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resonantNot work safe.
Sort of wishing I'd chosen a different title now. And I have never used as many semicolons as I'm using when I write sex in Sherlock's POV.
Is anybody else having a problem where they have to put manual [br][br] into each entry or it comes out in one big paragraph?
Part 1
Part 2
"Think you've re-wired me," John said, thumbing Sherlock's lower lip dry. "Normally I'd be done about now, but now I just wonder what's next. Why don't I stay and watch?"
Sherlock could recall debacles that resulted from acquiescing to such a request, and also debacles that resulted from refusing it. "I'm not entertainment," he said, as he'd said to other men, though somehow because it was John there was less venom in it. "Trust me; I've got lots of experience in this. It will take too long, and you will get bored."
"Then I'll go back to sleep," John said. "Or I'll get up and shower, get on with my day." He turned on his side, suddenly losing some of his languor. "Rather like that idea, actually. Leave you here wanking, come out of the shower and find you here wanking -- christ, that's really -- you've done something strange to my brain, Sherlock." And he kissed him hard and padded out, whistling, as if it were any other morning, as if he hadn't just left Sherlock, for the first time in his entire existence, faced with the struggle not to come too *quickly.*
Sherlock heard the toilet flush and the shower start up, a subtle change in the sound as water went from hitting porcelain to hitting skin -- John's skin, going pink in the steam.
He could --
For a moment every cell in his body was united in the intention of getting up and joining John in the shower. Lovers did that; it wasn't weird or excessive. He *could.*
But it put him right back where he'd started from when John was in the room: The instant he wasn't alone, he'd go back to being so damned abnormally slow. People always thought they could tolerate that, but after a time it apparently began to wear on a person.
Better to stay here, exactly where John was imagining him, like some sort of pornographic room decor. Where John would come back into his room and choose his clothes and comb his hair and thread a belt into his trousers. Would he cast admiring looks at Sherlock in his bed? Or would he go about his business as if Sherlock with his cock in his hand were no more interesting than his pillow and his blankets?
There was no reason on earth to find it erotic to be ignored, but if John barely spared him a glance -- if John finished getting dressed and cast one last look over the room to see if anything were out of place while Sherlock squirmed and panted and sweated on his sheets, and only then did he meet Sherlock's eye and look down his bare body and smile --
"Oh," John said, coming through the door with his hair still dripping. "I barely missed it."
-----
"Slower," John said.
"What? I don't want to."
"I know you don't. But after all, you're still having sex with me.'
Sherlock froze. *Was* he? He'd been thinking that he was having sex with John until John came, and after that he was wanking just as he always did. But now he saw that this was far from obvious. John was in the room with him, and receiving some form of gratification from Sherlock's arousal and eventual orgasm, that much was inexplicable but obvious. John viewed them as lovers -- they *were* lovers; any other interpretation was laughable. Which made this act clearly a sexual one.
Of all the damnable things!
If this was sex, then John had the right to a preference as to how long it lasted. He would quickly become impatient with Sherlock's pursuit of orgasm. Sherlock *knew* this. He'd seen it happen before.
His climax, which had seemed imminent, even inevitable, now withdrew, making way for the vivid memory of the bleak and pleasureless minutes he'd spent chasing orgasm in the past, as his grip grew ever more uncomfortably tight and his partner's impatience grew more and more apparent, until coming was a chore from which all joy had fled.
"And therefore --" John was oblivious to all this. John was laying out his words the way he did when he thought he was being amusing. Just as though their fragile sexual functionality hadn't been broken forever.
"Therefore," he went on, "you listen to me. You listen to me when I say, 'Kiss me,' " (and of course he did, because it was precisely in accord with his own wishes; John kissed like an artist, except that if you were very careful and wound him up just enough, he kissed like a starving man, and that was what Sherlock loved best), "and you listen to me when I say, 'Let me suck you,' " (and Sherlock did; of course he did; he'd never realized how incredibly pleasurable the act was when one wasn't trying and failing to achieve orgasm from it) "and I like it, Sherlock. Makes a nice change. And so now I'm going to tell you what to do, and you're going to listen to me, and you're not going to come until I say so."
"By the time you say so, it will be beyond all hope. I might as well get up and go back to the clotting factor experiment."
"Is that so?" John traced Sherlock's knuckles where he was gripping the sheet, and didn't wait for an answer. "One finger. Anywhere you like, but only one."
Christ. Sherlock loosened his hand from the bedsheet.
One finger, making small circles on the most sensitive spot on his cock. It wasn't going to get him to climax, but it was as though John had done something to his body, turned his finger itself into an erogenous zone. His breathing was audible in the quiet room.
"Not so hard," John said after a while. "You'll lose sensitivity."
Sherlock resentfully lightened the pressure. "I know how to do it."
"You know how *you* do it. Slower."
"The way I do it is the way that works," Sherlock said through his teeth, because, inexplicably, the more frustrated he was, the more intense his arousal became.
"You can do it your way later," John said darkly. "After I'm done with you."
Sherlock heard an inarticulate hiss coming from his mouth. John heard it, too, and smirked. How long, then, before John was done with him? "So happy to provide entertainment," he said in a poor imitation of his normal voice.
"You've no idea," John said. "New plan. Both hands, one finger apiece."
"Shall I hum a little tune?" It actually took concentration. It was challenging. It was *interesting.* He was limited by the flexibility of his wrists, and everything he tried was impossible to sustain, and the pleasure built but couldn't crest -- maddening -- irresistible. Alternating fingers was the only thing he could do and keep doing for any length of time, and it seemed his cock got more and more sensitive, and it wasn't enough, wasn't enough, he needed more -- "John," he said, and the note of plea in his voice was shocking.
"Soon," John said in a note of dark and confident promise. "I just want you to tell me one thing. One thing, Sherlock, before I let you do as you like."
Sherlock couldn't even ask, could only tip his head to look through slitted eyes at John's face.
"Do you want me to touch you?"
"Yes," Sherlock gasped, and the next moment John's hand was on his cock and John's mouth was on his mouth and he came like a firecracker.
A long time later, he became aware that one of his hands was tangling with John's, turning over and over in a slick way that was not remotely as disgusting as it ought to be, and the other hand was holding John's head still for small sipping kisses, one after another. He released his grip and let his head fall back, exhausted, and John's smile wasn't mocking or triumphant but frankly a bit silly.
He let his eyes fall shut and tried not to imagine what his answering smile must look like.
"Here," John said, "don't go back to sleep. You just woke up."
"Hush," he said. "Getting tonight's sleep done early. More time for clotting later. Be quiet."
Part 4
Sort of wishing I'd chosen a different title now. And I have never used as many semicolons as I'm using when I write sex in Sherlock's POV.
Is anybody else having a problem where they have to put manual [br][br] into each entry or it comes out in one big paragraph?
Part 1
Part 2
"Think you've re-wired me," John said, thumbing Sherlock's lower lip dry. "Normally I'd be done about now, but now I just wonder what's next. Why don't I stay and watch?"
Sherlock could recall debacles that resulted from acquiescing to such a request, and also debacles that resulted from refusing it. "I'm not entertainment," he said, as he'd said to other men, though somehow because it was John there was less venom in it. "Trust me; I've got lots of experience in this. It will take too long, and you will get bored."
"Then I'll go back to sleep," John said. "Or I'll get up and shower, get on with my day." He turned on his side, suddenly losing some of his languor. "Rather like that idea, actually. Leave you here wanking, come out of the shower and find you here wanking -- christ, that's really -- you've done something strange to my brain, Sherlock." And he kissed him hard and padded out, whistling, as if it were any other morning, as if he hadn't just left Sherlock, for the first time in his entire existence, faced with the struggle not to come too *quickly.*
Sherlock heard the toilet flush and the shower start up, a subtle change in the sound as water went from hitting porcelain to hitting skin -- John's skin, going pink in the steam.
He could --
For a moment every cell in his body was united in the intention of getting up and joining John in the shower. Lovers did that; it wasn't weird or excessive. He *could.*
But it put him right back where he'd started from when John was in the room: The instant he wasn't alone, he'd go back to being so damned abnormally slow. People always thought they could tolerate that, but after a time it apparently began to wear on a person.
Better to stay here, exactly where John was imagining him, like some sort of pornographic room decor. Where John would come back into his room and choose his clothes and comb his hair and thread a belt into his trousers. Would he cast admiring looks at Sherlock in his bed? Or would he go about his business as if Sherlock with his cock in his hand were no more interesting than his pillow and his blankets?
There was no reason on earth to find it erotic to be ignored, but if John barely spared him a glance -- if John finished getting dressed and cast one last look over the room to see if anything were out of place while Sherlock squirmed and panted and sweated on his sheets, and only then did he meet Sherlock's eye and look down his bare body and smile --
"Oh," John said, coming through the door with his hair still dripping. "I barely missed it."
-----
"Slower," John said.
"What? I don't want to."
"I know you don't. But after all, you're still having sex with me.'
Sherlock froze. *Was* he? He'd been thinking that he was having sex with John until John came, and after that he was wanking just as he always did. But now he saw that this was far from obvious. John was in the room with him, and receiving some form of gratification from Sherlock's arousal and eventual orgasm, that much was inexplicable but obvious. John viewed them as lovers -- they *were* lovers; any other interpretation was laughable. Which made this act clearly a sexual one.
Of all the damnable things!
If this was sex, then John had the right to a preference as to how long it lasted. He would quickly become impatient with Sherlock's pursuit of orgasm. Sherlock *knew* this. He'd seen it happen before.
His climax, which had seemed imminent, even inevitable, now withdrew, making way for the vivid memory of the bleak and pleasureless minutes he'd spent chasing orgasm in the past, as his grip grew ever more uncomfortably tight and his partner's impatience grew more and more apparent, until coming was a chore from which all joy had fled.
"And therefore --" John was oblivious to all this. John was laying out his words the way he did when he thought he was being amusing. Just as though their fragile sexual functionality hadn't been broken forever.
"Therefore," he went on, "you listen to me. You listen to me when I say, 'Kiss me,' " (and of course he did, because it was precisely in accord with his own wishes; John kissed like an artist, except that if you were very careful and wound him up just enough, he kissed like a starving man, and that was what Sherlock loved best), "and you listen to me when I say, 'Let me suck you,' " (and Sherlock did; of course he did; he'd never realized how incredibly pleasurable the act was when one wasn't trying and failing to achieve orgasm from it) "and I like it, Sherlock. Makes a nice change. And so now I'm going to tell you what to do, and you're going to listen to me, and you're not going to come until I say so."
"By the time you say so, it will be beyond all hope. I might as well get up and go back to the clotting factor experiment."
"Is that so?" John traced Sherlock's knuckles where he was gripping the sheet, and didn't wait for an answer. "One finger. Anywhere you like, but only one."
Christ. Sherlock loosened his hand from the bedsheet.
One finger, making small circles on the most sensitive spot on his cock. It wasn't going to get him to climax, but it was as though John had done something to his body, turned his finger itself into an erogenous zone. His breathing was audible in the quiet room.
"Not so hard," John said after a while. "You'll lose sensitivity."
Sherlock resentfully lightened the pressure. "I know how to do it."
"You know how *you* do it. Slower."
"The way I do it is the way that works," Sherlock said through his teeth, because, inexplicably, the more frustrated he was, the more intense his arousal became.
"You can do it your way later," John said darkly. "After I'm done with you."
Sherlock heard an inarticulate hiss coming from his mouth. John heard it, too, and smirked. How long, then, before John was done with him? "So happy to provide entertainment," he said in a poor imitation of his normal voice.
"You've no idea," John said. "New plan. Both hands, one finger apiece."
"Shall I hum a little tune?" It actually took concentration. It was challenging. It was *interesting.* He was limited by the flexibility of his wrists, and everything he tried was impossible to sustain, and the pleasure built but couldn't crest -- maddening -- irresistible. Alternating fingers was the only thing he could do and keep doing for any length of time, and it seemed his cock got more and more sensitive, and it wasn't enough, wasn't enough, he needed more -- "John," he said, and the note of plea in his voice was shocking.
"Soon," John said in a note of dark and confident promise. "I just want you to tell me one thing. One thing, Sherlock, before I let you do as you like."
Sherlock couldn't even ask, could only tip his head to look through slitted eyes at John's face.
"Do you want me to touch you?"
"Yes," Sherlock gasped, and the next moment John's hand was on his cock and John's mouth was on his mouth and he came like a firecracker.
A long time later, he became aware that one of his hands was tangling with John's, turning over and over in a slick way that was not remotely as disgusting as it ought to be, and the other hand was holding John's head still for small sipping kisses, one after another. He released his grip and let his head fall back, exhausted, and John's smile wasn't mocking or triumphant but frankly a bit silly.
He let his eyes fall shut and tried not to imagine what his answering smile must look like.
"Here," John said, "don't go back to sleep. You just woke up."
"Hush," he said. "Getting tonight's sleep done early. More time for clotting later. Be quiet."
Part 4
(no subject)
Date: 1/1/14 05:07 am (UTC)Well done.
(Change the title once you're finished?)
(no subject)
Date: 1/1/14 06:36 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 1/1/14 10:42 am (UTC)(And the <br> thing sounds like you have the Disable Auto-Formatting tickybox stuck in the wrong position. Look for it the next time you're posting and swap its state: it remembers what it was set to at the time of posting for the next go-round, rather than remembering subsequent edits.)
(no subject)
Date: 1/1/14 02:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 1/1/14 04:40 pm (UTC)