Author's Note: Ever feel like just writing some smut? No? Well, me neither, usually. It's always been a bit of a boundary of mine, something about it never seemed to sit well in my stomach. A bit like a teenager still giggling at the word "penis" is what I'd call it close to. I'd made a half attempt at such earlier (see: Burn that Broken Bed) and had chickened out, so I decided to branch out, test the waters, go stereotypical for a moment and be a perverted fangirl. It's probably not the best, but I managed to do it without chickening out, and that's a feat for me.
Music to listen to, for mood-setting: "Angel" by Massive Attack.
It was adrenaline coursing through their veins. It was dopamine clouding their vision, racing in the brain. It was the most entrancing feeling in the entire world. Everything was saturated and everything was black and white. Everything was nothing and nothing was everything, and it was terrifying and beautiful.
It was the force of the wall on his back as he was shoved against it. It was the aggressive snatching of the lapels of his coat. It was the needy, delicious mouth that smashed itself upon his. It was tongues colliding, moving over one another with precision, dancing drunkenly in one anothers mouths. It was the hips that ground into his, teasing, toying, playing with him. It was sloppy and clinical, fantastic and devastating.
Everything and nothing.
Time moved too quick and too slow. Teeth snatched lips possessively, hungrily. Hands explored—sliding and slipping and gripping and grabbing and groping and pulling. Breath caught in throats, moans escaped them. It was a combined feeling of dread and desire, of rush and wait, of how and why and what and stop-asking-so-many-bloody-questions.
His heart was racing in his ear, he could hear nothing else. It drummed and drummed, a cadence, a fitful thumping in his ribs. Any moment he would be exposed, his heart would burst from his rib cage and tear through his skin and splatter against the walls of their flat.
Rush, rush, rush.
Wait, wait, wait.
Coats were flung to the floor in great, fumbling motions. Hands were shaking, quick and nervous, methodical and careful, opening button ups and stripping off jumpers. They wanted skin. No, they needed skin. They needed it like addicts, needed to feel it warm and taut and all-encasing. They needed it on their hands and against one another and over their mouths. It was a necessity, like the oxygen that fought to rest in their lungs.
They couldn't break their lips apart, not for long, not for more than the allotted time. If they did, everything would become a nothing. They could stop and think, look at themselves and pretend it was something different, something illogical, which it was. But neither of them cared, not in that moment, not in that heat. Neither of them wanted to care, so they didn't. They kept their lips, swollen and hot and forceful, onto one another.
There was a distant cry, somewhere in the back of their minds. His bed, it called to them. It begged for them to make the journey, to fall into its springs. It ached to cradle them, accepted the challenge of being the cushion beneath them. They moved in synchronicity, pushing and pulling against one another, tugging and tearing at clothing that remained over them.
By the time they fell into the mattress, everything on them was only hanging on, just barely. Shoes were abandoned at the door, socks along with them. Trousers were kicked off in a frenzy, shirts were ripped from arms and carelessly chucked to the floor.
They flopped onto the bed, sighing and gasping at the feel of their bodies colliding, their chests and stomachs sliding into perfect placement, their hips crashing against one another, beautiful and dissonant, right and wrong. Everything and nothing, wrapped up into one fatal swoop, one smashing of bones and skin.
He'd let Sherlock take the lead, allowed him to diminish lines and boundaries, the lines and boundaries he himself had seemingly allowed to crash around him the moment Sherlock's body was pressed against his. He wanted it, he wanted it more than he could express and he'd never known it until that very moment, that very moment when Sherlock shoved him against the wall and forced his lips over his.
And there they were, and he could feel Sherlock through his flimsy underpants, hard and hot and straining against him. His hands crawled over Sherlock's back, down the beautiful groove of his spine, leading the way down, down, down, until his hands were slipping over the seemingly perfect curvature of Sherlock's arse. He gripped with both hands, pressing him harder into his hips, forcing the heat to crash and glide roughly over his own. Sherlock moaned into his mouth, taking John's bottom lip between his teeth and biting down.
He liked the pain, he found. The mixed feeling, pain and pleasure, right and wrong, , he was enjoying it, thriving on it, devouring it, releasing it into his bloodstream and allowing it to overtake his entirety. Sherlock's hand was at his throat, and it was squeezing, and his fingers were splaying across John's neck. John was suffocating, but he was breathing, and he was living for only Sherlock's mouth and chest and hips.
Sherlock was grinding his hips into John's, and it was sensational and horrible and everything and nothing, all at once. They wanted it. They needed it. And somewhere, some quiet whisper was telling them they shouldn't, they couldn't, but they weren't listening. Desire was a screaming beast, a primal animal out of control, and its claws were sharp and dug it deep.
John's hand slipped beneath Sherlock's pants, feeling their way toward the heat that pressed itself against his own. He wrapped his hand around it, and Sherlock gasped, releasing an animalistic growl against John's lips.
And there was the moment they'd been dreading. The moment of hesitation, when something or nothing happened. Their lips were still together, open and emitting pants, but their eyes were open and they were watching each other, staring, waiting. If they were to stop, it would be then. That was the moment of escape. John knew this. He saw this in Sherlock's eyes, cloudy with a lust John had never before witnessed, his hand wrapped around Sherlock in a way he hadn't imagined. This was his moment, everything or nothing.
He shut his eyes and grabbed the back of Sherlock's head with his free hand, grabbing at the dark curls, abandoning whatever hesitation he may have had. He stroked the heat in his hand, cautiously, lightly. Sherlock's body was quivering.
John heaved himself upright, easily overtaking Sherlock. He flipped him onto his back, certain now, absolutely positive. He wanted nothing more as he tore his swollen lips from Sherlock's and pressed them to his jaw. He made trails with his lips and teeth and tongue, kissing and licking and sucking and nibbling his way down Sherlock's slender body. He sank his teeth into Sherlock's hips, and Sherlock arched his back. John hitched his fingers into Sherlock's underpants, unceremoniously pulling them downward as Sherlock lifted his hips just so.
He let instinct take over. He thought about what he liked, what he wanted, what he needed, for himself, and he applied it to Sherlock's body. He grabbed him, stiff and heated, and with little distraction wrapped his lips around him. Sherlock cried out, his upper body lifting, his elbows propping him upward. John shut his eyes and took Sherlock into his mouth, sliding his tongue over him, working down, down, down until he could take no more of him into his mouth. He worked slowly at first, testing the waters, wetting him thoroughly.
"John." Sherlock breathed. It was the first word spoken between the two of them from the moment they'd returned, and it sent a tantalizing thrill down John's spine. It encouraged him, the man who never had, not in this way, to continue. The hand that held him worked in synchronicity with his mouth, gliding smoothly up and down the length of Sherlock. He looked up through his lashes just once, watching the exact moment that Sherlock threw his head back, his lower lip tucked beneath his teeth.
Sherlock's hips were twitching, involuntarily it seemed. "John." Sherlock breathed once again. John glanced upward at him, and he became harder, became needier. He wanted Sherlock, all of Sherlock, right then, no questions asked. And from the look on Sherlock's face, eyes half-mast and teeth gritted and everything severe, he knew that he was not alone. He pulled himself away, stripping off his own underpants, making his way back toward Sherlock's mouth. He smashed their lips together, he forced their tongues together. Their hips were colliding once again, bare skin to bare skin, and it thrilled John so entirely that he audibly moaned at the contact.
"John," Sherlock murmured against John's lips. "John, what do you want." His voice was low, a demanding growl that sent shock waves throughout John's entire body. "Tell me what you want."
John bent his head into Sherlock's neck, sucking and grabbing at it with his teeth, working his way to Sherlock's ear. He was forming the words, allowing his brain the assurance that this was what he wanted, this was what Sherlock wanted to hear. His voice was a growl, just a whisper as he stated, "I want," he said, nipping at Sherlock's ear, "To fuck you senseless."
Sherlock exhaled as John allowed his teeth to scrape against Sherlock's throat. Sherlock's hands were fumbling, blindly grabbing as John pressed his hips hard into Sherlock's.
John didn't question the appearance of the small bottle of clear liquid and condom that appeared moments later in Sherlock's hand. At any other time, he might have. He might have even chuckled at the notion of Sherlock being equipped with such things. But in that moment, in that heat and craziness, in that beastly state of mind, he accepted it. He tore the plastic encasing and slid the condom over him. He tipped a copious amount of lube into his hand and slathered it along himself.
With careful, precise hands, he prepared Sherlock. John watched Sherlock quiver at the sensation, of the delicate fingers slipping into him, but he didn't protest. Sherlock's eyes were closed, his teeth were burying themselves into his bottom lip. His hands were clenching at the sheets. His back arched and he moaned, and he sucked in air through his teeth. "Come on." he pleaded. "Please." he begged.
Everything, everything, everything.
John flopped down onto Sherlock's body, pressing his lips to his once more, allowing the thrilling sensation of everything around him to engulf him. They were hot, their skin damp with sweat, and everything was about to push boundaries, to cross lines, to upset the entire dynamic of everything they had, and John was ready. He was ready as he positioned himself, ready as he carefully, gently, slowly slid himself into Sherlock. He was ready for the collapse of everything they had because at that moment, it was everything. Everything had culminated to that moment, it was literally everything or nothing, and John was literally choosing everything.
Sherlock gasped at the feeling of John sliding into him. He swallowed hard, raising his legs, wrapping them around John, allowing him in, in, in, more, more, more. John's teeth were grabbing at Sherlock's throat again, Sherlock's fingers were splayed out across John's back, gripping and grabbing and embedding themselves into his skin. John was rocking his hips, long and slow and deliciously painful and Sherlock was losing sight of it all and he was enjoying every moment.
Their bodies were becoming slick with sweat then, and they were rubbing against him, causing friction, causing beautiful, horrible, mind-altering sensations to course through his blood. It was better than smoking, better than cocaine or heroine or any crap habit he'd picked up and dropped off along the way. His body was beginning to quiver, an impending orgasm building up and up and up. John's hips were rocking quicker, his thrusts shallow and fast. "John." Sherlock gasped into his ear. He grabbed hold of John's neck, body tensing as John's tempo increased, the friction, the sweet, slippery friction stroking him positively perfectly. "She…" John started, but he trailed off in a moan that couldn't be contained. "Sher…" he tried again, but his words continued to hitch.
"Say it." Sherlock demanded, a harsh whisper into John's neck as he bit down. John's body tensed more, his hips bucking against Sherlock, and the word, the name finally escaped him, "Sherlock." he moaned. He bit into Sherlock's shoulder, and he grabbed hold of Sherlock's hips and forced himself deep inside of him as he came.
Sherlock came quite suddenly, gasping and panting as he mixed with the sweat, slippery and sticky and relieving. They didn't move for a moment. John's mouth was still on Sherlock's shoulder, his breathing hot and hard. Sherlock finally allowed his hands to drop, flopping to the bed with dead weight. Both panted, dumbstruck and silent.
John finally lifted his head, meeting Sherlock's eyes. Neither spoke, not real words, just a silent language that seemed to be communicated through the searching of each other's faces. "Alright?" John finally asked. It was a strange question, considering the circumstance, considering what had just commenced, but it made sense. Sherlock nodded, "Very. You?"
John paused, thoughtful, before nodding. "Never better." he confessed.
Both men were silent once again. It was Sherlock who spoke. "It would, perhaps, be in our best interest to tidy ourselves." he stated. John's eyebrows furrowed, watching Sherlock's eyes glance to the lack of space between them. It hit him quite suddenly. "Oh, oh. Right." he said dimly. He carefully slid himself from Sherlock's body, still slick with sweat and other substances then.
Sherlock sat upright finally. He stood shakily, glancing down at his torso. "Made quite a mess of myself, didn't I?" he mumbled. John looked, and he couldn't help the small laugh that came to his lips. "A bit. Could've been worse." he said.
"Mine could've been there as well."
Sherlock couldn't help the giggles that came from the sudden silence. John, too, found himself laughing quietly. The two men, stark naked, sticky, stood giggling only for a beat longer before meeting eyes once again. Slowly, cautiously, Sherlock stepped forward to John.
John swallowed quietly, and Sherlock leaned down to meet him. They watched each other as Sherlock leaned into his lips. It was tentative, comparatively, almost ridiculous, but John knew what it was. It was a line being crossed, a wall being broken down. What had happened was need and desire and sexual frustration boiling and burning their skins, hurried and agonizing. That moment, Sherlock's gentle kiss, was a decision being made. The same that John had made only moments before. Everything or nothing, the only two words that seemed to count. John had chosen everything.
And Sherlock, in that moment, was informing him that he had too.