did you have a hypothesis? Mine may have been that you’re nothing but a pricktease. Am I wrong?”
Martin releases his wrists, and Benedict leans his head against the wall for one bare second before drawing in a breath and sliding down to his knees, the back of his body dragging against Martin’s front. He only turns when his face is level with the opened front of Martin’s jeans. He wants desperately to know how Martin looks right now but can’t bear to look up, focusing instead on pulling Martin’s cock out and getting his mouth around it, no stopping to think, just the hard length of it half down his throat before he has to pull back. Martin draws a breath in, sharp, and it spurs Benedict to go down again, taking in more; he still, frustratingly, wants to impress him. He hasn’t done this in ages but it’s easy enough to remember, easier still when Martin makes little caught sounds above him, when Martin pushes a hand into his hair.
“Ben,” Martin gasps out, and thrusts, just a bit; Benedict wants to tell him it’s okay to do it harder, but tilts his head back instead, inviting Martin to fuck his throat. It tips him up enough that their eyes meet, Martin staring down at him with red cheeks and wide eyes, and Benedict groans around the length of Martin’s cock in his mouth, helplessly reaching up to grip the backs of Martin’s thighs and urge him on. Martin thrusts hard enough to knock the back of Benedict’s head against the wall and Benedict nearly slams a hand against his own thigh, roughly palming his suddenly insistent erection as he takes Martin in deeper. He puts his all into it, sucking hard when Martin thrusts as deep as he can handle, letting it happen when he chokes a bit, gasping and wishing, intensely and terribly, that Martin would kiss him, and lie down naked with him, and dig his fingers into Benedict’s thighs and fuck him mercilessly hard.
Martin curls his fingers in Benedict’s hair and doesn’t warn him when he’s going to come, so Benedict just swallows it all. His hands shake when he undoes his own trousers. He won’t stand up. He can’t look Martin in the face with the taste of Martin’s come still in his mouth. He sits back on his heels, kneeling at Martin’s feet, and looks at his own erection in his hand, watching as he strokes himself, hard and fast.
“Jesus,” Martin says, in front of Benedict suddenly, crouched down and looking at him. “What kind of bloke do you think I am?” he asks, and knocks Benedict’s hand away, taking Benedict’s cock for himself and jacking him quite nicely. It’s impossible at this point for Benedict not to curl into it, to curl into the warmth of Martin’s body, so he doesn’t bother to try. He buries his face in Martin’s shoulder as he comes, the orgasm fairly shaking out of him. Martin pats him on the shoulder afterward, more of a slap really, like a teammate that’s done well. “Alright?” he asks. Benedict nods, mutely. They stand and do their trousers up, brush themselves off. He wonders where exactly Martin wiped his hand off.
“Guess you’d do alright then, if you were mugged,” Martin says. They continue down the alley, back in the direction of the hotel where they’re up after that night’s filming.
Faintly, Benedict says, “Yes, I suppose I would.”
Brick
Sherlock RPF, Martin/Benedict, NC-17
This is sexual harassment, and Benedict doesn’t have to take it. Martin’s slipped his fingers through Benedict’s own, his palms atop the backs of Benedict’s hands, and it’d be like they were holding hands if Benedict weren’t flipped around and facing the wall. This close he can see imperfections in the brick, an edge of one crumbling, like something had been slammed against it, at one point. Probably not something like Benedict, he’s too light to break much of anything. His face would break instead, probably.
Martin’s fingertips slip up the backs of Benedict’s hands, a slow drag until he circles each wrist, thumb and forefinger. Martin doesn’t have long fingers but Benedict has small wrists, small enough to squeeze. That’s what Martin does, squeezes. He does it hard enough that Benedict expels a breath, harder and louder than he meant to. He licks his lips, tasting rain coming, metallic in the cold night. Martin’s not letting go, because Martin’s testing him. Martin’s always doing things like that, pushing Benedict, seeing how far he can go before Benedict puts a stop to it, says no. His refusal to play along would be the thing that does it, he knows. Martin’s not a bad guy, if Benedict said he was uncomfortable that’d be it, Martin would ease right off, go back to saying perfectly filthy things to Una and flirting inappropriately with Mark. He’d leave Benedict alone, and never again get up close and murmur, “What was it like at Harrow then, did they crown you Head Girl? I bet you were the loveliest in your year,” leaving Benedict to push determinedly past the flush that wanted to rise on his cheeks and purr back, “So you think I’m lovely, do you?”
So Benedict closes his eyes, close enough to the wall that his eyelashes brush brick, and waits to see what Martin will do. “You’re hopeless,” Martin says. He pushes, and Benedict’s cheek scrapes against the wall. It stings. “What if I were a robber? I’d have your wallet, and anything else I wanted off of you before you even bothered to wriggle back.”
Benedict pushes back against him, just to see if he can get a rise out of Martin, and - oh, he has. Now Martin’s the one drawing in a breath, tight and fast. “That your gun?” Benedict asks. He doesn’t back off, even shifts a little. He’ll show him wriggling.
“If you ask if I’m happy to see you, I will bash that pretty face of yours against this brick wall,” Martin says. It’s about as breathless as a threat’s ever been. I win, Benedict thinks, though they were never competing, at least not that he remembers. Maybe they were. He curls his fingers back, brushing them against Martin’s zipper, slips them inside the gap to feel the metal teeth. Trips his fingertips up, slowly up, until he reaches the tab and starts to pull it down. It’s not easy when he can’t see what he’s doing, but Benedict’s dexterous. He can get Martin’s zipper pulled down, all the way, can slide his fingers round and pop the button open. He can reach in, no hesitation, and feel the hard outline of Martin’s cock against the curve of his fingers. He gets a grip around it. “What are you trying to prove?” Martin grits out. He sounds like he hates it and feels like he loves it.
“Nothing at all,” Benedict says lightly. “Why, did you have a hypothesis? Mine may have been that you’re nothing but a pricktease. Am I wrong?”
Martin releases his wrists, and Benedict leans his head against the wall for one bare second before drawing in a breath and sliding down to his knees, the back of his body dragging against Martin’s front. He only turns when his face is level with the opened front of Martin’s jeans. He wants desperately to know how Martin looks right now but can’t bear to look up, focusing instead on pulling Martin’s cock out and getting his mouth around it, no stopping to think, just the hard length of it half down his throat before he has to pull back. Martin draws a breath in, sharp, and it spurs Benedict to go down again, taking in more; he still, frustratingly, wants to impress him. He hasn’t done this in ages but it’s easy enough to remember, easier still when Martin makes little caught sounds above him, when Martin pushes a hand into his hair.
“Ben,” Martin gasps out, and thrusts, just a bit; Benedict wants to tell him it’s okay to do it harder, but tilts his head back instead, inviting Martin to fuck his throat. It tips him up enough that their eyes meet, Martin staring down at him with red cheeks and wide eyes, and Benedict groans around the length of Martin’s cock in his mouth, helplessly reaching up to grip the backs of Martin’s thighs and urge him on. Martin thrusts hard enough to knock the back of Benedict’s head against the wall and Benedict nearly slams a hand against his own thigh, roughly palming his suddenly insistent erection as he takes Martin in deeper. He puts his all into it, sucking hard when Martin thrusts as deep as he can handle, letting it happen when he chokes a bit, gasping and wishing, intensely and terribly, that Martin would kiss him, and lie down naked with him, and dig his fingers into Benedict’s thighs and fuck him mercilessly hard.
Martin curls his fingers in Benedict’s hair and doesn’t warn him when he’s going to come, so Benedict just swallows it all. His hands shake when he undoes his own trousers. He won’t stand up. He can’t look Martin in the face with the taste of Martin’s come still in his mouth. He sits back on his heels, kneeling at Martin’s feet, and looks at his own erection in his hand, watching as he strokes himself, hard and fast.
“Jesus,” Martin says, in front of Benedict suddenly, crouched down and looking at him. “What kind of bloke do you think I am?” he asks, and knocks Benedict’s hand away, taking Benedict’s cock for himself and jacking him quite nicely. It’s impossible at this point for Benedict not to curl into it, to curl into the warmth of Martin’s body, so he doesn’t bother to try. He buries his face in Martin’s shoulder as he comes, the orgasm fairly shaking out of him. Martin pats him on the shoulder afterward, more of a slap really, like a teammate that’s done well. “Alright?” he asks. Benedict nods, mutely. They stand and do their trousers up, brush themselves off. He wonders where exactly Martin wiped his hand off.
“Guess you’d do alright then, if you were mugged,” Martin says. They continue down the alley, back in the direction of the hotel where they’re up after that night’s filming.
Faintly, Benedict says, “Yes, I suppose I would.”