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The room is hot, almost unbearably so. Sweat, slick and salty, slides down his spine. He can’t wait any longer, and John, his blonde hair dark with moisture and spread out in front of him, is too much, too tempting, too ready.
“Christ, Sherlock, just fucking do it already,” John says, his voice husky in the dark. Sherlock’s brain is whirling, the heat and closeness of the room making him dizzy, the adrenaline and arousal making him clumsy with want. He slicks his hand over his cock a few more times, presses hard and insistent at John’s hole, making him hiss in a breath before he leans forward and seals his mouth to John’s, demanding.
The stretch is sweet around his cock, the push pull of John’s body gripping him rockets up his spine, making him shiver.
“All right?” he whispers, and dear God, please let it be all right. It can’t be anything but all right now, can it? Not when it’s this perfect, this shocking, this amazing.
“Better if you’d stop being so damn careful,” John snarls, and snaps his hips up, taking Sherlock all the way in a swift slide that tears a choked cry from Sherlock’s throat.
“Fuck, oh yes, fuck that’s good,” and they begin to move, their bodies shifting, rocking together, apart, meeting each other at angles both impossible and perfect. Sherlock dips his head, skims his nose along Johns chest, his neck, taking in the smell of musk and sweat and skin before he presses an open mouthed kiss to John’s sternum. But it isn’t enough, isn’t close enough, so Sherlock flicks out his tongue to taste, to learn the texture of John’s skin as he shifts restlessly under Sherlock’s body.
Sherlock continues to kiss, his thrusts faltering as his attention is taken by the flavor of John’s skin. He stops entirely as he works his way down John’s chest to his belly, leaving little nips along the way that make John jump and giggle. Sherlock has definitely decided more tasting is in order, his brain is on fire with it, the need to map every inch of John’s body prickling over his scalp. He pulls out gently and tips John up by the simple expedient of hooking his hands under John’s knees.
John flushes, his mouth slack with pleasure but his eyes wary. Sherlock quirks a smile at him before he lowers his mouth to John’s cock, licking and sucking the silky skin, taking it from slightly erect to rock-hard in moments.
“Gah, that’s lovely, Sherlock,” John whispers, threads his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. “More. Come on.”
Sherlock hums agreement, laves each of John’s balls in turn before dipping lower, tracing his tongue around where John is loose and soft and slick with lube, the skin blood-hot.
“Jesus Christ,” John swears and throws his head back on the pillow, releases Sherlock’s hair and clutches the duvet in his hands.
“Mmmhmmm,” Sherlock agrees, presses his tongue deeper, breaches John’s body easily, fucks him with his tongue for a moment before settling in, licking and sucking and teasing to his heart’s content, listening to John’s litany of “fuck” and “yes” and “please” with half an ear and wondering distantly if he can get John off like this. John ruts gently against his face, his knees spread and toes flexing. He looks gorgeous, tastes gorgeous, and Sherlock’s happy to spend the rest of eternity licking him but it seems John has other ideas.
“Stop,” he says breathlessly, then kicks his legs off Sherlock’s shoulders with a curse and sits up, pushes Sherlock back on the bed and climbs over him. “You’re going to fucking kill me with that, you bastard.” John kneels up enough to settle himself over Sherlock’s cock, taking it all with a slow, smooth stroke until his arse is nestled against Sherlock’s thighs. “Too fucking good at it.”
“But I need, I want to,” Sherlock gasps, presses up as much as he’s able into the rhythm John sets, fast and hard, the sound and fury of their bodies crashing together more than Sherlock can hold in his brain at once. The sensation of his cock sliding freely in John’s arse shatters him apart in one final, sharp thrust that leaves him gasping for air and clawing at John’s thighs.
“Christ, oh Christ,” John growls, stroking himself with quick pulls while he grinds down on Sherlock’s cock, squirming until he’s at the right angle to make his back arch and his eyes flare wide. Sherlock’s thought process is almost completely gone, his brain hazy, his vision narrowed to the tendons that stand out on John’s neck, the hard muscle of his chest, the dark mottled scar on his shoulder. He reaches for John’s cock, tries to help, just gets his fingers around the glans when John shouts, coming across Sherlock’s stomach and chest.
John groans, climbs off gingerly, carefully, and hunts around off the side of the bed, finding something to clean up with. He tosses what he finds to Sherlock—his own boxers, wonderful—who cleans up and throws them back over the side. Sherlock shifts over until he makes a space for John to curl up next to him on top of the blankets, the sweat cooling on his back making him shiver despite the close heat of the room.
“I’m going to get you to come like that some day,” he whispers into John’s hair.
“Mmmm. I may let you. Then again, perhaps I’ll get you to.” John threads his fingers between Sherlock’s, kisses his knuckles, sighs contentedly.
“Whenever and wherever you’d like,” Sherlock says, kisses John’s forehead, and closes his eyes.