wrote a wee bit of porn today
Title: Anything Can Wait
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: John/Sherlock, of course.
Rating: hard NC-17
Summary: Pretty much a PWP nspired by the kinkmeme's myriad dreams of Sherlock returning post-Fall and seducing the hell out of a very miffed John Watson. ~2300 words.
“Touch me,” Sherlock breathes, holding out a hand as if to shake John’s.
“Is that a question?” John asks, still flushed with anger, radiating from the place in his chest that has been stinging for three years.
“You need to know that I’m real,” Sherlock says calmly. “Just touch me. Reach out and do it, it will help.”
John looks at him warily, but it’s not distrust in his eyes. It’s never been distrust. Apprehension, maybe, but the old trust is there still. Sherlock’s heart, if he had one, would warm at the thought. He steps forward, reaching a cautious hand out to Sherlock’s shoulder.
Sherlock eyes the hand intently, unable to maintain eye contact with John, who looks like someone who’s been through more than one war. John’s fingers close around Sherlock’s arm and grip painfully, then let go. Sherlock grabs the hand as it retreats to John’s side, and holds it a moment in his own.
“Sherlock,” John says warningly, eyebrows raised, mouth set in a firm frown. “What are you playing it?”
He doesn’t do more than touch a finger to John’s pulse, but he feels it racing. He ducks his head to press his lips against the thrum and sucks lightly. John is completely silent. Sherlock had hoped for something, but still refuses to meet John’s gaze. He sucks harder, pressing his fingers into the soft part of John’s palm.
“Seducing you,” Sherlock answers, trying for matter-of-fact and falling somewhat short. He thinks maybe he hit “breathlessly afraid” on the way down. “If you’ll let me, you fool bastard.”
“Hang on, I’m the bastard?” John asks incredulously, still not pulling his hand away from Sherlock’s mouth. “That can’t possibly be right. I didn’t pretend to be dead, I didn’t leave my best friend.”
“I didn’t leave my best friend,” Sherlock retorts, straightening up and staring at a point somewhere behind John’s head.
“Oh, no, you were just hiding,” John says sarcastically.
“I’m trying to tell you, you’re not my best friend,” Sherlock snaps, voice strangled. “I’m trying to be romantic, and semantics are spoiling it. I’m trying to tell you, you’re the only reason I came back. You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to come back to. Besides Mrs. Hudson.”
John looks bewildered. Sherlock swallows the rest of that confused statement and grabs him by the nape of the neck, pressing their lips together gingerly. When he pulls away, John is smiling, brows knit slightly.
“I hope you don’t do that to Mrs. Hudson,” he offers lamely, quirking a small smile at Sherlock. “You’re still the bastard, I hope you know. Gay revelations don’t mitigate your guilt on this.”
“That’s acceptable. We can discuss it later. Right now, I need something from you,” Sherlock says imperiously, though the tone belies a nervousness John has never in his life born witness to when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.
“Do you,” John says curiously, noncommittal. “Well, I’ll have to take it under consideration, given everything you’ve put me through--”
“I need you to fuck me,” Sherlock says openly, unable to quite meet John’s eyes, which have darkened.
“Pardon?” John manages, only partially taken aback. The other emotion strangling his voice sounds to Sherlock like hope.
“I’ve wanted it for years. You’ll do it; you want it. I know you do.”
“Yes,” John admits easily. “God, yes.” He wraps an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and brings him closer again, plundering his mouth without reserve. “I’m going to fuck an apology from you, damn it.”
Sherlock chuckles darkly. “Is that a challenge?” he moans, turning to bite John’s jaw.
“Maybe for me,” John retorts, still unable to catch his breath as he drags his cock up from his waistband, “It’s one I’m more than willing to rise to.”
Sherlock pulls away to breathe into the top of John’s head, taking a moment to inhale the spicy scent of generic shampoo and sweat. “I can tell,” he mutters, palming the erection now stuttering madly against his right thigh.
“Jesus,” John grunts, pulling away so that his back rests against the bullet-pocked wall. Sherlock undoes his own trousers and presses closer, holding John’s forearm for balance. “I might be too old for this.”
“Surely not,” Sherlock smirks, giving both their cocks a gentle squeeze. “From what I understand, this is precisely how it’s supposed to go.”
John jams his eyes closed for a moment, trying very hard not to come from the combination of Sherlock’s words and his hands. He can’t think of how many half-formed fantasies just like this he’d shut down over the years, not just since Sherlock fell from St. Bart’s but also during the months before. He’d never let them finish, never let himself finish, not when he thought it was a hopeless, stupid exercise, the pathetic delusion of a very lonely mind. In the past three years, he’d only thought of passing women and the occasional army chap, but when Sherlock had crossed his mind he had resolutely resolved to shut him out, whatever physical suffering it might have caused.
Now, he was standing before him and pressing his slender white palm to John’s cock as if they’d done this a thousand times before. “Sherlock,” John managed to utter, eyes still closed, his own hand closing around Sherlock’s and stilling its lazy strokes. “Please-- don’t.” He opens his eyes to find a hurt, embittered smile blazing across his friend’s features.
“Oh, I see,” he says tonelessly, backing away and tucking himself swiftly back inside his pants. John barks an exhausted laugh.
“No, you absolutely do not,” he answers, grabbing Sherlock’s hips and bringing him back. “It’s my leg. It has a psychosomatic cramp.”
Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
“After you-- died, or disappeared, or whatever ridiculous thing you will very soon need to justify to me-- the pain came back, and... while I’m glad to see you, obviously, it might take my leg more than a few minutes and a filthy shag to recognize...” John shakes his head and laughs quietly. “God, I can’t believe I need to justify this to you.”
“You don’t,” Sherlock says. “Met me in my bedroom in thirty seconds.” He turns on his heels and walks briskly to the other room. John pauses, can hear quick footsteps as Sherlock investigates the minute changes that may have come to pass in the three years he spent playing dead, much as Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson tried to keep things in pristine condition. He hasn’t set foot in there in at least two years and eleven months, he’s sure of it.
He walks slowly, limp no help to anything but his burning desire to run, and opens the door without knocking. Sherlock is in front of the mirror, undoing his cuffs. “Let me,” John tells him, coming forward to unbutton the shirtsleeves.
“It’s hardly necessary, I can manage perfectly well,” Sherlock says obliviously, allowing himself to be passively undressed.
“I know you’re new to this,” John tries to sound as nonjudgmental as he can manage, under the circumstances, though exasperation may have made its way into a few syllables, “but this is actually sort of part of it.”
Sherlock snorts derisively before John takes one of his hands and slips its middle fingers unceremoniously into his mouth. “Yes, it is,” he says around them, then bites the tips as he treats each one to an upward swipe of the rough side of his tongue.
“I see,” Sherlock breathes through his nose, and John almost falters at the pressure of Sherlock’s half-hard cock pressing through the four layers of cloth once more between them. “I think we should get these off,” he motions, reading John’s mind, and retracts his hand slowly, almost apologetically, so that he can kneel and unzip John’s trousers. He slides the wetted digits through the fly of John’s pants and brings out his cock, which is already slick and weeping. They’re both deathly silent, two pairs of eyes focused on John, flushed purple and hard as marble.
“Do you know what-- what you want?” John manages, the effort of being courteous almost too much for him as he cards his hands through Sherlock’s hair lightly.
“Everything,” Sherlock replies, low in his throat. “I’m going to suck you until you can’t bear it longer and then you’re going to fuck me until I come from it.” John’s cock twitches hungrily at the words.
“I had no idea... you even knew,” John says, leaving off finishing the sentence as Sherlock drags his hips forward and licks a caress from root to tip.
“What don’t I know?” Sherlock hums, but it’s a rhetorical question. They both know the conversation is only continuing in order to stave off the inevitable, and John’s eyesight whites out with the pleasure of it when Sherlock finally takes him wholly in his mouth.
“Please, oh god,” John mutters, over and over again, and Sherlock pulls away to look quizzically up at him.
“I’d no notion of you as a religious man, John,” he says, stalling as he untucks himself from the confines of his trousers and jerks himself once, twice, with an alarming harshness that almost surprises them both.
“Get on the bed,” John commands suddenly, pupils eclipsing his irises so that his expression suddenly seems very dark indeed. Sherlock complies, his gaze scanning the room and hesitating over the few drawers and boxes that look to have been recently ransacked. He pulls a foil packet from one of them before falling back on the mattress and tosses it to John at the foot of the bed.
John says nothing, just spits into his hand as he rolls on the condom. The sounds that simple action produces are enough to drive Sherlock to take himself in hand, helplessly pressing his cheek into the pillows to stifle a long, laborious moan. As John lines himself up to push inside, he presses a thumb there first, coated in saliva and rubbing hotly with a single-mindedness that Sherlock has always covertly admired.
“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Sherlock pants, one forearm thrown across his eyes, as if witnessing the act will be too much altogether. “I’ve been... practicing.”
“Not on anyone else, I hope,” John leans down, lips grazing Sherlock’s for a short moment before kissing him soundly, tongue licking inside his mouth to skim his teeth, one hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, their stomachs trapping Sherlock’s neglected member.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock chastises breathlessly, legs coming up to curl around John’s back, and that’s the moment John chooses to push inside, and they fall silent, sensation crowding out wit for a brief respite from thought.
“How long?” John finds himself murmuring against Sherlock’s chest, as the pleasure becomes bearable through their rhythmic motions, keeping the edge at bay through some inscrutable natural pulse.
“A little maudlin, aren’t we,” Sherlock sighs, hands gripping John’s buttocks hard enough to bruise. “Faster.”
John slows. “How long?”
“That isn’t fair,” Sherlock sniffs. “Since we met. Or more precisely, three hours and twenty minutes after we met. Harder, I’m not as delicate as I look.”
“You think you look delicate?” John huffs a laugh, and follows orders. “Why did you never say?”
“John, at every-- possible--- mention of it, you-- mocked the idea,” Sherlock utters bitterly between thrusts, or at least as bitterly as he can manage through the firestorm of pleasure building low down in his abdomen.
“I did, yeah,” John recalls, movements speeding up, his forehead pushing firmly into Sherlock’s collarbone, his arms wrenching with the effort to keep upright. “I’m not sorry, it’s preposterous. Even if it is happening.” Sherlock’s baritone laugh turns into gasp as John shifts and rocks harder, stroking his insides so deeply Sherlock can feel it in his spine.
“How’s your leg?” Sherlock asks mischievously, partly to distract himself as he bares down.
“Hadn’t given it a thought,” John retorts, eyes clenching shut. “Careful, or I’ll--”
“Good, because I’m about to,” Sherlock bites back a gasp as John rocks relentlessly into Sherlock, unable or unwilling to stop watching his friend writhe in pleasure as he slams their hips together again and again. Sherlock’s body contracts in that blissful state right before climax, and then Johncollapses from it, arms giving out, pulling out and rolling to the side as his cock pulses a hot stream into the abused condom. Sherlock moans in frustration.
“We had an agreement,” John says quietly, catching his breath and taking obvious delight in Sherlock’s evident discomfort. He reaches out to stroke him lazily, far too lightly and far too slowly for any serious friction. Sherlock strains to thrust harder into John’s fist, but he loosens it still further and kisses a nipple apologetically.
“You have something of mine,” John starts, licking a slow circle from one thigh to the other. “An apology, I think it was, and actually overdue.”
Sherlock glares at him, but the words come easily. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, closing his hand around John’s and pumping himself roughly. John shakes his head, pulls off their joined fists, then bends down to take Sherlock in his mouth. He sucks briefly, running a hand up Sherlock’s stomach and chest to rub them lightly, pulling off to press gentling kisses to his hips, and Sherlock comes spectacularly, streaks of ejaculate spattering his stomach and chest and smearing onto John’s cheek.
“Thank you,” John huffs, and kisses him through the orgasm. Sherlock smiles against his lips.
“I’ll explain whatever you need explained, John,” he sighs contentedly, curling into John’s back as the other settles himself warmly beside him. “But please say it can wait until tomorrow.”
“It can wait,” John agrees, wrapping Sherlock’s arms around himself. It somehow seems less important to know how and why in the wake of his physical presence so near. Anything can wait. John’s just glad he doesn’t have to anymore.
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: John/Sherlock, of course.
Rating: hard NC-17
Summary: Pretty much a PWP nspired by the kinkmeme's myriad dreams of Sherlock returning post-Fall and seducing the hell out of a very miffed John Watson. ~2300 words.
“Touch me,” Sherlock breathes, holding out a hand as if to shake John’s.
“Is that a question?” John asks, still flushed with anger, radiating from the place in his chest that has been stinging for three years.
“You need to know that I’m real,” Sherlock says calmly. “Just touch me. Reach out and do it, it will help.”
John looks at him warily, but it’s not distrust in his eyes. It’s never been distrust. Apprehension, maybe, but the old trust is there still. Sherlock’s heart, if he had one, would warm at the thought. He steps forward, reaching a cautious hand out to Sherlock’s shoulder.
Sherlock eyes the hand intently, unable to maintain eye contact with John, who looks like someone who’s been through more than one war. John’s fingers close around Sherlock’s arm and grip painfully, then let go. Sherlock grabs the hand as it retreats to John’s side, and holds it a moment in his own.
“Sherlock,” John says warningly, eyebrows raised, mouth set in a firm frown. “What are you playing it?”
He doesn’t do more than touch a finger to John’s pulse, but he feels it racing. He ducks his head to press his lips against the thrum and sucks lightly. John is completely silent. Sherlock had hoped for something, but still refuses to meet John’s gaze. He sucks harder, pressing his fingers into the soft part of John’s palm.
“Seducing you,” Sherlock answers, trying for matter-of-fact and falling somewhat short. He thinks maybe he hit “breathlessly afraid” on the way down. “If you’ll let me, you fool bastard.”
“Hang on, I’m the bastard?” John asks incredulously, still not pulling his hand away from Sherlock’s mouth. “That can’t possibly be right. I didn’t pretend to be dead, I didn’t leave my best friend.”
“I didn’t leave my best friend,” Sherlock retorts, straightening up and staring at a point somewhere behind John’s head.
“Oh, no, you were just hiding,” John says sarcastically.
“I’m trying to tell you, you’re not my best friend,” Sherlock snaps, voice strangled. “I’m trying to be romantic, and semantics are spoiling it. I’m trying to tell you, you’re the only reason I came back. You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to come back to. Besides Mrs. Hudson.”
John looks bewildered. Sherlock swallows the rest of that confused statement and grabs him by the nape of the neck, pressing their lips together gingerly. When he pulls away, John is smiling, brows knit slightly.
“I hope you don’t do that to Mrs. Hudson,” he offers lamely, quirking a small smile at Sherlock. “You’re still the bastard, I hope you know. Gay revelations don’t mitigate your guilt on this.”
“That’s acceptable. We can discuss it later. Right now, I need something from you,” Sherlock says imperiously, though the tone belies a nervousness John has never in his life born witness to when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.
“Do you,” John says curiously, noncommittal. “Well, I’ll have to take it under consideration, given everything you’ve put me through--”
“I need you to fuck me,” Sherlock says openly, unable to quite meet John’s eyes, which have darkened.
“Pardon?” John manages, only partially taken aback. The other emotion strangling his voice sounds to Sherlock like hope.
“I’ve wanted it for years. You’ll do it; you want it. I know you do.”
“Yes,” John admits easily. “God, yes.” He wraps an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and brings him closer again, plundering his mouth without reserve. “I’m going to fuck an apology from you, damn it.”
Sherlock chuckles darkly. “Is that a challenge?” he moans, turning to bite John’s jaw.
“Maybe for me,” John retorts, still unable to catch his breath as he drags his cock up from his waistband, “It’s one I’m more than willing to rise to.”
Sherlock pulls away to breathe into the top of John’s head, taking a moment to inhale the spicy scent of generic shampoo and sweat. “I can tell,” he mutters, palming the erection now stuttering madly against his right thigh.
“Jesus,” John grunts, pulling away so that his back rests against the bullet-pocked wall. Sherlock undoes his own trousers and presses closer, holding John’s forearm for balance. “I might be too old for this.”
“Surely not,” Sherlock smirks, giving both their cocks a gentle squeeze. “From what I understand, this is precisely how it’s supposed to go.”
John jams his eyes closed for a moment, trying very hard not to come from the combination of Sherlock’s words and his hands. He can’t think of how many half-formed fantasies just like this he’d shut down over the years, not just since Sherlock fell from St. Bart’s but also during the months before. He’d never let them finish, never let himself finish, not when he thought it was a hopeless, stupid exercise, the pathetic delusion of a very lonely mind. In the past three years, he’d only thought of passing women and the occasional army chap, but when Sherlock had crossed his mind he had resolutely resolved to shut him out, whatever physical suffering it might have caused.
Now, he was standing before him and pressing his slender white palm to John’s cock as if they’d done this a thousand times before. “Sherlock,” John managed to utter, eyes still closed, his own hand closing around Sherlock’s and stilling its lazy strokes. “Please-- don’t.” He opens his eyes to find a hurt, embittered smile blazing across his friend’s features.
“Oh, I see,” he says tonelessly, backing away and tucking himself swiftly back inside his pants. John barks an exhausted laugh.
“No, you absolutely do not,” he answers, grabbing Sherlock’s hips and bringing him back. “It’s my leg. It has a psychosomatic cramp.”
Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
“After you-- died, or disappeared, or whatever ridiculous thing you will very soon need to justify to me-- the pain came back, and... while I’m glad to see you, obviously, it might take my leg more than a few minutes and a filthy shag to recognize...” John shakes his head and laughs quietly. “God, I can’t believe I need to justify this to you.”
“You don’t,” Sherlock says. “Met me in my bedroom in thirty seconds.” He turns on his heels and walks briskly to the other room. John pauses, can hear quick footsteps as Sherlock investigates the minute changes that may have come to pass in the three years he spent playing dead, much as Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson tried to keep things in pristine condition. He hasn’t set foot in there in at least two years and eleven months, he’s sure of it.
He walks slowly, limp no help to anything but his burning desire to run, and opens the door without knocking. Sherlock is in front of the mirror, undoing his cuffs. “Let me,” John tells him, coming forward to unbutton the shirtsleeves.
“It’s hardly necessary, I can manage perfectly well,” Sherlock says obliviously, allowing himself to be passively undressed.
“I know you’re new to this,” John tries to sound as nonjudgmental as he can manage, under the circumstances, though exasperation may have made its way into a few syllables, “but this is actually sort of part of it.”
Sherlock snorts derisively before John takes one of his hands and slips its middle fingers unceremoniously into his mouth. “Yes, it is,” he says around them, then bites the tips as he treats each one to an upward swipe of the rough side of his tongue.
“I see,” Sherlock breathes through his nose, and John almost falters at the pressure of Sherlock’s half-hard cock pressing through the four layers of cloth once more between them. “I think we should get these off,” he motions, reading John’s mind, and retracts his hand slowly, almost apologetically, so that he can kneel and unzip John’s trousers. He slides the wetted digits through the fly of John’s pants and brings out his cock, which is already slick and weeping. They’re both deathly silent, two pairs of eyes focused on John, flushed purple and hard as marble.
“Do you know what-- what you want?” John manages, the effort of being courteous almost too much for him as he cards his hands through Sherlock’s hair lightly.
“Everything,” Sherlock replies, low in his throat. “I’m going to suck you until you can’t bear it longer and then you’re going to fuck me until I come from it.” John’s cock twitches hungrily at the words.
“I had no idea... you even knew,” John says, leaving off finishing the sentence as Sherlock drags his hips forward and licks a caress from root to tip.
“What don’t I know?” Sherlock hums, but it’s a rhetorical question. They both know the conversation is only continuing in order to stave off the inevitable, and John’s eyesight whites out with the pleasure of it when Sherlock finally takes him wholly in his mouth.
“Please, oh god,” John mutters, over and over again, and Sherlock pulls away to look quizzically up at him.
“I’d no notion of you as a religious man, John,” he says, stalling as he untucks himself from the confines of his trousers and jerks himself once, twice, with an alarming harshness that almost surprises them both.
“Get on the bed,” John commands suddenly, pupils eclipsing his irises so that his expression suddenly seems very dark indeed. Sherlock complies, his gaze scanning the room and hesitating over the few drawers and boxes that look to have been recently ransacked. He pulls a foil packet from one of them before falling back on the mattress and tosses it to John at the foot of the bed.
John says nothing, just spits into his hand as he rolls on the condom. The sounds that simple action produces are enough to drive Sherlock to take himself in hand, helplessly pressing his cheek into the pillows to stifle a long, laborious moan. As John lines himself up to push inside, he presses a thumb there first, coated in saliva and rubbing hotly with a single-mindedness that Sherlock has always covertly admired.
“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Sherlock pants, one forearm thrown across his eyes, as if witnessing the act will be too much altogether. “I’ve been... practicing.”
“Not on anyone else, I hope,” John leans down, lips grazing Sherlock’s for a short moment before kissing him soundly, tongue licking inside his mouth to skim his teeth, one hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, their stomachs trapping Sherlock’s neglected member.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock chastises breathlessly, legs coming up to curl around John’s back, and that’s the moment John chooses to push inside, and they fall silent, sensation crowding out wit for a brief respite from thought.
“How long?” John finds himself murmuring against Sherlock’s chest, as the pleasure becomes bearable through their rhythmic motions, keeping the edge at bay through some inscrutable natural pulse.
“A little maudlin, aren’t we,” Sherlock sighs, hands gripping John’s buttocks hard enough to bruise. “Faster.”
John slows. “How long?”
“That isn’t fair,” Sherlock sniffs. “Since we met. Or more precisely, three hours and twenty minutes after we met. Harder, I’m not as delicate as I look.”
“You think you look delicate?” John huffs a laugh, and follows orders. “Why did you never say?”
“John, at every-- possible--- mention of it, you-- mocked the idea,” Sherlock utters bitterly between thrusts, or at least as bitterly as he can manage through the firestorm of pleasure building low down in his abdomen.
“I did, yeah,” John recalls, movements speeding up, his forehead pushing firmly into Sherlock’s collarbone, his arms wrenching with the effort to keep upright. “I’m not sorry, it’s preposterous. Even if it is happening.” Sherlock’s baritone laugh turns into gasp as John shifts and rocks harder, stroking his insides so deeply Sherlock can feel it in his spine.
“How’s your leg?” Sherlock asks mischievously, partly to distract himself as he bares down.
“Hadn’t given it a thought,” John retorts, eyes clenching shut. “Careful, or I’ll--”
“Good, because I’m about to,” Sherlock bites back a gasp as John rocks relentlessly into Sherlock, unable or unwilling to stop watching his friend writhe in pleasure as he slams their hips together again and again. Sherlock’s body contracts in that blissful state right before climax, and then Johncollapses from it, arms giving out, pulling out and rolling to the side as his cock pulses a hot stream into the abused condom. Sherlock moans in frustration.
“We had an agreement,” John says quietly, catching his breath and taking obvious delight in Sherlock’s evident discomfort. He reaches out to stroke him lazily, far too lightly and far too slowly for any serious friction. Sherlock strains to thrust harder into John’s fist, but he loosens it still further and kisses a nipple apologetically.
“You have something of mine,” John starts, licking a slow circle from one thigh to the other. “An apology, I think it was, and actually overdue.”
Sherlock glares at him, but the words come easily. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, closing his hand around John’s and pumping himself roughly. John shakes his head, pulls off their joined fists, then bends down to take Sherlock in his mouth. He sucks briefly, running a hand up Sherlock’s stomach and chest to rub them lightly, pulling off to press gentling kisses to his hips, and Sherlock comes spectacularly, streaks of ejaculate spattering his stomach and chest and smearing onto John’s cheek.
“Thank you,” John huffs, and kisses him through the orgasm. Sherlock smiles against his lips.
“I’ll explain whatever you need explained, John,” he sighs contentedly, curling into John’s back as the other settles himself warmly beside him. “But please say it can wait until tomorrow.”
“It can wait,” John agrees, wrapping Sherlock’s arms around himself. It somehow seems less important to know how and why in the wake of his physical presence so near. Anything can wait. John’s just glad he doesn’t have to anymore.