“Get up,” John demands after perhaps a minute of waiting. “On your feet.” Sherlock slides back, pushing up to stand, and gets his first glimpse of John sitting there, entirely in control, with a lit cigar between his fingers. “Hands behind your head."
Sherlock complies, and the first thing John does, after an inhalation from the cigar, is blow smoke directly over his dick, mouth forming an “o” just centimeters from the head. Sherlock doesn’t stand a chance of being dignified about this. He whimpers aloud, and John smacks his hip.
“Turn around.” The next sensation of hot smoke against his skin is even more shocking. John spreads his cheeks a bit with two fingers in a V and then blows directly over his arsehole. It takes all of his concentration not to jump, nor to beg. He’s adamant about his role as a vessel, as a tool in this kind of a scene, but sometimes the sensations make him want to be more active and beg for more. He steels himself and John does it again.
“Slut,” John teases, lips brushing his hole. Sherlock just bites his lip. John nudges his hip, gets him to turn again, and when he sees John again he’s grinning. “Do you think I could fuck you with this?” John asks, turning the cigar to inspect the cherry, tone all casual. Sherlock hitches in a breath but says nothing.
“Kneel, boy,” John orders, leaning back in the chair. “I need my ashtray."
Sherlock’s dick twitches a little with anticipation. He kneels between John’s thighs and John strokes his cheek with a thumb. “Build up some saliva in your mouth,” John says, then ashes into his own hand, rolling the cigar so that the cooler ash at the end falls, but not the burning cherry. He shakes his hand a bit, testing the temperature, and then suddenly yanks Sherlock forward roughly by the hair. John’s cupped hand is shoved against his face before Sherlock can even get his tongue out, but he eagerly licks the ash into his mouth as soon as he does, rocking his hips a bit out of instinct when he first encounters the salty taste and the familiar gritty texture.
“Good little ash slut,” John coos, his voice lower than usual, more affectionate than Sherlock’s used to in a scene. But the hand in his hair is perfect, and John is perfect, this mix of caretaker and strict dominant. Sherlock swallows as best he can, licking more up, fighting his body’s tendency to reject the too-dry substance. He gathers more saliva and wets John’s palm, licking it clean. “Such a useful tongue,” John praises, then smears the last bit of wet gray substance over Sherlock’s face, briefly smothering him with his open hand. Sherlock sticks his tongue out again when John’s hand comes away, panting, eager to show how fucking useful he can be.
Light, Burn, Ash, Suck (4/?)
Sherlock complies, and the first thing John does, after an inhalation from the cigar, is blow smoke directly over his dick, mouth forming an “o” just centimeters from the head. Sherlock doesn’t stand a chance of being dignified about this. He whimpers aloud, and John smacks his hip.
“Turn around.” The next sensation of hot smoke against his skin is even more shocking. John spreads his cheeks a bit with two fingers in a V and then blows directly over his arsehole. It takes all of his concentration not to jump, nor to beg. He’s adamant about his role as a vessel, as a tool in this kind of a scene, but sometimes the sensations make him want to be more active and beg for more. He steels himself and John does it again.
“Slut,” John teases, lips brushing his hole. Sherlock just bites his lip. John nudges his hip, gets him to turn again, and when he sees John again he’s grinning. “Do you think I could fuck you with this?” John asks, turning the cigar to inspect the cherry, tone all casual. Sherlock hitches in a breath but says nothing.
“Kneel, boy,” John orders, leaning back in the chair. “I need my ashtray."
Sherlock’s dick twitches a little with anticipation. He kneels between John’s thighs and John strokes his cheek with a thumb. “Build up some saliva in your mouth,” John says, then ashes into his own hand, rolling the cigar so that the cooler ash at the end falls, but not the burning cherry. He shakes his hand a bit, testing the temperature, and then suddenly yanks Sherlock forward roughly by the hair. John’s cupped hand is shoved against his face before Sherlock can even get his tongue out, but he eagerly licks the ash into his mouth as soon as he does, rocking his hips a bit out of instinct when he first encounters the salty taste and the familiar gritty texture.
“Good little ash slut,” John coos, his voice lower than usual, more affectionate than Sherlock’s used to in a scene. But the hand in his hair is perfect, and John is perfect, this mix of caretaker and strict dominant. Sherlock swallows as best he can, licking more up, fighting his body’s tendency to reject the too-dry substance. He gathers more saliva and wets John’s palm, licking it clean. “Such a useful tongue,” John praises, then smears the last bit of wet gray substance over Sherlock’s face, briefly smothering him with his open hand. Sherlock sticks his tongue out again when John’s hand comes away, panting, eager to show how fucking useful he can be.