TRIGGER WARNING: Attempted Rape (not really, but could be a bit triggery)
Part 9: He Needed Control
When they returned to the flat, John grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and shoved him against the wall. He pushed his thighs apart with his knee, then roughly pulled his face down for a snog. John did not have Sherlock’s deductive abilities, but he knew how to pay attention to important things, like the fact that his flatmate enjoyed being manhandled.
Sherlock pulled away, gasping, “I never imagined you would be so-so-.”
John smiled, “Don’t pretend like you don’t like it.”
“Oh God.” Sherlock practically collapsed against him.
John took hold of his scarf and towed him into the bedroom. He pulled off the coat and scarf, and began unbuttoning his shirt. The idea of taking off Sherlock’s trousers felt a bit presumptuous, so he left those on.
Sherlock helped him with his own button-down while John kissed him. The feeling of Sherlock’s bare chest against his own was amazing. He had almost no body hair, so his skin was smooth and soft like a woman’s. However, unlike a woman, underneath the skin, his body was all hard angles, muscle and bone. This was no gentle refuge of curves and soft flesh. His body was an incinerator. It was hot, devouring. John couldn’t get enough.
He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s jaw line. It was as hard as the rest of him, with only the slightest hint of stubble. He kissed his way down his neck, backing him toward the bed. Sherlock stumbled over the mess on the floor and sat down hard. He pushed himself back toward the headboard, his eyes focused on John, who approached with deliberate menace. John knelt on the bed, preparing to straddle his flatmate and ravish every inch of his exposed flesh with his tongue, when his ribs gave an agonizing twinge.
John eased himself onto his side, groaning. Sherlock lightly kissed his mouth, then kissed the outer shell of his ear. He teased it with his tongue, and lightly played with it with his teeth. The sensation went straight to John’s groin. He growled with pleasure. This spurred Sherlock to mercilessly nibble on his entire ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth. John thought he was going to lose his mind.
Sherlock used his distraction to ease him onto his back. He climbed astride him.
In the darkened room, Sherlock was a dark shadow, an oppressive heavy weight. John’s body stiffened for a second. He forced himself to relax, passing the flinch off as arousal, rather than fear. The tone of the encounter had changed. He still felt desire. He still enjoyed the things Sherlock was doing, but he had to force himself to focus on the sensations. He forced his muscles to relax. His heart raced and his breathing quickened. Sherlock sat up for a moment and frowned at John’s face, but John pulled him back down.
Sherlock trailed light kisses down his neck, while his hands touched him everywhere. They ran over his collarbone, his ribs, his stomach, his biceps, but avoided his nipples. The touch drove John wild until desire mixed with fear and he could no longer tell one from the other.
Then, one of Sherlock’s hands wound its way through John’s hair. Fisting the short strands, Sherlock pulled his head back to gain better access to his neck. Every muscle in John’s body went rigid. Without conscious thought on his part, he jerked his hair out of his grasp. His hands desperately sought purchase on Sherlock’s shoulders, trying to push him away. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
Sherlock sat up. His lips curled down with hurt and confusion. “What-?“
John sat up, ignoring his protesting ribs. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him down to the bed, rolling him underneath his body. He covered his lips with his mouth before he could ask questions.
Sherlock struggled, trying to pull away. John kept him pinned with a forearm. Control. He needed control. Bad things couldn’t happen to him if he was in control.
Fill: No Refuge from Memory: 9a/?
Part 9: He Needed Control
When they returned to the flat, John grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and shoved him against the wall. He pushed his thighs apart with his knee, then roughly pulled his face down for a snog. John did not have Sherlock’s deductive abilities, but he knew how to pay attention to important things, like the fact that his flatmate enjoyed being manhandled.
Sherlock pulled away, gasping, “I never imagined you would be so-so-.”
John smiled, “Don’t pretend like you don’t like it.”
“Oh God.” Sherlock practically collapsed against him.
John took hold of his scarf and towed him into the bedroom. He pulled off the coat and scarf, and began unbuttoning his shirt. The idea of taking off Sherlock’s trousers felt a bit presumptuous, so he left those on.
Sherlock helped him with his own button-down while John kissed him. The feeling of Sherlock’s bare chest against his own was amazing. He had almost no body hair, so his skin was smooth and soft like a woman’s. However, unlike a woman, underneath the skin, his body was all hard angles, muscle and bone. This was no gentle refuge of curves and soft flesh. His body was an incinerator. It was hot, devouring. John couldn’t get enough.
He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s jaw line. It was as hard as the rest of him, with only the slightest hint of stubble. He kissed his way down his neck, backing him toward the bed. Sherlock stumbled over the mess on the floor and sat down hard. He pushed himself back toward the headboard, his eyes focused on John, who approached with deliberate menace. John knelt on the bed, preparing to straddle his flatmate and ravish every inch of his exposed flesh with his tongue, when his ribs gave an agonizing twinge.
John eased himself onto his side, groaning. Sherlock lightly kissed his mouth, then kissed the outer shell of his ear. He teased it with his tongue, and lightly played with it with his teeth. The sensation went straight to John’s groin. He growled with pleasure. This spurred Sherlock to mercilessly nibble on his entire ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth. John thought he was going to lose his mind.
Sherlock used his distraction to ease him onto his back. He climbed astride him.
In the darkened room, Sherlock was a dark shadow, an oppressive heavy weight. John’s body stiffened for a second. He forced himself to relax, passing the flinch off as arousal, rather than fear. The tone of the encounter had changed. He still felt desire. He still enjoyed the things Sherlock was doing, but he had to force himself to focus on the sensations. He forced his muscles to relax. His heart raced and his breathing quickened. Sherlock sat up for a moment and frowned at John’s face, but John pulled him back down.
Sherlock trailed light kisses down his neck, while his hands touched him everywhere. They ran over his collarbone, his ribs, his stomach, his biceps, but avoided his nipples. The touch drove John wild until desire mixed with fear and he could no longer tell one from the other.
Then, one of Sherlock’s hands wound its way through John’s hair. Fisting the short strands, Sherlock pulled his head back to gain better access to his neck. Every muscle in John’s body went rigid. Without conscious thought on his part, he jerked his hair out of his grasp. His hands desperately sought purchase on Sherlock’s shoulders, trying to push him away. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
Sherlock sat up. His lips curled down with hurt and confusion. “What-?“
John sat up, ignoring his protesting ribs. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him down to the bed, rolling him underneath his body. He covered his lips with his mouth before he could ask questions.
Sherlock struggled, trying to pull away. John kept him pinned with a forearm. Control. He needed control. Bad things couldn’t happen to him if he was in control.