I just rediscovered this half-completed fic I’ve had lying around in my WIPs folder for…*checks datestamp* two years.
Originally for a prompt on the BBC Sherlock kink meme: http://ift.tt/1AIZxUc
Warnings for omegaverse, glory holes, and everything you can figure goes along with that.
Nothing gets Sherlock’s blood up—among other parts of him—like a nice, intense, freshly solved case.
It’s the hunt that does it. That intoxicating savour of a competitive victory…and occasionally the thrill of a close escape from death. The knowledge that yet again, he’s taken on all comers, some of them armed, and come out on top, shown the world that not only is he the best at what he does, but no one is even capable of doing what he does.
He knows this to be objectively true, as even the alphas of his acq1uaintance can’t help but admire his skills. Or display their jealousy of them. Same thing, really.
Unfortunately, the more clearly his superiority is displayed during a case, the more urgent his desire to…physically demonstrate it afterwards.
Which, tonight, is a particular crisis, since this case involved not only a particularly impressive series of logical leaps, but also a physical chase, being held at sword-point, and a fight in which he incapacitated two of his assailants and tripped up the third by throwing the sword sheath (a valuable antique, but it was made of hardy bronze and was none the worse for wear) at his legs when he tried to run.
Not to put too fine a point on it, Sherlock is so hard that there was a moment while he was changing to go out when he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get his trousers on.
Normally, he has a number of different outlets for his frustration, but when he’s this desperate, the only way to work it off is to give in to what his body wants, and spend the rest of the night fucking a willing body—or several—senseless.
The Second Circle is one of Sherlock’s favourite clubs. He finds the lack of pretence refreshing. Aside from some nubile cage-dancing ‘demons’ and tiny pitchforks in place of toothpicks in the cocktails, the club mainly lets the theme be carried by the activities that go on within.
The smell of sex punches him in the face at the door, raising alpha impulses to sex and violence. The air is heavy with the mingled pheromones of alphas and omegas; betas too, though their scents are more neutral. A primitive part of his mind, which he normally doesn’t let off its leash, wants to find those omegas, kick the worthless alphas off of them and show them how it’s done properly. Sherlock breathes deep, lets it all roll through him and does his best to ride the wave rather than be dragged under.
It must be nice to be a beta, free from these annoying distractions to maintaining a rational mindset. But imagining life without the hunter’s instinct…ugh. That drive to chase, to compete, to push himself and win at any cost, no other high can compete with it.
The lighting is kept low, sight muted to heighten the impact of sound, scent, and touch, and the place is littered with half-private nooks and rooms devoted to particular interests. Bodies twist and writhe together in shadowed corners to a soundtrack of groans and whispers mingled the bass throb of the low music that pipes through the club’s sound system, and people in all varieties of costume (or none at all) wander around, looking for whatever catches their fancy. All of which is extraneous to Sherlock’s interests.
He ignores the hands that drag enticingly over his chest and arms on his way past. An alpha reaches towards him with bedroom eyes and sultry challenge in her smile; one of those who likes to domme the doms. Sherlock sidesteps and suppresses the impulse to break her arm.
He’s never much liked alphas or omegas. Sex makes people stupid. But then, he hasn’t met many betas who’re all that bright either. Frankly, the less actual interaction required, the better. Which is why he heads for the little cells tucked into the northeast corner of the building.
Not much bigger than confessional cells, each one has a plain wood chair and a small hole in the wall to the adjoining cell, covered by a sliding door. They’re the most tasteful glory holes he’s ever seen, which isn’t saying much. But what does it matter? Anonymity is the whole point. Even if he gave a damn what people thought, they wouldn’t know who to judge.
He steps into an unoccupied one and latches the door behind him. It’s with a sigh of relief that he opens his flies and frees himself. Trousers are not designed for aroused alphas.
A moment later, he hears the person in the next booth get up and leave, and chuckles to himself under his breath. Alphas aren’t to everyone’s taste.
Not long after that, someone else comes in and sits down. When the new arrival leans over to look in, Sherlock gasps. He can smell him. Omega male, and close to his heat.
Out looking for some relief from the twitchy tension leading up to the main event, no doubt. Risky behaviour, though, for an omega this close to his period. He could get himself into all sorts of hot water this way. Is he stupid, confident, or self-destructive?
The chair creaks as the man sits back. Sherlock waits for him to get up and leave. Instead, a finger pokes through.
Sherlock stares at it, brows drawn together. It’s a nice finger: tapered, tidy, smooth-skinned. Classic Celtic bone structure, with that unique combination of well-formed and bluff. And bafflingly present.
The finger withdraws. A foil-wrapped condom pokes through. Sherlock squints at it. The man looked. He must know Sherlock is an alpha. It’s hardly possible to miss it, in his current state.
“I’ll almost certainly knot,” he says after a moment. The condom that can handle a knot hasn’t yet been invented.
The condom withdraws.
“Are you clean?” the other man asks after a pause. He has a nice voice, soft and on the lighter side, with a bit of texture to it. It stands in startling contrast to the blunt tone of the question.
“Of course I am.” He snaps it out without thinking, too distracted by the strangeness of the situation to consider other things. An omega nearing heat, wanting to have a go at a totally unknown alpha, without a condom?
Now this is interesting.
“How do you feel about blowjobs?” the other man asks brightly.
“I can’t complain,” Sherlock says slowly, staring at the hole. “If I knot, I’ll be stuck.”
There’s a wordless, amused sound. Sherlock glares at the hole. “That’s all right. I’m feeling quite patient tonight.” Then he adds, in a soothing tone, “I wouldn’t take off and leave you like that.” Sherlock flashes his teeth at the wall, feeling offensively patronised. As if this omega were trying to protect him!
***
It’s two days before John’s heat begins in earnest, and he’s so wired that he’s having sexual cravings for random people he passes on the street. The very idea of knotting this alpha into a hole in the wall has his head swimming with lust. The image is vivid in his mind’s eye: cock presented and trapped, alpha-massive and hard and swollen, at John’s mercy to do whatever he likes with it… Christ, it’s like a scene from a porno.
He has to wonder what’s wrong with this bloke that he hasn’t just got up and left. How crazy would an alpha have to be to let himself get stuck like that with a total stranger, in a public place, vulnerable to anyone who happens by?
Oh, but John’s body is begging for it, ohpleaseohpleaseohplease, so loud he reckons the other man can just about hear. Or at least smell. And he wouldn’t, he really wouldn’t let anything happen to anyone who put themselves in his hands like that.
No, this is stupid. John feels like a creeper just for fantasizing about it. He’s thinking of some way to let the man off the hook when he thrusts his cock through the hole.
“Oh.”
The ‘hmph’ of amusement from the other side suggests that he sounded a bit more starstruck than he meant to. It’s never a good idea to inflate an alpha’s opinion of himself too highly—they walk around with their own orbiting solar systems of ego as it is—but…it’s really an awfully nice cock.
Well, what the hell. That’s what these places are for, isn’t it. He runs two fingers along it from root to tip on each side, appreciating the length and texture, and smiles at the sharply drawn breath. It’s hot to the touch, the foreskin already pulled back—the poor bugger must be gagging for it—and hard like stone under velvet. The skin near the base is loose. He can stir it with his fingers and watch it crumple and wrinkle, so he does just that. His smile grows at the aborted groan it elicits. Just like fine folds of velvet, or really good silk.
The alpha’s cock is huge and it smells amazing—musky and clean, pungent-sweet with healthy male sweat. It makes his mouth water. John suddenly can’t wait to get it in his mouth…but this’ll take some creativity. He’ll dislocate his jaw if he tries to take it all in. John’s gifted at sucking cock, but there’s no way to deep-throat this.
He touches the tip of his tongue to his front teeth for a contemplative moment, then leans forward to lick a stripe from glans to root.
The groan this time is not cut off.
This alpha in the other booth has a voice so gorgeous John thinks he could come just from listening to the man talk. God. It’s so…resonant and smoky and silky and the pitch of it just rumbles in John’s chest. It goes straight through him. Fuck glory hole protocol. That voice is audible sex. He wants to find ways to make the man talk again. Maybe make him drop a few pitches lower; maybe hear what he sounds like when he growls or purrs.
Yeah. With a bit of creativity, John is pretty sure he can manage that.
He tilts his head and wraps his mouth around the shaft from the side. A couple of good licks—the texture, God, it’s so soft against his tongue—and then he runs his lips back and forth with firm pressure. The man thrusts. John doesn’t pull away, just mouths at him more. He shifts to give the same attention to the other side, one hand bracing the shaft. With the other, he reaches up to cup the balls, kneading gently to appreciate their weight and soft-firm feeling in his hand.
The alpha slaps the wall with both hands. John smiles, letting him feel it against his cock. He’s pretty sure he just nearly made the man’s knees give out.
Releasing the man’s cock from his mouth, John sits back so he can admire the way his saliva gleams on the smooth skin. The prick in his hand is visibly throbbing, red flush deepening in time with the man’s pulse, and there’s a trickle of pre-cum at the tip that…frankly it smells fantastic. That’s something John’s noticed before, how alluring an alpha’s semen becomes when he gets near his heat.
He pauses briefly, still kneading the alpha’s sac with one hand and stroking that magnificent cock with the other. He doesn’t need to get anywhere near this man’s ejaculate in order to get him off. But…for whatever reason, John believes him when he says he’s clean. And good god, John has never smelled anything so mouth-watering in his life.
For that matter, it’s not only his mouth that’s getting wet.
Decided, he leans back in to lick delicately at the tip, gathering up the little stream of pre-cum on his tongue, and hums with pleasure because fuck it tastes as good as it smells. He feels himself get wetter with a sweet little throb in his arse.
The alpha’s ragged gasp might help that.
from Pretty Arbitrary http://ift.tt/1tsit7r
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