‘Don’t try to lower yourself. Let me support your weight, you just bear down against it, all right? Do you hear me?’
Sherlock hears him (always hears John, even when he isn’t there), but what is he supposed to—‘Oh! Fuck!’ he snarls as the head of John’s cock sinks part way into him, stretching him painfully. His hand spasms around John’s shaft; they’ve hardly begun, and already the urge to tear John’s prick out of him is nearly overwhelming, his fight-or-flight drive fully engaged. ‘John.’
‘Shit, I know love, I know, I’m sorry, but you’re doing brilliantly, you can do this, just bear down, c’mon...’
Sherlock struggles to do as he’s told, and John slides into him another agonizing centimeter or so. His thighs shake, unable to hold him upright, but true to his word, John supports his weight. Concentrating on keeping his breathing deep and even, Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, slumps forward to press his forehead hard against John’s temple, which is damp with perspiration.
‘There you go, just like that,’ John murmurs to him, his lips catching on Sherlock’s curls. ‘Just a bit longer, Sherlock, and once I’m in far enough that there’s no risk of slipping out again, you’re going to let go of my prick and put your hand back around yours.’
Sherlock huffs, ruffling the hair at John’s temple, and bears down. John pushes in a bit deeper. Sherlock chokes back a whimper.
‘The pain’s made you go a bit soft, I know, but that’s perfectly normal, that’s why you’re going to start pulling yourself off again when I tell you to. You’re going to use those long, lovely fingers of yours and pay plenty of attention to the head of your cock, make sure you stay nice and sensitive, will you do that for me?’
Sherlock nods weakly, beyond words. He would...he could do that, yes. When John told him to, yes. He bears down, and the head of John’s prick slowly sinks the rest of the way into him.
‘Oh, you’re amazing,’ John whispers, ‘absolutely...amazing, fuck.’ Gooseflesh prickles down Sherlock’s flanks at the earnest awe in John’s voice. ‘Yes, you can take your hand back, you did so well. Now use it to make yourself feel good, okay?’ His lips skim over the corner of Sherlock’s jaw in a fleeting kiss, yes, definitely a kiss, and Sherlock exhales shakily.
‘Yes, John,’ he rasps around the lump in his throat.
‘You’ll want to keep bearing down, when you can, until I’m completely inside you,’ John whispers. Sherlock doesn’t think he can speak, but he tightens the arm clinging round John’s shoulders to show him he understands. He contracts his muscles, and John slips another inch deeper.
God, it feels as if he’s being split in two. No one else—he would never, ever do this for anyone but John, Sherlock is firmly decided on that point. The pain is intense, but in a sharp, localized way that makes it easier to compartmentalize. Nothing like, say, being brutalized in a Serbian dungeon.
Sherlock’s erection has flagged significantly, but John says this is normal, so he doesn’t let himself become overly concerned. Doubts he’s going to have much success with revival efforts at the moment, and instead tries to follow John’s instructions to maintain sensitivity, to “make himself feel good.” Sherlock reaches between the press of their bodies to touch himself cautiously, wary of how his genitals may react (or not) under this kind of stress.
He uses his first two fingers and thumb to gently work the sensitive prepuce up over the glans, to massage it there, then ease the fragile skin back, exposing the tip once more, before repeating the whole process. It’s...sufficiently distracting, if only mildly pleasurable, at least in Sherlock’s present frame of mind. Meantime, John pushes into him just a bit more and Sherlock winces, his fingers tightening around the crown of his penis momentarily, an instinctive attempt to redirect the stimulus overload. John immediately leans back in order to see Sherlock’s face.
FILL: Take What We're Given (Just Because You've Forgotten Doesn't Mean You're Forgiven) Part 5d
Sherlock hears him (always hears John, even when he isn’t there), but what is he supposed to—‘Oh! Fuck!’ he snarls as the head of John’s cock sinks part way into him, stretching him painfully. His hand spasms around John’s shaft; they’ve hardly begun, and already the urge to tear John’s prick out of him is nearly overwhelming, his fight-or-flight drive fully engaged. ‘John.’
‘Shit, I know love, I know, I’m sorry, but you’re doing brilliantly, you can do this, just bear down, c’mon...’
Sherlock struggles to do as he’s told, and John slides into him another agonizing centimeter or so. His thighs shake, unable to hold him upright, but true to his word, John supports his weight. Concentrating on keeping his breathing deep and even, Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, slumps forward to press his forehead hard against John’s temple, which is damp with perspiration.
‘There you go, just like that,’ John murmurs to him, his lips catching on Sherlock’s curls. ‘Just a bit longer, Sherlock, and once I’m in far enough that there’s no risk of slipping out again, you’re going to let go of my prick and put your hand back around yours.’
Sherlock huffs, ruffling the hair at John’s temple, and bears down. John pushes in a bit deeper. Sherlock chokes back a whimper.
‘The pain’s made you go a bit soft, I know, but that’s perfectly normal, that’s why you’re going to start pulling yourself off again when I tell you to. You’re going to use those long, lovely fingers of yours and pay plenty of attention to the head of your cock, make sure you stay nice and sensitive, will you do that for me?’
Sherlock nods weakly, beyond words. He would...he could do that, yes. When John told him to, yes. He bears down, and the head of John’s prick slowly sinks the rest of the way into him.
‘Oh, you’re amazing,’ John whispers, ‘absolutely...amazing, fuck.’ Gooseflesh prickles down Sherlock’s flanks at the earnest awe in John’s voice. ‘Yes, you can take your hand back, you did so well. Now use it to make yourself feel good, okay?’ His lips skim over the corner of Sherlock’s jaw in a fleeting kiss, yes, definitely a kiss, and Sherlock exhales shakily.
‘Yes, John,’ he rasps around the lump in his throat.
‘You’ll want to keep bearing down, when you can, until I’m completely inside you,’ John whispers. Sherlock doesn’t think he can speak, but he tightens the arm clinging round John’s shoulders to show him he understands. He contracts his muscles, and John slips another inch deeper.
God, it feels as if he’s being split in two. No one else—he would never, ever do this for anyone but John, Sherlock is firmly decided on that point. The pain is intense, but in a sharp, localized way that makes it easier to compartmentalize. Nothing like, say, being brutalized in a Serbian dungeon.
Sherlock’s erection has flagged significantly, but John says this is normal, so he doesn’t let himself become overly concerned. Doubts he’s going to have much success with revival efforts at the moment, and instead tries to follow John’s instructions to maintain sensitivity, to “make himself feel good.” Sherlock reaches between the press of their bodies to touch himself cautiously, wary of how his genitals may react (or not) under this kind of stress.
He uses his first two fingers and thumb to gently work the sensitive prepuce up over the glans, to massage it there, then ease the fragile skin back, exposing the tip once more, before repeating the whole process. It’s...sufficiently distracting, if only mildly pleasurable, at least in Sherlock’s present frame of mind. Meantime, John pushes into him just a bit more and Sherlock winces, his fingers tightening around the crown of his penis momentarily, an instinctive attempt to redirect the stimulus overload. John immediately leans back in order to see Sherlock’s face.