I reached 300, so you guys get your porn!! This was originally inspired by Archia’s amazing Greaserlock picture that she drew for You Give Me Fever, because I could. not. stop. staring. at. it.
John’s room is a fortress of innocence; palatial really, the way he’s constructed it for himself with his walls of summer-sky and movie posters, escapist windows into other worlds where he loses himself for a little while. Sherlock knows all about losing himself; in John’s skin and in his flesh, in the sound of John’s voice panting in his ear, those needy little sounds of desperation when Sherlock teasingly palms his cock. John’s skin is soft with youth but he doesn’t bruise easy, no, made of hardier stuff than that - and Sherlock knows with exacting sureness at what pressure he bruises - he’d taken it upon himself to personally acquire that most important bit of knowledge. John’s body like parchment inviting the bruising, mark him here, there, make sure he’s yours. Make it tabula rasa; rub out the old scars and start all over again. John has to be quiet, remember; maybe not so much with his mother home and sodden down with drink, but when Harry’s home they turn up the record player loud so that rock and roll drowns out the sounds of whimpers and moans, and John’s mouth is covered with Sherlock’s hand, his palm, sometimes sucking wetly on the fingers pushed inside - for comfort. Or he muffles himself with his own hand, the sheet, a balled up tie once, satin pushed against the back of his teeth, soaking up saliva on his tongue. The sound of a moan is a precious thing. When it flutters out of John’s mouth from the way Sherlock rubs inside his body, Sherlock wants to take that sound and pin it like a specimen. What a luxury it is to waste it, then, force it out with thrusts of his hips and to hear it mangled by the wet sounds made from fingers rubbing against a dripping tongue.
Bite the pillow, Sherlock encourages him when he turns him over, has him face-down so he can fuck him right and proper. Inside John is where he finds himself again: John’s body tight and clasping around him, shuddering and small beneath him, the press of their bodies together, chest to back and heart to heart. Thought of this, something like this, many a time watching John walk by in the school hallways, idle daydreams of having him against the lockers or over a desk or even over a locker room bench.
Never in a bed, never thought that far, never in the intimate sanctuary of John’s own room where he has him now, moaning into a pillow and small hands fisting into the sheets, pushing back against Sherlock as he pins him and fucks him hard. Scrape of his teeth against John’s skin and Sherlock bites down on the bad shoulder; remaking the area of injury into something that can belong to him. Fucks him like he wants to crawl up inside of him, figure him from the inside out and indeed that would be just fine. John’s little body just made for sex and vice from the way he shudders with pleasure around Sherlock’s cock filling him up. John is mumbling, words unintelligible and Sherlock never wanting to miss a word has to lean in close, tug John’s hair with his fingers to tilt his head back brushing deceptively sweet kisses against the side of his face.
“What is it?” Sherlock prompts him, breath hot and panting, his cock buried to the hilt inside of John.
“Sherlock,” John says, “more.”