Behind him, John finally exhales, and the touch resumes. Both hands now, moving out along Sherlock’s ribs before coming to a rest, anchored to, anchoring, Sherlock’s hips with unexpected force.
‘How about—’ John clears his throat. ‘How about I touch you, and you tell me a simple yes or no: “yes, please, more of that,” or “no, definitely not that,” can you manage that?’
‘Yes, fine,’ Sherlock huffs. Keeps his eyes closed. It will be easier if he can concentrate on the sensations alone, and not on how he must look. Otherwise, he will only become fixated on how horribly awkward and undignified and unattractive it all is, and it will be entirely self-defeating.
John again takes up the circular caress of Sherlock’s iliac crest with his thumbs, both sides this time. Sherlock is uncertain if this is meant to be John’s first step in the no doubt arduous task of chivvying him toward orgasm, or a simple delaying tactic as John considers his options, but Sherlock wants to show he is being cooperative, so he says ‘Yes.’
John’s hands skim up either side of Sherlock’s ribcage, over his shirt, and Sherlock steels himself against the reflexive flinch.
‘No.’ Too ticklish, Sherlock doesn’t say, because just thinking the word is ridiculous enough. Thankfully, John doesn’t press, simply takes Sherlock at his word and continues to his shoulders.
‘Mm,’ Sherlock grunts as strong hands alight on the anxiety-taut muscles of his deltoids, his trapezius, the rhomboid major and minor. ‘Yes. But not exactly...stimulating,’ he adds in the interest of full disclosure. John’s only response to this is to dig his fingers harder into the meat of Sherlock’s upper back.
Sherlock bites down on his lower lip to avoid groaning aloud at the pleasurable pain of it, but John does not relent, and Sherlock gradually, warily, allows himself to be molded by the capable heat of John’s hands, the worst of his tension forcibly pulled from his body. Sherlock’s head drops as John’s hand wraps around the nape of his neck, massaging firmly. A faint tremor shivers down his spine, seemingly sensitizing everything in its wake and oh, perhaps he was too hasty with his previous assessment.
Sherlock’s head lolls even further, following the guidance of John’s hand, helplessly, until John’s fingers crawl into the curls at the base of his skull and rub five points of exquisite pressure against his scalp. Sherlock’s whole body shudders, a moan caught behind his teeth, ‘Yes,’ he whispers, barely audible, but surely it is obvious. John tightens his fist, tugging carefully, and Sherlock begins to feel lightheaded. He is certain his arms are about to buckle beneath him, isn’t entirely clear whether he doesn’t say this aloud, but then John’s hand in his hair is gently yet resolutely directing his head lower and lower, until Sherlock is held up on his forearms, knelt with his forehead pressed to the floor.
John’s left hand remains fisted in his hair, a silent injunction against movement which Sherlock would never dream of defying. The fingers of John’s other hand glide down his spine, John’s touch seeming to burn even through the fabric of his shirt. The fingers cut across Sherlock’s hip, down into the tender slice of skin between thigh and groin, and rest just against the base of Sherlock’s mostly quiescent prick.
‘No,’ Sherlock protests sharply, that sick feeling of wrongness in his own skin threatening to descend, and John’s fingers immediately retreat.
‘I know it’s okay,’ he retorts defensively, it’s his body, after all. That particular portion, he is well aware, will only perform for him (and even that has always been rather hit-or-miss).
FILL: Take What We're Given (Just Because You've Forgotten Doesn't Mean You're Forgiven) Part 4c
‘How about—’ John clears his throat. ‘How about I touch you, and you tell me a simple yes or no: “yes, please, more of that,” or “no, definitely not that,” can you manage that?’
‘Yes, fine,’ Sherlock huffs. Keeps his eyes closed. It will be easier if he can concentrate on the sensations alone, and not on how he must look. Otherwise, he will only become fixated on how horribly awkward and undignified and unattractive it all is, and it will be entirely self-defeating.
John again takes up the circular caress of Sherlock’s iliac crest with his thumbs, both sides this time. Sherlock is uncertain if this is meant to be John’s first step in the no doubt arduous task of chivvying him toward orgasm, or a simple delaying tactic as John considers his options, but Sherlock wants to show he is being cooperative, so he says ‘Yes.’
John’s hands skim up either side of Sherlock’s ribcage, over his shirt, and Sherlock steels himself against the reflexive flinch.
‘No.’ Too ticklish, Sherlock doesn’t say, because just thinking the word is ridiculous enough. Thankfully, John doesn’t press, simply takes Sherlock at his word and continues to his shoulders.
‘Mm,’ Sherlock grunts as strong hands alight on the anxiety-taut muscles of his deltoids, his trapezius, the rhomboid major and minor. ‘Yes. But not exactly...stimulating,’ he adds in the interest of full disclosure. John’s only response to this is to dig his fingers harder into the meat of Sherlock’s upper back.
Sherlock bites down on his lower lip to avoid groaning aloud at the pleasurable pain of it, but John does not relent, and Sherlock gradually, warily, allows himself to be molded by the capable heat of John’s hands, the worst of his tension forcibly pulled from his body. Sherlock’s head drops as John’s hand wraps around the nape of his neck, massaging firmly. A faint tremor shivers down his spine, seemingly sensitizing everything in its wake and oh, perhaps he was too hasty with his previous assessment.
Sherlock’s head lolls even further, following the guidance of John’s hand, helplessly, until John’s fingers crawl into the curls at the base of his skull and rub five points of exquisite pressure against his scalp. Sherlock’s whole body shudders, a moan caught behind his teeth, ‘Yes,’ he whispers, barely audible, but surely it is obvious. John tightens his fist, tugging carefully, and Sherlock begins to feel lightheaded. He is certain his arms are about to buckle beneath him, isn’t entirely clear whether he doesn’t say this aloud, but then John’s hand in his hair is gently yet resolutely directing his head lower and lower, until Sherlock is held up on his forearms, knelt with his forehead pressed to the floor.
John’s left hand remains fisted in his hair, a silent injunction against movement which Sherlock would never dream of defying. The fingers of John’s other hand glide down his spine, John’s touch seeming to burn even through the fabric of his shirt. The fingers cut across Sherlock’s hip, down into the tender slice of skin between thigh and groin, and rest just against the base of Sherlock’s mostly quiescent prick.
‘No,’ Sherlock protests sharply, that sick feeling of wrongness in his own skin threatening to descend, and John’s fingers immediately retreat.
‘All right, okay, that’s fine, Sherlock, it’s okay.’
‘I know it’s okay,’ he retorts defensively, it’s his body, after all. That particular portion, he is well aware, will only perform for him (and even that has always been rather hit-or-miss).