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Calamity's Child

Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Beta: notboldly
Brit-picker: the_physicist
Rating: NC-17. Is there something more than NC-17? XXX?
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: ~5,300
Disclaimer: Property of Gatiss and Moffat. No money made, no copyright infringement intended.

Summary: If John were to imagine Sherlock as a woman, he might have pictured someone who looked less like a spotty twelve year old trying to imitate her far lovelier elder sister.

A/N: Title from David Bowie's immortal "Rebel Rebel." Dedicated to cannedebonbon, who is as kind and patient as she is talented.

Calamity’s Child


John came home to the smell of chocolate cake. He propped his brolly against the wall and shucked his wet coat.

“Smells lovely, Mrs. Hudson!” he called out before ascending the stairs. It was when he pushed the door open to his own flat, however, that the scent veritably assaulted him. He stilled. “Sherlock? God, are you baking?”

When no answer was forthcoming, John cautiously peered into the kitchen, where he was greeted by the sight of a rounded backside lashed into a form-fitting skirt bobbing about as its owner rummaged for something under the sink. John stared for a moment, then stopped short and pressed a hand to his eyes, the other to his hip. He pursed his lips and sighed through his nose.

“Don’t tell me — it’s an experiment.”

Sherlock seemed to startle before straightening and whirling around to face John with wide green eyes. Wide green eyes complete with kohl and mascara. He had some kind of lip colour on, and he had likewise done something to his hair — it wasn’t a wig, just his regular hair, but somehow… girlified. He wore a pale green blouse with something underneath giving him the illusion of a bosom, and the black skirt fit tight over his hips but flared outward and hit just above the knees. The shaven knees. In fact, the entire length of his legs seemed to have been shaven, and he had capped off this ensemble with shiny black heels. And dustings of flour.

John tucked his lips back behind his teeth to try to keep from laughing, but a stray squeak may have slipped out, unstoppable.

“You don’t like it?” The quality of Sherlock’s voice had been modulated — no longer the rumbly baritone John was used to, but a softer, smokier variety that nonetheless did little to hide the sex of its owner. Sherlock cocked his head a bit and tilted his hips, his shoulders, in a way John imagined Sherlock believed to be womanly but was actually fairly painful to watch.

John was, in fact, surprised at how bad a job this disguise was. In quiet, soppy moments between them, when John kept his mouth shut so Sherlock wouldn’t know the depths of his affections lest he dismiss them entirely, John often mused to himself about Sherlock’s beauty. That beauty was not an easy thing — he was an odd-looking man by anyone’s account, but he grew on you. His beauty was otherworldly and flawed, but utterly his own. One could point out this and that imperfection — weak jaw culminating in weak chin, the touch of a squint around strange-coloured eyes, brows sparse even as they were rather sprawling, all in an overlong face. But John would change none of these supposed faults — they were what made Sherlock so striking in his physicality. Even so, there was something about him that was decidedly delicate. John had wondered, idly and on very rare occasions, if Sherlock would have made a more devastating woman than man. Those thoughts passed as quickly as it took to remember how much Sherlock, exactly as he was, stirred John’s blood. Shoulders and scent and smile. Prick and hole. Voice. Height — even when used against John’s lack thereof.

The reality of She-lock was, suffice it to say, much less titillating than the fantasy. Sherlock was awkward in his own skin like this; he had no concept of how to hold himself or, if John were to extrapolate based upon the angle of his pelvis and legs in those heels, move with feminine grace. While the make-up wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever seen, the rest of it was a touch embarrassing — like a spotty twelve-year old trying to imitate her far lovelier elder sister. And, God help him, it was almost endearing.

John tried to soften his impending smirk into an indulgent smile. He didn’t know if he was entirely successful, but Sherlock kept looking at him expectantly, so it couldn’t have been too disastrous. John took a seat at the table, which looked as if some kind of pastry bomb had exploded all over it. He tried not to get his elbows in anything unsavoury.

“Just — give me a second to get used to it.” And to figure out how to break the news of how homely a woman you are.

Sherlock huffed out a sigh and arranged himself for inspection. He dusted some flour off of himself with prim flicks of his long-fingered hands. Fine-boned though they were, the wine-coloured lacquer that shone from the nails seemed only to emphasise their masculinity.

John cleared his throat and decided to go for deflection over evaluation. “So, what brought this on?”

“A case, John. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. An alarm went off and sent Sherlock tilting around in an ungainly manner to smack at the egg timer. It stopped trilling and Sherlock bent to check the oven. John decided that the bad disguise was no reason not to ogle Sherlock’s arse — quite fine a thing under any circumstances, really — and proceeded to do just that. He watched as Sherlock reached into the oven with a pair of pot holders and came back out with a cake that actually looked as good as it smelled, if a bit lopsided. He dumped it out onto a cooling rack and turned back around to face John with one of those big, sincere, face-rearranging smiles of his.

“There, see?”

“So what, is it full of arsenic or something?”

Smile pinched into scowl. “No! I’m practicing being a woman, John!”

John couldn’t keep the scoff from escaping. “Great Christ, Sherlock, by baking a cake in heels? Never, ever say that to a woman. Ever.”

The resultant furrow in Sherlock’s brow was heavy, and the purse of his glossy lips was more confused than petulant.

“Why not? If I’m going to pull this off, John, I need to be authentic. In movement, in mannerism, in bearing, in att—”

“Sherlock.” John cut him off, and he slanted kohl-rimmed eyes at him. God, but it brought out the green in them. “This isn’t something that’s going to work out. You just — you can’t pass as a woman.”

Sea-eyes narrowed then.

“When you came in here you stared for five solid seconds at my arse in this skirt, and another fifteen when I turned around to attend this cake. You seem to be hiding a bit of amusement — understandable for a pedestrian type to find his male lover in female clothing, I suppose — but you have never let your eyes wander from my hair, my lips, my eyes. Your own eyes are dilated, your breathing slightly elevated, and you’ve licked your lips approximately seven times since entering the kitchen. I may not have everything exactly right just yet, but by your reaction now in comparison to your reaction when near a woman you are attracted to, I’d say I’m on my way.”

“What to even address first,” John said faintly.

Sherlock huffed and snatched up mixing bowls and a bag of confectioners’ sugar. When he opened it a puff of white burst into the air, and he emptied half the bag into one of the bowls, then spooned some cocoa powder in indiscriminately.

“You’re not going to measure that?”

An insouciant shrug. “What for? Cook never did.”

“That explains so much.”

Sherlock sent him a half-lidded look of irritation. “So, what’s wrong with it, then? Too schoolmarm?”

“Did you at least measure the cake ingredients?”

“John.”

John stood and hovered about Sherlock’s shoulder as he stirred the contents of the bowl into a uniform light brown. Normally, he could prop his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder with little fanfare, but in those damned heels Sherlock must have topped 6’3” and thus thwarted him. He settled for standing close and placing a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back.

“Let me get this straight. The great Sherlock Holmes observed in detail the nuances of my physical attraction to certain women largely before we ever got together, but he could not observe the same in relation to himself?”

John watched his profile, the downward dip of his mouth, his eyebrows.

“It’s not because of how you’re dressed, for God’s sake,” John went on. “It’s because I look at you and I see something beautiful just for me. No matter what you’re wearing or how you insult me or what gross breeches of the social niceties you’ve committed, I’m attracted to you. I can’t help appreciating your form, Sherlock, even when it’s encased in something ridiculous.”

“But why is it ridiculous, John? Women wear things like this all the time, I see them.”

He tugged away from John’s hands to reach for butter and an electric mixer. John ended up shouting over the noise of Sherlock creaming the butter in a different bowl.

“It’s not the clothes themselves. I mean, there’s a touch of the librarian in there but there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s — well, Sherlock, it’s your shoulders, which are lovely and wide and doing terrible things to that poor blouse, and it’s how boyish your hips are, and it’s that Adam’s apple you can’t exactly hide. But more than that, it’s how incapable you are of inhabiting the skin of a woman. Physically, yes, you’re awkward as hell and it’s a bit funny, really, but — you do realise, don’t you, that women don’t swan about where they live in heels, and they don’t get all dressed up nice to bake a cake, and they don’t measure their femininity by those things in any case? You said it yourself - it’s about mannerisms and attitude and bearing — and you’ve got absolutely none of it.”

“I needed to practice in the heels, John.” He turned off the mixer, scraped the bowl, and turned it back on. John reached out to touch him again, rubbing the base of his spine. The swell of his arse.

“Look. What are you trying to infiltrate, here? This… get up isn’t going to get the job done.”

Sherlock glanced John’s way and then fixed his attention back on the mixing.

“Well, you certainly wouldn’t do, even with height in your favour.”

“Oi, I’ll have you know I’m taller than the average woman in the UK, Sherlock. It’s my supreme manliness that would get in the way of a drag show.”

A half-smile, and the twitch of one eyebrow.

“Yes, how could I forget the way you so manfully think about all your mushy feelings when you think I’ve fallen asleep?” Sherlock turned the mixer off and reached for the evaporated milk. “Hand me that bottle of vanilla.”

John dropped his hands and stepped back, turning from Sherlock to stare at the mess on the table. He balled his fists at his sides.

“Feelings, mushy or not, are not confined to the realm of women, Sherlock,” he said, voice low. Sherlock’s head jerked up at his sharp tone. “And I know this is hard for you to grasp as the heartless shit that you are, but generally one does one’s lover the courtesy of not throwing his apparently very unreciprocated feelings in his face when he’s just trying to help.”

John was two strides out of the kitchen when Sherlock yanked him back by the waistband of his jeans. They stumbled — John because it wasn’t on to be thrown about like so much chaff, and Sherlock because he wasn’t exactly an expert at walking around in three-inch heels — but Sherlock righted them and turned John around in his arms to look him in the eye.

“You know I’m bad at jokes, John,” he said, his voice back to normal, eyes intense and imploring. “I tried to make one and it was — not good. I’m sorry.”

“You know everything about me,” John said. “It’s not fair to use it against me like that.”

“I didn’t mean to.” John stepped out of Sherlock’s grip and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “John. John.”

“What?”

“Forgive me?”

John leveled a look at him — disappointed and long-suffering. “Yes,” he said anyway, a hot sigh. “You bloody berk. Just — look. I know you can’t ignore how I am about you, can’t help seeing what you see, but it’s your choice of what to do with that information. I’ll thank you not to mock me for it in future.”

Sherlock shook his head and came in close, closer, gathered John into his chest, propped his chin on the top of John’s head.

“Wasn’t mocking, John. Just — bad at jokes, especially ones at my own expense.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means I confine all my mushy thoughts to when you’re asleep.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock leaned down enough to press the tip of his nose against John’s. It was something John had noticed he liked to do in bed, but never initiated elsewhere. John squeezed at his hips.

“Women-only gambling rings,” Sherlock said. “Very upper crust. Must investigate reports of possible human trafficking.”

“Lobby for transgender inclusion?”

Sherlock sighed and stepped back. He turned back to his mixing bowls and poked despondently at the creamed butter with a spatula.

“That would take too long, plus I don’t suppose transgender women would be as maladroit as this. And all eyes would be on me — not incognito in the least. You’re right, John. Ugh.”

“Don’t hurt yourself admitting it, there, Sherlock.”

“I make a hideous woman.” And he sounded so put out by it that John had to laugh, just a little.

He pressed his face between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and slung his arms around Sherlock’s stomach.

“Somehow, the gorgeous man will survive such bitter disappointment.”

“I didn’t think it would be this terrible,” Sherlock said, adding vanilla and evaporated milk to the butter. “A bit butch, maybe, but not a disaster.”

“Oh, Sherlock, come off it. Imagine me in a dress — that’ll put you to rights.”

Sherlock snorted as he stirred the mixture by hand. “Need a new plan. And something to do with this cake.”

“Oi, I’ll eat it.”

“It’ll go straight to your hips, darling.”

“What did we just decide about you and jokes, Sherlock?”

“I’m hilarious.”

“I’ll bite you.” And he did, on his tiptoes, teeth sinking into shoulders. Sherlock jerked in John’s arms at the contact, and he took a sharp breath.

“John.”

“What are you wearing underneath this? What’s cinching your waist in here?”

“Bustier.”

John’s own breathing went shaky. John dropped his hands to smooth over Sherlock’s thighs. “And for knickers?”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, knickers. The lady-looking kind, but cut for men. The bustier too. I found them on one of your pervert sites.”

“Stop calling all my sites ‘pervert sites.’” John pushed his burgeoning erection against Sherlock’s thighs, and did not imagine the little gasp, nor the minute thrust back into the movement, the way Sherlock bent forward slightly for better leverage.

“But they—”

“They’re frequented by people with kinks and such. Which, I am in the position of reminding you again, you have, Mr. ‘Oh God Why Aren’t These Anal Beads Bigger.’”

“These are for a disguise—”

“Hush up, now.” And John sank to his knees, where he was face to face with Sherlock’s rather spectacular arse. Sherlock had a deceptive body — reedy to the casual onlooker, steely and well-built to the one who actually got to see him with his kit off. That arse, however, defied physics in its entirety. John skimmed his hands over Sherlock’s hips to find the zipper and lowered the skirt slowly. There was the crash of some things on the table as Sherlock swore and laid himself down entirely, thrust his arse toward John and spread his legs. John hummed out a note of appreciation and let the skirt fall to the floor, where he helped Sherlock maintain his balance in stepping out of it.

The knickers he wore were basic black satin, nothing particularly noteworthy except that they were bloody knickers. John groaned and pressed opened-mouthed kisses to each satin-covered cheek. He stroked over the swell of them twice before dropping his hands to his jeans to undo them and give himself a bit of relief. Then he gave himself over entirely to burying his face in the crack of Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock made some strangled, undignified noise and reached back to tangle his fingers in John’s hair and shove his arse against him harder.

“Easy, Sherlock,” John said, and steadied his hips in both hands. “I’m going to do exactly what you want, just be patient.”

“John.” Sherlock managed to make his name at least three syllables. His calves, overextended in those heels for God knows how long, quivered. John ran his hands down them too, marvelling at how smooth the skin was, how hard the muscle.

“God, look at you, wanting me.”

“John, please.”

“Such a greedy little arse.”

Whatever expletive Sherlock uttered was muffled into his arms, and John pushed his nose into his crack to inhale the musky clean scent of him there. He could feel the heat of Sherlock’s hole through the fabric.

“And such a hot little arsehole, too.”

Sherlock sounded like he might actually do himself injury, so John took pity on him and eased the band of the panties down to reveal the creamy swells of Sherlock’s arse. He encouraged Sherlock to lift his hips and free his erection and bollocks, then he helped him step out of them, all the while murmuring against his skin how lovely Sherlock was, how delicious.

John sucked kisses into Sherlock’s tailbone before he cupped each cheek in hand and spread them apart to reveal the downy cleft of his arse. Sherlock groaned into his arms as John blew a light stream of air over his hole, which winked at the sensation. John ran a light fingertip over it and Sherlock let out a strangled gasp.

“John—”

“Tell me what you want, Sherlock.”

“Your mouth — your tongue. Please, John. Please.”

John squeezed at Sherlock’s arsecheeks and spread them even wider. He laved the flat of his tongue from the back of Sherlock’s balls up over his hole, and was rewarded by Sherlock’s choked off grunts of approval. A few more swipes with the whole of his tongue and then John set to flicking the tip over and around the eager pucker of Sherlock’s arse. He traced around the rim with firm drags. He could feel the knot of muscle relaxing under his ministrations, letting more of his hungry tongue inside, and he groaned into the task. He let his left hand release Sherlock’s arsecheek so he could wrap it around his own straining prick. He shuffled closer on his knees, mashed his face further into Sherlock’s arse, and began to suck at his hole in earnest.

Sherlock’s fingers locked back into John’s hair and became more insistent. John didn’t care — he liked it. If they were in such a position as John’s hair could be reached when Sherlock came, he’d wrench it, uncontrollable, and John’s blood would sing. I do that to him, was all he could think, and it was one of the great unspoken pleasures of their union. Now, Sherlock was letting out steady, pained groans and humping back into John’s face, his prick trapped between his body and the table, likely escaping injury only by the grip of his other hand.

John rose enough to peel his jeans and pants off his legs, but not enough to lose contact with Sherlock’s arsehole. He gave one last full thrust of his tongue before parting with a few jabs around the outside, and then he stood and spread open Sherlock’s arse again. Sherlock’s hole was slick and pink and inviting.

“Oh God, just, please,” Sherlock panted.

John cast about for something to ease his way better than his own saliva when he spied a stick of softening butter yet unopened.

“Are you gonna use this?” he asked, thrusting the slab into Sherlock’s face.

“John! Just bloody get on with it, you imbecile!”

“If you’re not nice, I won’t fuck you, and then what are you going to do with this pretty arse in the air?”

“I’ll find something else to stuff it with!”

John laughed rather unkindly and set the butter on the edge of table. He had to unwrap it carefully; it had gone so soft it was more likely to give under the weight of his fingers than let him peel away the paper around it. He was occupied in that when Sherlock stood and struggled to shuck the green blouse. Buttons flew and still he was stuck.

“Jesus,” John said, and moved to help him. “Arms up.” Sherlock escaped the blouse and John got the full effect of his lover in only a bustier and high heels for the first time. His breath left him. “Oh, fuck, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s make up was smeared, and he blinked, open mouthed, to catch John staring. The bustier was a simple white number with gentle boning and gentle cinching, just about at the navel. While it didn’t have spaces for breasts, it emphasised the musculature Sherlock had, and somehow the smattering of pale chest hair just above its neckline sent John’s bollocks throbbing. The colour in Sherlock’s cheeks grew more violent.

“John, I have to take it off. Sorry — sorry, we can do it again some other time, I just—”

“Yeah, no, go ahead. Can you breathe?”

“I’m fine, just—” His mouth snapped shut as John reached toward him. The bustier was held together by clasps in the front. It fell away to reveal an expanse of familiar pale skin, and Sherlock heaved in a deep breath.

“Maybe you’re not an Ann Summers model, Sherlock, but these ladies’ underthings… they suit you.”

Sherlock’s hands curled around John’s jaw and he stooped to kiss him, hot and deep and slow. It made John’s heart swell in his chest even as it took the edge of urgency off his ardor.

“Fuck me now?” Sherlock asked, voice rough.

John nodded and stepped back, stretching his neck to rid himself of the crick he’d got from craning up more than usual. Sherlock arranged himself on the table, head in arms, prick and balls unencumbered by tabletop, legs spread wide. John couldn’t help himself — he bent to lap at Sherlock’s arsehole again and earned a moan for his troubles. He dipped half his tongue inside before straightening and coming flush against Sherlock’s arse. That is — Sherlock’s arse landing just at John’s stomach.

“Bugger,” he muttered.

“That’s the idea, John,” Sherlock snapped, and if he mumbled something about John’s inherent uselessness into his arms, John took no notice.

“One second,” he said, and gave Sherlock’s arse a parting pat. He stood, discarded jumper and shirt on the floor, and went to rummage in the broom closet for — “Ha! Step ladder.”

“Oh, lord.”

“Do you want me to fuck you over that table while you wear those preposterous heels or not?”

“I think you like me in these preposterous heels.”

“Sherlock!”

“Yes, yes, fucking fine, please come over here and fuck me on a step ladder, John bloody Watson!”

“Rude.” John set up the step ladder, made sure it wouldn’t slide, settled on the second rung.

“Short.” John slicked his fingers with the butter.

“Shut it,” and John pressed inside with two fingers of his left hand inside slowly, firmly, sure to rub his fingertips along the smooth sleeve of Sherlock’s rectum. Sherlock was beyond words now, grunting and groaning and rutting into John’s hand. John, for his part, watched avidly the hungry way Sherlock’s body accepted his fingers, the sucking, contracting pull. It never got old; John wondered, fleetingly, if it ever would, then banished the thought from his mind. His cock would be in that tight-hot squeeze soon enough. With his right hand, John groped at Sherlock’s arsecheeks, with his left, he added another finger. It was slow, and the stretch must have burned, but Sherlock bore down and pushed back until all three of John’s fingers were encased up to the third knuckle, sphincters spasming around them. Sherlock let out a long, keening groan in a low register, and John sincerely hoped Mrs. Hudson was elsewhere.

“Beautiful just like this,” John said. “Don’t need make up or dresses or heels.” He punctuated his declaration with a press of his fingertips against Sherlock’s prostate, and Sherlock gave a muffled shout.

John spent a leisurely few minutes fucking Sherlock on his fingers, luxuriating in the slick squeeze of him. He was just about to ask if Sherlock wanted to come this way when Sherlock seized his wrist, pulled his hand out and said, “Enough. Enough now, John. Get your fat prick in me.”

“Bossy,” John said, but smeared a generous dollop of butter on his cock. He pushed the excess butter into Sherlock’s slackened hole, then snubbed the head of his cock against the rim. He steadied Sherlock with one hand on the dimples just above his arse, then pushed forward slowly, slowly. His breath caught at the tight slick heat, and he watched the muscles of Sherlock’s back for signs of discomfort as they tensed and released with cleansing breath. John stopped about halfway in and pulled back to thrust in again. Sherlock gave a tremulous moan and pushed back. “Like that?”

“Nngh.”

“You do, you gorgeous thing. You beautiful, perfect, fuck,” John said, gasping. He began to piston his hips with more resolve, harder, deeper strokes, glancing against Sherlock’s prostate with purpose. Sherlock was up on his elbows, head hanging low, and he met each thrust with abandon. John’s hands roamed up and down Sherlock’s back, his sides, into his hair. He called him a litany of vile, complimentary names, and Sherlock just grunted back his approval.

Sherlock began to growl and mewl and tighten, and John knew he was close. He reached under Sherlock’s hips to wrap a hand around his fabulously leaking cock. “Like my cock in you, pounding you? Like being full of me, Sherlock? Sherlock?”

“Yes!” Sherlock gasped. “God, fuck, yes, keep fucking there, there, there —” And he sputtered, choked around whatever word came next as he pulsed in John’s hand and spurted all over the step ladder, the kitchen floor. He sucked in huge lungfuls of air even as he twitched through the aftershocks. Then, he lay boneless, facedown on the table. His knees gave, and the table supported the whole of his weight.

“Good boy,” John said. “Such a good boy.” He groaned and clutched at Sherlock’s hips. His thrusts came shallower until he felt the heat of impending orgasm coil around the base of his spine.

“That’s it, John,” came Sherlock’s voice, softened by satiation. “Come in me.”

John moaned. He buried himself up to the hilt, grasped at Sherlock’s hips, his shoulders, and came with a single resounding grunt. He stayed until he was empty, then he staggered, disengaged himself from the grip of Sherlock’s arse and slid to the floor, back propped against a table leg. Sherlock followed, loose-limbed and dazed, and melted bodily into John. John scooted forward and Sherlock made a protesting noise until John reached Sherlock’s feet, relieved them of the black heels, and began to rub.

“Ohhh, God, John, you are a miracle, a saint, a gift from the gods.”

John snorted and just squeezed around the bony white length of Sherlock’s feet. They were marred with angry red welts at the achilles, at the metatarsal-phalangeal joints, along the length of his smallest toe. John dug his thumbs into the soles and pushed up and down in slow, deft strokes.

“Where did you even get high heels in your size?”

“There are places in Soho that cater to people who have such needs.”

“And you call my websites pervy.”

“Honestly, John, don’t be so plebeian.”

“There’s butter in my pubes.”

“Let’s go to bed.”

“We should have a wash first.”

Then Sherlock’s feet were gone from his grip and Sherlock was on his knees, had wrapped himself around John from behind like some dirty great squid. He pushed his nose into the space behind John’s ear.

“Not yet,” he said. “I want to keep your come in me. I want to absorb your cells into mine. You’ll need to plug me up, keep me full of you.”

It was not a new request — in fact, it was one John met with fair regularity — but nonetheless John’s breath left him and he twisted enough to be able to kiss Sherlock, reverent. Finally he stood, bones rubbery, and led them back to the bedroom they shared.

“Hurry,” Sherlock said, arranging himself on his back on the bed, fingertips pressed to his hole. “Shouldn’t have let gravity work for this long.”

“Hang on,” John said with a note of exasperation. He was wiping himself down with a t-shirt that needed washing anyway.

“Come on, come on.”

John dragged a trunk out from underneath the bed and popped it open. Their collection of sex toys was inside, clean and gleaming. He chose a medium-girth silicone anal plug in black that would keep Sherlock satisfied — it was not small enough for its presence to be negligible and not big enough to cause discomfort once the glow of satisfying sex faded. When he rose, he found Sherlock’s legs in the air, hips tilted up. He smirked at him, and Sherlock only cocked one eyebrow.

“You’re quite the picture,” John said. Sherlock only hummed — a sound meant to placate and humour rather than agree. John knelt between Sherlock’s raised legs and pulled his arse into his lap. “Seriously. The loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.” He wiped butter from around Sherlock’s arse, from his thighs, but made sure not to clean away any of his own come. He pushed a fingertip inside, and semen dribbled out around it. His cock, predictable thing, gave an optimistic twitch at the sight.

“Don’t let it get out,” Sherlock said, voice an octave lower than usual. He did so enjoy being the keeper of John’s genetic material. There was a deeply buried folder in John’s laptop of pictures of this — Sherlock’s slack hole, leaking John. Sometimes, he caught Sherlock wanking to slideshows of the pictures that folder, which only led to more pictures.

“Hold it in for just a bit longer. I’ll get the camera.”

Sherlock moaned faintly as John yanked open the drawers to the bedside table in search of the slim point-and-shoot they’d bought for this very purpose. He snapped a few shots quickly, then ditched the camera and slicked up the plug with a bit of lube — proper lube this time. He was sure they’d come to regret their impetuous butter choice, and the lack of a shower.

John slid the plug into Sherlock’s arsehole. At the widest portion, John had to push it past some resistance, but when it was all the way in and his anus was contracting around the slim stem, Sherlock sighed in contentment, set his legs down and opened his arms. John crawled into them and rubbed his face into Sherlock’s chest as he lay inert on top of him. Sherlock never minded John’s weight bearing him into the mattress. Their legs tangled. Sherlock traced patterns into the skin on John’s shoulders, murmured meaningless things about bees into John’s hair. John’s eyelids were heavy. Time seemed to go fuzzy and soft, and so did John.

Then, Sherlock jackknifed out of bed with an exclamation of John’s name and John thought his heart might come flying out of his face.

“Jesus, Sherlock, you’re going to give me a heart attack! What are you on about?”

“The women, John!” He was flailing his arms in emphatic gestures that had meaning only to him. John groaned and turned his face into the pillow. “The gambling women!”

With that, he was out of the bedroom like a gunshot, anal plug seated firmly up his arse.



End

Comments

( 14 comments — Leave a comment )
vitawash24
Mar. 4th, 2012 08:32 pm (UTC)
Really enjoyed this - such a great blend of kinky and funny and hot.
what_alchemy
Mar. 7th, 2012 12:53 am (UTC)
XD thank you!
antesqueluz
Mar. 4th, 2012 09:17 pm (UTC)
Yes. Yes, thank you. Love how you depict the dynamics of this relationship. Gorgeous.
what_alchemy
Mar. 7th, 2012 12:53 am (UTC)
XD thanks so much!
am_hatescaptcha
Mar. 4th, 2012 09:31 pm (UTC)
Lovely, gorgeous. Gah, I am speechless.
I love everything about this, so hot, oh my god.
what_alchemy
Mar. 7th, 2012 12:54 am (UTC)
XD glad you liked it! thank you!
imhit
Mar. 4th, 2012 11:35 pm (UTC)
Wow, this was extremely hot. Great banter, too. Lovely. <3
what_alchemy
Mar. 7th, 2012 12:54 am (UTC)
XD thanks so much!
uwsannajane
Mar. 5th, 2012 05:26 am (UTC)
Unf! AND funny! Really well done.
what_alchemy
Mar. 7th, 2012 12:54 am (UTC)
Thank you!
melonator79
Mar. 5th, 2012 08:32 am (UTC)
Tee hee! Excuse me; I have such giggling to do.
what_alchemy
Mar. 7th, 2012 12:54 am (UTC)
You saucy minx ;)
applezoni
Mar. 11th, 2012 04:31 pm (UTC)
Nice to see some top!John around these days, and this was some really sweet but satisfying smut.
what_alchemy
Mar. 11th, 2012 06:11 pm (UTC)
Is there not enough top John out there? Weird, because it's my favorite porn. I'm glad you liked this!
( 14 comments — Leave a comment )

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