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John isn’t convinced that he’ll ever get used to the sight of Sherlock on his knees in front of him.
His breath is coming heavily as Sherlock runs his hands firmly over his thighs, glancing up at him every now and again, making his cock twitch within the confines of his jeans. He bites his lip. It’s almost overwhelming to be the sole focus of Sherlock’s attention.
He’s perched on the edge of the sofa, his hands gripping the cushions. Sherlock’s fingers, deft and sure, undo the button and pull down the zip, and he tugs a little on the waistband. John cooperates, lifting just enough to give Sherlock the space he needs to pull the jeans down to his knees. Then Sherlock dips his head, pressing his nose against the bulge in John’s pants, breathing hot, moist air against the fabric, and it’s so unbearably sexy that John can’t help but moan.
Sherlock’s hands are at his hips, teasing at his waistband, as he mouths his way up and down the length of John, a preview of what’s to come. He presses with his tongue, and John’s hips press back, an almost automatic response. Sherlock’s grin is impish, smug, and his eyes are playful and self-assured the next time he peers up at John through his eyelashes. The bastard, John thinks; Sherlock always enjoys how easily he can reduce John to a blubbering, sexually-frustrated mess.
Sherlock tugs his boxers down too, then goes back to what he was doing before, except that this time the sensations are that much more intense for the lack of fabric in the way. He’s nuzzling at John’s cock, almost like a cat might. The hint of stubble on his face scratches lightly against his skin, making John inhale sharply. He breathes John’s scent deeply, one hand coming forward to grasp the base of his cock as he rubs those sinful lips against his sensitive skin. The pressure is light, deceptively gentle. His eyes flutter closed as he focuses on the task, the hand still on John’s hip rubbing small circles with his thumb.
He flicks out his tongue, sweeping it against the head, and John gasps, not quite managing to stifle another moan. He releases his grip on the sofa to rest his palm on the top of Sherlock’s head, barely-there pressure as he rubs his fingertips against the silky-soft curls. A small sign to let Sherlock know he’s doing a good job, because he knows how Sherlock thrives on his praise. The effect is a positive one; Sherlock groans low in his throat, the vibrations delicious against John’s cock, and swirls his tongue around the tip. He licks long, slow stripes up and down, tasting and exploring John at his leisure, and John makes no effort to hurry him. They’ve got all night, after all.
“I love doing this, John,” Sherlock says against him, his voice thicker and deeper than usual. “Taking you apart with my mouth. It’s glorious.” He wraps his lips around the head, just for a moment, before sliding them off and pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses all over him.
John swallows. This is still a relatively new thing for them, and hearing filthy words like that from Sherlock, just for him, makes him feel like he’s dreaming. He imagines that he must be the luckiest man in the world, that Sherlock wants him like this, wants to do this for him.
Sherlock meets his gaze again. So confident that he knows exactly how to ruin John, and John whimpers because it’s true.
Then Sherlock’s lips are around him again, sinking down slowly, surrounding John with a wonderful, wet heat. His tongue never stops working, and he applies a light suction as he takes more and more of John into his mouth. John’s head falls back between his shoulders, and he’s fighting the urge to thrust up into Sherlock through shuddering breaths. He tightens his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, eliciting another muffled groan that reverberates around him, and brings his other hand to join the first, allowing his eyes to slide closed.
Sherlock’s movements are languid and unhurried. He gets as much of John into his mouth as he can, then slides back up, his spit-slick lips feeling like utter perfection. When he reaches the head again, he presses the flat of his tongue against him, tracing aimless patterns before his cheeks hollow and he takes John’s length back into his throat, swallowing around him to ease the process. John can’t help but undulate his hips; the pleasure is dizzying and he’s struggling to think of a good reason why he shouldn’t let go, especially with the quiet, gorgeous noises Sherlock is making, clearly enjoying himself.
And suddenly all thoughts of control are lost as Sherlock sucks him with vigour, and John feels the pulsing of his throat, the vacuum-like seal created by his delectable lips, the continued press and movement of his tongue. His entire brain reroutes to his cock, and he just knows he needs more. He takes Sherlock’s hair in fistfuls, tight, keeping his head exactly where it is as he thrusts his hips up as best he can from his seated position. He doesn’t see it as Sherlock’s eyes clench shut, barely hears the whine torn from Sherlock’s gut, is aware of nothing but the desire to ram his cock further down the throat of this amazing man kneeling before him. And Jesus, every thrust has him seeing stars, and he’s panting, high-pitched and increasingly desperate.
It’s only when Sherlock’s entire body tenses and convulses that John snaps back to reality and realises what he’s doing. He rapidly pulls Sherlock’s mouth off him completely, swearing under his breath, letting go of his hair. He’s horrified with himself as Sherlock chokes, pulling gravelly lungfuls of air desperately, tears streaming from his eyes and sniffing back snot.
“God, Sherlock, I am so sorry,” he stammers, cupping Sherlock’s face with his hands, all thoughts of his cock forgotten for the moment as he tries instead to comfort and soothe.
“John,” Sherlock croaks, looking up at him again, and John pauses. He sees how Sherlock’s eyes are almost completely black where his pupils have dilated, and he notices how Sherlock’s hand is no longer on his hip, but has been relocated to press against his own cock through his trousers.
John’s no deduction expert, but he flatters himself that he’s usually pretty good at sex, and he likes to think he can tell when his partner is aroused.
“Sherlock,” he says, wiping at an errant tear with his thumb, eyes searching and widening with awe, “did you like that?”
The blush that spreads across Sherlock’s face is telling; he suspects that Sherlock is just as surprised by this revelation as he is, and the blood pools back in his groin at the realisation that they’ve discovered this kink of Sherlock’s together.
“Do it again,” Sherlock demands, although it sounds more like a plea. His eyes are wild, he’s looking at John like he needs him, and John just wants to give him absolutely everything.
“Fuck, you’re incredible,” John murmurs, and he stands up, letting his jeans and boxers fall to his ankles. He puts his hands back in Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock eyes him hungrily, reaching up to anchor himself with both hands behind John’s thighs. He opens his mouth and leans forward, eager to take John again, but John stops him. This is hot beyond belief, but he needs to know that he isn’t going to hurt Sherlock. “Tap me if it gets too much.”
Sherlock looks at him with a curious indignance, as if the possibility of ‘too much’ is almost insulting. But he nods once, probably just to appease John, and this time John lets him take his cock back into his mouth. Having that warmth wrapped around him again is delicious, and Sherlock’s moan of arousal is something he could listen to all day. To begin with, he lets Sherlock control the pace; he keeps the thrusts of his hips steady and shallow, allowing Sherlock to take him as deeply as he’s comfortable with. He keeps his gaze locked on Sherlock, still a little worried about hurting him despite their contingency plan, and he knows Sherlock can feel the tension in him as he huffs an exhale through his nose. Sherlock looks up at him, eyes dark and defiant, as he grips John’s thighs tightly and sucks hard, sliding his lips all the way to the base in one smooth motion. His way of reminding John that he’s asked for this.
So John puts his faith in Sherlock, and gives him what he wants.
For the first few hard thrusts, it’s difficult to ignore the gagging sounds and the way that Sherlock’s eyes almost immediately begin to stream again. But Sherlock isn’t tapping him, is just digging his fingers into John’s flesh to steady himself, and still trying to work his tongue and swallow around John’s cock, and it’s so damn sexy that John very quickly stops trying to be considerate. He uses Sherlock’s hair to yank him forward as he grinds his hips, driving his dick as far down his throat as it will go. The sensation of being surrounded so completely has him almost out of his mind, and before long he is fucking Sherlock’s face with abandon, but this time he doesn’t look away. He drinks in the sight of Sherlock struggling for breath around him, of Sherlock’s eyes closed tight in concentration, of Sherlock’s reddened lips stretched wide around him, of Sherlock’s face flushed from exertion and sheer want. The grip John has in his hair must be painful, and his lungs are probably burning, and his throat is going to hurt by the time they’re done here. And yet he’s so eager to take it all. He wants John ramming into him with everything he has, and it’s gorgeous.
John can feel that he’s getting closer to the edge, and his thrusts are getting more erratic. Sherlock’s nose is streaming now too, his whole face a mess of tears and snot, and it should be disgusting but it really isn’t, and John decides not to think too deeply about what that says about him. “Sherlock,” he grunts, but Sherlock’s mouth and throat are too full of cock for him to make any sounds other than muffled glugs and deep, short hums. Then John looks at his throat as he gives a particularly powerful thrust, and it might be his imagination but he thinks he sees the movement of his cock through Sherlock’s fucking skin, and it absolutely undoes him.
As he feels the first pulse of his orgasm shoot through his body, he figures he might as well make this whole experience as filthy as possible, and he quickly yanks Sherlock’s head back and away from his cock, but holds him close. Sherlock gasps a breath, and he keeps his mouth open as John shoots ribbons of semen towards his face, mostly landing on his lips, some reaching his nose and his cheek, all of it dripping down towards his chin as both of them try to get their breath back and remember their own names. When John comes down enough from his high to peel his eyes back open, Sherlock is looking up at him with undisguised adoration; and slowly, deliberately, he licks the come from his lips.
John whimpers. He drops to his knees too, blindly reaching for Sherlock’s cock through his trousers, now only focused on bringing relief to this brilliant man, but Sherlock’s hand on his wrist stops him before he gets there.
Sherlock shakes his head. “That,” he says, his voice more broken than John has ever heard it before, “won’t be necessary.”
Their eyes meet, John’s questioning, Sherlock’s willing him to understand. And John’s brain is a little slow, foggy from the intensity of his climax, but the realisation dawns on him after a few moments. Oh. Oh. A glance down, to confirm it, and he sees the unmistakeable wet patch seeping through Sherlock’s crotch. He blinks as he comprehends that Sherlock came, untouched, just from John pummelling his face with his dick. Holy fuck.
If he hadn’t just had the most incredible orgasm himself, he knows that thought would have him achingly hard again in seconds.
“How did I get this lucky?” he wonders aloud, and Sherlock’s answering grin is somehow shit-eating, even with his face absolutely wrecked.
“Let me get cleaned up,” he grates out, “and we’ll discuss how you can thank me.”