Sherlock is a romantic. Holding John between his knees, a long arm wrapped around John’s waist, Sherlock presses a palm to the mouth of his tamed monster, who gnaws it with harmless human teeth and whines in protest. Sherlock responds by pinching John’s nose closed with the other hand.
It’s a moment before John starts to buck away, hard, and another moment before Sherlock slowly lets up, winding a hand around John’s chest and a hand around his throat instead, and pulling John fully into his jailer’s lap. “Remember?” he says in John’s ear.
“Yes,” says John. “Of course. Sorry, Sherlock.”
So Sherlock covers John’s mouth again, and this time, his monster is good, shaking silently as Sherlock rakes nails down his chest and his sides, his thighs, red scratches springing up everywhere like elevation lines. Sherlock plays, noncommittally, with his retracting foreskin.
John’s not a big man, but he has so much skin, Sherlock thinks.
When John finally seems ready to break, Sherlock says, “I think it’s time for another lesson, don’t you?”
John nods.
Sherlock pushes John’s face into his armpit and lets him lick the salt of Sherlock’s sweat.
Erk.
dashcommaslash is so very fine with the sadism (also at taking people to Ukrainian restaurants).
Glaaaaah. The little things can be so gorgeous.