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An Asexual and a Hypersexual Walk Into a Bar

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After two hours lying together on the sofa, Sherlock was the first to break the kiss and stand. Lowering a hand and offering it to John, he smiled down at him. “Bedroom?” He asked. With an eager nod, John let himself be pulled up and fondled all the way down the hall.

Once they were in the bedroom, Sherlock wasted no time in stripping John of his clothes and throwing him back onto the bed. This is where John usually got nervous.

Sherlock stripped his own clothes and climbed onto the bed, crawling up John’s body like the fricking jungle cat-turned-human that he was. With one last kiss to John’s lips, he slithered back down the bed, coming to a stop right over John’s getting there erection. The warm ghost of his breath against already over-heated skin moved things along from “getting there” to “bloody well there.” But before Sherlock could take John into his mouth, the man himself stopped him.

“Sherlock,” he said, hand reaching down to catch Sherlock’s jaw, fingers stroking lovingly as well as halting his movements. “You really don’t need to. I’m fine. I can go have a wank in the loo in a bit. Can’t we just kiss a little more?”

Sherlock’s smile fell. “John, how many times have I told you that this isn’t a problem?” Sherlock really didn’t want to have this discussion (argument) again.

It was the same one they’d been having for months, ever since he and John finally “got together,” as the kids say. For some insane reason, John thought it unfair that Sherlock bestowed sexual favors on him while receiving none in return. And had Sherlock wanted any such thing, it would’ve been unfair, but he didn’t, therefore, it was a moot point. Moot to everyone except John.

Sherlock was asexual, they knew this. He didn’t experience sexual attraction the same way sexual people did, and that was fine with him. His relationship with John was fulfilling in the only ways the mattered to him—mentally and emotionally—so John shouldn’t feel guilty that he did not provide physical stimulation, because none was needed.

John was practically hypersexual, they knew this too. Not in the idea of the “disorder” that was often sex addiction misdiagnosed, he was just at the opposite end of the sexual scale with Sherlock at the complete other. It shouldn’t work, but it did, and that was all that should matter.

“But it’s not fair,” John said, starting in on his bit of the discussion (argument) practically verbatim. Sherlock had heard it so often, he had it embroidered on a throw pillow. The coasters were arriving next week. “Me getting everything and you getting nothing.”

Sherlock had sat up by now. He knew that if he lingered down near John’s cock, he would be tempted to pop it between his lips just to shut John up. He’d done that once or twice and it always had the desired effect, but he wanted this settled. Once and for all.

“John, if life were fair, Anderson and I wouldn’t share the same species classification. If I can learn to live with that, I’m fairly certain that I can live with whatever fabricated unfairness you see in this perfectly fair situation.”

“How is it fair?” John shot back. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he looked Sherlock in the eye. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that John’s erection had begun to flag; not good. “I know you don’t want it, and I respect that. But why should you be made to service me without getting anything in return? That’s what’s not fair.”

Sherlock had had enough exactly three point eight seconds ago, which gave him time to phrase his reply. “John!” Sherlock shouted. Sherlock never shouted. Sometimes he raised his voice (if only to be heard over the stupidity of the Yard) sometimes he even yelled. But this was a shout. One dripping with anger and frustration and a dozen other emotions Sherlock claimed to be above. And now here he was: preparing a particularly fantastic shout to finally settle this.

“I am asexual,” he growled out. “Not aromantic. I want to do these things for you, it makes me happy to bring you off. The sexual component of our relationship isn’t necessary for me, but it makes me happy to do it for you, because you do need it. I’ve seen you when you don’t have your morning wank: you practically vibrate out of your skin.

“You give me everything I need in this relationship—you love me despite the fact that I frequently experiment on you.”

“Never without a consent form,” John said. He’d instigated that rule a few months back, which was immediately problematic when Sherlock was shoving forms at him every time he walked into the bloody flat. Now, they had it down to a once a month system: John would sign a consent form once a month, and for the next thirty days, Sherlock could conduct any experiment he wished. Sometimes, when he was being especially annoying, John refused to sign for a few days.

Sherlock gave a small, frustrated little exhale. “Be that as it may, you still love me. With everything I’ve ever done to you, with you, or around you, you still love me. You provide me with emotional and mental fulfillment with this relationship, which is everything I want or need. You also require physical fulfillment on top of that, so it makes sense that, if I’m getting everything I need, you should as well.”

John opened his mouth to argue, but Sherlock was having none of that. “For God’s sake John!” He shouted. “This works! It shouldn’t but it does! Why are you trying to fix what isn’t broken? Now shut the fuck up, lean back and spread your legs, because I would really like to blow you now!”

John’s mouth closed with a little pop. He shut up. He leaned back. He spread his legs. Then, he started moaning and writhing on the sheets as Sherlock delivered what John would call one fucking fantastic blow job. Really, it always boggled his mind as to how someone with no previous experience could do such a thing. Yet Sherlock always had John shouting his name to the rafters in mere minutes. Now that their on-going discussion (argument) was settled, John felt he’d be screaming like that a bit more often. He really wasn’t opposed to that.

A few moments later, after John called out Sherlock’s name and emptied the contents of his vas deferens down Sherlock’s throat, they laid tangled together on the bed, happy and relaxed. “I think you should talk to me like that more often,” John smirked, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “It was really hot.”

Sherlock smiled back and turned his head to return the kiss. Their tongues moved lazily together for another minute or so before the kiss broke. “I’ll be sure to remember that.” Sherlock purred. Usually, a tone of sexual satisfaction, but when Sherlock used it, it was masking a certain smugness. He was right. When it came to the sex in their relationship, the man who didn’t want any was always right. John did not miss the irony of that.

John chuckled softly. A few more minutes passed by with nothing but quiet breathing and soft hands gripping to the other’s body. Finally, John let out a sigh and shook his head. “How does this work?” He half-laughed. “An asexual and a hypersexual together… it sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.”

Sherlock snorted and leaned in to press his nose just under John’s jaw. “An asexual and a hypersexual walk into a bar. The asexual asks the hypersexual: ‘Come here often?’ The hypersexual says. ‘Oh yeah, about ten minutes ago.’” He ended with a very undignified giggle.

For a few minutes, they were nothing but two, shaking, giggling bodies wrapped together on the bed.

The End