FICLET: 14th Day (Sherlock/John)
Title: 14th Day
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Spoilers: Not really, none that I can see.
Word Count: 1000
Summary: It's February 14th and John is all alone. Doesn't he deserve something?
Warnings: None
Note: A bit late for the holiday I know, but John insisted. Enjoy!
~~*~~
It's February 14th and John is alone in his bed, sleep-soft and bitter awake, too early with grey morning light pouring through his window. He's on his stomach, never sleeps on his stomach, and his back aches from the unfamiliar position. There's a worse ache somewhat lower, heavy between his legs and John is less than awake still as he fumbles a hand down to his prick. Easier to deal with than to ignore it and if he's quick, John might yet be able to go back to sleep.
A dream must've woken him to begin with, some random bit of memory mixed in with a wish to be, a cocktail of hormones and hope stiffening his cock. John's hand is a bit too dry, his thumb searching for a bead of slickness at the head, smoothing the foreskin down as he strokes. Needs a bit more, something quick to hold in his head before he wakes up too much, something pretty, someone pretty.
Sara, Heather, Jeanette, are recent in his thoughts. Thinking about them feels like a betrayal. John wasn't as good to them as they deserved, he knows that, and he's not going to make it worse by wanking to thoughts of them.
Someone else, then. Faceless, nameless, he likes smaller breasts with pert, pink nipples, would love to press his face between a pair of them. To kiss and caress them, stroking and rubbing, suckling them and he's hard, so hard thinking about it and yet…yet…
Sherlock.
John bit his lip, worries it between his teeth. Doesn't open his eyes. Crazy, perhaps, if he doesn't consider Sherlock, infuriatingly brilliant, frustratingly callous, a messily splendid conundrum, excellent, wonderful, is there any word John can think of in his sleepy desire that doesn't suit?
And it is Valentine's Day and here he is, with no valentine, his hand between his own legs and doesn't he deserve something? Some small gift?
John spreads his legs and sighs, cups his balls in one hand and lets his thoughts wander.
Hands, yes, Sherlock has gorgeous hands, long fingers. Large strong hands that he clasps together when he's thinking, which is always, they would surely feel perfect clasped around his prick. Masturbating to masturbation, though, hm, no, it feels like a waste of a perfectly good fantasy.
His mouth is equally tempting and John considers it, tries it on for size and finally surrenders to the truth. He wants Sherlock to touch him but more than that, he wants to touch Sherlock.
Wants to touch him, wants to feel Sherlock come undone in his arms. Would he? If he ever got Sherlock in his bed, would Sherlock let him touch, slim body thrashing against his sheets, those lovely, clever hands knotting into the blankets, knuckles white and straining? Would he lie there while John fills his own hands with him, taking what he wants?
Oh, Christ, he wants. He'd stroke a hand down that thin chest, flat and bare. Sherlock's nipples are a shade darker than his lips and John imagines them in hard little points, thinks of what sounds he might make if John licks one, rolls it between his tongue and his teeth, sucks it until it is raw and red, mimicking it on the other. Sherlock is so pale, any bite, any bruise would stand out on his skin in vivid, mottled stains.
A line of bites down his chest, perhaps, a blush of colour sucked into the hollow at the base of his throat; smallish, purple bruises at his hips, the size and shape of John's fingertips.
That, yes, that, John sighs aloud, felt the tremor of his own lashes against his cheeks. If he got Sherlock that far, got him naked on these sheets, if John could coax him that far then surely, maybe, Sherlock might let John fuck him. His cock practically spasms at the thought and John imagines how that might be, Sherlock on his knees, arms wrapped tight around a pillow, his face buried into it, muffling deep, thick cries into it as John slides into him. He thinks about smoothing a hand down the long, lovely line of his back, sliding through sweat, circling his thumb in the dip at the base of his spine.
At the nape of his neck, beneath his hair, there is a smooth patch of skin so biteable that John's mouth waters just thinking of it. He could fill his hands with Sherlock's hips, press bruises into them, lean over and barely reach it, sink his teeth into that smooth, sweet skin until Sherlock sobs beneath him.
Sherlock would be tight, that much he can assume. Tight and hot around his cock, clasping him tight as a fist, silken wet heat sliding around him.
Or on his back, yes, Sherlock might like that better and he is flexible as all hell, limber enough to prop his feet on John's shoulders and still be able to see everything, everything. John could be inside him like that, hands braced against his thighs to help hold them up, hold Sherlock open for him while he twists and squirms. Eager for it, he would be, he'd want more, want John to press into him, again and again, until the heat is ricocheting through them like a bullet and every breath out of them is a sob. Until they come, Sherlock painting thick white stripes over his belly that John slicks his hand through, pressing wet fingers to Sherlock's mouth until he licks them clean. Lewd, slippery flicks of his tongue over John's fingers, between them, the loveliest obscenity John has ever seen.
And maybe, maybe, Sherlock could stay beneath him, gleaming with sweat, the curls of his hair limp and clinging to his face, and his eyes would be dark and warm like he loves him.
John is jerking and gasping and swearing, coming hard into his own hand, stunning and hot as a slap to the face. He's sweating, slick with his own come, messy and gasping, eyes closed tight against the grey morning light. It's February 14th and John Watson rolls over in his bed to a clean patch of sheets, presses his face into cool linens and slides back into sleep like going underwater. Sleeping or dreaming, wishing or hoping, perhaps, on Valentine's Day.
-finis-
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Spoilers: Not really, none that I can see.
Word Count: 1000
Summary: It's February 14th and John is all alone. Doesn't he deserve something?
Warnings: None
Note: A bit late for the holiday I know, but John insisted. Enjoy!
~~*~~
It's February 14th and John is alone in his bed, sleep-soft and bitter awake, too early with grey morning light pouring through his window. He's on his stomach, never sleeps on his stomach, and his back aches from the unfamiliar position. There's a worse ache somewhat lower, heavy between his legs and John is less than awake still as he fumbles a hand down to his prick. Easier to deal with than to ignore it and if he's quick, John might yet be able to go back to sleep.
A dream must've woken him to begin with, some random bit of memory mixed in with a wish to be, a cocktail of hormones and hope stiffening his cock. John's hand is a bit too dry, his thumb searching for a bead of slickness at the head, smoothing the foreskin down as he strokes. Needs a bit more, something quick to hold in his head before he wakes up too much, something pretty, someone pretty.
Sara, Heather, Jeanette, are recent in his thoughts. Thinking about them feels like a betrayal. John wasn't as good to them as they deserved, he knows that, and he's not going to make it worse by wanking to thoughts of them.
Someone else, then. Faceless, nameless, he likes smaller breasts with pert, pink nipples, would love to press his face between a pair of them. To kiss and caress them, stroking and rubbing, suckling them and he's hard, so hard thinking about it and yet…yet…
Sherlock.
John bit his lip, worries it between his teeth. Doesn't open his eyes. Crazy, perhaps, if he doesn't consider Sherlock, infuriatingly brilliant, frustratingly callous, a messily splendid conundrum, excellent, wonderful, is there any word John can think of in his sleepy desire that doesn't suit?
And it is Valentine's Day and here he is, with no valentine, his hand between his own legs and doesn't he deserve something? Some small gift?
John spreads his legs and sighs, cups his balls in one hand and lets his thoughts wander.
Hands, yes, Sherlock has gorgeous hands, long fingers. Large strong hands that he clasps together when he's thinking, which is always, they would surely feel perfect clasped around his prick. Masturbating to masturbation, though, hm, no, it feels like a waste of a perfectly good fantasy.
His mouth is equally tempting and John considers it, tries it on for size and finally surrenders to the truth. He wants Sherlock to touch him but more than that, he wants to touch Sherlock.
Wants to touch him, wants to feel Sherlock come undone in his arms. Would he? If he ever got Sherlock in his bed, would Sherlock let him touch, slim body thrashing against his sheets, those lovely, clever hands knotting into the blankets, knuckles white and straining? Would he lie there while John fills his own hands with him, taking what he wants?
Oh, Christ, he wants. He'd stroke a hand down that thin chest, flat and bare. Sherlock's nipples are a shade darker than his lips and John imagines them in hard little points, thinks of what sounds he might make if John licks one, rolls it between his tongue and his teeth, sucks it until it is raw and red, mimicking it on the other. Sherlock is so pale, any bite, any bruise would stand out on his skin in vivid, mottled stains.
A line of bites down his chest, perhaps, a blush of colour sucked into the hollow at the base of his throat; smallish, purple bruises at his hips, the size and shape of John's fingertips.
That, yes, that, John sighs aloud, felt the tremor of his own lashes against his cheeks. If he got Sherlock that far, got him naked on these sheets, if John could coax him that far then surely, maybe, Sherlock might let John fuck him. His cock practically spasms at the thought and John imagines how that might be, Sherlock on his knees, arms wrapped tight around a pillow, his face buried into it, muffling deep, thick cries into it as John slides into him. He thinks about smoothing a hand down the long, lovely line of his back, sliding through sweat, circling his thumb in the dip at the base of his spine.
At the nape of his neck, beneath his hair, there is a smooth patch of skin so biteable that John's mouth waters just thinking of it. He could fill his hands with Sherlock's hips, press bruises into them, lean over and barely reach it, sink his teeth into that smooth, sweet skin until Sherlock sobs beneath him.
Sherlock would be tight, that much he can assume. Tight and hot around his cock, clasping him tight as a fist, silken wet heat sliding around him.
Or on his back, yes, Sherlock might like that better and he is flexible as all hell, limber enough to prop his feet on John's shoulders and still be able to see everything, everything. John could be inside him like that, hands braced against his thighs to help hold them up, hold Sherlock open for him while he twists and squirms. Eager for it, he would be, he'd want more, want John to press into him, again and again, until the heat is ricocheting through them like a bullet and every breath out of them is a sob. Until they come, Sherlock painting thick white stripes over his belly that John slicks his hand through, pressing wet fingers to Sherlock's mouth until he licks them clean. Lewd, slippery flicks of his tongue over John's fingers, between them, the loveliest obscenity John has ever seen.
And maybe, maybe, Sherlock could stay beneath him, gleaming with sweat, the curls of his hair limp and clinging to his face, and his eyes would be dark and warm like he loves him.
John is jerking and gasping and swearing, coming hard into his own hand, stunning and hot as a slap to the face. He's sweating, slick with his own come, messy and gasping, eyes closed tight against the grey morning light. It's February 14th and John Watson rolls over in his bed to a clean patch of sheets, presses his face into cool linens and slides back into sleep like going underwater. Sleeping or dreaming, wishing or hoping, perhaps, on Valentine's Day.
-finis-