“John.”, Sherlock lifts his head a bit, hums his lover’s name for what feels like the millionth time, and this time it sounds a little more demanding. John knows that Sherlock’s ready and the notion sends a jolt of desire through his body. He runs his hands over Sherlock’s back, strokes the inside of his thighs and kisses the skin just above the slackened ring of muscle. He feels Sherlock shudder again.
“J…John. John. John.” The please is unspoken. Naturally, John understands it nonetheless.
“Turn around, love.” he whispers. “I want to see you.” Sherlock complies, drawing his knees up to his chest as John grabs a pillow and shoves it under his hips. John reaches for the lube again and slicks himself up. He rubs light, almost soothing circles into Sherlock’s belly and the inside of his thighs before he positions himself and carefully aligns the head of his cock with Sherlock’s entrance. “Ready?” he asks.
“John.”
A few months ago John would have thought it impossible for one tiny word to transpire so much. Trust, desire, vulnerability, a tiny bit of impatience. He’s overcome with love for this strange, impossible man. God, how he wants to utterly /bury himself/ inside him.
With one slow thrust, he is there. They’re as close as two people can be. John gasps when the tight passage contracts around his cock as Sherlock is adjusting himself, getting used to the fullness and the delicious ache deep inside him. When it’s finally just right, Sherlock tilts his head back on the pillow, clutches at the sheet with one hand and cautiously reaches for John’s hand with the other. John immediately twines their fingers together and doesn’t let go. Sherlock opens his eyes and looks up at him, and all John can do is lean down and press his lips to Sherlock’s. “John, John, John”, Sherlock hums between kisses and slowly, gently, John starts to move.
“You feel wonderful, love.”
“Nnngh, John.”
Sherlock begins to rhythmically move his hips. John speeds up a little, still pressing small, open-mouthed kisses to Sherlock’s neck and jar line. Beads of precome form a little puddle where the flushed head of Sherlock’s cock touches his belly. He throws his arms around John’s back, presses him closer against his chest, desperately trying to meet every thrust, because it’s not enough, and oh, still not close enough.
“So wonderful like this. So beautiful. So responsive.”
“John. Johnjohnjohnjohn.”
“I’m here, Sherlock. Breathe.”
“John. J…John.”
“I’m here, I’ve got you.”
“John.”
“I’ve got you, Sherlock.”
“John!” This time it sounds absolutely desperate, and John knows Sherlock is close. He lets go of Sherlock’s hand and starts to stroke his cock in time with his thrusts, careful to lightly brush his thumb over the slit every time. Sherlock’s body seems to move completely uncontrollably now. He simultaneously thrusts into John’s fist and fucks himself on John’s cock, muscles twitching almost uncoordinatedly. John’s name comes out as a string of strangled cries. It’s going to be over soon, and, oh, isn’t it fucking /good/.
John grabs Sherlock’s hip and angles him a little and – oh – there it is. “Aaaaaah, John!” Sherlock’s mouth has dropped open, his eyes are rolling back, his whole body shudders, hips jerking even more vigorously in time with John hitting his prostate. John, John, John, John…
The endless litany morphs into a strange staccato, until Sherlock can barely breathe, until he gasps it like he’s drowning, as if the tiny word is his only source of oxygen. And John holds him tight, holds him through it, doesn’t let go, keeps up his rhythm because he knows that’s what Sherlock needs. And then, finally, Sherlock takes a huge gulp of air and falls silent.
The very last “John” never leaves Sherlock’s lips. He mouths it soundlessly when his muscles clench around John and his hips jerk almost violently. He comes with John deep inside him, John’s hand around his cock and John’s lips on his sweat-coated forehead. John. John. John.
Sherlock’s release spills over John’s hand and his own belly and five, six deep thrusts are all it takes to push John over the edge as well.
FILL: In Nomine (part 5)
“J…John. John. John.” The please is unspoken. Naturally, John understands it nonetheless.
“Turn around, love.” he whispers. “I want to see you.”
Sherlock complies, drawing his knees up to his chest as John grabs a pillow and shoves it under his hips.
John reaches for the lube again and slicks himself up. He rubs light, almost soothing circles into Sherlock’s belly and the inside of his thighs before he positions himself and carefully aligns the head of his cock with Sherlock’s entrance. “Ready?” he asks.
“John.”
A few months ago John would have thought it impossible for one tiny word to transpire so much. Trust, desire, vulnerability, a tiny bit of impatience. He’s overcome with love for this strange, impossible man. God, how he wants to utterly /bury himself/ inside him.
With one slow thrust, he is there. They’re as close as two people can be. John gasps when the tight passage contracts around his cock as Sherlock is adjusting himself, getting used to the fullness and the delicious ache deep inside him. When it’s finally just right, Sherlock tilts his head back on the pillow, clutches at the sheet with one hand and cautiously reaches for John’s hand with the other. John immediately twines their fingers together and doesn’t let go. Sherlock opens his eyes and looks up at him, and all John can do is lean down and press his lips to Sherlock’s. “John, John, John”, Sherlock hums between kisses and slowly, gently, John starts to move.
“You feel wonderful, love.”
“Nnngh, John.”
Sherlock begins to rhythmically move his hips. John speeds up a little, still pressing small, open-mouthed kisses to Sherlock’s neck and jar line.
Beads of precome form a little puddle where the flushed head of Sherlock’s cock touches his belly. He throws his arms around John’s back, presses him closer against his chest, desperately trying to meet every thrust, because it’s not enough, and oh, still not close enough.
“So wonderful like this. So beautiful. So responsive.”
“John. Johnjohnjohnjohn.”
“I’m here, Sherlock. Breathe.”
“John. J…John.”
“I’m here, I’ve got you.”
“John.”
“I’ve got you, Sherlock.”
“John!” This time it sounds absolutely desperate, and John knows Sherlock is close. He lets go of Sherlock’s hand and starts to stroke his cock in time with his thrusts, careful to lightly brush his thumb over the slit every time. Sherlock’s body seems to move completely uncontrollably now. He simultaneously thrusts into John’s fist and fucks himself on John’s cock, muscles twitching almost uncoordinatedly. John’s name comes out as a string of strangled cries. It’s going to be over soon, and, oh, isn’t it fucking /good/.
John grabs Sherlock’s hip and angles him a little and – oh – there it is. “Aaaaaah, John!” Sherlock’s mouth has dropped open, his eyes are rolling back, his whole body shudders, hips jerking even more vigorously in time with John hitting his prostate. John, John, John, John…
The endless litany morphs into a strange staccato, until Sherlock can barely breathe, until he gasps it like he’s drowning, as if the tiny word is his only source of oxygen. And John holds him tight, holds him through it, doesn’t let go, keeps up his rhythm because he knows that’s what Sherlock needs. And then, finally, Sherlock takes a huge gulp of air and falls silent.
The very last “John” never leaves Sherlock’s lips. He mouths it soundlessly when his muscles clench around John and his hips jerk almost violently. He comes with John deep inside him, John’s hand around his cock and John’s lips on his sweat-coated forehead. John. John. John.
Sherlock’s release spills over John’s hand and his own belly and five, six deep thrusts are all it takes to push John over the edge as well.