sherlockbbc_fic | prompting part XXIII

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prompting part XXIII

All new prompts go on Part XXIV
Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post

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(prepared by anonymous)

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Please consider warning for triggery prompts (and also for fills, because some people read in flat view) and phrasing prompts in a manner that strives to be respectful.

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LINKS AND AFFILIATES
Delicious Archive - Delicious Prompt Archive
Filled Prompts Post - Page-A-Mod

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI - Part VII
Part VIII - Part IX - Part X - Part XI - Part XII - Part XIII - Part XIV
Part XV - Part XVI - Part XVII - Part XVIII - Part XIX - Part XX
Part XXI - Part XXII
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It was not something he relished, to be honest: oh, it was good, it felt very good, but on some level the loss of control, the giving over to his body disturbed Sherlock, as did the momentary blackout of everything beyond the searing heat pounding through him. And he knew, when he was (finally, it felt) done, when everything snapped back into focus like suddenly finding the right field with the fine adjustment on a microscope, that he had come too soon.

Also snapping back into focus was the fact that John was nowhere near done fucking the girl from behind yet; that he had her pulled up against him; that they were both still straddling Sherlock, John in a sort of awkward squat on his legs; and that his softening cock was still inside the girl while John continued to bugger her ass. It was the last fact that made him keenly aware of when she came, lips parting in a staccato cry, nails digging into the forearm John had tight around her breasts.

She leaned limply into John when she was done, eyes bright, hair damp with sweat, and chest heaving with her deep breaths, and Sherlock wondered if he looked the same, or similar anyway. He reached over to touch her, his fingers brushing against the scar on her stomach (appendectomy, four or five years ago), and she, still in a lazy post-orgasmic haze, gave a little sigh, caught Sherlock's hand and held it there.

"You were lovely," murmured John, kissing her on the temple. "You both were," he added, leaning over and around her to stroke a knuckle down Sherlock's cheek to his lips. "God, the look on your face."

John pulled out of the girl with a not-quite grunt - he hadn't come yet, was still hard - and clambered off Sherlock's legs, a little stiffly perhaps, and she slid off Sherlock's spent cock, rolled off of him to stretch and settle beside him on the bed. She licked at his earlobe as he flexed his legs, bending the joints, getting the circulation back into them, and she would have whispered a question, whether he'd enjoyed himself or about her being his first (wrong, somehow she didn't count, John did...wait, thoughts fuzzy, stupid, wait) or something similarly inane, so he turned his head to tell her to leave off speaking, but she took that for an invitation to a kiss, which was, he supposed, all right. He preferred John's mouth.

And John's mouth was elsewhere, planting kisses on the inside of Sherlock's thigh, on the joint between hip and pelvis, and Sherlock, surprised at the sensitivity more than anything else, jerked away, or tried to - John was holding him down by the hips.

"We're not done yet." And that was addressed to and intended for Sherlock alone, delivered by a column of air from the lungs, shaped by the lips and tongue and teeth of one Doctor John H. Watson, and Sherlock felt the protest (too soon, too much, you can't mean that, wait) die on his lips.

"Get up," said John around a mouthful of his flatmate's skin.

"Can't," Sherlock snarled through gritted teeth, because he knew he couldn't possibly, because wasn't once enough for now, because he was still processing, measuring, thinking as well as he could with imperfect data, and he tried to knee John off of him (gently, because never mind his cock, his entire body felt like a limp asparagus), but the movement turned into something else, a tensing of legs and a curling of toes, as John brought his teeth together and sucked, leaving a love mark high on Sherlock's leg.

"I intend to make you." There was a heartbeat where the doctor looked panicked at maybe having said the wrong thing, having been too rough - like he was about to apologize for it, actually, and that was just John Watson all over, and that was enough to start a tight knot of heat in Sherlock's groin (against all common sense, but to Hell with that and the horse it came in on).

He sat up, propping himself up with one arm, as John shuffled to his knees between his legs, laid a hand against the side of his face, and - tentatively, since he knew he wasn't good at it - pressed his lips against his (his) blogger's. He must have gotten it right, because John parted his lips, flicked his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, and that was enough for him to pull away breathless.

"Show me," he said.

Mmmmmmm, really enjoying this so far!

Oh, argh, yes- that.

Note: And at this point I'd like to say thank you for reading~
____

John slid off the bed, guiding Sherlock's thighs, knees, shins so that the detective was sitting on the edge of the bed with the doctor kneeling between his legs (less strain on his shoulder that way - Sherlock wasn't completely ignorant, he had a pretty shrewd idea as to where this was going). He peeled the condom off Sherlock's penis, and, keeping his eyes on his flatmate's, took the head of it in his mouth.

It was the fact of the matter, that John's mouth was actually on his cock and seeing and feeling and knowing that it was real, that did it for Sherlock more than anything else. And the wet heat and the deft tongue moving around his cock, teasing at the slit, well, those were just so many good things extra that had his eyes going wide, and his heart beating a ragged tattoo in his chest.

A pair of arms snaked around his waist - the girl, yes, she was there too, wasn't she - and hands were pressing against his chest, his belly, the part of his length that John hadn't taken into his mouth yet. Belatedly, he noted how she was positioned, behind him, with her legs spread against his, and he realized that he was noticing this now because John's hand was moving between them, up her thigh and against his, pushing them slightly apart to give himself room to push his fingers, unceremoniously and with some difficulty, up into the girl. She gasped, tightened her grip around Sherlock, pulling him against her so that he could feel John's hand moving against his arse as the doctor fingered her while continuing to suck him, to take more of him in than he had thought possible (that couldn't be comfortable - could it?).

The facts of the matter. John's lips stretched around him, the head of his cock pushing against the back of John's throat as his hips thrust up and forwards. The girl behind him moving too, fucking herself on John's fingers, to put it crudely, making small noises in her throat and her nails digging crescent moon marks into his sides. He was erect again, far sooner than he'd thought possible, a savage heat pulsing beneath his skin, curling and concentrating in his groin, and everything burst into white heat when John sucked particularly hard, cupped his balls and squeezed. He was so close. So close that his misgivings about losing control to so many ordinary chemicals were distant murmuring far away in his head, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut and think about dismembered thumbs and maggoty roadkill and Anderson, and not about what John would do if he ejaculated in his mouth, on his face, what doing that would be like.

He whimpered, actually whimpered, when John pulled away, precome trailing from Sherlock's cock to his swollen lips. His flatmate also drew his hand from the girl's vagina, eliciting a shiver and a sigh from her (not orgasm, but she seemed to have liked it).

He stood, levering himself up with a hand on Sherlock's thigh. "Not yet. Sorry. Switch, Sherlock." John leaned over, fisting a hand in his flatmate's hair to whisper dirtily in his ear. "Fuck her ass. I want to see you do that." And he kissed Sherlock again, sucking at his lower lip - Sherlock could taste himself in that kiss, and it made the blood rush in his ears, made his already achingly hard cock twitch against his stomach - before tumbling back onto the bed.

Oh good lord . . . more please. And soon.

"Would you do that for me?" asked John, putting his arm around Sherlock's waist, and there was that almost apologetic note in his voice again, and it made the consulting detective exhale, counting to ten as he did, with long, controlled beats between the numbers. He tilted his head forward in the barest gesture of assent, and John kissed his shoulder (thank you). "Condom," he said, nodding at his discarded jeans. "And you'll need lubricant."

As Sherlock stood (gingerly), he could hear John asking the girl if it would be okay, if she was up for it, and the answer to that - he had his back to them as he put the condom on, and, all the gods and saints of everything, it was difficult to concentrate - was the sound of flesh on flesh and the heavy creak of two bodies becoming suddenly horizontal on the bed, which turned into more rhythmic creak-thumps as they began to move. He watched them as he slicked himself with the Vaseline, John on top of the girl and between her legs, the muscles beneath his skin tensing as he pushed
his cock into her, and it took all of his self-control to not help himself right then with a good few tugs.

"You coming yet?" said John, impatiently, breathily, between thrusts, and his expressive mouth curved into a small smile as he realized the pun he'd made. He rolled over then, maneuvering so that the girl was on top of him, and he shot Sherlock a look, an invitation, a challenge, a please-will-you that his flatmate acknowledged and accepted, clambering onto the bed, going on his knees behind the girl and over John's legs. She lifted her buttocks up slightly, shifting her weight to her torso pressed against his flatmate's chest, and Sherlock had a full view of her prepared arsehole and John's cock going up into her vagina.

He put his hands on her waist - she was making little noises at the back of her throat as John went on pushing himself deeper inside her - and paused. It was straightforward enough, it should have been, he'd just seen it done, hadn't he, and, heaven help him, he wanted it, or at least thought he wanted it, the chemicals that were playing merry hell with his nerves wanted it, and it was a simple, simple thing, people with less than half a working brain cell managed sex all the time, but nevertheless there was a cold, unfamiliar ball of doubt suddenly sitting in the pit of his stomach right in the midst of all the mindless heat.

"John," he said, and he swallowed. "I don't - I'm not--"

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" shouted John, and it was the first sign of true impatience he'd shown throughout the proceedings (close to orgasm and trying to delay it, that's - possibly - why). "All you have to do is push the head of your dick past her anal sphincter and up her rectum and let it take over from there. That's not so fucking hard, is it?"

Yay, you updated! Specific instructions are the way to go.

holy shit. <3

Please keep going, I've been stalking this fic for a few weeks now hoping for a continuation.

___________

It wasn't hard at all. In fact, it was deliriously easy.

Sherlock slid into the girl, pushing perhaps too fast and too hard - she whimpered loudly, burying her face against his flatmate's neck, and John made shushing noises, his hands rubbing soothing circles on her back - and that was easy, but he had to stop, had to, before he was all the way in because, for the second time that night, things were dangerously bordering on too much.

It was tight, tighter than her cunt (her vagina) had been, and, yes, there was the heat, and John - he had been keeping still, mostly, Sherlock suspected, for his benefit - bucked upward (he didn't mean to, involuntary, couldn't help it, lost control) and he could feel John moving inside her, several layers of skin and muscle away from his own hard cock. He might have groaned, might have tilted his head back while John's name tumbled from his lips. He might have. But what he actually did, what he was sure of, was that he drove the rest of his length into the girl, and that he began, in earnest, to fuck her.

He had no real measure of how long he did it, thrusting in and out of her urgently, mindlessly (yes, mindlessly, that was saying something, wasn't it?), simply riding the sensation. All he knew, while it was happening, was that he needed it, needed more, needed for that hot, wonderful tightness to take him in, all of him, and how John had to keep moving too, beneath him, grinding deep inside her, and how she moved her hips, sliding further onto one cock and then the other with every cant and twist.

Part of him - the part that was still Sherlock Holmes and not a sex-crazed animal with his dick up a woman's arse - wondered, distantly, what it would look like to an outside observer, the three of them, like this.

He must have had a hand on the girl's hip, because John was touching him there, fingers trembling so hard that he needed several tries before he took Sherlock's hand in his, squeezed it so tightly that it hurt, the small bones grinding together in his grip (like their two erections grinding together inside a woman, stop, stop, stop.)

"Sweet Jesus," said John, and his head went back as he made a sound that shot straight to Sherlock's core. "Holy fuck. Christ.Sherlock."

And there, in a stark moment of clarity, Sherlock realized that he would very much like to make John say his name lik/e that again. And that he wanted very much to find out if fucking John, breaching him, filling him up and pounding into him, would do that. And if, in fact, it would feel anything like this.

It was the thought that sent him over the edge, just as John said his name again, shouted it as he came. Sherlock's second orgasm crashed through him with a roar in his eyes and white light in his ears, and a brilliant intensity that almost hurt.

Oh man I have been wanting an update on this fic for quite some time, I can't believe I kept on missing this, that was fantastic. Please go on if you can.

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prompting part XXIII

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