Fic post: Sherlock: Touch, Pause, Engage
Oct. 8th, 2011 10:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gayalondiel_bakFandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Title: Touch, Pause, Engage (Third installment of the Uniform series)
Character/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: c.2000 words
Genre: Smutty slash.
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: n/a
Warnings: Sex. And a tiny weeny bit of possessiveness.
Disclaimer: The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
Summary: When Sherlock crashes John’s day out with the lads, John objects strongly to his choice of clothing. And lets him know. (Yes, more vaguely clothing related smut.)
Crossposted to:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
221b_slash, johnsherlock, dispatch_box, cox_and_co.
Master Fanfic List
AN: I don’t even remember what I owed![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
irisbleufic, but clearly there was something, because here is another installment of the porn I write when I lose bets to her. The opening paragraphs actually started out life as a series of text messages to stop her going spinny with boredom waiting for some test results, I think. There is possibly one more installment which is nothing to do with her but with someone else who suggested another outfit I could put one or both of the boys in. If anyone’s got any other suggestions for thinly veiled excuses to write smut outfits/uniforms you’d like to see, stick ‘em in the comments.
“Say you’re sorry.”
“No.”
“Say it.”
“I’m not sorry. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
John traced a line with his fingertips around the edge of Sherlock’s brow, around the curve of his ear and down. Tightly controlled though he was, Sherlock could not suppress the shiver beneath his skin at the touch.
“You humiliated me.”
“I did nothing of the sort. I came to your interminable rugby match...”
“To which you were not invited.”
“I endured two hours watching men in shorts headbutting each other, and worse...”
“You enjoyed that, I could tell. Gave you ideas, did it?”
“And worse, I engaged in bawdy conversations with some of your more uncouth friends over a pint afterwards, all for you. Pray tell me, my dear John, what did I do wrong?”
John glared at him. “What are you wearing?”
Sherlock glanced down at his chest, then back up to John who was standing over him where he sat sprawled on the sofa.
“It’s a rugby shirt. Like yours.”
“It is not like mine,” snapped John heatedly, although the glint in his eye gave the game away. “What sort of rugby shirt is it?”
“A cotton blend...”
“What colour is it?”
“Colours. Plural. It’s blue and white, is your vision failing in your old age?”
“And this?” John reached out and traced the embroidered logo on the breast of the shirt with his fingertips. He trailed his hand teasingly close to Sherlock’s left nipple but missed the mark deliberately, and was rewarded with a tiny flutter of frustration in Sherlock’s eyes. “What does this say?”
“HMS Chatham. You are going blind, are you?”
“A Navy shirt, Sherlock. You were supporting the Navy. At the Army-Navy rugby!”
“I still sat with you.”
“I wish you hadn’t, you determined idiot! You were supporting the wrong team, and you did it on purpose, to get at me in front of my friends, because you were bored. Right? And to top it off, for the first time in years, your team won!”
“It really isn’t my fault,” said Sherlock innocently and damn near batting his eyelashes. “I have very little that would have been appropriate to wear...”
“You always wear tailored shirts. Always.”
“You see, I knew this sailor once, Will, while I was at university. He was a sub-lieutenant then, on Chatham.”
“You what?”
“Now, John, if you’ll let me...”
“You dated a sailor, or at least screwed Will enough to nick his shirt, and now you wear that same shirt and support his team at my rugby match, with my friends, and you think you’re going to get away with that?” Suddenly John was in his face, pushing him back onto the sofa, kneeling astride him and gripping the offending shirt in his fists. He spoke carefully, and softly, but with intent. “You are going to regret this.”
He was close enough now that Sherlock could feel his breath, hot and harsh, on his own skin. His lips curved in a wicked smile.
“Make me.”
John's grip on the shirt front tightened and for a second Sherlock thought he was going to rip it clean from him, but he merely used the tight material to move Sherlock sideways and down. It should have been awkward but John seemed to know what he was doing and within moments Sherlock was on his back on the sofa, John straddling him wearing both an RAMC rugby shirt of his own, and a predatory look.
"Say you're sorry."
"No."
John swooped, pressing a kiss to his lips, almost hard enough to bruise but not quite. Sherlock responded eagerly and John added teeth to the mix, sharp but not painful. Sherlock smiled into the kiss, permission given, and then John was pushing up and pressing him down again by the shoulders, leaning his weight onto his arms.
"Jeans."
"I'm sorry?"
"Take off your jeans, now."
"I can't reach."
"You are the most flexible man I've ever shagged, you'll find a way. Or I could go find one of the lads and see if he could..."
Sherlock's eyes flared at the joking threat, and he wriggled out of his trousers and underwear, anticipating the next demand. John nodded, and before he could lie back down properly was tugging at the shirt. Sherlock went to remove it but found his hands being batted away, and then the shirt being tugged up over his chest, his head, his arms, down to his wrists... and then there was a tight pressure as John twisted the faded material into a knot, pinning Sherlock's hands together. Satisfied, he pushed Sherlock's arms up over his head and sat back. It would have been the work of seconds to get free, but Sherlock lay back and gave John his best vulnerable look, his chest heaving. John snorted as he shifted off the sofa.
"Don't give me that poor-little-me look. You've earned this, remember?"
Not waiting for an answer, John hurried to unfasten his own trousers and pushed them off with his boxers in one fluid motion, before tugging off his socks. Then he stretched to his full height, once again towering over Sherlock on the sofa. Except for this time there was a rather prominent and very interesting distraction that drew Sherlock's eyes away from his face and down. John laughed.
"You want this? Hm? You want me? Or your little sailor boy?"
"Well, he was..."
"He was what?" John straddled him again, a sudden weight at hips and shoulders, effectively pinning him down. He lowered his face until it was barely an inch from Sherlock's own and repeated "He was what?"
"Nothing compared to you," Sherlock managed to reply in the two seconds between John's question and the hard kiss that pressed against his lips before moving across his cheek, grazing over stubble, and down to his ear. John bit none too gently. Sherlock groaned and began to move his arms down, only to find John's hands moved to his biceps and pinned them back.
"John!"
"Sherlock?" John shifted again, hand dipping between his legs with a single purpose and lube that had come from goodness knows where, but John must have been thinking ahead, even as he pressed his teeth once more to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock struggled against the urge to rip his hands free, grab John and crush their lips together, own him completely, but he had just enough braincells still rubbing together to realise that he was the prize for the night. He let his head drop back, stretching his neck, and John made a pleased noise and bit down over a tendon as he slipped one finger gently inside him.
John was exquisitely talented, Sherlock had long ago established, at foreplay and preparation, making the mechanical necessities as gentle and distracting and non-clinical as possible. He had asked about it once, whether it was to keep John's professional and personal interactions with men separate, and John had glared at him and suggested he just give him a prostate exam and call it a day. Sherlock had not made that mistake again. Now he just lay back and enjoyed the flood of sensation, even though his fingers itched to reciprocate, to give as well as being taken. John kissed and nibbled across his neck and collarbone and his hips ground against Sherlock a slow rhythm that just ghosted warm skin and tense muscle near to his cock but still frustratingly far off. And every now and then, a hit of sensation flooded him from deep inside and rippled through him.
Sherlock had almost lost track of them both when John's hand slipped back up onto his thigh, pulling his legs further apart before he moved down between them to press slowly but surely into Sherlock. He shuddered with the sensation and as John pressed close to him, chest to heaving chest, and buried himself completely, a strange realisation hit him through the haze.
"John?" he managed, which was about as articulate as he was going to make the question. John grinned down at him as he began to rock his hips.
"Yes," he gasped between movements. "I'm still wearing my rugby shirt, and you're still tied up with yours. Next year you're going to wear this one. Do you understand?"
"I... yes, shirt..."
"This shirt. My shirt. The shirt I'm wearing, sweating in, fucking you in, because you're mine." He thrust fuller, harder. "Mine. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"What do you understand?"
"Yours. I'm yours."
"And?"
It was an odd moment, through the fog of movement and sweat and steadily dampening cotton, when Sherlock realised that John was asking permission. For all his dominance and determination, underneath the mask he was presenting, there was a flicker of vulnerability, wanting to be wanted. Wanting to be needed. Wanting Sherlock to want to be claimed, to be his completely. He twisted his hands free of their restraints.
"Yes," he whispered, reaching up and stroking his hands across John's head, neck, shoulders, back. "God, yes. Yours, always yours. John." Then he gripped, fisting his hands in the red material and pulling John as close as he could get him.
They lost all semblance of control then, moving as one, needy, fast and frantic, almost desperate. Sherlock clung tightly and John dropped his head, his mouth half open, all his effort going into burying himself inside his lover, his claim, over and over. He came first and suddenly, pressing hard into Sherlock with a keening sound and moving one shaking hand between them to finish him quickly, a few hard and fluid pulls that brought him to the precipice and showed him the stars, while John was still buried deep inside him, stomach muscles still trembling with fine aftershocks. They stayed frozen still for a long moment, sweat beading both their brows, gasping air into one another's mouths.
Sherlock reached up to his arms around him and John shifted his weight away. He went to get a towel, or possibly Sherlock's former boyfriend's rugby shirt, to clean them up. But Sherlock slipped his hands inside his top and up John's smooth and taut back, tugging him back down into an embrace. John resisted, and Sherlock felt the ripple of embarrassment under his skin, that he had been jealous and proprietary, even in jest, even knowing Sherlock wanted him to be just that. How unnecessary, and overly proper, and ever so very John. Sherlock was determined to hold onto him until that ripple was over and done, dispersed, forgotten, and then hold onto him some more just because he could, because this was John and he was John's.
"Sherlock..."
"Stay,"
"We're kind of a mess, both of us..."
"Stay."
"My shirt..."
"Stay."
"But..."
"Stay."
The weight in Sherlock's arms shifted again as John settled into a more comfortable position. Sherlock tugged the blanket from the back of the sofa over both of them as best he could.
"Okay," John murmured from somewhere near his ear. "I'll stay. I'll always stay." He gave a sigh of deep content, and the ripple of tension vanished from his muscles as though it had never been.
Sherlock smiled, and held him a little tighter.
Title: Touch, Pause, Engage (Third installment of the Uniform series)
Character/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: c.2000 words
Genre: Smutty slash.
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: n/a
Warnings: Sex. And a tiny weeny bit of possessiveness.
Disclaimer: The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
Summary: When Sherlock crashes John’s day out with the lads, John objects strongly to his choice of clothing. And lets him know. (Yes, more vaguely clothing related smut.)
Crossposted to:
221b_slash, johnsherlock, dispatch_box, cox_and_co.Master Fanfic List
AN: I don’t even remember what I owed
irisbleufic, but clearly there was something, because here is another installment of the porn I write when I lose bets to her. The opening paragraphs actually started out life as a series of text messages to stop her going spinny with boredom waiting for some test results, I think. There is possibly one more installment which is nothing to do with her but with someone else who suggested another outfit I could put one or both of the boys in. If anyone’s got any other suggestions for “Say you’re sorry.”
“No.”
“Say it.”
“I’m not sorry. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
John traced a line with his fingertips around the edge of Sherlock’s brow, around the curve of his ear and down. Tightly controlled though he was, Sherlock could not suppress the shiver beneath his skin at the touch.
“You humiliated me.”
“I did nothing of the sort. I came to your interminable rugby match...”
“To which you were not invited.”
“I endured two hours watching men in shorts headbutting each other, and worse...”
“You enjoyed that, I could tell. Gave you ideas, did it?”
“And worse, I engaged in bawdy conversations with some of your more uncouth friends over a pint afterwards, all for you. Pray tell me, my dear John, what did I do wrong?”
John glared at him. “What are you wearing?”
Sherlock glanced down at his chest, then back up to John who was standing over him where he sat sprawled on the sofa.
“It’s a rugby shirt. Like yours.”
“It is not like mine,” snapped John heatedly, although the glint in his eye gave the game away. “What sort of rugby shirt is it?”
“A cotton blend...”
“What colour is it?”
“Colours. Plural. It’s blue and white, is your vision failing in your old age?”
“And this?” John reached out and traced the embroidered logo on the breast of the shirt with his fingertips. He trailed his hand teasingly close to Sherlock’s left nipple but missed the mark deliberately, and was rewarded with a tiny flutter of frustration in Sherlock’s eyes. “What does this say?”
“HMS Chatham. You are going blind, are you?”
“A Navy shirt, Sherlock. You were supporting the Navy. At the Army-Navy rugby!”
“I still sat with you.”
“I wish you hadn’t, you determined idiot! You were supporting the wrong team, and you did it on purpose, to get at me in front of my friends, because you were bored. Right? And to top it off, for the first time in years, your team won!”
“It really isn’t my fault,” said Sherlock innocently and damn near batting his eyelashes. “I have very little that would have been appropriate to wear...”
“You always wear tailored shirts. Always.”
“You see, I knew this sailor once, Will, while I was at university. He was a sub-lieutenant then, on Chatham.”
“You what?”
“Now, John, if you’ll let me...”
“You dated a sailor, or at least screwed Will enough to nick his shirt, and now you wear that same shirt and support his team at my rugby match, with my friends, and you think you’re going to get away with that?” Suddenly John was in his face, pushing him back onto the sofa, kneeling astride him and gripping the offending shirt in his fists. He spoke carefully, and softly, but with intent. “You are going to regret this.”
He was close enough now that Sherlock could feel his breath, hot and harsh, on his own skin. His lips curved in a wicked smile.
“Make me.”
John's grip on the shirt front tightened and for a second Sherlock thought he was going to rip it clean from him, but he merely used the tight material to move Sherlock sideways and down. It should have been awkward but John seemed to know what he was doing and within moments Sherlock was on his back on the sofa, John straddling him wearing both an RAMC rugby shirt of his own, and a predatory look.
"Say you're sorry."
"No."
John swooped, pressing a kiss to his lips, almost hard enough to bruise but not quite. Sherlock responded eagerly and John added teeth to the mix, sharp but not painful. Sherlock smiled into the kiss, permission given, and then John was pushing up and pressing him down again by the shoulders, leaning his weight onto his arms.
"Jeans."
"I'm sorry?"
"Take off your jeans, now."
"I can't reach."
"You are the most flexible man I've ever shagged, you'll find a way. Or I could go find one of the lads and see if he could..."
Sherlock's eyes flared at the joking threat, and he wriggled out of his trousers and underwear, anticipating the next demand. John nodded, and before he could lie back down properly was tugging at the shirt. Sherlock went to remove it but found his hands being batted away, and then the shirt being tugged up over his chest, his head, his arms, down to his wrists... and then there was a tight pressure as John twisted the faded material into a knot, pinning Sherlock's hands together. Satisfied, he pushed Sherlock's arms up over his head and sat back. It would have been the work of seconds to get free, but Sherlock lay back and gave John his best vulnerable look, his chest heaving. John snorted as he shifted off the sofa.
"Don't give me that poor-little-me look. You've earned this, remember?"
Not waiting for an answer, John hurried to unfasten his own trousers and pushed them off with his boxers in one fluid motion, before tugging off his socks. Then he stretched to his full height, once again towering over Sherlock on the sofa. Except for this time there was a rather prominent and very interesting distraction that drew Sherlock's eyes away from his face and down. John laughed.
"You want this? Hm? You want me? Or your little sailor boy?"
"Well, he was..."
"He was what?" John straddled him again, a sudden weight at hips and shoulders, effectively pinning him down. He lowered his face until it was barely an inch from Sherlock's own and repeated "He was what?"
"Nothing compared to you," Sherlock managed to reply in the two seconds between John's question and the hard kiss that pressed against his lips before moving across his cheek, grazing over stubble, and down to his ear. John bit none too gently. Sherlock groaned and began to move his arms down, only to find John's hands moved to his biceps and pinned them back.
"John!"
"Sherlock?" John shifted again, hand dipping between his legs with a single purpose and lube that had come from goodness knows where, but John must have been thinking ahead, even as he pressed his teeth once more to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock struggled against the urge to rip his hands free, grab John and crush their lips together, own him completely, but he had just enough braincells still rubbing together to realise that he was the prize for the night. He let his head drop back, stretching his neck, and John made a pleased noise and bit down over a tendon as he slipped one finger gently inside him.
John was exquisitely talented, Sherlock had long ago established, at foreplay and preparation, making the mechanical necessities as gentle and distracting and non-clinical as possible. He had asked about it once, whether it was to keep John's professional and personal interactions with men separate, and John had glared at him and suggested he just give him a prostate exam and call it a day. Sherlock had not made that mistake again. Now he just lay back and enjoyed the flood of sensation, even though his fingers itched to reciprocate, to give as well as being taken. John kissed and nibbled across his neck and collarbone and his hips ground against Sherlock a slow rhythm that just ghosted warm skin and tense muscle near to his cock but still frustratingly far off. And every now and then, a hit of sensation flooded him from deep inside and rippled through him.
Sherlock had almost lost track of them both when John's hand slipped back up onto his thigh, pulling his legs further apart before he moved down between them to press slowly but surely into Sherlock. He shuddered with the sensation and as John pressed close to him, chest to heaving chest, and buried himself completely, a strange realisation hit him through the haze.
"John?" he managed, which was about as articulate as he was going to make the question. John grinned down at him as he began to rock his hips.
"Yes," he gasped between movements. "I'm still wearing my rugby shirt, and you're still tied up with yours. Next year you're going to wear this one. Do you understand?"
"I... yes, shirt..."
"This shirt. My shirt. The shirt I'm wearing, sweating in, fucking you in, because you're mine." He thrust fuller, harder. "Mine. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"What do you understand?"
"Yours. I'm yours."
"And?"
It was an odd moment, through the fog of movement and sweat and steadily dampening cotton, when Sherlock realised that John was asking permission. For all his dominance and determination, underneath the mask he was presenting, there was a flicker of vulnerability, wanting to be wanted. Wanting to be needed. Wanting Sherlock to want to be claimed, to be his completely. He twisted his hands free of their restraints.
"Yes," he whispered, reaching up and stroking his hands across John's head, neck, shoulders, back. "God, yes. Yours, always yours. John." Then he gripped, fisting his hands in the red material and pulling John as close as he could get him.
They lost all semblance of control then, moving as one, needy, fast and frantic, almost desperate. Sherlock clung tightly and John dropped his head, his mouth half open, all his effort going into burying himself inside his lover, his claim, over and over. He came first and suddenly, pressing hard into Sherlock with a keening sound and moving one shaking hand between them to finish him quickly, a few hard and fluid pulls that brought him to the precipice and showed him the stars, while John was still buried deep inside him, stomach muscles still trembling with fine aftershocks. They stayed frozen still for a long moment, sweat beading both their brows, gasping air into one another's mouths.
Sherlock reached up to his arms around him and John shifted his weight away. He went to get a towel, or possibly Sherlock's former boyfriend's rugby shirt, to clean them up. But Sherlock slipped his hands inside his top and up John's smooth and taut back, tugging him back down into an embrace. John resisted, and Sherlock felt the ripple of embarrassment under his skin, that he had been jealous and proprietary, even in jest, even knowing Sherlock wanted him to be just that. How unnecessary, and overly proper, and ever so very John. Sherlock was determined to hold onto him until that ripple was over and done, dispersed, forgotten, and then hold onto him some more just because he could, because this was John and he was John's.
"Sherlock..."
"Stay,"
"We're kind of a mess, both of us..."
"Stay."
"My shirt..."
"Stay."
"But..."
"Stay."
The weight in Sherlock's arms shifted again as John settled into a more comfortable position. Sherlock tugged the blanket from the back of the sofa over both of them as best he could.
"Okay," John murmured from somewhere near his ear. "I'll stay. I'll always stay." He gave a sigh of deep content, and the ripple of tension vanished from his muscles as though it had never been.
Sherlock smiled, and held him a little tighter.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-10-08 09:31 pm (UTC)Seriously, though, I really liked John in charge - that he'd do it while caught up in the moment and then feel a little bit awkward about it afterwards, that's very much John as I see him. An officer and a gentleman.
Hot and sweet is always a nice combination, and I really enjoyed reading this.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 09:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 09:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 12:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 09:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 01:01 am (UTC)I have never requested smut, and I certainly cannot write it for the life of me, but would you consider something with Regency dress? I love the time period, and there is just something about the coat, boots and breeches, that...*mumbles*
no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 05:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-11 04:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 01:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 09:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 01:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 09:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 03:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 09:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 04:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 09:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 06:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 09:44 pm (UTC)Of course.
Completely innocent, him.
Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 11:03 am (UTC)Holding out hope for Sherlock in cricket whites :)
no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 09:42 pm (UTC)Yep, cricket next.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 11:23 am (UTC)John is charge is good... :P
no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 09:41 pm (UTC)Someone's Been Watching the Rugby....
Date: 2011-10-09 09:37 pm (UTC)*toddles off to read*
Re: Someone's Been Watching the Rugby....
Date: 2011-10-09 09:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-10 09:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-19 06:46 am (UTC)