Soldier
shernanigans:
Prompt 4: Ad Ignorantiam
By: stravaganza (Team Sextras)
John sighed, holding his head between his hands, body still trembling for the aftermath of his nightmare. Still the same, of course, why would it change?
“John?”
He shook his head once more, not turning towards Sherlock, ignoring his voice. Keeping him out.
But of course the detective knew, knew everything, how could he not? He was born to know things, apparently. Except that he didn’t know this one, not quite. Yes, it was a nightmare and he knew it. A memory, yes. A war related one, pretty obvious.
But he didn’t know. He couldn’t know.
“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, the smallest hint of worry in his voice.
John took in a deep breath and nodded, trying to find the courage to look up at him. He couldn’t…
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Everyone, go read this marvellous fanfiction by rosieposie77!
It’s considered one of the best stories of the Italian fandom, and I can’t help but agree! So much, I’m translating it!
Professor John, student (teen) Sherlock… Do I need to say anything else?
Master - A BBC Sherlock fiction by stravaganza on AO3.
On the Side of the Angels - A BBC Sherlock fiction by stravaganza on AO3
this is what I call a very shitty job.
Teach Me How
Procrastination, I’m once again doing it right (as usual)! Aah, sorry johnlockchallenges!
Edit: I just noticed you had prolonged the posting period. Aaah, thanks!
My entry for the Grab Bag Challenge. Fill for the prompt: “Don’t do it like /that/. Do it like /this/.” by retrogrademercury. I hope you are okay with teenlock!
Read here on on AO3. Enjoy! :D
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John had never quite really understood Sherlock’s fixation. Sure, he liked his shoes, loved them. How the already tall detective became so gigantic while wearing them, how his legs’ muscles were taut and at times quivered subtly with the effort to keep him upright, how his arse appeared even more delicious with the added push of the heels - he indeed loved to see Sherlock wear them, and he helped him wear them.
But the uncomfortable position his bones were craned up in, the way he usually groaned in pain whenever he tried on a new pair that wasn’t yet shaped like his feet, the way he at times risked to twist his ankles just because he had taken a too long step… There were a lot of cons to high heeled shoes, and John could see them all.
Sure, they both loved them, and so John indulged with his lover’s passion.
But never, not ever before in his life, John had been more attracted to an inanimate object, and never he had ever desired something so ardently, except Sherlock.
They were sitting, or rather standing there, innocently looking at the world from behind a shop’s window, red like sin and beautiful like love.
The soft chamois, the more sturdy but still tender leather on the top, the hard black heel, it was a small jewel. John could picture it perfectly around his feet, wrapped around his ankles like a gentle caress.
But oh, only when he leaned in he noticed the detail for which he would fall, hard. The silver buttons, with the English crest and motto grossly graven onto them, not enough to be a piece of art but enough to be recognisable, as if the maker couldn’t be arsed to do more. Like an unfinished sketch.
“John?”
The doctor’s eyes fell on the tag next to the shoes. “Head over heels” was the brand, and he could have laughed at the irony of it. He was, indeed, head over heels for a pair of shoes. The price wasn’t even too high - nothing like Sherlock’s designer stilettos, anyway. Perhaps he could—
“John!”
“Huh?” He turned around suddenly, head spinning with the quickness of it.
“You’ve been staring lustily at those boots for the last seven minutes. I’m starting to get jealous,” Sherlock said, nonchalantly, his ankles crossed six inches from the floor as he still - how? - stood on his Prada pumps.
John felt himself flush and shook his head. “No, it’s just…”
“I have more beautiful shoes, really. I don’t even think they’re my sty-…” Sherlock trailed off, and John flushed even more.
“No, you’re right, they’re not,” he said, taking a deep breath. “And your shoes aren’t of my size.” Not to mention that his heels were far too high for his acrobat’s abilities.
Sherlock, who had been smiling like a loon for the past minute, nodded understandingly. Then he took a step towards the shop’s door, pushing the door open with the soft ringing of a bell.
“Come with me, John. I’m going to buy you your first pair of heels.”
—-
Ugh, I fell in love with these shoes and can’t get up. Mostly because it said I could find them online. Deluding liars.
So! I heard it’s Atlin’s birthday, and since it’s Red Heels Monday I thought I’d put John in my shoes. Ahh, puns. Happy birthday, darling! :D
Link for high resolution here!
Cultural Shock
For the “I’m having too much fun with the Kink Meme” series: “Basically Bilbo trying to be nice and friendly while the Dwarves see it as Bilbo courting them.”
—-
It was Balin who made him notice, or rather understand, really, why every single Dwarf had started acting so strangely around him in the last weeks. Bilbo was shocked to know that in their opinion he had been flirting with everyone. And that was absurd, because Bilbo was sure he had never flirted with anyone in his whole life.
Even thinking back of it, the Hobbit didn’t think he had made anything wrong at all! Nothing that could have him considered an easy one, at least. But again, that was by Hobbit standards. He was appalled when he discovered that among Dwarves nearly any act of kindness made outside of a battle was seen as courtship, no matter your gender.
He didn’t think he had courted Bofur,
(“Wait, Master Bofur!”
“What is it, Mister Baggins?”
“Oh, nothing, just, your hat is a bit torn here… Let me fix it for you,” he had simply said, and done so, not waiting for permission. He had been very quick, too, and then he had replaced the hat on Bofur’s head after he had stared at him work. “Here, now it’s alright!” Bilbo had said in satisfaction, unaware of the Dwarf’s stare on his face as he straightened the hat.)
nor Bombur,
(“Here, have a bit more of bread,” he had said, giving an extra slice to the Dwarf, knowing he was the one who most longed for a nice meal after himself. No wonder now that he had looked back at him as if he had said he wanted to fight an Orc barehanded!)
nor Gloin,
(“Let me take these leaves out of your beard… You should be more careful with it when you look for wood in the forest!” Maybe that’s why he had mumbled something about being married with an indignant tone?)
nor Dwalin,
(“Wait, Master Dwalin, you’re hurt! Put this on your wound,” he had said as he handed the tall Dwarf a piece of his thorn, otherwise useless waistcoat.)
nor with Fili or Kili,
(“Fili, let me help you carry those logs!”
“Don’t worry, Master Baggins, I can manage!”
“Then perhaps I could do part of Kili’s guard shift? You must be tired, and I can’t chuck wood like you two, I’m not as strong!”
And they probably thought he was flirting with both of them – how absurd!)
What opinion would these Dwarves have of him, now? The only ones who said nothing were Oin, - who never heard what he said to him - Bifur, - who he was scared of - Ori, Nori and Dori, - that were very kind souls themselves - and Balin - who was smart enough to tell he wasn’t doing it on purpose.
And then of cours- Bilbo paled at the thought of Thorin, and what the King could be thinking of him. Then he flushed deeply as he remembered that one and only time he had tried being kind to him.
(“Master Oakenshield, I can sharpen your axe if you like?”
“Of course you can, little one.”
No wonder he had smiled at him like that and his eyes seemed to glisten as he handed his weapon!)
That’s when Bilbo decided he wouldn’t be gentle anymore – it was easier than explaining, anyway. Until most of the Dwarves started being kind to him.
Nothing special, really. Nothing strange nor wrong with Thorin asking if he could sharpen his sword in turn.
Nor with Bofur making a hat for him with the fur of a hare he had caught, just so his pointy ears wouldn’t grow cold on the mountains.
Nor with Dwalin offering his coat on a particularly cold night.
Nor with Fili and Kili offering different types of flowers, asking which one he liked best so they could fetch him some more (he had left them arguing about which Dwarf Bilbo preferred).
Finally, before the usual round of stories around the fire, he had to explain to the rest of the Company that kindness was something else entirely for Hobbits, yes something you do when you like a person, no not just when you are propositioning them. He was just trying to be useful!
Many seemed disappointed, a few– included Gandalf, of course – were amused even, but what shocked Bilbo the most was a heavy hand resting on his shoulder and Thorin’s voice, deadly serious, deep and silky, beside his ear:
“I’ll still sharpen your sword.”
How To Court A Hobbit
Fill for the Kink Meme (again?!): “I would like a fic where Thorin is just really really bad at flirting. And he tries really hard but somehow it just doesn’t work and he gets more and more frustrated which isn’t helping. It’s kind of ridiculous, really. He can face orcs and wargs and orcs ON wargs but whenever he tries to have a civil conversation with Bilbo the words somehow get switched around before he can speak them.
BONUS for him going to Balin for advice, Bilbo being totally oblivious (or totally in the know but not willng to help Thorn out just yet) and Gandalf being endlessly amused and dropping innuendos left and right.”
Enjoy!
—-
At first he had tried to apologize for how he had treated the small Hobbit, who had revealed himself more useful than he thought him capable of, saving his life. He said he had regretted his words, and hugged the Halfling, but from that moment on everything sort of went downhill.
Thorin had tried many times to steal furtive touches, sometimes after gentle words, but one could only repeat the same compliment so many times before becoming suspect, and there was a reason if they had to hire a burglar. Luckily Bilbo didn’t seem to see through his behaviour – not yet.
Gandalf however seemed to be amused whenever Thorin talked with the Hobbit, and after a while it was clear that the Wizard knew perfectly what was going on. Thorin, the proud creature he was, didn’t admit he needed a bit of, let’s say, “help”.
Thorin ignored his chuckles that time he made a maybe-not-so-flattering comment about Bilbo’s height, or his disapproving scoffs that time he said something about Hobbit’s feet. And most definitely, he ignored his full-on laugh that time he had declared that perhaps he could fit himself in a Hobbit hole for a while, since they looked very comfortable, in particular Bilbo’s (to be honest, it took him a moment to realise what was so funny about it).
After that episode, Gandalf started with jokes of his own – about how Thorin’s sword was undoubtedly bigger than Bilbo’s, or that time he complimented Bilbo who had “learnt how to ride perfectly” with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
The Hobbit seemed not to notice all of this, and whenever Thorin talked to him and managed not to end up angering the creature it felt like a triumph to the Dwarves’ King.
Halfway during their permanency at Beorn’s house, Thorin was fed up with his own incompetence. He was, as said, a King! He wasn’t supposed to court others, others were supposed to pay to have a chance of getting his hand. But, well, that was in the past now. And in all his time away from home, from his throne, how to flirt with a Hobbit was something he had never worried about.
To his own dismay, he finally found himself asking Balin for advice, not trusting any of the other Dwarves – not clever enough, that lot, far too gossiping, and like hell he would ask Gandalf. When exposed with his problem, his old friend laughed and stroked his beard thoughtfully, in a way Thorin had learnt meant he was satisfied.
“I thought you were going to dance around that poor lad until the journey back,” Balin had said with a knowing voice, and Thorin wondered for a moment whether Gandalf had told him, or if he was just that obvious.
“What should I do? What are the best ways to court a Hobbit?” Thorin asked, impatiently, turning around to see Bilbo and Ori practicing with their swords together with Dwalin, who could easily keep up with both of them at the same time and laughed at them.
With no little admiration, Thorin watched as Bilbo managed to slid between Dwalin’s legs and hit his back with the side of his sword, to the tall Dwarf’s surprise.
Balin’s tutting had him turning around again, frowning as he was met by a placid smile. Wasn’t it clear that the matter was serious?
“Thorin, Hobbits are simple creatures – perhaps the most simple you’ll ever find. You just have to tell him.”
“But what if he doesn’t return the sentiment?” Thorin wondered, and Balin looked at him like he used to when he was a child, and the elder Dwarf was in charge of educating him. Thorin nodded, admitting silently he was behaving a bit like a child. If the sentiment was unrequited he would still act like a King. And leave the poor Halfling alone.
“Fine,” he decided, standing and resolutely heading towards Bilbo. The training session had ended for the moment, and Thorin saw this as the perfect occasion. The Hobbit was drinking a mug of ale to refresh himself as Ori and Dwalin went to ask Beorn’s sheeps for some food.
“That was a nice move,” he started saying, looking out of the window rather than at the Hobbit. “If we’re ever going to fight elves it will be very useful.”
Bilbo scoffed and Thorin considered for a moment hitting himself. And to say he hadn’t started that badly!
They stood in silence for a moment, and as Bilbo opened his mouth to say something, Thorin turned and proposed: “Let’s go for a walk in the garden. I noticed you like the flowers.”
Bilbo seemed surprised enough to accept, smiling, pleased that Thorin had noticed something about him that wasn’t his lack of fighting skills, or the number of times he had complained about missing his own bed. They walked for a while, still in silence, and Bilbo leant to touch a flower’s petal to feel its softness. That’s when Thorin decided to speak.
“I am interested in you,” he said. Bilbo turned around and rose an eyebrow, his face clearly saying: ‘Really, now?’
“Yes, I am. And I tried to find a way to let my desire-” no, wrong word, “my affection known, but Dwarves aren’t known for being a romantic people. The best I could do is compare you to gems and gold, but I’m sure a Hobbit would value more being compared to a good meal and a warm home.” The King turned around and faced Bilbo, kneeling in front of him so that his forehead was in line with the Hobbit’s neck. “I would be honoured if you were to consider me your companion.”
The air seemed to still around them for a moment, but it soon was shaken by a light laugh coming from the Halfling. Thorin didn’t know whether to feel hurt or not, yet.
“I would consider it an honour, too, if I weren’t already so chuffed for being the cause of such great frustration,” Bilbo said with a sly smirk.
A long pause followed, before Thorin finally asked: “How long have you known?”
Bilbo rolled his eyes and looked at his feet, still smiling, perhaps a bit more bashfully now. “Since Gandalf told me.” Bilbo didn’t say he was complaining about Thorin’s involuntarily offensive attempts at conversation when it happened. Thorin sighed, thinking he should have known better than thinking the wizard wouldn’t meddle in his business.
“And you didn’t think about saying so?” he asked.
Bilbo smiled candidly. “Why? It was fun to see you struggle with yourself. You’re really bad at this, you know?”
Thorin stood again and nodded, smiling back as he wrapped his arms around the Hobbit’s waist, pulling him closer. “Oh, I know.”
My Treasure
Another fill for the Kink Meme (I’m on fire!): “After the defeat of Smaug, possessive!Thorin has his way with Bilbo… on top of all of that gold.”
Enjoy!
—-
When the news of the Dragon’s death reached Thorin’s Company, no one was happier than Bilbo. It meant that his role was concluded, he had done it, and he had gained his fourteenth of the treasure. He could go home!
But soon after, the news of two armies coming for them and their treasure, with another one following suit was more than enough to have everyone’s morals falling, in particular Bilbo’s, which was way below his hairy feet.
As if that wasn’t enough, he was confronted with Thorin’s less noble side. The one that longed for his family’s lost treasure, the Archestone, currently burrowed in Bilbo’s makeshift pillow. For days all the members of the Company had been busy looking for it, while Thorin arranged a military strategy with his distant cousin, helped by the Crows. Soon Bilbo was the only one left looking for the gem, all the others busy with the building of the protective wall that would soon obstruct the door.
If only Thorin knew that he already was in possession of the stone, and too scared to say it…
He was sitting on a small mountain of gold, contemplating the spot where Smaug had lied for a hundred and more years, remembering how all the metal in the room seemed to be boiling just from the beast’s presence, and remembering how every Dwarf had nearly bathed himself in the treasure as soon as the danger had been declared gone.
All except Thorin, who looked around for the Archestone. An unpleasant feeling of guilt had nested itself in Bilbo’s chest, knowing how much it meant to the King to get that shining stone back. But he couldn’t…!
Suddenly, a clatter of golden coins avalanching from a pile near the entrance to the Dragon’s den had Bilbo jumping on the spot and turning around with his heart hammering against his ribcage. He had grown so used to fearing every noise, that even now they were safe in the Lonely Mountain he couldn’t help but reach for his sword. That was now lying on his bedroll, near the entrance of the mountain. Right.
But Bilbo had nothing to fear. It was Thorin, most likely looking for his treasure again. He didn’t even bother standing to greet him: the Dwarf had grown more and more grim with every day spent in the mountain’s depths, and Bilbo doubted he was still in his grace. He probably didn’t even respect him as he had started to do as he proved his value during their adventure.
Surprisingly enough, Thorin walked towards him. Maybe it was time to prepare some supper? The Hobbit briefly thought about the fact that he was supposed to be looking for something, which he wasn’t. He was preparing himself to reply to the King’s scolding, when Thorin stopped before the pile of gold he was sitting on. Bilbo moved around so he could sit facing the Dwarf, surprised to see him smiling.
“You seem to be comfortable,” he spoke. “I think I prefer seeing you sitting on my treasure rather than the Dragon.”
Bilbo chuckled despite himself, glad to see that Thorin still valued that bit of friendship that had been born between them.
“I can’t see how he managed to sleep on here for years, I wouldn’t even nap on something so uncomfortable!”
Thorin eyed the gold and nodded, seeming thoughtful. Then he proceeded to take his cape off, and draped it across the treasure, beside Bilbo. “This should be enough.”
Bilbo supposed Thorin would sit next to him, maybe start talking, tell a story about the glorious past of his people. Or maybe he was about to thank him for all he’d done, Bilbo thought. Not that he hadn’t, but… It had been very formal, very royal, when the Hobbit, simple creature as he was, would have preferred a couple of heartfelt words rather than the speech Thorin had held with the rest of the Company.
To his surprise, Thorin lifted him and moved him so he was sitting on the cape, the gold feeling uncomfortably cold under the cloth. Bilbo shifted back to his previous spot, where he had dug himself a quite comfortable seat. He looked up at Thorin, frowning, only to find his hands pushing him down against the treasure, the coins and jewels digging in his back.
“What-?” he started, only to be interrupted by the Dwarf.
“This is my treasure hall, and I plan on enjoying my treasure even if I can’t leave the mountain at the moment,” he said. It only served to fuel Bilbo’s confusion. “You are on my treasure. I believe this makes you part of it.”
Bilbo’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to protest only to find his lips pressed against Thorin’s. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to push away the taller man, but he was ready to bet that he didn’t even feel his non-vocal protest.
When he could breathe again, Bilbo tried to talk again, only to be silenced by Thorin’s mouth on his neck. He yelped, the scrape of beard against his soft skin unfamiliar to the Hobbit.
Thorin’s hands were soon on his body, stroking and groping, undoing his trousers and pulling them down with his undergarments, calloused fingers tracing paths on his quivering thighs. Bilbo was flushed and panting when Thorin let his fingers slip under his shirt, brush past his stomach and up to his nipples, pinching them enough to make him yelp.
“There is only one thing in this room that I desire more ardently than the Archestone,” Thorin said in a deep voice, blue eyes darker than Bilbo had ever seen them. His breath hitched as Thorin unbuttoned his shirt, caressing his chest and down to his hips. For a moment, Bilbo was sure he saw his lips move to form the word ‘Beautiful’, but he was sure to be wrong; which doesn’t mean he didn’t blush.
Then Thorin took a handful of golden coins and gems, and let them fall gently on Bilbo’s exposed body, smiling when some of them stopped on his skin. He brushed his thumb right below his navel, where a sapphire had found itself at home.
The Hobbit wasn’t sure if he was still breathing, or if he had died without noticing: this should have been embarrassing, but somehow it wasn’t. Being showered in gold by a King, being eyed like he was the most precious of prizes, that was much more of the simple thank you he was hoping in.
Thorin dug in his pocket and produced a bottle of olive oil, and Bilbo briefly thought that he wouldn’t be able to put any in tonight’s soup as the Dwarf covered some fingers in it. It took him a long moment to realise the implications of what Thorin was doing, and by the time he did Bilbo was gasping softly as a large finger probed at him. A strong hand gripped his thigh and spread his legs, Thorin’s hip keeping the other from closing, and a hot mouth bit at the pointy tip of his ear.
“You are part of my treasure,” Thorin said huskily, his voice enough to send shivers of arousal down Bilbo’s spine. “My precious Hobbit. My burglar. My Mister Baggins.”
Bilbo found himself relaxing at these – he supposed, for a Dwarf – loving words, and soon he was gripping Thorin’s shirt, his short arms barely encircling his torso enough to reach his back, moaning softly as he was being opened.
He thought deliriously about staying there after the war with the Elves and Men would be averted, with Thorin, and nearly laughed as he thought of the words ‘home’ and ‘Hobbit hole’. But quite luckily for him, soon he was being stretched furthermore, another careful finger trying to wriggle its way inside his body.
Bilbo moaned and parted his legs as far as they would go, Thorin’s lips lacing on his collarbones as he tried not to lose that bit of respectability he was left with; it didn’t took long for him to give it up.
After excruciatingly long moments of preparation, with the large room’s silence broken only by gasps and moans, Thorin pulled his fingers away and caused Bilbo to whimper in loss. The Hobbit watched dazedly as Thorin removed the belt around his waist and lifted the heavy shirt he wore over more simple, woollen trousers. Bilbo trembled in anticipation as Thorin lowered the fabric to expose himself, and stared in wonder: how had he never been more interested in this?
He observed cautiously as Thorin coated his erect member in a thick strata of oil, and steeled himself as he was pulled by the waist closer to the edge of the golden pile, a few coins rolling to the floor. No one paid them any attention, though, not when Thorin’s erection was pressing against Bilbo’s entrance. The Hobbit was surprised at how easy the oil made matters, moaning as Thorin slipped with little resistance inside his body.
Bilbo could only grip his shirt more tightly and moan, fighting against his instinct of tightening his muscles, of closing up and pushing out that intruder. As if he could be a match against Thorin’s strength. Soon Bilbo was so delirious with sensations that he couldn’t tell where he ended and where the Dwarf started. But he could tell as soon as the other started to move, causing him to yelp in pain at first; soon however the burn subsided, and he was left with a pleasurable slide of skin against skin, of in and out, of nerve endings on fire and muffled sounds of appreciation.
The Hobbit wondered if Thorin was just silent or if his own voice was covering the sounds he made, and the answer to his question came as his voice reverberated loudly in the chamber, a marvellous sensation shaking him from head to toes at a particularly angled thrust of Thorin’s hips. That thrust soon became two, ten, thirty, and Bilbo soon lost count as he closed his eyes and let himself drown in the sensation, the gold under his back feeling warmer than it had been when the Dragon slept on it. For a moment, Bilbo was afraid it was going to melt, but then wondered whether he would melt first or not.
In a way, he did: Thorin broke his silence with a deep moan, and that was all Bilbo needed to be shoved off the cliff he was hanging desperately onto. He felt a high that not even flying on an Eagle’s back had gave him, and he desired never coming off of it as he tangled a hand desperately to Thorin’s dark locks. He pulled at his hair, and with another moan the Dwarf spilled his seed inside him, leaving both of them panting.
Bilbo wasn’t sure if a year or two had passed between the end of his orgasm and the moment Thorin slid out of him. He felt an even greater sense of loss, and he gave himself a moment to be eyed with satisfaction by the King before propping himself on his elbows. The sapphire still resting in his navel rolled down and stopped at the base of his softened shaft, and Thorin picked it up to slip it in his own pocket as a reminder of this happening.
He then turned and left, leaving Bilbo half naked on his pile of gold, as if he belonged there with his treasure.
Thorin/Bilbo (I have no idea what to entitle this, suggestions?)
Small fill for a prompt on The Hobbit Kink Meme: “this is rather specific but can we get some naked bilbo riding an entirely clothed thorin? even better if it’s in a hasty, secretive situation.”
Enjoy!
—-
Thorin returned to his chamber with a splitting headache. He had spent most part of the evening discussing with Gandalf and Elrond about their travel and how long they would stay in the Last Homely House, with many questions about their goal and few answers about the dangers that lied on their path. All of this while the rest of the Dwarves and the Hobbit laughed, ate and enjoyed themselves with the elves’ wines and beers, barely aware of what the future held for them.
It was to his surprise and irritation that he found the Hobbit in his room, a sly smirk on his lips and a drunken blush on his cheeks. Right what Thorin didn’t need.
“Go away, Halfling, I have no time to hear your complains about the rest of the Company, or that you want to go back home,” he said harshly.
But Bilbo laughed and moved from the wall against which he was leaning, stepping forward on wobbly, short legs.
“I came not to complain, oh King of the Dwarves!” he started to say with a merry laugh. To Thorin, that already sounded too mocking. “I came to tell you that your presence is required at the celebration held by the Elves tonight!”
It took Thorin two steps to reach the spot where Bilbo was standing, and he loomed over the short Hobbit threateningly. “Celebration? What is there to celebrate?” he asked.
Bilbo laughed of a juvenile laugh and shook his head. “Being alive! Arriving here! We’re lucky to have a bed tonight!”
Thorin snorted and turn around, starting to take his armour off. “We have been lucky Gandalf came back for us.”
Bilbo scoffed and crossed his arms, the movement causing him to sway slightly. “It wasn’t all Gandalf’s doing, you know!”
“And now you’re implying that I should thank you?” he asked gruffly, hoping the usually easily scared Hobbit would flee just at that.
“It would be enough of a thank you to see your grumpy face at the party!” Bilbo insisted, before hiccupping drunkenly.
Thorin shook his head as he removed his heavy belt and his mail, sitting then on the bed to take his heavy boots off. “I can tell you already had too much of a party, Hobbit. Go rest.”
But little did the future King Under the Mountain know that Hobbits are very stubborn and persistent creatures, especially with the help of alcohol, when their fears were chased away. In fact, Thorin heard a shuffle of clothes and felt a weight resting on his mattress, and he turned to find Mister Baggins without his trousers on.
“What do you think you’re doing, now? Be gone, at once!”
Bilbo’s reply was an indignant scoff, and the Halfling was soon rid of his elegant jacket and unbuttoning his waistcoat. “You, oh Thorin Oakenshield, may your beard never get white, have got the most luxurious and comfortable room, even when I saved you all and would deserve it,” Bilbo started, his words a bit more slurred than before. “I know you still think little of me, and that Dwarves’ pride is hard to break, but if you won’t thank me I’ll accept your silent gratitude for the use of this bed!”
Thorin looked at the Hobbit with a thick eyebrow raised and something akin to amusement glittering in his eyes. “Oh, really? I should feel honoured that you are so indulgent, shouldn’t I Master Baggins, may your feet always be warm?”
Bilbo barked a small laugh as he collapsed on the bed, pushing his waistcoat from the edge of the bed. If he noticed the mocking tone, he didn’t say anything about it. The bed would have been more than enough for both of them, hadn’t Thorin decided to keep It all to himself due to his pride, but he couldn’t forcefully move Bilbo away. He was drunk, after all, and were he to hurt the little burglar, Gandalf would be cross at him: and everyone knew the last enemy you might want is a wizard.
When Bilbo had fallen silent and started breathing more heavily, Thorin saw his chance. He lifted the Hobbit carefully, decided to move him to his own bedroom, but a small squeak and a lot of wriggling told Thorin the Halfling was still awake; too bad he had decided to move him anyway.
But Bilbo pushed on his chest and started kicking, mostly in the air, debating so much Thorin had to let go of him. If only he had put this much of a fight on when he’s been captured by the Trolls, he thought! With a deep intake of breath and his patience growing thinner, Thorin grabbed the front of Bilbo’s shirt and shook him completely awake.
“You must return to your room at once!” he ordered, but Bilbo only chuckled and grabbed a pillow tightly, seeming intentioned to remain. The Dwarf was this close to snapping his legs, but the last thing he needed were other complaints.
So he lied down and put as much space he could between the two of them, giving his back to the Hobbit. He needed to rest, this juvenile fight could wait. He wanted to get rid of his headache, not worsen it. Eventually, he fell asleep at the sound of gentle snoring next to him.
Thorin woke up several hours later to a light weight positioned itself on his stomach. With a grunt he realised that it must have been the Halfling, and he was ready to shout at him for his lack of anything Dwarfish when a pair of small hands cupped his face and he was driven by them to a small, gentle kiss. He had barely opened his eyes by then, startled as the dying fire draw dark shadows in every crease of Bilbo’s body.
He could see all of them, now, for the Hobbit had unbuttoned his shirt and was completely bare on top of him, the thin clothing dangling from his shoulders. Thorin grabbed one hem of the shirt, decided to pull it back on, when he caught Bilbo’s eyes: they were darker than usual, and if his hands on his cheeks and their forehead nearly touching meant anything, he thought he knew why.
Bilbo moved his arms and slid out of his shirt, which Thorin threw on the bed beside them. This was interesting. Did ale have this effect on every Hobbit? Would Bilbo have crawled on top of any other dwarf, had he not been in Thorin’s chamber? And how could he push him away, reject him, without hurting him physically or emotionally?
“Mister Baggins,” he said in a solemn voice, only to find small fingers pressing against his lips. “I know,” came a whisper in reply to his unspoken protest. “I know, just… Hush,” the gentle voice said again, and Thorin nodded because Bilbo’s eye already looked hurt.
He lied perfectly still as the Hobbit pressed his hands to his chest, exploring it, leaning in to kiss his lips again. Thorin didn’t fight. He cupped the back of Bilbo’s head with his own hand, fingers threading in soft curls as lips were bit and tongues sucked. No need to say that even though Bilbo had been the one starting the kiss, running his tongue along Thorin’s lips clumsily, the Dwarf was more than ready to accept the challenge – and win it, as he kissed back with an intensity that had the Halfling trembling on top of him.
When he pulled away he was going to ask Bilbo if he was ready to come down, but as soon as he broke their lips apart a small movement had both of them gasping softly, one in pleasure and the other in surprise.
Thorin looked down between Bilbo’s spread legs to find a small – but not bad for a Hobbit, he supposed – erection bobbing in the air in rhythm with Bilbo’s thrusts. He lied still, but soon noticed most of the whimpers that fell from the Hobbit’s soft lips weren’t all of pleasure, and he glanced to see that his knees barely grazed the mattress and he lacked the necessary leverage.
Knowing he would likely regret it, Thorin thrust back against Bilbo, a sweet moan rippling from his lips before he caught them again for a slow kiss, mostly to muffle the lewd sounds the Hobbit was making. Soon, a groan of his own could be heard breaking the silence, and more followed as his own body grew interested in Bilbo’s attentions and reacted consequentially. But he was to keep his dignity intact, unlike the Halfling, and so ignored his own need until Bilbo was crying out, the fruit of his pleasure soiling Thorin’s shirt.
Then Bilbo fell on top of him, most likely exhausted by the mix of mead and sex; Thorin let his hands roam his narrow back for a moment, travelling down to his backside, where he lingered, before moving down his legs. He stopped at the knees and left one hand there, the other moving to the Hobbit’s shoulder as he moved him down onto the other side of the mattress.
Once he was free of moving again, Thorin sat on the bed and brought a hand to his trousers, which he unbuttoned quickly with a deep breath, before he started stroking his hardened shaft. He remembered the soft, warm body lying behind him and the sounds a Hobbit would make when aroused, one Hobbit in particular. Soon he reached completion as well, cleaning himself with Bilbo’s discarded shirt before lying back next to the Halfling.
The next morning he woke up first, one arm possessively curled around the Hobbit, and he wondered where this would go. If he was honest with himself, he hoped things would escalate. And maybe by the end of the quest, he and Mister Baggins would see things with the same eye.
Assigned Target: Sherlock Holmes
For manic-merc-mannerisms in the johnlockchallenges Gift Exchange! Their prompt was for angst and futuristic assassins AU. I did my best (which isn’t much), but I still hope you like it!
Read here or on AO3. “Art” attached.
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“Son of a- was this really necessary?!” Dean yelled, not sure whether Gabriel (or whoever it was the idiot who did this, really) would listen to him.
But he was left with little else to do other than lean forward and look into the eyes of the far too short angel in front of him.
“You seriously mean to tell me that you’re-” He paused. “Castiel?” he tried then.
The one meter tall Castiel looked up at him and tilted his head to the side. He opened his mouth to reply, but the only thing he got out was a mewl that seemed nothing but right seen the dark ears and tail popping out of his head and backside.
Dean couldn’t help but laugh at that, a hand soon on his stomach to contain the sound. Castiel blinked slowly, as if he saw nothing so hilarious in what had just occurred.
That’s when Sam entered the room, and of course he would look at Dean as if he had gone crazy, and of course Castiel would mewl at him as if he was the one who needed to explain why Dean was acting like that.
In the end he didn’t even need to open his mouth, because as soon as he did it Dean nearly screamed in his fit of laughter: “CAT-IEL!”
why this sucks so much I’m so sorry
![[Manip by glassdildo - link to AO3 - And a happy birthday present to raggedy-spaceman! :D]
Moonlight Sonata
When Sherlock decides to spend the night playing the violin, John always knows the next is going to be a tough day. If there is a case or a problem he would compose until the answer would magically pop in his brain – because really, who could think while composing? Doesn’t that require concentration? – and they could all go to sleep; other days he would spend the whole night playing something absurdly complicate that John couldn’t even name; this time, he seemed intent on just plucking the strings and torturing the poor instrument, like he did when he visited his “Mind Palace” and decided to wander there for a while.
If John had not heard him play multiple times, he would have thought the violin was just part of Sherlock’s cool attire alongside with his coat and cheekbones but, alas, he was too aware of the man’s ability. And yet, at times Sherlock would just like to create annoying noises that didn’t let John sleep, not after his military training of waking up at the smallest hint of danger. Which apparently included snapping strings, muffled curses and resuming noises from an abused Stradivari.
Eventually, Sherlock put the instrument aside some time around half past three in the morning, and John could sleep without a pillow pressed against his ears. When he awoke to the sound of his alarm going off at seven thirty the next morning, he did the mistake he hated the most: turned it off, rolled on the other side and thought that he had to be to work in an hour, so he could afford five more minutes, just to indulge a bit more in the dream he was having and enjoying so much. When he awoke again, it was twelve minutes to nine.
Jumping up and running to the bathroom to get a shower, then back to his room to get dressed and down the stairs, snatching his jacket and ignoring breakfast, had become a far too familiar ritual since he moved in with Sherlock. Not a problem when it was for a case, but John had always been the perfect employee when he trained at Bart’s, even later in Afghanistan’s military hospitals, and arriving late was something he hated, particularly when he had no better reason than “Sherlock didn’t let me get enough sleep,” because he knew the innuendos to come. He had had that conversation with Sarah and other colleagues many times, and yet it seemed to never cease. Today was no exception.
“Was he ‘playing the violin’ again?” she in fact asked. It wasn’t as if he needed to defend his being straight, because he had to admit he wouldn’t mind swimming in the other direction with Sherlock, but since the man had once stated his not being sexual at all to a courting woman, John didn’t pay any mind to what he would have liked. Sexuality wasn’t that important, after all, very overrated. What he defended was Sherlock’s right to be recognized as an independent man who didn’t need a relationship to live, and therefore the lack of one between them.
“Not really, just plucked at it until he snapped a string.”
“Well, whatever you want to call it,” if there wasn’t mild rancour for their failed dates there, John had no idea what this was, “It’s not acceptable to come to work more than an hour late. As usual, I’ll detract it from your salary, alright?”
John knew he never really risked his job, being practically a veteran, voluntary doctor that helped when he could mostly by filling in other’s shifts, but it still was annoying not being able to work when he wanted to because a mad man decided to be noisy until late at night, even more so when his only income of money came from this job. He still got his army pension, but it was barely enough to pay his half of the rent and a cup of tea at the end of the day. Which he would surely need today.
So, instead of trying to talk some sense into Sarah’s head like he did that time Sherlock had decided to play the Danse Macabre – “Sure it wasn’t another kind of ‘dance’?” had been her reply – John simply nodded and headed to his office, where he proceeded to assist a couple dozens of patients with their minor health issues, usually simple colds and sore throats with the eventual lump on the ‘I-think-it’s-cancer’ woman’s neck that revealed itself to be an engorged lymph node.
When he was finally off his shift, which took an hour longer so he could regain a bit of his pay, it was around seven in the afternoon. He was hungry, but as he had noticed during his lunch break, due to the morning rush he had left his wallet on the kitchen table and only had with him twenty quids. More than enough for lunch, thankfully, and for his so needed evening tea.
There was a tea room he liked particularly, which served every brand and brew known from America to Japan, going East of course, but despite his love for oriental teas John decided to set with a simple bag of Earl Grey; the kind of black, strong tea that he wanted at the moment. For the second time that day though, his military training went against him. Being in the army meant no wastes, and therefore he had gotten used to placing the used teabag on the hollow of his spoon and winding the string around it, squeezing the last drops of it into the mug. It wasn’t difficult, and it usually worked without problems with the brand he always got at Tesco’s, but this particular teabag didn’t seem to like his technique as it practically split in half, pouring wet leaves into the cup, which then John managed to half-spill over himself in a vain attempt at putting the treacherous bag away. With that, his desire for tea was gone. If anything, the water wasn’t too hot and he avoided cursing. That is, until he got out of the tea room with two pounds and twenty-five cents left, and the damp-yet-cold air of London’s October froze his jeans clad thigh and managed to make him sweat at the same time.
He was cold and he was tired, and it was getting quite late, so John decided to duck into a tube station as a substitute to the cab he would have taken, had he had the money, to get home. Once down there, though, another thought got to him: again, he had left his wallet home. Which meant he didn’t have his Oyster Card, as well as money, with him. Other curses followed as he took all the way home by foot and managed to get lost after turning in that alley that seemed ‘the one Sherlock used that time’, and that instead took him to a whole new part of the town. A part he never wanted to see again but feared he would have to, most likely after a multiple murder, seen the faces he met there.
When he finally, finally got home, the flat was dark. After looking for his mobile, making sure to have taken it at all, and checking lost calls or texts secondly, John frowned and entered the building. No case, obviously, or Sherlock would have called him despite his being at work, but he couldn’t be asleep: case or not, Sherlock wasn’t the sleeping kind of lazy. Rather the ‘I-wouldn’t-move-were-London-on-fire’ kind of lazy. The more John climbed the stairs, the more he waited to hear for any noise or sign of danger, adrenaline ready to flow within his blood, but as soon as he opened the door something else went through him.
Sherlock was standing in the living room, his not unusually stark naked body almost framed by the window as he stretched his arms above his head leisurely, looking somewhat like a ballerina frozen in the middle of a step. His expression was a relaxed yet thoughtful one, bright eyes unfocusedly digging holes in the ceiling as he concentred on something that was solely in his mind, lips parted as if in wonder, one leg slightly lifted as he stretched its muscles as well, using the leverage his right foot’s toes could provide if he put his whole weight on their tips and his other foot, solidly planted to the floor. The moon weakly shining through the window had his pale skin nearly glowing, and if during the day sunlight made his hair almost auburn, creating a sort of angelic aureole around his head, the white light he was now bathing in made it silver as it traced the lines of his face.
Every tendon in Sherlock’s body seemed to be exposed, every muscle tensed as he slowly pulled at them one by one, his ribcage prominent under the thin skin as he breathed and the inward curve of his spine inhumanly perfect, a clear contrast with the outward curve of his rear. John observed the game of shadows the faint light created in the many hollows of his body, from his cheekbones to his ankles, passing by his throat and down to his navel, all the way down to his hipbones and knees. John could almost imagine the hollows he couldn’t see, the ones on Sherlock’s soft lower back that would plead him to be licked, or the minuscule ones created by the curves of his penis’ glands, hidden by his thigh. At the same time he was grateful for the curtains that hid that sight to outsiders’ eyes and hated the ones that hid Sherlock’s hands partly. John felt something electric in his brain, as if his neurons had decided to order him all together to approach Sherlock and run his hands down that smooth skin, tracing his bones and caressing his perfect curves, exploring his body with teeth, tongue and lips. Oh, how he would have liked to pull the detective close to sink his teeth in his neck, like a starved animal, to touch him like he was an unknown creature to discover. He could have. Minutes since he had entered and Sherlock was still in pretty much the same position, oblivious about John’s presence and focused on thinking God knew what. It would be simple to surprise him now that he was so vulnerable, easy to pin him against a wall and press himself over that body, learning him with skin on skin, lips on lips, hands on hands…
“Sherlock?” He would have never dared. Sherlock snapped out of his trance at the sound of his name, blinking a few times and turning his head to look at John.
“John,” he greeted him with the usual neutrality, letting his arms fall back to his sides but keeping his knee lifted. “How was your– You spilt your tea.”
The good doctor nodded and looked firmly into Sherlock’s eyes, waiting to be deduced. A rapid scan of these orbs, and the other man finally returned his stare.
“Tiring day, I gather.”
Another nod was John’s reply. No need to say it had been Sherlock’s violin to keep him up and start the whole chain of unfortunate events, the now innocuous looking instrument resting on the living room’s table.
“You tried your new strings?” John asked absently.
Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he took the few steps that separated him from John with four long strides of his legs, swiftly avoiding all obstacles without even looking at them. He stopped in front of John, whose eyes were still focused on Sherlock’s, and spoke calmly again, as if being naked in front of one’s best friend was completely normal.
“Don’t worry about Sarah’s suggestions, it’s just her repressed jealousy talking.”
“I know, they don’t worry me. They’re just a bit annoying. But well, I’m getting old. It’s not as if girls are going to fight over me like in my dreams, so she can say all she wants,” John shrugged.
“In your dreams?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Just one, actually. Tonight I was in a sort of pizzeria with two naked women and we were just chatting about the place’s prices, displayed on the shop’s ceiling, before they started arguing over me. But I’ve been in that position – it’s not as nice as many would think.”
“You had dates with two naked women?”
John glared at Sherlock, but the man was smirking at his own joke and he said nothing.
“It wasn’t anything erotic, though. Probably my virility just feels wounded by the lack of female suitors and my subconscious replied with this,” he said, sarcastic.
“Your ‘virility’, huh? Wouldn’t you rather say your sexuality?”
There was something in the tone Sherlock used that had John looking more intently into his eyes.
“That has been for a long time, if you must know.”
Sherlock slowly nodded and then brought a hand to his mouth, hiding a yawn against its back, his face not scrunching up like many people’s, including John’s, did; how he managed to look so elegant even when sleep deprived… Right, he probably hadn’t slept at all in two, maybe three days. As a side effect of his yawn goosebumps blossomed on Sherlock’s skin, causing a shiver to run down John’s spine as well. Oh, right, he was also naked and probably freezing cold. John took his jacket off and silently offered it to Sherlock as if that was the only way a man could have warmed up in a perfectly furnished flat, receiving a confused stare back. Or maybe it wasn’t confused, and it was just his sleepy brain seeing things.
A moment of silence followed, and John could have heard a pin drop, until Sherlock gently cupped John’s nape and pulled him in for a kiss. It wasn’t sudden, the movement of his hands was slow enough for John to escape or avoid it had he wanted to, but he really didn’t bother with asking to himself what he wanted, as he didn’t question Sherlock or his reasons. He simply let himself be caught in the kiss, returning it almost automatically as he lowered his arm, letting the jacket hit the floor carelessly. It started just as slowly, a firm press of plump lips against thinner ones, two pairs of different blue shaded eyes staring at each other for a moment before Sherlock closed his eyes and moved his lips gently against John, who followed and returned the movement, docile. Minutes later there was a tongue probing at his lips, and even then he asked no question to let himself be snogged by Sherlock. Only when he felt his warm body press against his clothed one, a slightly interested member pressing against his lower belly, John decided to pull away with a gentle hand on Sherlock’s chest.
“If it’s sex you’re looking for, I’m too tired,” he said quietly, but the way Sherlock’s eyes seemed to drill holes in his cranium had his body nearly burn up with hidden energy.
“Follow me,” Sherlock said simply. He moved to grasp John’s hand, but when the two came in contact he brushed them together hesitantly and went for the wrist instead, as he calmly lead him to his own bedroom.
“Strip. Lie down. On your belly.” An order followed the other, all softly whispered, and John complied. “I’ll take care of everything,” Sherlock reassured him as he buried his face in a soft pillow, taking in the other man’s scent.
Two, four, ten seconds went by during which John could feel Sherlock’s eyes peel his skin of, and somehow that made him feel more naked than taking his pants off had. Then two fingers traced his spine gently, the pressure just enough to have him sighing and closing his eyes. John heard Sherlock’s other hand open a drawer of the bedside table and closing it soon after, and he forced himself to reopen his eyes.
“Sherlock…”
“No.”
John relaxed again, half ravelling in the satisfying feeling of being able to understand Sherlock and be understood in turn with just a glance, or in this case a word, and half hoping he had understood correctly. He knew he had when he felt a plastic bottle’s cap being opened and a cold liquid being unexpectedly poured between his shoulder blades, followed by the sound of it closing and the feeling of a warm hand catching a drop from dripping on the covers. Soon John had two hands on him, and he felt a knee settle itself between his shins as the bed dipped under the weight; he spread his legs a bit more, and Sherlock knelt completely between them as he let his hands run up and down John’s back, the lubricant working wonders as massage oil. John didn’t bother asking himself why ‘non sexual’ Sherlock would have such a thing in his drawer, too focused with not moaning as his skin was pressed, pulled, teased and stroked expertly, long fingers tracing every bone like John wanted to do to their owner. Those fingers. They could create the most horrid noises or the most wonderful symphonies known to men, and even yet unknown ones. But John had never thought of what they could have done to his body, the way they could have glided over the underside of his arms or pressed at his sides, pinching with enough force to keep the small sting pleasurable, thumbs pressing small circles beside his spine for a moment before smoothly stroking their way downwards, along with eight other fingertips, until Sherlock was holding two handful of John’s soft rear. The moan that inevitably escaped his lips couldn’t be helped, the surprise in his relaxed body to the pleasurable squeezes too great to be contained.
“Sherlock,” John called weakly once again, trying to turn his head. Soon hands were back to his neck, massaging the base of it as well as the cervical vertebras.
“Hush. I’ll take care of everything,” the man repeated and oh, how John wanted to believe it. How taken care of he felt, despite Sherlock never saying it was for him in particular or what he would take care of, but everything felt so alright that the next time he felt those skilled hands move from his neck down to his thighs, squeezing them just like he had with his buttocks, just before grabbing them again, John said nothing. He remained pliant under Sherlock’s touches, allowing himself to moan freely and enjoy everything he could get.
Sherlock backed away a bit to have more space, and John vaguely thought that his knees must have become numb, before he felt something probe at the cleft of his arse. He tensed but didn’t turn away, didn’t protest as these bony thumbs parted his cheeks, didn’t as much as cry out when he felt something hot and slick teasing his entrance, pleasure overwhelming and foreign when it came from a wet tongue in that particular place. Saying something coherent stopped being an option when Sherlock swept his tongue across his hole again, before pressing in: John was quick to relax around the muscle, and even more so to moan out the other man’s name in delight as he enjoyed the sensation. John felt his hips buck back against Sherlock’s face, pointed cheekbones digging in his flesh as they both tried to get deeper and deeper still, a louder moan erupting from John’s throat as Sherlock squeezed his cheeks before pulling away, kissing him reverently.
“What the hell,” John weakly mumbled, and shivered again as Sherlock’s thumb caressed across his arsehole to collect the spit left there.
“An experiment,” the reply. If anything, Sherlock sounded just as breathless as he was. And yet, John tensed and felt the blush on his face subside as he nodded, and hugged the pillow tighter. When had he slid his arms under it, anyway?
“Experiment. Alright. Great way to finish the day. Can I go to sleep now or you want to play some Tchaikovsky later tonight?” The sentence didn’t finish how John had planned it to, but the more he talked the angrier he became.
“John–”
“Because if you want you can just crave some holes into me, attach strings to my back and use me as a fucking violin, so I would at least be of some use!”
“John, turn over,” Sherlock ordered again in his soft voice, and John not only found it hard to ignore it, but to obey too. He had started trembling with rage, and he was sure frustrated tears of anger and frustration were flowing down his face.
When he did manage to turn around, though, he found Sherlock straddling his lap and looking down at him. Still slick fingers tried to erase the lines of salty water on his cheeks, managing only to make them messier. None of them said anything as Sherlock grabbed the tube of lubricant again, and John had decided to ignore the erection the massage had caused, preparing himself to have his front stroked as well. He was surprised to see how Sherlock only coated few fingers in the clear substance and brought them behind his back, staring in his eyes with concentration before gasping and suddenly jerking on top of John, shifting his hips enough that the doctor could see, upon glancing down, the middle finger the man had buried in himself. He parted his lips in surprise and felt his anger disappear, but as soon as he looked back at the other man and thought of something to say as a form of protest, Sherlock was leaning down uncomfortably and kissing him fiercely, with a passion their previous kiss didn’t hold. John could only return it as his hands flew to Sherlock’s hair, pulling at the soft curls as he kept the infuriating man closer, breaking the kiss only when he heard a breathy moan against his lips to check and see if– yes, he had two fingers in now. John thought again about the length of these things and shivered, looking back to Sherlock’s eyes in confusion. Avoided another kiss with a roll of his head, John managed to ask.
“What?”
“You… said you were… too tired for sex. I, I said I would take care of everything, did I not?” A deep moan interrupted the gasp punctuated sentence, a backwards roll of lust darkened eyes sending blood rushing away from John’s face and directing it somewhere else, where it was more needed. “This seemed… the most logical solution.”
“But…” John’s sentence was aborted when Sherlock rolled his hips, grinding their erections one against the other. He tried again, taking a steading breath as he let his hands grab these slim hips. “Why this experiment? I thought you said you weren’t sexual.”
Sherlock jerked and moaned again, louder, moving his hand faster. “Do I look asexual to you?” he asked, lifting his hips against John’s restraining hands as if to prove a point.
“I didn’t say that,” John shook his head. “You said that once, and… oooh…” Sherlock had grabbed the lubricant again, letting it drip onto John’s heated erection before tossing the bottle aside to stroke him.
“I said that… to that widow hitting on me… I had no interest in her,” Sherlock explained, panting visibly by the time he stopped both hands.
By the time John finally understood, Sherlock had shifted forward so his knees were resting beside John’s stomach and was using one hand to direct his cock towards his well stretched entrance. The doctor’s hands were still on his hips, barely gripping anymore as a thought struck him. But he never got to voice it as Sherlock decided to use that moment to lower himself onto John, who slid inside that burning body surprisingly easy, the pressure causing him to arch his back upwards and cry out Sherlock’s name as the detective impaled himself moving downwards, yelping as well at the unexpected jerk. Less than a minute later John was getting used to the heat and Sherlock to the stretch, and they simultaneously made an experimental movement, both moaning in delight and biting their lips. Sherlock to tolerate his aching muscles, John to avoid calling the other’s name until he went hoarse. It was just too much, the sight of that perfect body carefully moving on top of his, muscles dancing under the pearly skin of his chest and shoulders as Sherlock threw his head back, curls bouncing with every thrust, his throat vibrating with moans every time John’s hands clenched and unclenched on his hips to guide his movements, shifting in time to provide the best support and the best fuck he could. He could feel his orgasm already building in as Sherlock stroked him with his inner walls, leaving John breathless with sentiment. Because he had let John inside, both physically and mentally, allowing him to be his friend first and now… this. Sex, he had always thought, was something incredibly intimate that didn’t just need attraction and love, but a discouraging amount of trust. He still remembered how hard it had been for his younger self to find a girl he liked and trusted enough to be naked in front of her, to be touched by, and was still reluctant when it came to sex. But Sherlock…
“Oh, John, there! Yes! Please!”
John complied, angling his thrusts to bump on that same spot again and again, causing Sherlock to soon become an incoherently moaning mess. And it was amazing, the way he was letting this wanton, needy side out just for John, taking and giving, not ashamed of the way his body quivered and eagerly embraced John’s, and not caring if he showed his irrational side to someone else, if he bit on his fingers to keep from screaming too loud, or if he groaned like an animal. Being tired never felt as far away as it did in that moment, and John sat up just pulling Sherlock down and using his abdominals, causing Sherlock to gasp. He had been so lost in their world it took him a moment to understand their current position, and he blinked a few times rapidly as if to put John in focus once again with his dilated pupils. They were so close John could have seen himself reflected in them with enough light, but instead he simply stared at the other, slowly thrusting upwards once again. He briefly wondered when did their frantic rhythm stop, but decided to ignore yet another question as Sherlock wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him closer, kissing him. Slow, sweet at first, but soon passionate once again. John returned the kiss happily and started moving again, swallowing every small sound Sherlock made and feeding him with his own. This position didn’t allow the long slides of skin on skin they had indulged in earlier, so they resumed their pace with shallow, quick thrusts, heat once again too much to bear, skin too tight to be their own, bodies too far apart for their likes as they fit one into the other over and over again, almost becoming one but never managing to.
Sherlock is the first to go. Between the engorged flesh pumping inside him and his own member caught between the soft skin of their stomach in this new position, he took a moment to pull John’s mouth away and scream his name as he came, his hand still tangled in his hair as the doctor’s lips moved downwards, kissing and nipping at that delectable neck, groaning against the skin he licked sweet sweat from. His come coated their chests and his muscles spasmed madly around John, who moved even faster as he held Sherlock close, one hand leaving his hip and settling in the middle of his back to press them chest to chest, the sticky substance almost gluing them together as he came as well, orgasm leaving him like a dying star, expanding inside the other at first and imploding on himself then, the feeling of being just one person instead of two foreign to him after all this. He collapsed on the bed and found his trembling limbs still tightly wound around Sherlock, the man’s warm breath puffing gently against his ear. Had he still be sensitive, that would have tickled. And yet, he felt incredibly numb after the best orgasm he had ever had, only few parts exceedingly sensitive as they were still trapped in someone else’s body.
When he felt himself soften too much to still be held in by Sherlock’s muscles, John reluctantly pulled away with the sensation of these same muscles fluttering around him, as if to keep him there. But the attempt was too weak, as was John, and in order to look at Sherlock’s face again he had to roll onto his side and lay him gently on the mattress, unable to lift his chin and leave him sprawled on top of him as he wished to. He looked into Sherlock’s dazed eyes for a while, before breaking into a small smile. John knew this was usually the moment for the ‘you were amazing’s, and ‘alright?’s, and the ‘I love you’s, but this was Sherlock, not an average partner, so he said nothing until Sherlock returned the smile and pressed their lips together once again, softly. The detective had already closed his eyes when John pulled away, but that didn’t stop the doctor from grinning and running his nose sweetly over the bridge of Sherlock’s straight one.
“So this wasn’t the experiment…” he started. “Obviously,” he added before Sherlock could, and watched him smile in satisfaction.
“Something I would like to try next time,” he said instead, vaguely, and John chuckled as he nudged Sherlock’s foot with his own. He feared for a moment he was being too cheesy when Sherlock opened one eye to look at him, but the issue that came was another. “I told you I played violin at night.”
“That wasn’t really playing. And I do like violin, you know that. I prefer piano, the notes aren’t as high and it’s more relaxing, but we wouldn’t fit one in here anyway, so.” John shrugged minutely, and ran a hand in Sherlock’s amazing curls to brush some away from his face. He really had no problems with that. And yet.
“Stay here,” Sherlock said as he promptly jumped out of bed.
John giggled at the way his wobbly legs prevented his usual confident striding. At least, he laughed until a smug smile broke on his slightly flushed face. He got up, shaking as well, and moved the covers aside before gathering them around himself, sighing contently at the transmitted heat on his rapidly cooling skin, not really caring to soil them. He didn’t have the time to drift off that Sherlock was back, violin in hand, and John had something like five seconds to be confused before the tall, naked, handsome man in front of him smiled, and it was all wonderfully clear. He relaxed back and smiled in turn, watching as Sherlock trapped the violin between chin and shoulder and let the bow fly on the strings, starting to play an arranged version of the Moonlight Sonata.
He watched his concentred expression and the drops of sweat of undubious cause on his forehead until he fell asleep. When he awoke to the sound of his alarm going off at seven thirty the next morning, he did for the first time what would come to be the mistake he loved the most: he woke up Sherlock as well and proceeded to snog him for several minutes, eventually enjoying a morning wank with him, loving the way he arched back against his body and called his name, hoping he would in turn like the way John called his.
He then leisurely stood up and got Sherlock in the shower with himself, cleaning them both and snogging him some more, just before enjoying breakfast with the detective and a bit more of cuddles while he tried to get decently dressed. When he arrived to work half an hour later than he was expected to, Sarah raised an eyebrow in his direction, probably because of the cheerful smile he threw in her direction.
“Was he ‘playing the violin’ again?” she asked.
“Yes,” John answered, still smiling happily. “Yes, we were.”
If he missed the shocked expression on her face, it was just because he was too busy striding confidently towards his office, whistling the Moonlight Sonata to himself.
—-
Post-production notes: this was basically my day - strange dream about women wanting me, splitting teabags and spilling mugs and getting lost in Venice because I had no money for the ferry in the cold, damp October air, sweating and being cold, with the difference that there were 14.000+ people in San Marco. Thanks, Pope.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mbwhy6lMpg1qlxt64o1_500.jpg)
[Manip by glassdildo - link to AO3 - And a happy birthday present to raggedy-spaceman! :D]
Moonlight Sonata
When Sherlock decides to spend the night playing the violin, John always knows the next is going to be a tough day. If there is a case or a problem he would compose until the answer would magically pop in his brain – because really, who could think while composing? Doesn’t that require concentration? – and they could all go to sleep; other days he would spend the whole night playing something absurdly complicate that John couldn’t even name; this time, he seemed intent on just plucking the strings and torturing the poor instrument, like he did when he visited his “Mind Palace” and decided to wander there for a while.
If John had not heard him play multiple times, he would have thought the violin was just part of Sherlock’s cool attire alongside with his coat and cheekbones but, alas, he was too aware of the man’s ability. And yet, at times Sherlock would just like to create annoying noises that didn’t let John sleep, not after his military training of waking up at the smallest hint of danger. Which apparently included snapping strings, muffled curses and resuming noises from an abused Stradivari.
Eventually, Sherlock put the instrument aside some time around half past three in the morning, and John could sleep without a pillow pressed against his ears. When he awoke to the sound of his alarm going off at seven thirty the next morning, he did the mistake he hated the most: turned it off, rolled on the other side and thought that he had to be to work in an hour, so he could afford five more minutes, just to indulge a bit more in the dream he was having and enjoying so much. When he awoke again, it was twelve minutes to nine.
Jumping up and running to the bathroom to get a shower, then back to his room to get dressed and down the stairs, snatching his jacket and ignoring breakfast, had become a far too familiar ritual since he moved in with Sherlock. Not a problem when it was for a case, but John had always been the perfect employee when he trained at Bart’s, even later in Afghanistan’s military hospitals, and arriving late was something he hated, particularly when he had no better reason than “Sherlock didn’t let me get enough sleep,” because he knew the innuendos to come. He had had that conversation with Sarah and other colleagues many times, and yet it seemed to never cease. Today was no exception.
“Was he ‘playing the violin’ again?” she in fact asked. It wasn’t as if he needed to defend his being straight, because he had to admit he wouldn’t mind swimming in the other direction with Sherlock, but since the man had once stated his not being sexual at all to a courting woman, John didn’t pay any mind to what he would have liked. Sexuality wasn’t that important, after all, very overrated. What he defended was Sherlock’s right to be recognized as an independent man who didn’t need a relationship to live, and therefore the lack of one between them.
“Not really, just plucked at it until he snapped a string.”
“Well, whatever you want to call it,” if there wasn’t mild rancour for their failed dates there, John had no idea what this was, “It’s not acceptable to come to work more than an hour late. As usual, I’ll detract it from your salary, alright?”
John knew he never really risked his job, being practically a veteran, voluntary doctor that helped when he could mostly by filling in other’s shifts, but it still was annoying not being able to work when he wanted to because a mad man decided to be noisy until late at night, even more so when his only income of money came from this job. He still got his army pension, but it was barely enough to pay his half of the rent and a cup of tea at the end of the day. Which he would surely need today.
So, instead of trying to talk some sense into Sarah’s head like he did that time Sherlock had decided to play the Danse Macabre – “Sure it wasn’t another kind of ‘dance’?” had been her reply – John simply nodded and headed to his office, where he proceeded to assist a couple dozens of patients with their minor health issues, usually simple colds and sore throats with the eventual lump on the ‘I-think-it’s-cancer’ woman’s neck that revealed itself to be an engorged lymph node.
When he was finally off his shift, which took an hour longer so he could regain a bit of his pay, it was around seven in the afternoon. He was hungry, but as he had noticed during his lunch break, due to the morning rush he had left his wallet on the kitchen table and only had with him twenty quids. More than enough for lunch, thankfully, and for his so needed evening tea.
There was a tea room he liked particularly, which served every brand and brew known from America to Japan, going East of course, but despite his love for oriental teas John decided to set with a simple bag of Earl Grey; the kind of black, strong tea that he wanted at the moment. For the second time that day though, his military training went against him. Being in the army meant no wastes, and therefore he had gotten used to placing the used teabag on the hollow of his spoon and winding the string around it, squeezing the last drops of it into the mug. It wasn’t difficult, and it usually worked without problems with the brand he always got at Tesco’s, but this particular teabag didn’t seem to like his technique as it practically split in half, pouring wet leaves into the cup, which then John managed to half-spill over himself in a vain attempt at putting the treacherous bag away. With that, his desire for tea was gone. If anything, the water wasn’t too hot and he avoided cursing. That is, until he got out of the tea room with two pounds and twenty-five cents left, and the damp-yet-cold air of London’s October froze his jeans clad thigh and managed to make him sweat at the same time.
He was cold and he was tired, and it was getting quite late, so John decided to duck into a tube station as a substitute to the cab he would have taken, had he had the money, to get home. Once down there, though, another thought got to him: again, he had left his wallet home. Which meant he didn’t have his Oyster Card, as well as money, with him. Other curses followed as he took all the way home by foot and managed to get lost after turning in that alley that seemed ‘the one Sherlock used that time’, and that instead took him to a whole new part of the town. A part he never wanted to see again but feared he would have to, most likely after a multiple murder, seen the faces he met there.
When he finally, finally got home, the flat was dark. After looking for his mobile, making sure to have taken it at all, and checking lost calls or texts secondly, John frowned and entered the building. No case, obviously, or Sherlock would have called him despite his being at work, but he couldn’t be asleep: case or not, Sherlock wasn’t the sleeping kind of lazy. Rather the ‘I-wouldn’t-move-were-London-on-fire’ kind of lazy. The more John climbed the stairs, the more he waited to hear for any noise or sign of danger, adrenaline ready to flow within his blood, but as soon as he opened the door something else went through him.
Sherlock was standing in the living room, his not unusually stark naked body almost framed by the window as he stretched his arms above his head leisurely, looking somewhat like a ballerina frozen in the middle of a step. His expression was a relaxed yet thoughtful one, bright eyes unfocusedly digging holes in the ceiling as he concentred on something that was solely in his mind, lips parted as if in wonder, one leg slightly lifted as he stretched its muscles as well, using the leverage his right foot’s toes could provide if he put his whole weight on their tips and his other foot, solidly planted to the floor. The moon weakly shining through the window had his pale skin nearly glowing, and if during the day sunlight made his hair almost auburn, creating a sort of angelic aureole around his head, the white light he was now bathing in made it silver as it traced the lines of his face.
Every tendon in Sherlock’s body seemed to be exposed, every muscle tensed as he slowly pulled at them one by one, his ribcage prominent under the thin skin as he breathed and the inward curve of his spine inhumanly perfect, a clear contrast with the outward curve of his rear. John observed the game of shadows the faint light created in the many hollows of his body, from his cheekbones to his ankles, passing by his throat and down to his navel, all the way down to his hipbones and knees. John could almost imagine the hollows he couldn’t see, the ones on Sherlock’s soft lower back that would plead him to be licked, or the minuscule ones created by the curves of his penis’ glands, hidden by his thigh. At the same time he was grateful for the curtains that hid that sight to outsiders’ eyes and hated the ones that hid Sherlock’s hands partly. John felt something electric in his brain, as if his neurons had decided to order him all together to approach Sherlock and run his hands down that smooth skin, tracing his bones and caressing his perfect curves, exploring his body with teeth, tongue and lips. Oh, how he would have liked to pull the detective close to sink his teeth in his neck, like a starved animal, to touch him like he was an unknown creature to discover. He could have. Minutes since he had entered and Sherlock was still in pretty much the same position, oblivious about John’s presence and focused on thinking God knew what. It would be simple to surprise him now that he was so vulnerable, easy to pin him against a wall and press himself over that body, learning him with skin on skin, lips on lips, hands on hands…
“Sherlock?” He would have never dared. Sherlock snapped out of his trance at the sound of his name, blinking a few times and turning his head to look at John.
“John,” he greeted him with the usual neutrality, letting his arms fall back to his sides but keeping his knee lifted. “How was your– You spilt your tea.”
The good doctor nodded and looked firmly into Sherlock’s eyes, waiting to be deduced. A rapid scan of these orbs, and the other man finally returned his stare.
“Tiring day, I gather.”
Another nod was John’s reply. No need to say it had been Sherlock’s violin to keep him up and start the whole chain of unfortunate events, the now innocuous looking instrument resting on the living room’s table.
“You tried your new strings?” John asked absently.
Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he took the few steps that separated him from John with four long strides of his legs, swiftly avoiding all obstacles without even looking at them. He stopped in front of John, whose eyes were still focused on Sherlock’s, and spoke calmly again, as if being naked in front of one’s best friend was completely normal.
“Don’t worry about Sarah’s suggestions, it’s just her repressed jealousy talking.”
“I know, they don’t worry me. They’re just a bit annoying. But well, I’m getting old. It’s not as if girls are going to fight over me like in my dreams, so she can say all she wants,” John shrugged.
“In your dreams?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Just one, actually. Tonight I was in a sort of pizzeria with two naked women and we were just chatting about the place’s prices, displayed on the shop’s ceiling, before they started arguing over me. But I’ve been in that position – it’s not as nice as many would think.”
“You had dates with two naked women?”
John glared at Sherlock, but the man was smirking at his own joke and he said nothing.
“It wasn’t anything erotic, though. Probably my virility just feels wounded by the lack of female suitors and my subconscious replied with this,” he said, sarcastic.
“Your ‘virility’, huh? Wouldn’t you rather say your sexuality?”
There was something in the tone Sherlock used that had John looking more intently into his eyes.
“That has been for a long time, if you must know.”
Sherlock slowly nodded and then brought a hand to his mouth, hiding a yawn against its back, his face not scrunching up like many people’s, including John’s, did; how he managed to look so elegant even when sleep deprived… Right, he probably hadn’t slept at all in two, maybe three days. As a side effect of his yawn goosebumps blossomed on Sherlock’s skin, causing a shiver to run down John’s spine as well. Oh, right, he was also naked and probably freezing cold. John took his jacket off and silently offered it to Sherlock as if that was the only way a man could have warmed up in a perfectly furnished flat, receiving a confused stare back. Or maybe it wasn’t confused, and it was just his sleepy brain seeing things.
A moment of silence followed, and John could have heard a pin drop, until Sherlock gently cupped John’s nape and pulled him in for a kiss. It wasn’t sudden, the movement of his hands was slow enough for John to escape or avoid it had he wanted to, but he really didn’t bother with asking to himself what he wanted, as he didn’t question Sherlock or his reasons. He simply let himself be caught in the kiss, returning it almost automatically as he lowered his arm, letting the jacket hit the floor carelessly. It started just as slowly, a firm press of plump lips against thinner ones, two pairs of different blue shaded eyes staring at each other for a moment before Sherlock closed his eyes and moved his lips gently against John, who followed and returned the movement, docile. Minutes later there was a tongue probing at his lips, and even then he asked no question to let himself be snogged by Sherlock. Only when he felt his warm body press against his clothed one, a slightly interested member pressing against his lower belly, John decided to pull away with a gentle hand on Sherlock’s chest.
“If it’s sex you’re looking for, I’m too tired,” he said quietly, but the way Sherlock’s eyes seemed to drill holes in his cranium had his body nearly burn up with hidden energy.
“Follow me,” Sherlock said simply. He moved to grasp John’s hand, but when the two came in contact he brushed them together hesitantly and went for the wrist instead, as he calmly lead him to his own bedroom.
“Strip. Lie down. On your belly.” An order followed the other, all softly whispered, and John complied. “I’ll take care of everything,” Sherlock reassured him as he buried his face in a soft pillow, taking in the other man’s scent.
Two, four, ten seconds went by during which John could feel Sherlock’s eyes peel his skin of, and somehow that made him feel more naked than taking his pants off had. Then two fingers traced his spine gently, the pressure just enough to have him sighing and closing his eyes. John heard Sherlock’s other hand open a drawer of the bedside table and closing it soon after, and he forced himself to reopen his eyes.
“Sherlock…”
“No.”
John relaxed again, half ravelling in the satisfying feeling of being able to understand Sherlock and be understood in turn with just a glance, or in this case a word, and half hoping he had understood correctly. He knew he had when he felt a plastic bottle’s cap being opened and a cold liquid being unexpectedly poured between his shoulder blades, followed by the sound of it closing and the feeling of a warm hand catching a drop from dripping on the covers. Soon John had two hands on him, and he felt a knee settle itself between his shins as the bed dipped under the weight; he spread his legs a bit more, and Sherlock knelt completely between them as he let his hands run up and down John’s back, the lubricant working wonders as massage oil. John didn’t bother asking himself why ‘non sexual’ Sherlock would have such a thing in his drawer, too focused with not moaning as his skin was pressed, pulled, teased and stroked expertly, long fingers tracing every bone like John wanted to do to their owner. Those fingers. They could create the most horrid noises or the most wonderful symphonies known to men, and even yet unknown ones. But John had never thought of what they could have done to his body, the way they could have glided over the underside of his arms or pressed at his sides, pinching with enough force to keep the small sting pleasurable, thumbs pressing small circles beside his spine for a moment before smoothly stroking their way downwards, along with eight other fingertips, until Sherlock was holding two handful of John’s soft rear. The moan that inevitably escaped his lips couldn’t be helped, the surprise in his relaxed body to the pleasurable squeezes too great to be contained.
“Sherlock,” John called weakly once again, trying to turn his head. Soon hands were back to his neck, massaging the base of it as well as the cervical vertebras.
“Hush. I’ll take care of everything,” the man repeated and oh, how John wanted to believe it. How taken care of he felt, despite Sherlock never saying it was for him in particular or what he would take care of, but everything felt so alright that the next time he felt those skilled hands move from his neck down to his thighs, squeezing them just like he had with his buttocks, just before grabbing them again, John said nothing. He remained pliant under Sherlock’s touches, allowing himself to moan freely and enjoy everything he could get.
Sherlock backed away a bit to have more space, and John vaguely thought that his knees must have become numb, before he felt something probe at the cleft of his arse. He tensed but didn’t turn away, didn’t protest as these bony thumbs parted his cheeks, didn’t as much as cry out when he felt something hot and slick teasing his entrance, pleasure overwhelming and foreign when it came from a wet tongue in that particular place. Saying something coherent stopped being an option when Sherlock swept his tongue across his hole again, before pressing in: John was quick to relax around the muscle, and even more so to moan out the other man’s name in delight as he enjoyed the sensation. John felt his hips buck back against Sherlock’s face, pointed cheekbones digging in his flesh as they both tried to get deeper and deeper still, a louder moan erupting from John’s throat as Sherlock squeezed his cheeks before pulling away, kissing him reverently.
“What the hell,” John weakly mumbled, and shivered again as Sherlock’s thumb caressed across his arsehole to collect the spit left there.
“An experiment,” the reply. If anything, Sherlock sounded just as breathless as he was. And yet, John tensed and felt the blush on his face subside as he nodded, and hugged the pillow tighter. When had he slid his arms under it, anyway?
“Experiment. Alright. Great way to finish the day. Can I go to sleep now or you want to play some Tchaikovsky later tonight?” The sentence didn’t finish how John had planned it to, but the more he talked the angrier he became.
“John–”
“Because if you want you can just crave some holes into me, attach strings to my back and use me as a fucking violin, so I would at least be of some use!”
“John, turn over,” Sherlock ordered again in his soft voice, and John not only found it hard to ignore it, but to obey too. He had started trembling with rage, and he was sure frustrated tears of anger and frustration were flowing down his face.
When he did manage to turn around, though, he found Sherlock straddling his lap and looking down at him. Still slick fingers tried to erase the lines of salty water on his cheeks, managing only to make them messier. None of them said anything as Sherlock grabbed the tube of lubricant again, and John had decided to ignore the erection the massage had caused, preparing himself to have his front stroked as well. He was surprised to see how Sherlock only coated few fingers in the clear substance and brought them behind his back, staring in his eyes with concentration before gasping and suddenly jerking on top of John, shifting his hips enough that the doctor could see, upon glancing down, the middle finger the man had buried in himself. He parted his lips in surprise and felt his anger disappear, but as soon as he looked back at the other man and thought of something to say as a form of protest, Sherlock was leaning down uncomfortably and kissing him fiercely, with a passion their previous kiss didn’t hold. John could only return it as his hands flew to Sherlock’s hair, pulling at the soft curls as he kept the infuriating man closer, breaking the kiss only when he heard a breathy moan against his lips to check and see if– yes, he had two fingers in now. John thought again about the length of these things and shivered, looking back to Sherlock’s eyes in confusion. Avoided another kiss with a roll of his head, John managed to ask.
“What?”
“You… said you were… too tired for sex. I, I said I would take care of everything, did I not?” A deep moan interrupted the gasp punctuated sentence, a backwards roll of lust darkened eyes sending blood rushing away from John’s face and directing it somewhere else, where it was more needed. “This seemed… the most logical solution.”
“But…” John’s sentence was aborted when Sherlock rolled his hips, grinding their erections one against the other. He tried again, taking a steading breath as he let his hands grab these slim hips. “Why this experiment? I thought you said you weren’t sexual.”
Sherlock jerked and moaned again, louder, moving his hand faster. “Do I look asexual to you?” he asked, lifting his hips against John’s restraining hands as if to prove a point.
“I didn’t say that,” John shook his head. “You said that once, and… oooh…” Sherlock had grabbed the lubricant again, letting it drip onto John’s heated erection before tossing the bottle aside to stroke him.
“I said that… to that widow hitting on me… I had no interest in her,” Sherlock explained, panting visibly by the time he stopped both hands.
By the time John finally understood, Sherlock had shifted forward so his knees were resting beside John’s stomach and was using one hand to direct his cock towards his well stretched entrance. The doctor’s hands were still on his hips, barely gripping anymore as a thought struck him. But he never got to voice it as Sherlock decided to use that moment to lower himself onto John, who slid inside that burning body surprisingly easy, the pressure causing him to arch his back upwards and cry out Sherlock’s name as the detective impaled himself moving downwards, yelping as well at the unexpected jerk. Less than a minute later John was getting used to the heat and Sherlock to the stretch, and they simultaneously made an experimental movement, both moaning in delight and biting their lips. Sherlock to tolerate his aching muscles, John to avoid calling the other’s name until he went hoarse. It was just too much, the sight of that perfect body carefully moving on top of his, muscles dancing under the pearly skin of his chest and shoulders as Sherlock threw his head back, curls bouncing with every thrust, his throat vibrating with moans every time John’s hands clenched and unclenched on his hips to guide his movements, shifting in time to provide the best support and the best fuck he could. He could feel his orgasm already building in as Sherlock stroked him with his inner walls, leaving John breathless with sentiment. Because he had let John inside, both physically and mentally, allowing him to be his friend first and now… this. Sex, he had always thought, was something incredibly intimate that didn’t just need attraction and love, but a discouraging amount of trust. He still remembered how hard it had been for his younger self to find a girl he liked and trusted enough to be naked in front of her, to be touched by, and was still reluctant when it came to sex. But Sherlock…
“Oh, John, there! Yes! Please!”
John complied, angling his thrusts to bump on that same spot again and again, causing Sherlock to soon become an incoherently moaning mess. And it was amazing, the way he was letting this wanton, needy side out just for John, taking and giving, not ashamed of the way his body quivered and eagerly embraced John’s, and not caring if he showed his irrational side to someone else, if he bit on his fingers to keep from screaming too loud, or if he groaned like an animal. Being tired never felt as far away as it did in that moment, and John sat up just pulling Sherlock down and using his abdominals, causing Sherlock to gasp. He had been so lost in their world it took him a moment to understand their current position, and he blinked a few times rapidly as if to put John in focus once again with his dilated pupils. They were so close John could have seen himself reflected in them with enough light, but instead he simply stared at the other, slowly thrusting upwards once again. He briefly wondered when did their frantic rhythm stop, but decided to ignore yet another question as Sherlock wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him closer, kissing him. Slow, sweet at first, but soon passionate once again. John returned the kiss happily and started moving again, swallowing every small sound Sherlock made and feeding him with his own. This position didn’t allow the long slides of skin on skin they had indulged in earlier, so they resumed their pace with shallow, quick thrusts, heat once again too much to bear, skin too tight to be their own, bodies too far apart for their likes as they fit one into the other over and over again, almost becoming one but never managing to.
Sherlock is the first to go. Between the engorged flesh pumping inside him and his own member caught between the soft skin of their stomach in this new position, he took a moment to pull John’s mouth away and scream his name as he came, his hand still tangled in his hair as the doctor’s lips moved downwards, kissing and nipping at that delectable neck, groaning against the skin he licked sweet sweat from. His come coated their chests and his muscles spasmed madly around John, who moved even faster as he held Sherlock close, one hand leaving his hip and settling in the middle of his back to press them chest to chest, the sticky substance almost gluing them together as he came as well, orgasm leaving him like a dying star, expanding inside the other at first and imploding on himself then, the feeling of being just one person instead of two foreign to him after all this. He collapsed on the bed and found his trembling limbs still tightly wound around Sherlock, the man’s warm breath puffing gently against his ear. Had he still be sensitive, that would have tickled. And yet, he felt incredibly numb after the best orgasm he had ever had, only few parts exceedingly sensitive as they were still trapped in someone else’s body.
When he felt himself soften too much to still be held in by Sherlock’s muscles, John reluctantly pulled away with the sensation of these same muscles fluttering around him, as if to keep him there. But the attempt was too weak, as was John, and in order to look at Sherlock’s face again he had to roll onto his side and lay him gently on the mattress, unable to lift his chin and leave him sprawled on top of him as he wished to. He looked into Sherlock’s dazed eyes for a while, before breaking into a small smile. John knew this was usually the moment for the ‘you were amazing’s, and ‘alright?’s, and the ‘I love you’s, but this was Sherlock, not an average partner, so he said nothing until Sherlock returned the smile and pressed their lips together once again, softly. The detective had already closed his eyes when John pulled away, but that didn’t stop the doctor from grinning and running his nose sweetly over the bridge of Sherlock’s straight one.
“So this wasn’t the experiment…” he started. “Obviously,” he added before Sherlock could, and watched him smile in satisfaction.
“Something I would like to try next time,” he said instead, vaguely, and John chuckled as he nudged Sherlock’s foot with his own. He feared for a moment he was being too cheesy when Sherlock opened one eye to look at him, but the issue that came was another. “I told you I played violin at night.”
“That wasn’t really playing. And I do like violin, you know that. I prefer piano, the notes aren’t as high and it’s more relaxing, but we wouldn’t fit one in here anyway, so.” John shrugged minutely, and ran a hand in Sherlock’s amazing curls to brush some away from his face. He really had no problems with that. And yet.
“Stay here,” Sherlock said as he promptly jumped out of bed.
John giggled at the way his wobbly legs prevented his usual confident striding. At least, he laughed until a smug smile broke on his slightly flushed face. He got up, shaking as well, and moved the covers aside before gathering them around himself, sighing contently at the transmitted heat on his rapidly cooling skin, not really caring to soil them. He didn’t have the time to drift off that Sherlock was back, violin in hand, and John had something like five seconds to be confused before the tall, naked, handsome man in front of him smiled, and it was all wonderfully clear. He relaxed back and smiled in turn, watching as Sherlock trapped the violin between chin and shoulder and let the bow fly on the strings, starting to play an arranged version of the Moonlight Sonata.
He watched his concentred expression and the drops of sweat of undubious cause on his forehead until he fell asleep. When he awoke to the sound of his alarm going off at seven thirty the next morning, he did for the first time what would come to be the mistake he loved the most: he woke up Sherlock as well and proceeded to snog him for several minutes, eventually enjoying a morning wank with him, loving the way he arched back against his body and called his name, hoping he would in turn like the way John called his.
He then leisurely stood up and got Sherlock in the shower with himself, cleaning them both and snogging him some more, just before enjoying breakfast with the detective and a bit more of cuddles while he tried to get decently dressed. When he arrived to work half an hour later than he was expected to, Sarah raised an eyebrow in his direction, probably because of the cheerful smile he threw in her direction.
“Was he ‘playing the violin’ again?” she asked.
“Yes,” John answered, still smiling happily. “Yes, we were.”
If he missed the shocked expression on her face, it was just because he was too busy striding confidently towards his office, whistling the Moonlight Sonata to himself.
—-
Post-production notes: this was basically my day - strange dream about women wanting me, splitting teabags and spilling mugs and getting lost in Venice because I had no money for the ferry in the cold, damp October air, sweating and being cold, with the difference that there were 14.000+ people in San Marco. Thanks, Pope.
To celebrate my (by now) 566 followers as well as my 23,295th post (which is this one) I announce the winners of my give away (20th September 2012 - 30th September 2012)!
I’m not sure what happened, but instead of 177 names of people who reblogged before midnight I’ve got just something like 23 names on my notes, as you can see:
So I copy/pasted the ones that were present at exactly midnight and put them in a random list generator. Sorry for the inconvenient, I hope it gets fixed!
The winners are:
- harryriddle
- ineffableboyfriends
- ganjajah
Congratulations!
Proofs of my impartiality:
Thanks to all those followers who took part to this, to all those non-followers who did and to all those followers who didn’t: you guys are ALL amazing, no matter what!
For all those who didn’t win, or whose name didn’t appear on my blog’s list: don’t worry, I’m planning on opening fic requests for everyone as soon as I’ve settled down at uni!
See you all for the next give away! :D
Oooh, I have a Johnlock Angel/Demon AU in mind hope I’ll be good at this! Not really into MorMor… D: That’s why it took so long, sorry! And thanks for the prompt! :)
—-
Death was supposed to be the end of things, but that sounded so painfully boring that Jim had avoided it as long as he could, enjoying the distraction Sherlock provided without really knowing, and ended himself on the detective’s same rooftop when the game seemed to be finally off.
It had been so uselessly disappointing, in the end, that even when his existence should have been over Jim couldn’t help himself with anything but sulking in the depths of Hell, regretting his other distractions: how could he be under there for all eternity without his pet, his Sebastian?
After what felt like years not passing, Moriarty decided that if he had been a devil on Earth while alive, he could still be after his death - even more so! -, and with this thought in mind he helped himself back among the living, presenting himself to the ‘Tiger’ with a sardonic smile and a fun idea in mind: “Ciao, Seb~, did you know that Sherlock is alive?”
