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tweedandtinsel2011-01-17 06:06 am
oxfordtweed) wrote in tweedandtinsel2011-01-17 06:06 am
In Outer Space
Fandom: Sherlock
Character/s: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 2200
Rating: R
Summary: Original Prompt: Sherlock is asexual, but he doesn't know it. He has sex for the first time with John and doesn't like it. At all.
Notes/Warnings: I almost didn’t post this. Sex with someone who’s not into sex is not sexy at all, which sums this piece up rather succinctly, I think. Very much outside of the timeline all my other stuff has been on. Dear god, I feel dirty now. First part of Sex is Boring.
He hadn’t been entirely sure what the term ‘late bloomer’ was meant to mean, exactly, but it had been thrown around by various family members in regard to him for the last twenty years, almost. He just didn’t like to date; didn’t see the point. It was a distraction and far too much work for what seemed like very little reward. He’d gone on a few ‘first dates’ with people over the years, but they had all been tediously boring, and once or twice, Sherlock had even faked having an important text come in as an excuse to rush out and stick the other person with the bill as revenge for boring him in the first place.
John was… John was different. Most of the time, he wasn’t boring, and when Sherlock would rush out of a restaurant for a case (all of which were actually real), John would jump to his feet and follow, and in a move Sherlock found infinitely amusing, would later return to the restaurant to pay the bill they had earlier skipped out on.
He wasn’t sure when their relationship had shifted from flatmates to friends, or from friends to whatever they had become after friends, but it was definitely clear that it had after a particularly thrilling chase through London; the sort of chase that almost kills you, and the brain feels a sudden need to procreate immediately after, because you’re clearly doing a disservice to the survival of the species otherwise.
John was clumsily trying to remove Sherlock’s shirt — the white one with white stripes — and would have done a far more dexterous job at it if he hadn’t been preoccupied with mauling Sherlock’s mouth with his own. Tongue and teeth and lips everywhere, mixing saliva with his own, spreading it on his face. It was drying on some parts of his skin, and drowning him in other places. He could taste John’s breath; taste what he’d had for supper, and the disgusting coffee he’d drank just before they decided to chase a madman. Saliva was gathering on his chin, wanting to dribble off. John was bound to get dehydrated at this rate, from all the fluids he was losing to Sherlock’s face.
“Sherlock?” John asked, with a faint hint of worry on his voice.
“Hmm? Yes?” Sherlock realised that he had lost focus. How… interesting. Very unusual.
“Did you hit your head?” John asked.
He pulled away slightly and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. Not the sort of looking deep into the eyes of the person you’re currently trying to get off with, but with a doctor’s expression. He was checking Sherlock for concussion. Sherlock put on his perfectly casual smile.
“Everything’s fine,” he said.
To prove this point, he started kissing John, and then wondered how long he would be able to keep this up before his jaw started to ache. It was such an unnatural thing for his mouth to be doing, and since when was John missing one of his back teeth? Sherlock wondered if it had always been that way, or if it had come out the month previous when he had been hit in the face with a fist half the size of his own head. It was one in the far back; second to last on John’s right side. Would have been difficult to notice without flat out examining the inside of John’s mouth. Maybe he’d have to do that more often.
“Sherlock, are you sure you’re all right?” John sounded almost irritated this time.
“Of course,” Sherlock said airily. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
John narrowed his eyes, which Sherlock countered by pulling John back toward the bed. That seemed like the right thing to do in this situation. Assure John that everything was all right by initiating more of this ritual. And that’s really what it was, when it came down to it. A ritual that couples engaged in when they wanted to prove to one another that they were committed. Was Sherlock committed to John? Was John committed to him? Sherlock wasn’t sure, actually. Maybe that wasn’t what the ritual was about. He’d have to revise his thoughts. Maybe go online and do a bit of research. There was a particularly good site that let users post polls for any subject, which Sherlock had come to find most invaluable when it came to social matters that he didn’t entirely comprehend or understand.
Sherlock started rather violently at the feeling of something hot and wet on his penis. When had John unzipped his trousers? He looked down to see his penis completely inside John’s mouth. For a moment, he wondered how John wasn’t gagging, but then he realised that he wasn’t actually hard yet. Maybe John was trying to get him hard. All he was doing so far was getting him wet and sticky in an area that had no business being either of those things. Sherlock wondered if he’d have to do this to John to get him hard as well. It must be terribly painful on the jaw. It seemed like everything about sex was designed to make the face hurt or ache. Why was that? The face was not a sexual organ, and played no real part in any matters reproductive. But apparently the mouth did, which was odd, because Sherlock didn’t recall seeing anything to that effect in any of the literature he’d read on the subject.
There was an odd pressure building in the very bottom of his stomach, just behind his penis; a vaguely familiar sensation, but terribly different at the same time. It wasn’t the same sort of arousal that happened some mornings that would just go away on its own. This was different. More angry, somehow. An almost demanding sort of want coming from a part of his body that had nothing to do with rest or food. And more persistent than either of those feelings of need. Almost as though it were fabricated specifically to take over parts of the brain and hijack the body for a time.
What a frightening thought. Sherlock did not want to lose control of himself just because one part of his body suddenly decided that it wanted to be touched.
God, it was getting ridiculous down there. Sherlock felt like he could have gone swimming inside his own pants. How was John not suffering the effects of dehydration yet? How much saliva could a person lose before getting dehydrated? There might have been an experiment in that, actually. Maybe John would be a willing participant.
Wet, wet, wet, sticky, sticky, sticky. Colder now where the air touched. Confusing, since John’s mouth was hot. Conflicting temperatures so close to one another. The sexual equivalent of vertigo, Sherlock decided. Unpleasant at best.
John sat back, again giving Sherlock that slightly worried look. Should something be happening now?
Now his penis was cold. Unpleasant indeed.
“Sherlock, you’re a million miles away right now,” John said. He sounded annoyed. He probably had good reason.
Sherlock focused his attention on John. “Am I?” he asked. “I hadn’t noticed.”
John’s chin was wet and slick with saliva, and Sherlock had to fight the urge to fetch a towel to clean it off.
“You didn’t notice what?” asked John. “That you were off in outer space somewhere, or that I was giving you a blow job and using all my best moves?”
“Ah…”
Somehow, ‘both’ did not seem like the best answer. John would probably get more upset than he already was, and Sherlock didn’t want to upset John. Not right then, anyway. Sometimes he liked irritating the other man, but this was the sort of time when he should be trying to initiate intimacy with him.
Maybe that’s what it was, Sherlock realised. John had taken the control out of his hands, and Sherlock didn’t know how to handle that. He ignored the look of indignation on John’s face and pulled him onto the bed, tugging his jumper over his head at the same time. He’d seen John without his shirt on plenty of times, but he’d never been allowed to touch. Sherlock just wanted to explore his skin, take in every pore and imperfection. John had had chicken pox when he was young, and had scratched the ones on his stomach. Dozens of small scars spread across his skin. Sherlock touched the pads of his fingers to every one of them, taking in the difference of texture on the skin.
Sherlock was surprised when, even lying on his back, John managed to take control of the situation. This time, he pulled Sherlock to a position that pressed their hips together.
John was definitely hard (good. Sherlock wasn’t sure that he wanted to give John a blowjob), and he pressed his erection against Sherlock’s thigh. Even through the fabric of John’s trousers, the heat was apparent. John pulled Sherlock into another sloppy, wet, confusing kiss. Wet, wet, wet, curry, coffee, wet. John shifted under him, and pressed something square-ish and mildly squidgy into Sherlock’s hand.
A condom.
Sherlock felt oddly relieved at the implication, as he realised the situation had been made easier. He hadn’t even considered it until just then, but he did not want John inside him. Just thinking about it was almost enough to put him off this whole lark, right then and there. But, no. Good. This was… this was good. Sherlock thought that he could handle being inside John, and even thought he wanted it.
Letting out a ragged breath, Sherlock pulled down his pants and trousers and sat back on his heels as he unwrapped the foil packet. He was familiar, in theory, with the way a condom worked, but found that he had to actually study the thing for a few moments to figure out which way to roll it on. As soon as he had it figured out, John’s hand was on his penis and smearing something translucent and viscous all over him. Some of it dripped off of John’s hand and landed on Sherlock’s thigh, and as he went to wipe it away, he was perplexed to find that it had left behind a sticky residue. This would have to all be done rather quickly, then, lest the jelly dried while they were still going.
Sherlock wasn’t sure if this was something that could be done quickly. How inconvenient.
John pulled him back down, hitching his hips to get a good angle. Sherlock wondered if he was allowed to use his hand to guide himself where he needed to be, or if he should just automatically know how without assistance.
He decided to risk looking like an inexperienced idiot, and used his fingers to locate John’s opening before sliding himself slowly inside. If it was wrong, John hardly seemed to notice, and hissed a sharp inhaled breath and arched his back.
Sherlock froze, wondering if he had managed to hurt John. He liked to annoy the man, sure, but he didn’t want to cause any actual harm. With worried eyes, he scanned John for any signs of having done something wrong, but dismissed those thoughts when John’s hips bucked beneath him.
Propping himself up on his elbows, Sherlock tried thrusting his hips experimentally, driving deeper into John. John’s sticky hand moved up to Sherlock’s side, running along his ribs. Tiny hairs on his skin caught in the residue left by the jelly and pulled uncomfortably, and John’s flannel sheets rubbed uncomfortably against Sherlock’s elbows. He wondered if it would be possible for his elbows to be rubbed raw, to the point of bleeding from John’s sheets. It might take a while, but he was sure it would be possible. The idea of enduring friction burn for however long that would take seemed like an interesting experiment. Not on himself or on John, but something he should probably be able to test at Bart’s.
He heard John make an exasperated noise beneath him, and before Sherlock could register why, he found himself being almost thrown onto his back. Oh, god. Was John going to want to fuck him, now?
John only straddled Sherlock’s hips, lowering himself onto his penis, which was starting to go soft again. Sherlock forced himself to concentrate on John riding him, the sensation of himself inside another person, the way John stroked himself as he grinded against Sherlock.
From this angle, Sherlock could see those chicken pox scars again. A night’s sky worth of them, dusted across John’s stomach and the lower part of his chest. Must have been a particularly nasty case for John to have that many scars, even if he did scratch. Sherlock wondered how old John was when he had it.
Suddenly, John rolled off of him, panting lightly. He sprawled out on his back next to Sherlock, his eyes closed and his hand on his chest. Was it over? Thank Christ if it was. Sherlock had had more fun getting arrested. He looked over at John, trying to determine if anything else was wanted of him. It didn’t seem like it, so he pulled himself to his feet and reached for John’s dressing gown hanging off the wardrobe.
“I’m going to have a shower,” he announced.
John nodded absently. “Yeah,” he said. “Might join you.”
John was asleep by the time Sherlock opened the bedroom door. Sherlock toyed with the idea of maybe going to Bart’s when he got out of the shower. There was almost certainly something there that he could spend a few hours testing.
Character/s: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 2200
Rating: R
Summary: Original Prompt: Sherlock is asexual, but he doesn't know it. He has sex for the first time with John and doesn't like it. At all.
Notes/Warnings: I almost didn’t post this. Sex with someone who’s not into sex is not sexy at all, which sums this piece up rather succinctly, I think. Very much outside of the timeline all my other stuff has been on. Dear god, I feel dirty now. First part of Sex is Boring.
He hadn’t been entirely sure what the term ‘late bloomer’ was meant to mean, exactly, but it had been thrown around by various family members in regard to him for the last twenty years, almost. He just didn’t like to date; didn’t see the point. It was a distraction and far too much work for what seemed like very little reward. He’d gone on a few ‘first dates’ with people over the years, but they had all been tediously boring, and once or twice, Sherlock had even faked having an important text come in as an excuse to rush out and stick the other person with the bill as revenge for boring him in the first place.
John was… John was different. Most of the time, he wasn’t boring, and when Sherlock would rush out of a restaurant for a case (all of which were actually real), John would jump to his feet and follow, and in a move Sherlock found infinitely amusing, would later return to the restaurant to pay the bill they had earlier skipped out on.
He wasn’t sure when their relationship had shifted from flatmates to friends, or from friends to whatever they had become after friends, but it was definitely clear that it had after a particularly thrilling chase through London; the sort of chase that almost kills you, and the brain feels a sudden need to procreate immediately after, because you’re clearly doing a disservice to the survival of the species otherwise.
John was clumsily trying to remove Sherlock’s shirt — the white one with white stripes — and would have done a far more dexterous job at it if he hadn’t been preoccupied with mauling Sherlock’s mouth with his own. Tongue and teeth and lips everywhere, mixing saliva with his own, spreading it on his face. It was drying on some parts of his skin, and drowning him in other places. He could taste John’s breath; taste what he’d had for supper, and the disgusting coffee he’d drank just before they decided to chase a madman. Saliva was gathering on his chin, wanting to dribble off. John was bound to get dehydrated at this rate, from all the fluids he was losing to Sherlock’s face.
“Sherlock?” John asked, with a faint hint of worry on his voice.
“Hmm? Yes?” Sherlock realised that he had lost focus. How… interesting. Very unusual.
“Did you hit your head?” John asked.
He pulled away slightly and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. Not the sort of looking deep into the eyes of the person you’re currently trying to get off with, but with a doctor’s expression. He was checking Sherlock for concussion. Sherlock put on his perfectly casual smile.
“Everything’s fine,” he said.
To prove this point, he started kissing John, and then wondered how long he would be able to keep this up before his jaw started to ache. It was such an unnatural thing for his mouth to be doing, and since when was John missing one of his back teeth? Sherlock wondered if it had always been that way, or if it had come out the month previous when he had been hit in the face with a fist half the size of his own head. It was one in the far back; second to last on John’s right side. Would have been difficult to notice without flat out examining the inside of John’s mouth. Maybe he’d have to do that more often.
“Sherlock, are you sure you’re all right?” John sounded almost irritated this time.
“Of course,” Sherlock said airily. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
John narrowed his eyes, which Sherlock countered by pulling John back toward the bed. That seemed like the right thing to do in this situation. Assure John that everything was all right by initiating more of this ritual. And that’s really what it was, when it came down to it. A ritual that couples engaged in when they wanted to prove to one another that they were committed. Was Sherlock committed to John? Was John committed to him? Sherlock wasn’t sure, actually. Maybe that wasn’t what the ritual was about. He’d have to revise his thoughts. Maybe go online and do a bit of research. There was a particularly good site that let users post polls for any subject, which Sherlock had come to find most invaluable when it came to social matters that he didn’t entirely comprehend or understand.
Sherlock started rather violently at the feeling of something hot and wet on his penis. When had John unzipped his trousers? He looked down to see his penis completely inside John’s mouth. For a moment, he wondered how John wasn’t gagging, but then he realised that he wasn’t actually hard yet. Maybe John was trying to get him hard. All he was doing so far was getting him wet and sticky in an area that had no business being either of those things. Sherlock wondered if he’d have to do this to John to get him hard as well. It must be terribly painful on the jaw. It seemed like everything about sex was designed to make the face hurt or ache. Why was that? The face was not a sexual organ, and played no real part in any matters reproductive. But apparently the mouth did, which was odd, because Sherlock didn’t recall seeing anything to that effect in any of the literature he’d read on the subject.
There was an odd pressure building in the very bottom of his stomach, just behind his penis; a vaguely familiar sensation, but terribly different at the same time. It wasn’t the same sort of arousal that happened some mornings that would just go away on its own. This was different. More angry, somehow. An almost demanding sort of want coming from a part of his body that had nothing to do with rest or food. And more persistent than either of those feelings of need. Almost as though it were fabricated specifically to take over parts of the brain and hijack the body for a time.
What a frightening thought. Sherlock did not want to lose control of himself just because one part of his body suddenly decided that it wanted to be touched.
God, it was getting ridiculous down there. Sherlock felt like he could have gone swimming inside his own pants. How was John not suffering the effects of dehydration yet? How much saliva could a person lose before getting dehydrated? There might have been an experiment in that, actually. Maybe John would be a willing participant.
Wet, wet, wet, sticky, sticky, sticky. Colder now where the air touched. Confusing, since John’s mouth was hot. Conflicting temperatures so close to one another. The sexual equivalent of vertigo, Sherlock decided. Unpleasant at best.
John sat back, again giving Sherlock that slightly worried look. Should something be happening now?
Now his penis was cold. Unpleasant indeed.
“Sherlock, you’re a million miles away right now,” John said. He sounded annoyed. He probably had good reason.
Sherlock focused his attention on John. “Am I?” he asked. “I hadn’t noticed.”
John’s chin was wet and slick with saliva, and Sherlock had to fight the urge to fetch a towel to clean it off.
“You didn’t notice what?” asked John. “That you were off in outer space somewhere, or that I was giving you a blow job and using all my best moves?”
“Ah…”
Somehow, ‘both’ did not seem like the best answer. John would probably get more upset than he already was, and Sherlock didn’t want to upset John. Not right then, anyway. Sometimes he liked irritating the other man, but this was the sort of time when he should be trying to initiate intimacy with him.
Maybe that’s what it was, Sherlock realised. John had taken the control out of his hands, and Sherlock didn’t know how to handle that. He ignored the look of indignation on John’s face and pulled him onto the bed, tugging his jumper over his head at the same time. He’d seen John without his shirt on plenty of times, but he’d never been allowed to touch. Sherlock just wanted to explore his skin, take in every pore and imperfection. John had had chicken pox when he was young, and had scratched the ones on his stomach. Dozens of small scars spread across his skin. Sherlock touched the pads of his fingers to every one of them, taking in the difference of texture on the skin.
Sherlock was surprised when, even lying on his back, John managed to take control of the situation. This time, he pulled Sherlock to a position that pressed their hips together.
John was definitely hard (good. Sherlock wasn’t sure that he wanted to give John a blowjob), and he pressed his erection against Sherlock’s thigh. Even through the fabric of John’s trousers, the heat was apparent. John pulled Sherlock into another sloppy, wet, confusing kiss. Wet, wet, wet, curry, coffee, wet. John shifted under him, and pressed something square-ish and mildly squidgy into Sherlock’s hand.
A condom.
Sherlock felt oddly relieved at the implication, as he realised the situation had been made easier. He hadn’t even considered it until just then, but he did not want John inside him. Just thinking about it was almost enough to put him off this whole lark, right then and there. But, no. Good. This was… this was good. Sherlock thought that he could handle being inside John, and even thought he wanted it.
Letting out a ragged breath, Sherlock pulled down his pants and trousers and sat back on his heels as he unwrapped the foil packet. He was familiar, in theory, with the way a condom worked, but found that he had to actually study the thing for a few moments to figure out which way to roll it on. As soon as he had it figured out, John’s hand was on his penis and smearing something translucent and viscous all over him. Some of it dripped off of John’s hand and landed on Sherlock’s thigh, and as he went to wipe it away, he was perplexed to find that it had left behind a sticky residue. This would have to all be done rather quickly, then, lest the jelly dried while they were still going.
Sherlock wasn’t sure if this was something that could be done quickly. How inconvenient.
John pulled him back down, hitching his hips to get a good angle. Sherlock wondered if he was allowed to use his hand to guide himself where he needed to be, or if he should just automatically know how without assistance.
He decided to risk looking like an inexperienced idiot, and used his fingers to locate John’s opening before sliding himself slowly inside. If it was wrong, John hardly seemed to notice, and hissed a sharp inhaled breath and arched his back.
Sherlock froze, wondering if he had managed to hurt John. He liked to annoy the man, sure, but he didn’t want to cause any actual harm. With worried eyes, he scanned John for any signs of having done something wrong, but dismissed those thoughts when John’s hips bucked beneath him.
Propping himself up on his elbows, Sherlock tried thrusting his hips experimentally, driving deeper into John. John’s sticky hand moved up to Sherlock’s side, running along his ribs. Tiny hairs on his skin caught in the residue left by the jelly and pulled uncomfortably, and John’s flannel sheets rubbed uncomfortably against Sherlock’s elbows. He wondered if it would be possible for his elbows to be rubbed raw, to the point of bleeding from John’s sheets. It might take a while, but he was sure it would be possible. The idea of enduring friction burn for however long that would take seemed like an interesting experiment. Not on himself or on John, but something he should probably be able to test at Bart’s.
He heard John make an exasperated noise beneath him, and before Sherlock could register why, he found himself being almost thrown onto his back. Oh, god. Was John going to want to fuck him, now?
John only straddled Sherlock’s hips, lowering himself onto his penis, which was starting to go soft again. Sherlock forced himself to concentrate on John riding him, the sensation of himself inside another person, the way John stroked himself as he grinded against Sherlock.
From this angle, Sherlock could see those chicken pox scars again. A night’s sky worth of them, dusted across John’s stomach and the lower part of his chest. Must have been a particularly nasty case for John to have that many scars, even if he did scratch. Sherlock wondered how old John was when he had it.
Suddenly, John rolled off of him, panting lightly. He sprawled out on his back next to Sherlock, his eyes closed and his hand on his chest. Was it over? Thank Christ if it was. Sherlock had had more fun getting arrested. He looked over at John, trying to determine if anything else was wanted of him. It didn’t seem like it, so he pulled himself to his feet and reached for John’s dressing gown hanging off the wardrobe.
“I’m going to have a shower,” he announced.
John nodded absently. “Yeah,” he said. “Might join you.”
John was asleep by the time Sherlock opened the bedroom door. Sherlock toyed with the idea of maybe going to Bart’s when he got out of the shower. There was almost certainly something there that he could spend a few hours testing.