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When John is tipsy, he likes to talk.

Especially in bed.

He knows Sherlock gets him just drunk enough to drop his inhibitions without second thoughts, but not too drunk so he won’t remember anymore. Sherlock, John thinks, derives a certain kind of satisfaction of getting John drunk enough so he can spread him out on the sheets and pound him until John is incoherently caterwauling—the pillow wet with drool—but not too drunk so John will forget said caterwauling. Sherlock, John thinks, delights in the morning after when John comes stumbling out of their room looking thoroughly shagged; when John glances up to catch Sherlock’s knowing eyes from over the newspaper; when John flushes, or glares at him, or avoids his eyes, still remembering every word out of his mouth in detail. Sherlock, John thinks, knows that John knows that he knows. He practically preens behind the newspaper or under his goggles, and sometimes he’s audacious enough to show his worryingly self-satisfied, gleeful smirk. Y es, John. You spent another night telling me how big my cock is, and how much you love it. And you remember every second.

Sherlock, John thinks, doesn’t just have a massive prick but is a massive prick.

So, yes, it’s true. John likes to talk when he’s tipsy. He likes to talk about how big Sherlock’s cock is, about how beautiful Sherlock’s face looks when he’s inside John—bliss personified—and about how John loves his chest, and his shoulders, and his arse, and that fucking mouth. John likes to talk about these things in detail, at length, and eloquently. Sherlock isn’t the only one with the oddly poetic streak (pirates, really?), and well, when John is tipsy, his inhibition does a runner faster than he usually drops his pants, and the poetry spills out of his mouth instead of on paper.

What he likes even better when he is tipsy, even more than talking, though, is making Sherlock take it while he himself is taking it.

Though they’re both quite flexible, they each have their favourites. Sometimes these favourites take a while longer to pass. Sherlock, for instance, had been a particularly intense sort of pillow princess for over six months, last year: he’d liked to lay down—chest or back, didn’t matter—and let John do the work. All the work. John had sucked his cock until his jaw had hurt, and Sherlock hadn’t moved a finger; John had fingered him until his wrist had been stiff, and Sherlock had just complained for John to do better, go faster; John had had to kneel over him and feed him his cock and fuck his face all by himself because Sherlock hadn’t liked to get on his knees or otherwise move. Half a year! Sometimes John had even said no because for once he’d wanted to receive a blow job, not take it.

And then it had been over, from one day to the next, and Sherlock hadn’t been able to leave John’s arse in peace.

Ever mercurial, John’s madman is.

Yet there is one thing John can always count on…

“Oh, yes, you hate it when I pull your hair, don’t you,” John says, mouth mostly a flat line but curled up just so at the corner, amused. He slides a hand into Sherlock’s curls and cards it through them, letting his nails scratch over the scalp gently. They’re a mess: loose and sweaty, they lie in a riot around his face on the pillow, not at all carefully styled. He knows Sherlock hates it when his hair isn’t tamed. “Like this,” John says, and he gathers Sherlock’s hair in a fist and pulls, pulls it back and takes Sherlock’s head follows, and his mouth opens on instinct in a gasp and his throat lengthens, exposed. “You hate it. You hate how wild it makes you.”

Predictably, Sherlock’s thighs jerk beneath John’s arse, an upward thrust, quick and hard and dirty. John’s lashes flutter, briefly.

“My wild beast,” John murmurs, not above awful dirty talk. He likes the way Sherlock’s brows come together, how his mouth already forms a complaint—Sherlock isn’t the only one who can be an annoying prick—but John just talks over him: “Look at you. You’re all shaky and flushed, and you want nothing more than to throw me down and make me take it. Overpower me. Have me on my back, stuff me full with your cock. That’s all you want. You’re trembling with it.”

Sherlock’s eyes are bright slits underneath heavy lids, and his mouth is so wide open John could put his hand inside. It’s quite unattractive, objectively seen, but the puffy, raw-bitten redness of his lips makes up for it. His face is shiny with sweat, and he’s quaking, from head to toe: little shudders run through him, making his throat bob, his arms tremble, his stomach twitch, and his hands spasm around John’s arse cheeks. It doesn’t make Sherlock weak, though; it makes him strong, makes him wild. Makes him really want to push John down face-first and have at him until he roars.

But Sherlock’s body stays still. He allows John to pull his hair, to set the rhythm. He allows John to sit on top of him, to control the pace, to direct. His body stays still, and his head is thrown back, and his hands, if twitching, remain unmoving on John’s arse.

All Sherlock does is stare up at John as if he’s hung on the moon, slack-jawed and bright-eyed.

If there’s one thing Sherlock Holmes is a whore for, it’s John hedonism.

Because John?

John is the biggest cock whore.

John is the kind of cock whore that spends minutes, endless minutes, just rubbing the head of Sherlock’s cock against his hole. In tiny circles, up and down, and sometimes he pushes it inside himself, just a bit—just so Sherlock has the fleeting pressure of John’s muscles squeezing around him, once—and again—and again—but never the real thing. John teases himself until his hole feels used-up and raw even though they haven’t started yet; until both their legs are shaking where they’re pressed together. He teases himself and pops Sherlock’s cock inside him, just for a second or two—and out again—and it’s a leisurely dip inside and back out until Sherlock’s fingernails dig painfully into the flesh of John’s arse cheeks and Sherlock is gritting his teeth, because no matter how much patience he may have for this, John outdoes him at every turn.

But still Sherlock stands it. He stands it and allows himself to be used, like a thing; as if he’s nothing but a dildo John purchased on a whim and is trying out for the best angle, the best position, the best speed. Sherlock stands it—because John is right there, sitting on top of him like it’s his favourite seat in the world, and John lets go.

Nothing lets John go more than the feeling of Sherlock’s cock inside him, rubbing all the secret places that delight him.

“You hate it when I pull your hair but you let me do it,” John says with a small smile. “Because no matter how much you want to put me on my back, you love this even more, don’t you?”

He lets Sherlock’s hair go, and some of the tension seeps out of Sherlock’s jaw; the veins in his neck disappear as he stops gritting his teeth. John traces the shape of Sherlock’s impossible upper lip slowly a last time, self-indulgently, and then the smile on his face becomes wider, more satisfied.

“You love this even more,” he says. “Seeing me enjoy your cock.”

He shifts, brings his knees firmly down on the mattress for better purchase. He looks down at Sherlock—who stares up at him, raptly, all focus and intensity—licks his lips, reaches behind himself and grips the backs of Sherlock’s thighs—presses them forward—and feels the last inches of Sherlock’s cock sink back inside him, those last perfect inches—and when Sherlock’s bollocks brush his arse, John’s eyes slide shut, and he arches his back and gives a little blissful sigh into the room.

God. Christ. There’s nothing better than a thick cock between his cheeks and hot, full bollocks at his back.

Oh, Sherlock ,” John breathes out. “Oh…”

He takes a couple seconds to enjoy the feeling, his mouth parting wider and lips curling, and he gives himself a little additional treat: reaching down with both hands, he fists his own cock, which is heavy between his thighs and dips down with every movement. He strokes it once, up and down, squeezes a little too hard to get the tension out.

And then it’s back with his palms flat on Sherlock’s clavicle.

Sherlock knows what comes now. He gives a low groan, almost pained, and John feels Sherlock’s fingernails dig into his arse. John opens his eyes and dips his chin down, and sees his favourite part of the night: all the ferocity of Sherlock, so wild and barely tamed before, has melted; in its place is now a yearning, Sherlock staring so desperately up at John as if he is a puppet and John is holding his strings. It’s as if Sherlock has forgotten his body is his own, as if he’s forgotten he can move.

John takes pity.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I know.”

John begins to tilt his hips forward, slowly, slowly—back again—and Sherlock’s cock dips out, and then it dips back in, the drag of him like high and low tide. John is almost tempted to play with the head for a while, but Sherlock is already so wrecked, his breathing low and shallow, that John, for once, is going to play nice.

Sherlock deserves it.

He has a magnificent cock.

“Can’t believe you kept this from me,” John murmurs. “This beauty. So big, so perfect, just perfect—”

John gives a hard twist of his pelvis, shuffles forward on his knees, leans more heavily onto Sherlock’s heaving chest—and there, there it is, oh, God, yes. Yes.

The head of Sherlock’s cock, rubbing against John’s prostate: a teasing, maddening sensation John chases with tiny swirls of his hips, to feel it rub there again—again—again.

John’s breathing goes faster. His cock twitches, pre-come gathering at the head until it’s so much it dribbles down the shaft. His fingers curl against Sherlock’s chest, one by one.

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice cracking in the middle of the vowel. “ John .”

“I know, Sherlock, just—just let me—”

John doesn’t know what he was about to say. His eyes fall shut again, and he loses himself in the sensation. It becomes more, inside of him, and molten lava trickles down his spine, into his thighs until they’re trembling. He is emitting little noises, high and urgent, and the sensation inside him swells—it doesn’t just become more, it magnifies with each second that passes, a feeling like a tight sweetness, building and building the more John bounces shallowly on Sherlock’s cock.

“Oh, oh, oh, Sherlock—”

And Sherlock, capable and clever Sherlock, knows what John needs before John himself does. He recognises the tremor in John’s legs, and the way John’s hands begin sliding up Sherlock’s chest, up, up, up; how John’s neck gives in and his head bows forwards; how he presses his lower body back into the searing pressure of Sherlock’s cock, until his knees slide on the mattress, he loses his hold but can’t stop himself, oh Christ, he can’t—can’t do it—

Sherlock recognises how it quite literally drives John onto his knees, and so he helps John along.

A large hand comes to cup the back of John’s neck. The other grips John’s left arse cheek. Sherlock exerts pressure, gentle but firm, pushing John down against his chest until John is all but sprawled on top of Sherlock, his face underneath Sherlock’s chin, panting into the sweaty skin there.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, and his voice is a deep rumble that makes John’s toes curl. “I’ve got you.” He begins kneading John’s arse cheek in a way that’s meant to be soothing, but it only serves to drive John wilder. He gives a whine, and his hips twitch helplessly—chasing more, still more—and Sherlock huffs a laugh.

“Okay,” Sherlock murmurs, ruffling John’s hair. “Okay.”

Shifting, Sherlock sets his feet more firmly on the mattress and bends his legs. His hands tighten around the back of John’s neck and his arse cheek. He takes a deep breath—and then he begins to fuck.

He doesn’t play nice; he plays dirty. He fucks up into John in fast, hard, vicious snaps, driving John’s body forward with each thrust. The head of his cock is back against John’s prostate in that lovely, persistent rub that makes John whine and curse in equal measure.

“Fuck, fuck—I l-love your cock, oh, God, S-Sherlock—” John tries to hold onto Sherlock’s shoulders, but they are slippery with sweat. Frustrated, he grips his own hair, pulling hard as he presses his cheek into Sherlock’s neck. “—yes, Sherlock, yes, there, oh, Sherlock, please, please—”

Over him, Sherlock snarls, “ Yes ,” and, “John,” and his cock pistons in and out of John at a breath-taking speed; the slap of flesh on flesh is almost louder than the blood in his ears. Sherlock’s balls hit his arse in a viscerally satisfying way, and on an impulse John reaches back and grips his own arse cheeks, spreads them further just to feel Sherlock even more. Sherlock’s hand relocates to the small of John’s back, keeping him pinned down.

“Oh, fuck, yes, Sherlock,” John moans, incoherent with pleasure, rolling his forehead back and forth against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Fuck me, come on, fuck me, your cock is so good, I love your cock, give it to me, please—”

Sherlock gives an anguished groan—the rhythm breaks—and John feels Sherlock’s cock thicken, stretching his muscles just that bit more. Sherlock grits out, “ Fuck ,” and the vulgarity of it plunges a spike of lust into John’s gut, making him moan long and low.

John’s orgasm almost surprises him. He sinks his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezes his eyes shut, and whines his way through shot and shot of come.

Beneath him, Sherlock writhes. His feet scrabble on the mattress, and he loses his hold. His hips keep jerking up, and his hands—now on John’s waist—press John further down, fucking him in shallow, fast strokes. With his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder, John stares up at him. His head is thrown back and his lips are parted, and even though he can only see the long stretch of Sherlock’s throat and the lower half of Sherlock’s face, John knows Sherlock is beyond desperate.

He doesn’t think long about it, just sinks his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder again until the flesh gives.

Sherlock gives a broken, “Oh,” and his hips kick up a last time—and he holds them there—grinds out John’s name—and then John just sighs an “Oh, yes,” as Sherlock fills him with come.