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those cheekbones

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He can just -- he can just see it, always see it, not even just when he's wanking. It's sometimes when Sherlock sneers, he can imagine that face below him, tilted up, smeared with white, looking so disdainful and so above it all even when John's come paints his skin. Or sometimes, even better, when Sherlock has that beautiful expression of discovery, when his mouth drops open and his eyes get so big, in the seconds before he calls himself stupid and darts off to solve some impossible mystery on the basis of non-sequiturs and ellipses -- that single breath of sheer, unadulterated joy, a caesura.

John likes to imagine that expression on a kneeling Sherlock, looking up at John like he's seen something amazing as John bites his lips and comes all over him. Imagines Sherlock finishing from that alone, like it would be enough to feel the sticky warmth against his cheekbones, spattered glossy on his lips. That would be lovely -- God, what if some of it got in his eye? What if it stung and dripped off his eyelashes and that’s what pushes him over the edge? His hand would be curled around his own prick, his lips swollen from sucking John, and Sherlock would be so turned on that the touch of discomfort would push him to gasping.

It’s gotten really problematic, actually, how much John likes to think about coming on Sherlock’s face.

It started as a bit of a lark -- he had known that he was attracted to Sherlock for a while, he was a grown man, obviously, and could interpret the warmth in his belly for what it was. At first it made him uncomfortable, because the man was his flatmate and he didn’t want to complicate his living situation. Then, it made him uncomfortable because Sherlock was his fucking friend and it seemed off to wank to mates. And finally -- and this still gave him a twist in his belly when he thought about it -- it felt a bit odd to think of someone sexually when they didn’t appear to have any sexual feelings at all.

But there was only so much he could do, and Sherlock eventually joined the parade of John’s acquaintances, random encounters, past sexual partners, and minor celebrities that he imagined while wanking. The fixation with coming on Sherlock’s face, though, came later -- after the normal times of him in the shower, hot water beating against his back and an imagined Sherlock groaning beneath him, or him at bed at night with his fingers up his arse and wild dreaming about what sort of cock Sherlock was packing.

But when Irene had pointed those cheekbones out, they stuck. Sherlock’s strange face wiggled its way into his fantasy and stayed there, subject to John’s frankly impressive imagination and coated with a truly astonishing amount of ejaculate.

John wouldn’t deny that the degradation did not have its appeal, but it was mostly that Sherlock would look unspeakably lovely on his knees, at John’s feet, beatific and glistening from John’s come. It was only after this particular fantasy had gained headway that John found himself staring.

(Maybe he’d look like this, like he had just taken a hit of heroin -- blissed out, blank, and more vacant than John had previously thought possible.The face wasn’t a good memory, but John remembered Sherlock’s expression vividly -- maybe it would be the way that his sneer softened when he was high, like he looked while John yelled at him? Maybe he’d look like he looked when he was desperate for a fag, his jaw clenched and the muscle visible underneath the skin, his eyes narrowed, and his fingers twitching. Maybe -- maybe like this, like when he knocked something over in his twirling, the minor start of surprise quickly smoothed out into annoyance/serenity/self-confidence.)

John suspected that Sherlock knew something was up. Lately, when he’s been looking, Sherlock’s looked back.

After they returned from Dartmoor, Sherlock started looking even when John knew he wasn’t staring.

“What?” he said.

Sherlock didn’t bother answering. He was on the sofa, his knees spread and being used to support his elbows, which supported his hands, which were steepled in front of his face. He was expressionless, but his eyes were dark.

Maybe like this, maybe he would just stare up at John, still as a photograph, the puzzling/thinking face -- maybe-- Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

John tried to control his breathing, raised a sardonic eyebrow, and turned away to put the kettle on.

“Would you like me to keep the coat on? I cannot decide if that was a key addition or circumstantial -- insufficient data.”

Sherlock’s voice was smooth, low, and only slightly (ever so slightly) rougher than usual.

John’s hands were perfectly still, but he felt the world tremble around him. He didn’t turn around, but he opened his mouth to speak, tried to force words out from the whistling in his head.

“Don’t be dull, John,” Sherlock said. “You are not obtuse -- do not pretend.”

John turned around. Sherlock was in precisely the same position as before, but he had pressed his palms flat against one another. His lips were, perhaps, quirked into something which might have been a smile on someone else.

“Incidental -- but now I’ll have to work it in.”

Sherlock’s lips thinned, enough that John could see traces of white in the tissue.

“I find myself rather liking the idea,” Sherlock said. “Take off your clothes.”

Part of John felt like he should stop this here, or at the very least, pause it, long enough to discuss, consider ramifications, be proper adults. But Sherlock stood and fetched his coat, shrugged it on, and raised both his eyebrows at him.

“Well? You do want to come on my face, correct?”

If John had known Sherlock just an ounce less, he wouldn’t have heard the trace of actual question in that statement, the hint of something which may even be insecurity. It abruptly relaxed him, even as he was getting rapidly more aroused.

“Oh god yes.”

Sherlock smiled -- grinned at him, proper and full. John couldn’t help but groan, pushing himself off the counter and pulling off his jumper as he went to him. While his vision was still obstructed, Sherlock shoved him against the wall -- God, their front door -- and sunk to his knees.

He started with John’s shoes, tugging them roughly off, then yanked at John’s belt, pulled at his trousers and pants, and sooner than John could even process, he was starkers with a fully clothed Sherlock Holmes at his feet and a leaking prick.

Sherlock wrapped his big hands around John’s hip-bones, pressed him against the door, and swallowed him down in one smooth motion that left John gasping. He arched his hips, without even meaning to, and Sherlock let him -- his eyes tilted up to meet John’s and squinching, just a bit, as if he would have smiled.

John’s hand fell to Sherlock’s hair, not to clutch, but to push it out of the way so that John could better memorize the stretch of lips around his cock, the small wrinkles, smooth skin, and those bloody cheekbones -- his cock slipping easily, hips encouraged by the warm wet heat and coaxing hands, into Sherlock’s mouth, partially concealed by the upturned collar of his coat.

It was -- unprecedented, astonishing, and John heard himself babbling -- “Sherlock, god, Sherlock -- you look amazing, look at you, you look so pretty like that” -- and wondrous, wondrous, Sherlock moaned.

John leaned back hard, nudged his bare foot between Sherlock’s legs just to feel the proof of his attraction, the hardness that caused Sherlock’s hips to shudder.

Sherlock pulled back with an slick pop which caused John’s fingers to clench in his hair and said (there was a rasp in his voice) --

“Let me do my work,” almost as stern as if it had been an experiment in the fridge or a crime scene. John huffed an incredulous laugh which slipped easily into a more guttural sound as Sherlock took him in once more.

John could feel his orgasm pressing on the back of his eyelids, like he was going to overflow with it, and barely managed to gasp out a warning.

Sherlock was always quick on the uptake, though, and pulled off, settling back a bit on his heels and letting his eyes flutter shut.

As John came, he realized that this was better -- better than he could have imagined, as his come striped Sherlock’s cheek, white versus the dark of his eyelashes, the flush in his cheeks. This was a face that was totally new to him, utterly unique and particular. This was the expression that Sherlock Holmes made when John Watson came on his face.

When he finished, trembling, he sunk to the floor, pulled Sherlock until he stumbled into him and kissed him desperately. Sherlock tasted like salt and skin and curry and it felt dirty to have all John’s nakedness slipping against all of those clothes.

John felt his own come smear from Sherlock’s face to his as he pressed his hand against Sherlock’s cock through his trousers, rubbing firmly and without mercy against the dampness in the expensive cloth.

Sherlock broke the kiss to pant into John’s neck and John could smell Sherlock’s sweat, feel where it had soaked his shirt.

Sherlock froze and was still, coming, biting down hard into John’s skin.

After a moment -- two, even, Sherlock taking longer to recover than if he had been knifed --- Sherlock licked the bite. John just tried to remember how to breathe and started to shiver, his sweat evaporating off his naked skin.

“So,” Sherlock said, mild. “Is that all you are interested in exploring with me?”

John laughed at him and said, “Don’t be obtuse.”