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Homo Aceros

Summary:

Jim is right; John wants him, all of him. His insanity, his impulsivity, the way he keeps John guessing as to whether or not today is the day John will die. John doesn’t have a death wish, but the edge of living, the edge of death; that edge keeps him aroused and ready to explode in pleasure, excitement, in ecstasy.

So the fandom has wolves and cats and dogs and egg fics, and I just thought there are so many other types of reproduction from the animal world...

So, hornbills.

Note - This ISN"T a wing fic. Let's use all the other cool features of hornbills instead :)

Notes:

Not beta'd nor britpicked. Please (kindly) point out any mistakes!

While this is entirely consensual, it may appear abusive or non/dub consensual at times. Please read with caution, if these things upset you!

Examples of coloration/physical features such as crests/pouches can be found here: http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com/post/102252310438/to-give-you-an-idea-of-coloration-for-my-homo

Chapter 1: If Inconvenient, Come Anyways

Chapter Text

“Sherlock, run!” John rushes to contain the mad man in front of him, accepting his own death in the face of saving Sherlock. He wraps his arms around Jim's; his heart tremors in the moment, alive with adrenaline, the danger coursing through his body like power he’d only felt in Afghanistan. The surge of strength in the face of death sings through John’s body, and he feels invincible even in the face of imminent destruction.

Jim taunts him further, and chuckles, feeling the press of John against his body; Jim realizes before his would-be-captor that John’s body is betraying him. He feels the hardened length press against him. “You’ve rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson,” Jim smirks, both in relation to his adrenaline lust and his sacrificial deed for the self-proclaimed sociopath in front of them. John hates this man, Moriarty, and is willing to drag him down into death; partly to save Sherlock, but partly to rid the world of one less evil genius megalomaniac. John holds tightly to the criminal mastermind, arms hugging the suit, shoulder buying into John’s downy golden throat.

The red dot on Sherlock’s body douses John’s adrenaline with fear; replacing blood singing in his veins with ice. John can die for others; no one innocent is allowed to come with him. He steps away from Jim, distraught that Sherlock hadn’t taken the opportunity to run. The man’s brilliance is unmatched, he should be saved. John is a soldier, ready to lay down his life for the greater good. And that, in every scenario, in every dangerous game they’ve played, the greater good is always Sherlock.

John recognizes only belatedly that his cock is betraying him, straining against his trousers, and he panics at the implication. He’d not recalled the arousal accompanying the life or death situations in the desert; perhaps because they were predictable; the death of his comrades, his brothers in arms, was expected, the enemy acted with single minded focus and their motivations were easy to decipher. Not so with a man who could easily be diagnosed as clinically insane.

Even now, strapped with semtex, a pawn in a game between two brilliant, selfish men with just the delicate strains of childhood experiences leading them towards one path or another, John feels the surge of fight as opposed to flight, and the gorgeous brilliance coursing through him sends the blood rushing to his cock, bulging traitorously against his trousers. He doesn’t know how far his role as pawn might last; and thus cannot know whether to expect death, torture, pain or that he might even be able to walk away, harm free.

The uncertainty baits him, draws out odd tendrils of pleasure against all the common sense he tries to muster. Waiting for two to finish their banter; their witty quips, he urges his own inappropriate interest down, a task not made any easier by the weight of explosives sitting tantalizingly fatal against his ribcage. John comes to his senses with Jim’s sing song “No you won’t!” and sighs in relief. He can remove the vest; but before he does, Sherlock is ripping it off him. John panics, he can’t imagine that Sherlock will miss this obvious defect, these crossed wires in his body, and think horribly of him. The man who decries his own transport, scorns even the thought of love and lust and sexuality. He looks down, but his view of Sherlock’s face is blocked by fire orange crest extending from the top of his head, parting the soft feathers at the top.

And then the panic returns in that ludicrous Irish sing song; “I’m so changeable!”

And John, slumped against the pylon, finds himself hard as a rock, just moments of friction away from the more poorly timed orgasm in his life. He refuses to move, with just a nod of his head to affirm he is willing to die with Sherlock, to end this lunacy, and the humiliation that has revealed itself with it.

-o-

After a sweep, first by Mycroft’s men, then by Lestrade’s, the pool is declared clear and empty of all criminal masterminds and villainous henchmen with their laser sighted sniper rifles. It appears clear that there were fewer snipers than red dots, so a clear deception had place. Sherlock curses, wondering if that information might have changed the outcome of their little game.

John knows it wouldn’t have mattered. Not on the outcome, not on his mortifying arousal. He barricades himself in his room for a few days, the clinic understanding his need for recuperation, only coming out for tea, the occasional beans on toast, and to use the loo.

He wars within himself, trying to decipher where in God’s name this sudden freakish lust is coming from. Why Jim Moriarity of all people, should unlock a deep secret hidden within himself. He recalls his sexual experiences to date, has anything ever indicated this… kink, for lack of a better word. He runs his hand over his smooth red crest, then ruffling the golden feathers that run down his throat pouch. He ignores the black feathers curving up the back of his neck, but soothes the sparse, miniscule down on his arms, golden overlaying the last of his tanned skin.

He recalls.

Losing his virginity to Emily McCallum, her soft little breasts with pert nipples, and a wide hips for him to grip as he slowly slid into her. How within minutes, lights flashed in windows; her father pulled into the driveway. Emily saw the lights, whispered, “Oh shit, it’s my dad,” and John came so hard he almost cried with the pleasure. At the time, he assumed the excitement stemmed from his first time penetrating a woman.

In college, being fucked by Tommy Zimmer. It was his first man, and once and for all settled the matter of his sexual preferences: a little bit of everything. They’d met in class, and had gone to a party, where some of his classmates were enjoying a myriad of drugs. Tommy was balls deep in his arse, holding John’s arms behind his back. John was hard, aching for release as Tommy occasionally brushed his prostate with drunken inaccuracy. The party below throbbed and ebbed with music and drunken chatter, loud laughter echoing up the hallway stairs. An abrupt stop to all the noise caused Tommy to stop his deep, vigorous thrusting, and John whined in disappointment. “It’s okay, love, I plan on coming deep in your gorgeous tight arse, fuck, yes, you’re so lovely.” And Tommy waited, still buried full hilt, stretching John open and welcoming, sopping wet with copious amount of lube. He started gyrating slowly into John, remaining quiet, keeping an ear for whatever was happening downstairs, and John pushed back, aching for a harder, faster, fuck. Suddenly, a loud voice bounced up the stairwell, “Police!” and John, impulsively, thrust back hard against Tommy, and shouted in ecstasy as his neglected cock pulsed thick robes of come onto the bedspread below him. Tommy, encouraged by the throbbing muscles clenching his cock, thrust without abandon into John, pummeling his arse, splitting him open wide, and Tommy came with a shout, just as a sergeant burst into the room. At the sight of their unanticipated visitor, John came again, unpredictably, officer be damned.

And one of his more recent girlfriends, all women after Sherlock’s rebuff of “not my area”, somewhere between Sarah and Jeanette. Sherlock was right, they weren’t right for him, and he kept forgetting their names. But the one, the curvy one with plush thighs, the thick waist, teal blue crest that matched her throat pouch and exhibitionist streak. They’d fucked relentlessly in public places, but the most memorable of such was when he’d invited her into Scotland Yard. They’d fucked in Lestrade’s office, as Lestrade was off reprimanding Sherlock’s behavior and soothing a witness. The woman lay supine on the desk, panting, squirming, begging underneath him, “Fuck me John, make me come, please baby, fuck me harder. Oh John, fuck me, John,” and that dialogue continued on repeat as she lost her faculties in favor of the lust driven pleasure of being filled by John’s gorgeously lush cock. He was close, so close, but despite her chanting his name, despite the filthiness of defiling Lestrade’s desk, he seemed as though he was aiming for a goal he couldn’t quite reach. And then the door opened; Lestrade gaping wordlessly at the scene before him, the woman, Angie, that was her name, Angie’s breasts bouncing, John pounding into her wetness, the folds of her pussy gorgeously gripping his cock, and knowing he’d been caught, not sure how he’d be punished, the uncertainty of the outcomes of this potentially criminal situation, and his cock exploded into her pussy and he cried out, avoiding eye contact with Lestrade while he drenched Angie’s cunt with his thick white come.

John realizes that perhaps he does have a history; not of exhibitionism as he’d previously thought, but of danger. And though he wishes it were Sherlock that pulled this realization from him, how easy would that be? he knows Sherlock isn’t interested, but Jim. Jim might be interested. And John shudders at the thought. How could he consider this? Moriarty is insane, deadly, vicious and villainous. John curses again, just the thought has him half hard.

Fuck. He might be wanking to the pool scene for years. To Moriarty. To that fucking semtex vest.

And as much as he might try to deny it, he hopes to see Jim again.