All the things that can make Sherlock comes untouched :
- John whispering in his ear how brilliant he is, after a case, hidden in some alley or in the back of a cab. Sherlock closes his eyes and listens, breathing harshly, hands crips on his trouser until John licks his earlobe and he comes in his pants
- John kissing at his thighs, licking and biting restlessly as his hands travel on Sherlock’s chest, teasing his nipples, his navel, his hip bones. Sherlock squirms and begs when John gets closer and closer to his cock and balls and just the promise of what’s coming makes him come
- When John thrusts into him with abandon, Sherlock on all four on their bed and crying out way too loudly. John hits his prostate every time and it’s takes seconds for Sherlock to realise he’s close, so close and he comes moaning John’s name
- But also when John takes his time, driving into him slowly, face to face so Sherlock can see how much John loves him. He shivers as John tells him how beautiful he is, how he loves being inside him like this, that he wants to make love to him for hours and hours. When Sherlock comes, spurting between them without John having to touch him, it’s as they kiss
@slashscribe @clueinglooks @snogbox1 @hudders-and-hiddles @watsonshoneybee @ishaveforsherl anything to add?
• Sherlock is standing at the kitchen counter first thing in the morning, making tea, when John comes up behind him and starts nosing against his neck, and his stubble is rough and the texture is just perfect and it’s already making heat pool in Sherlock’s stomach when John presses up against him, his hard cock insistent against the back of Sherlock’s thighs, just below his bum, and Sherlock moans and John starts thrusting against him, his stubble still rough against his neck, the sensation swept away by slick, warm lips and tongue and hot humid breath, and Sherlock can feel the dampness leaking from John’s cock through the thin material of their trousers and his own cock is hard and leaking and he’s gripping the counter and he can’t help but thrust against it, just a little, and John thrusts harder against him, then nips at the juncture of his neck and collarbone and Sherlock feels little sparks at the base of his spine that tell him he’s close and suddenly he can’t help it and John’s cock is too hard and hot and perfect and he feels his knees tremble as he moans helplessly, coming in his pyjamas against the kitchen counter while John thrusts faster and faster against him.
• It’s the first time they’re trying this, and Sherlock has been hard since the very first brush of the cloth against his wrists, from the very first moment he tried and failed to get his hands out of the impressive knots John tied, and he’s lying on their bed, his wrists tied to the headboard, unable to touch John, unable to touch himself, and it’s amazing and perfect and he feels close to tears because of the simultaneous and conflicting sensations of how much he wants to free himself and touch and touch and touch and how perfect it is to lie back and trust John to take care of him – and John is taking care of him, taking his time and running his mouth and his lips and his tongue and his fingers over every inch of Sherlock’s body and all Sherlock can do is moan and tremble and lean into the touch, and now, finally, John is fucking him, harder than they’ve ever fucked before, and Sherlock feels as if he’s left his own body, as if he’s floating away on the pleasure. He is distantly aware of the sounds of their bodies slapping together, of a faint ache in his shoulders, of the moans coming from John’s mouth, but what he’s most aware of are the sensations pooling in his stomach, of the sounds coming from his mouth, of the fact that he is begging John to touch him, to make him come, of the way he is chanting John’s name like a prayer, and his cock is leaking against his stomach and he is floating on the obscene pleasure when suddenly John shifts his hips and starts thrusting harder and says, “come for me, Sherlock, come on, please,” and Sherlock feels it wash over him like a tidal wave, feels the surge of pleasure build with each thrust of John’s hips, feels himself lose control, feels his hands strain against the cloth around his wrists and hears his voice choke and feels his hips lift desperately towards John’s and feels tears on his face and delicious tension all through his body and then he knows nothing until he comes back to himself, covered in his own come, John carefully untying him, holding him close, running his fingers through his hair and telling him how amazing he is, and Sherlock curls against him, still trembling, sated and loved and happy and unable to think of anything but John.
• “You could’ve died,” John says, pushing Sherlock against the wall of 221B and crowding against him. Sherlock just stares, his eyes wide, the sensory memory of a knife against his throat still floating over his skin, and John suddenly cups the back of his neck and pulls him close, holds him for a moment, and Sherlock wraps his arms arounds around his waist and leans in, and John smells so good and Sherlock is suddenly aware of the fact that they are very much alive and he isn’t dead and the sensory memory is just that – a memory – while in reality, John’s hand is protectively cupping his neck and he is safe and whole and with his John, exactly where he should be, and desire warms him and he moans against John’s neck, thrusts against John’s hips, pushes John back and leads him to his chair, and John is protesting a little bit, saying he wants to take care of Sherlock, but Sherlock shakes his head, puts a finger on John’s lips. “Please,” he says. “Let me. Please.” And John looks at him earnestly, cups his face in two hands, kisses him soft and warm and gentle and when he pulls away, John’s face is intent and full of desire and Sherlock eagerly urges John into his chair, and then Sherlock unzips John’s trousers with trembling hands, nuzzles against John’s hard cock, breathes him in, presses a kiss to the base of it, and John groans, his fingers curling into Sherlock’s hair, his other hand gripping the arm of his chair, but Sherlock reaches up and takes his hand off hte chair and laces their fingers together as he licks along the length of John’s cock. John thrusts up eagerly, and Sherlock takes him into his mouth as far as he can, savors the taste, the texture, the sensations, moans as John’s fingers tighten in his hair, loses himself in the rhythm, in the way John’s hand tightens around his, in the hitch of John’s moans and before he knows it he is hard, leaking, and he wants desperately to touch himself but he wants even more desperately to reassure himself that he is here, with John, making him feel good and so he doesn’t dare remove his hands from either John’s cock or John’s hand and he is so lost in giving John pleasure that the sudden spike of his own arousal washes over him unexpectedly, and he finds himself moaning desperately, taking his mouth off John’s cock for just a moment and burying his face alongside it as his hand keeps working against John and his hips thrust against nothing and suddenly he moans helplessly and he is coming hard, untouched, panting against John’s cock, his hand trembling, still trying to move up and down on John’s cock, and he distantly hears John say, “Oh, Jesus, fuck, jesus,” and then John’s hand leaves Sherlock’s hair to join Sherlock’s hand on his cock and John pumps two or three times and he’s coming, too, and Sherlock moans, kisses the bases of his cock, wants desperately to inch higher up and rub his face in the come all over John’s shirt but he’s too tired, too sated, too overcome, and then John pushes him back just a little so he can slide down to the floor and he hugs him tight, pressing kisses all over his face and neck and hair and if one or both of them happen to have tears on their faces, neither mentions it.
JESUS FUCK
iamjohnlocked4life 