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Unwound

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Sherlock turns sideways to look at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He’s tucked and un-tucked his shirt no fewer than six times, but something about it just looks wrong; the creases are falling in weird places so it’s puffing up awkwardly and it’s making him looking gawky and stupid.

He closes his eyes and runs his fingers through his hair, trying to get a grip on himself.

The shirt isn’t new. He’s worn it dozens of times in John’s presence. It’s a nice shirt, but not any different than any of the other ones he owns. It’s a light blue colour, discreet, unobjectionable. Simple.

But tonight, he wants to look perfect. And this bloody shirt is just going to bollocks everything up.

So he takes it off and stalks back to the closet to review his options. Purple Shirt Of Sex? No, too obvious. Crimson? No, too sultry and too formal for a casual dinner in. Grey? Too bland, too pedestrian, too safe.

Sod it.

He strips off his trousers and hurls them saltily into the back corner of the closet, then tugs on his navy silk pajama bottoms and a worn white t-shirt.

“Sherlock? You plan on joining me out here? Food’s getting cold.”

Sherlock stuffs his feet into his slippers and shuffles out into the kitchen in a huff.

John’s in the process of placing two steaming plates of spaghetti bolognese onto the table, where he’s already set out the silverware and two glasses of wine, as well as a candle, which is more than a little endearing. Regardless, Sherlock simply glares at the lot of it before pulling out his chair and flopping into it.

John sits down across from him. “Dare I ask what happened?”

“Shirt didn’t fit.”

John gives him an appraising glance, but doesn’t inquire further. “Well. Regardless, I still think you look stunning.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but blush. He hopes John doesn’t notice in the dim candlelight, but the way he smiles indulgently at Sherlock indicates otherwise.

They tuck into their food. Normally John would try and make small talk when they were having a romantic Date Night, and usually Sherlock didn’t mind; small talk with John usually ended up feeling anything but small. But tonight, Sherlock’s fairly certain he couldn’t handle the false pretenses, and luckily it seems John’s on the same page. They simply eat, eyes locked in the flickering candlelight, the sound of one of Sherlock’s favourite jazz records wafting in from the turntable in the sitting room.

The air seems thick with heady anticipation.

Because tonight, they’re going to unwind.

This won’t be their first time having a power exchange since John agreed to take some tentative steps back into the practice. Their first time was six weeks ago. It had been… good.

Both of them clearly missed their sessions. But John had been adamant that they proceed with extreme caution, and Sherlock had agreed; as eager as he was to regain what they’d lost, he knew that doing too much too fast would be irreparably damaging to both of them.

But oh God, it was maddening. Because as cautious and fastidious and deliberate as John had always been about their power exchanges in the past, he’d now taken it to a completely new, near-compulsive level. He’d insisted that they plan the entire session out in advance, verbally consenting to every act they’d be partaking in, and mandated that they check in with each other during each transition to a new activity.

And Christ, it had been tedious. As much as Sherlock respected what John was trying to do, the fine line he was trying to walk, part of what Sherlock adored about their sessions was that John was gloriously, endlessly surprising when he was in his Dominant mode. To be quite honest, when they were unwinding was one of the rare instances in Sherlock’s life when he got to experience the sensation of surprise. As it turned out, being caught off-guard was a turn-on for him, and that turn-on was now notably absent from their activities.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t enjoyed their first session back. He had enjoyed it immensely.

He’d cooked dinner for John wearing only his black lace panties and high heels. John had sat in his chair pretending to read the paper, none-too-subtly palming himself through his trousers as he watched Sherlock work.

They’d eaten at the kitchen table, both of them sporting prominent erections, Sherlock only in his skivvies and John fully clothed. Sherlock had always adored the sensation of being naked in John’s presence while John remained dressed; it made him feel wanton and deviant and desired. They’d only managed a few bites of dinner each before retiring to the bedroom.

They’d had vanilla sex that night. That was what they agreed to. John had gotten Sherlock out of his panties and heels and then prepped him for nearly 20 minutes while Sherlock writhed and moaned, then John maneuvered himself between Sherlock’s legs and they’d had very pleasurable sex in the missionary position, exactly as they’d discussed. There was plenty of eye contact and murmured terms of endearment and Sherlock had managed to come untouched (which always delighted John). John had had a very good orgasm as well (Sherlock clocked the duration in John’s upper 20th percentile), and then afterwards they’d showered together. John didn’t wash Sherlock; he’d said he wasn’t quite ready for that yet. But they’d exchanged soft kisses and shy smiles and the bar of soap, then gone to bed together, just as they’d agreed to do.

The next day, they’d had a post-mortem about their session, just like Sherlock promised John they would.

John asked Sherlock if there was anything about their session that he’d change. Sherlock had wanted to rattle off a laundry list (Catch me off-guard. Tie me up. Make me beg. Fuck me harder. Choke me. Torture my nipples. Edge me until I cry. Come in me so many times it runs down my legs and makes me shiver and moan. Leave me filthy and shaking and sobbing for more. Dominate me until there is nothing left for me in this godforsaken world but you), but he knew damn well that would be Not Good.

So he told John maybe next time he’d like to leave his heels on while they have sex. John nodded and told him that seemed reasonable. He’d looked very, very pleased with the outcome.

Their meetings with the trauma counselor had been going fairly well, as far as Sherlock could tell. Not that it wasn’t a struggle-- attempting to properly identify and express his own emotions had always been challenging for him, and to try and understand John’s emotions on top of that felt like a Herculean task, but John was endlessly encouraging and endearingly patient as Sherlock fumbled his way through the process. Of course, there were times when Sherlock would become so frustrated he’d want to get up and walk out and never come back, but John always managed to talk him down.

Not only that, but their counselor, Anthony, was shockingly understanding about Sherlock’s somewhat limited emotional bandwidth where empathy was concerned, and had come up with a rather handy method of using flash cards as prompts to guide them through trickier conversations. Sherlock had been secretly delighted to note that not only did they help him identify his own emotions, but they seemed to help John put a dent in the socially-ingrained ‘stiff upper lip’ of masculine stoicism that he’d carried with him from his working-class upbringing through his Army days and beyond.

It wasn’t perfect; not by a long shot. But even Sherlock had to admit it was making tiny but tangible changes in their daily interactions, and John clearly felt the same; he’d proposed another session without any prompting from Sherlock, and Sherlock had quickly agreed.

They’d planned their next session three weeks later. They’d negotiated that session start to finish in advance just as they’d done for the first one (to Sherlock’s deep internal disappointment).

John had asked Sherlock to cross-dress again. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure why John seemed so comfortable with that element of their dynamics all of a sudden (in the past, he’d only cross-dressed for John on a few rare occasions, so the fact that John seemed suddenly fixated on it was rather puzzling indeed), but Sherlock hypothesises it’s because it’s something Sherlock enjoys that is more to do with his sexuality than with power dynamics specifically; wearing panties made Sherlock feel sexy, but they were certainly less overtly related to a power exchange than, say, gagging him with a belt or tying him up with jute rope.

So Sherlock did a bit of shopping and purchased a new pair of panties in a deep navy blue and he told John as soon as they arrived in the mail, and John made plans for Rosie to stay with Mrs. Hudson for the night.

Sherlock had changed into the panties and his heels while John popped out to pick up some food for dinner. Sherlock wasn’t hungry, but John ordered him to eat half of his pot-stickers, and Sherlock felt all warm and tingly inside and did exactly that. John also made him drink half a glass of water. Sherlock got so hard he could barely see straight.

Then they retired to the sitting room. Sherlock waited patiently on the sofa as John fetched the lockbox from the cabinet and took out all the pictures from their past sessions.

There weren’t a lot. Just a couple from the few times Sherlock had cross-dressed, and then a growing collection of Sherlock being subjected to Japanese Bondage treatments, which catered to his exhibitionist tendencies quite nicely. John had grabbed the full stack of photos and taken his place on the sofa next to Sherlock, unfastened his flies, and began to touch himself. Sherlock pulled his own cock out from its silken prison, and followed suit.

They looked at the pictures together, sighing and exchanging the occasional gentle kiss as they masturbated, reliving the ecstasy of their past encounters. Sherlock understood what John was doing; he was re-conditioning himself to be aroused by Sherlock in submissive positions, making sure they were both comfortable and unthreatened and still turned on by those acts. John hadn’t told Sherlock this outright when he’d proposed this as an activity for the session, but Sherlock was a scientist, after all; he knows behavioural conditioning when he sees it.

Finally, John had turned to him, his gaze heated and desperate. “Nnng. Think I’m close. Do you still want to--”

“Yes. Yes, alright.” Sherlock had shoved the coffee table out of the way and gotten to his knees between John’s splayed legs. He’d placed his hands gingerly on John’s thighs and given them a reassuring squeeze.

“Mmm. Oh, mm, yeah…” John’s hand sped up where he was gripping his turgid cock, and his eyes flickered between the pictures scattered next to him on the sofa and on Sherlock’s willing face where he knelt before him.

Sherlock swallowed. He wanted to say something, but they hadn’t negotiated whether he should speak during this part, but he decided to go with his instinct. “Oh, yes, John. John, please. Oh, John…”

“Nnngh! Ah! Ah!” John’s body curled upright and he stared down at the picture in his hand. It was an image of Sherlock bound provocatively in black jute rope, blindfolded, gagged, spread-legged and covered in two loads of John’s semen. The anal plug was visible between his spread cheeks, if you looked hard enough. Sherlock’s cock twitched at the memory.

“John. Please.” Sherlock’s hands tighten on John’s thighs. He could feel the muscles flexing as John’s body prepared for release.

“Oh! OH! Sherlock, Sherlock, I’m--” And with that, John lurched forward and came in hot streaks across Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed himself to sink into the perfection of the moment. It was the first time in a long time that he’d felt like he was actually submitting, and the sensation was so arousing it felt nearly crippling in its magnitude.

“Ohhhhhhhhh God.” John quivered through the aftershocks, aiming the last few pulses at Sherlock’s open mouth before tracing Sherlock’s plush lips with the moist tip of his cock.

Finally, John finished. Sherlock blinked his eyes open through wet lashes to peer up at him. He was red-faced and shaking, but he seemed alright.

Sherlock grinned up at him. John grinned back, then took a deep breath. “Alright, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.”

“Do you still want the next part?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay.” With that, John tossed the picture aside and wiped his hand on his trouser leg. Then he sat forward and reached down to run his fingers through the streaks of come lining Sherlock’s face and brought them to his lips as an offering.

Sherlock leaned forward, and sucked it delicately off.

“Oh, fuck, yes.” John grinned lecherously down at him, and Sherlock nibbled his fingers teasingly in response, batting his eyes as coyly as possible.

“Mmm, yeah, here, have this, oh yeah…” John scooped up more come and Sherlock diligently sucked his fingers clean. “Do you want to touch yourself? Go on, make yourself come for me.”

This is something they’d done years ago, back before the Fall, before they’d even give any of this a name. Their encounters following cases were always rough and frantic, and John coming on Sherlock’s face had been one of the most common activities they’d engaged in when they were hopped up from the adrenaline high. It had felt wildly deviant at the time.

God, they’d been so young. So innocent.

But Sherlock didn’t let himself reflect on that. He’d simply taken his own cock in hand and jerked himself frantically as John offered him another fingerful, which he willingly accepted.

He didn’t last long. He’d come in hot, consuming spurts, his transport unsure of whether to focus on the glorious release emitting from his cock, or on the intoxicating sensation of John’s fingers in his mouth. He’d let the release wash over him, steadying and sure.

He’d finished coming, and then John had kept him on his knees for a few more minutes while he finished feeding Sherlock the remainder of the come from his face. Then he’d smiled down at Sherlock like he’d hung the moon, and helped him to his feet.

They’d showered together again. Still no washing, but that was alright. Sherlock’s brain had felt floaty and serene-- not nearly to the level it did when they had a proper session, but as close as he’d been in ages. In was enough.

Their post-mortem for that session the next day had been awkward.

“So you didn’t like it?” John had stared at Sherlock with a furrowed brow, clearly completely thrown for a loop by Sherlock’s response.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it, John, it’s just…”

John raised his eyes expectantly.

“I don’t like knowing the plan!”

“But Sherlock, we’ve been over this, we need to pre-negotiate--”

It had taken all of Sherlock’s willpower not to fly off the rails; he was practically quivering with pent-up frustration. “I know. I know we need to pre-negotiate. But John, I don’t… I can’t… I don’t feel like I’m submitting properly when I can anticipate everything that’s about to happen. I spend every day of my damn life anticipating; what people will say based on their facial expressions, what people will do based on the evidence they’re wearing on their sleeve, what people will think based upon the patterns I’ve deduced. I need… I need…”

“To be surprised?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Well… yes.”

John had nodded pensively. “I. Alright. How about… how about we set some boundaries for our next session now, and then I’ll plan the rest.”

“Really?” It was more than Sherlock could have hoped for.

“Really. I… this is… it’s going well, Sherlock. I feel… good. Confident. So let’s set some boundaries.”

“Alright.” Sherlock had leaned forward and steepled his fingers.

“No bondage, no gagging, no breathplay, no gunplay.” John’s tone was firm.

Sherlock pursed his lips in disapproval.

“I’m not taking them off the table forever, Sherlock. But for our next session. Those are no’s for me.”

“Fine.”

John hesitated, then convinced himself to continue. “No… no crawling. Is that okay? That one is still a little out there for me sometimes.”

Sherlock had known that already. He nodded.

John cleared this throat. “How would you feel about rough intercourse?”

“God, yes.” Sherlock nearly stumbles over the words he’s so eager to consent. That was more than he’d dared hope for at this stage.

“Okay, good. I’m pretty sure I’m ready to start exploring that again, too. Um… I think we should limit it to one round of penetration for now, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And… what about you? Any limits for you?”

Sherlock bit his lip. “No… no edging.”

“No edging?”

Sherlock shook his head. He didn’t really want to explain why; the night John had been triggered during their session, he’d admittedly lost track of time while he was edging Sherlock. He’d carried on past the point it had been pleasurable and had started to make Sherlock feel nauseous and claustrophobic. Though he was confident John wouldn’t make the same mistake again, he’s a bit hesitant about taking up the practice. “Just… for now. It’ll probably be fine again in the future. But… I’d like to take a break from it.”

John nodded and gave him a warm, reassuring smile. “Okay. Thank you for… thank you for telling me that. It makes me feel more confident, knowing you’re setting boundaries for yourself, too.”

Sherlock had smiled back.

And that brought them here, to this night, eating John’s mediocre bolognese in their candlelit kitchen, the air around them buzzing with invisible electricity.

Sherlock only manages a few mouthfuls before he puts down his fork, and John follows suit; he’s clearly just as eager to get things started.

“Stand up.”

The tone in John’s voice is unmistakable; it’s his Captain voice. Sherlock hasn’t heard it in so long he nearly whimpers in relief.

But instead, he simply scrambles to his feet, awaiting orders.

“Strip. Fold your clothes and put them in your chair. I’ll watch.”

A full-body shiver wracks its way up his spine, and he can feel his brain going hazy and serene. “Yes, John.”

And with that, John picks up his fork and resumes eating his dinner, staring dispassionately at Sherlock as he strips off his clothes. The sensation of John’s eyes on him as he makes himself so vulnerable goes straight to Sherlock’s cock, and by the time he’s folding his pants and placing them on the top of the pile, he’s already almost completely hard. John’s dog tags feel intoxicatingly cool resting on his sternum.

John takes another bite of spaghetti and chews thoughtfully, then takes a sip of wine. Sherlock quivers as he stands before him, his naked body on display for John’s perusal.

John dabs his mouth with a napkin. “Alright. Go shower. You have seven minutes. Get yourself clean, but don’t prep yourself; I’ll be doing that part. Meet me in the sitting room when you’re done. There’s no need to put on clothes.”

Oh, God, yes. John making Sherlock take a seven-minute shower had been one of their most practiced rituals when they first started doing this. The return to form feels elating.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock turns and strides towards the bathroom, his mind going blissfully blank.

As he stands beneath the stream, forearm propped against the tile of the wall while his other hand cleans himself in preparation for John’s advances, he lets himself sink further into his submissive headspace. It feels as though at his most basic, cellular level, his entire body is transforming from his own transport to a vehicle for John’s pleasure. He simply needs to make his brain step aside, and let go.

Six minutes and 41 seconds later, he walks into the sitting room. John is sitting on the sofa, his expression unreadable. As Sherlock approaches, his eyes light up, and he moves to stand.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

“Hi, John.” Sherlock shivers a bit in anticipation, then casts his eyes downward in a sign of submission. God, this feels good.

John paces a slow, deliberate circle around Sherlock, inspecting his nude form. Sherlock preens beneath his gaze.

“You look lovely tonight.”

“Thank you, John.”

“I’d like you in your chair, now, but kneel on the seat facing the back. Yes, good, just like that. Put your forearms down, now, bend over for me, lovely. Mmm, that’s perfect.” John’s hands appear on Sherlock’s buttocks. They feel strong and warm as he begins to knead them, and Sherlock whimpers and arches his back a bit, presenting himself for whatever John desires.

“God, look at you. So beautiful. So perfect. You going to be good for me tonight, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.”

John pulls his cheeks apart and moans, his thumbs brushing lightly against Sherlock’s exposed rim. “Mmmm. Excellent. I’d like you to hold very still, now. You can make noise, if you’d like, but otherwise, you need to stay put. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good.” And with that, John buries his face in that most intimate of places, and presses his tongue inside.

Sherlock howls. He grips the back of his chair as the sensation of John licking him there crashes over him like an avalanche. John moans in response, and the vibrations from his vocalisation increase the pleasure by twofold.

It takes Sherlock a few minutes to feel like he’s not about to burst into flames. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut as John works him over, terrified that if he looks down to where his own cock is hanging heavy and leaking between his legs, he won’t be able to hold back. John hasn’t given him permission to come, and while he hadn’t explicitly forbid it, Sherlock knows John likes to be in control of his pleasure in moments like this.

Finally, Sherlock manages to blink his eyes open, and he’s overwhelmed by the sight that greets him; their reflection is acutely visible in the window he’s currently facing, and from this vantage point, he can see exactly how wanton and exposed he looks, bent over his chair as John subjects him to this consuming pleasure. Sherlock rolls his hips, imploring John to penetrate him more deeply, and John takes the hint; he pulls away momentarily to wet both of his thumbs, then slips them side-by-side into Sherlock’s fluttering hole. Then he pulls them apart, and leans forward to thrust his tongue inside once more.

Sherlock wails and his knuckles whiten where they’re gripping the metal frame of the chair. He feels so open, so ready, he wants nothing more than to take anything and everything John will give him.

But John doesn’t rush. He flicks his tongue deep into Sherlock’s hole as he holds him open, then withdraws it to lap gently at his rim as Sherlock’s body adjusts to the stretch. It’s so consuming, Sherlock has to bite his tongue to keep himself from begging John to just get on with it already.

After approximately several centuries, John finally pulls back and stands upright. Sherlock can see him wipe his mouth on his sleeve through the reflection in the window, and his expression is so filled with satisfaction that it makes Sherlock feel as though he’s about to combust on the spot.

“Stay.” Sherlock watches John’s reflection as he turns and grabs the bottle of lube from where it’s sitting on the end table.

Jesus. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed it was there. He was well and truly under.

John slicks up three fingers, and presses them unceremoniously inside in one slick slide.

Sherlock throws his head back and wails, and John places his free hand reassuringly on the small of Sherlock’s back, gentling him. “Shhh, there we go, there we go, nice and easy now. Oh, feel how open you are for me? That’s so beautiful, so gorgeous. Oh, Christ, Sherlock, your arse… God, so perfect, so perfect, all for me, hmm?”

Sherlock manages to form words, but they feel clumsy on his tongue. “Yes, John. All yours.”

“Good.” He doesn’t have to watch John’s expression in the window to know there’s a smug smile on his face. John begins to press his fingers in and out, spreading them slightly on the outstroke, stretching Sherlock further. Sherlock closes his eyes; he’s starting to feel dizzy with the all-consuming want flooding his bloodstream.

Finally, John withdraws his fingers, and Sherlock sighs contentedly, anticipating the next sensation to be the blunt head of John’s cock breaching him.

But the next thing he feels is not that.

No, it’s not that at all.

It’s hard and inorganic and thicker than John by a few millimetres, and it’s textured and long and--

“Oh, FUCK!” He drops his forehead heavily to the back of the chair as the new plug penetrates him fully, coming to sit deep inside him, pressing ever so lightly against his prostate.

“Good?”

“Oh, Christ, John, yes. Good. Nnnngh. GOOD.”

John laughs and gives his arsecheek a playful swat, which makes the plug shift deliciously inside of him. “Good.”

The “new” plug isn’t really new. John had introduced it during a session a couple months back, and Sherlock had adored it. Unlike the old plug he’d had previously (which they had just used to keep John’s come inside Sherlock between rounds), this new plug was meant for stretch and stimulation; it was densely ribbed, pressed against his prostate, and, most delightfully, it vibrated. The orgasm it had given him had been utterly divine, and during the post-mortem for that session, Sherlock had enthusiastically asked John to use it again.

But they hadn’t had the chance.

Until now.

“Alright. That looks really lovely inside you, very nice.” John’s fingers trace the base of the plug lightly, and Sherlock shivers violently; John hadn’t turned on the vibrations yet, and the anticipation was overwhelming. “So I was thinking, I’d really like to relax a bit tonight, maybe watch a movie.”

“...What?” Sherlock feels suddenly, startlingly himself, and the bewilderment is evident in his voice. He immediately wishes he could take the word back; it hadn’t been very respectful.

“I’m going to watch a movie. You can join me. Go sit on the sofa. I’ve put a towel down for you; you’re very messy.”

“Yes, John.” Completely disorientated, Sherlock blearily clambers to his feet, gasping as the plug shifts inside him. He unsteadily makes his way over to the sofa, where he dazedly notes there is, in fact, a towel spread over the cushions. He gingerly sits down on it, wincing slightly, and moans as his hardened cock slaps against his abdomen.

Meanwhile, John is, in fact, queuing up a film on the telly. Sherlock watches in dismay as he selects one of the sci-fi space films of which he is so fond, then pushes his chair out of their line of vision before striding over and plopping down on the sofa beside him.

“Feeling alright, Sherlock?”

“Um… yes?” Sherlock is so confused he has no idea what to say.

“So here’s what’s going to happen.” John’s tone is light, conversational, and his eyes are fixed on the screen. “We’re going to watch this movie together. No touching yourself. You’re allowed to come whenever you want to, it’s of no concern to me. That said, I’m going to be very upset if you distract me too much while I’m trying to relax. Understood?”

Sherlock swallows thickly. “...Yes?”

“Good.” And with that, John wraps his arm around him and pulls Sherlock to lean heavily against him, delirious with arousal.

And oh. Oh, God.

This was something different.

Something new.

Something wonderful.

While it was true that Sherlock got off on their power imbalance in a myriad of ways when they were unwinding, one of his main weaknesses was being ignored by John. Something about being aroused and exposed and completely at John’s mercy while John remained unimpacted filled him with a kind of desperation that was completely intoxicating.

And so here, tonight, sitting beside a fully-clothed and apparently disinterested John while Sherlock was nude, his cock throbbing and his hole stretched past the point of comfort, it’s a beautiful kind of surrender that Sherlock can’t fully comprehend. He spreads his legs and lets his head fall against John’s shoulder, letting the feeling of John’s arm wrapped around his shoulders ground him, lest he float away entirely.

He’s not sure how much time passes before John shifts. It has to have been a long while, because when Sherlock sits up, his limbs feel stiff and unwieldy.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good, John.” The words feel thick in his throat, and Sherlock looks down to note that his cock is still flushed and throbbing demandingly in front of him; somehow being ignored by John seemed to turn him on more than having his undivided attention.

“Good. The movie’s almost halfway over. You’ve been very good so far.”

“Thank you, John.”

“Would you maybe like to lie down in my lap while I give you a little reward for being so good?”

“Yes, please, John.”

“Alright. First, spread your legs for me, yes, just like that.” John’s fingers reach between them and press lightly on the base of the plug. Sherlock’s eyes roll back, and he lifts his thighs towards his chest, spreading himself further. “Oh, beautiful, nice and open for me. Going to touch you here, now, just hold still.” And with that, John flicks a switch, and the plug’s vibrations spring to life.

“NNNNNGHAAA!” Sherlock’s head falls back and he grabs himself behind his thighs, opening himself even more. Something about the penetration and vibration make him want to offer himself as completely as possible.

“Oh, beautiful. That’s lovely. Does that feel good?”

“Gah! Gah! Nnnnngh, YES, John…” The sensation is overwhelming. Sherlock feels he may go off at any second.

“Good. Now, just lie down with your head in my lap and we’ll relax while you enjoy yourself, alright?”

“Nnnnnnngh, yes, John…” With quivering limbs, he manages to lower himself so that he’s face-up with his head resting in John’s lap. He first tries to stretch his legs out the length of the sofa, but that makes the vibrations too intense, so he keeps them spread and bends his knees before lowering his feet to the seat cushion.

The plug shifts, and presses against his prostate.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!”

“Oh, does that feel nice?” John seems unimpressed. He begins to card his fingers absently through Sherlock’s hair as he keeps his eyes plastered to the screen across the room.

“Ah! Ah!” Sherlock can’t help it; he pulls his thighs back to his chest once more, and the plug shifts to slide over his prostate yet again. “Ah! Ah!” He begins to rock, undulating his hips to stimulate himself from within, and his cock expels a thick stream of precome onto his abdomen.

“Oh, are you going to come?” John sounds politely surprised, as though he’s having a conversation at a dinner party.

“Ah! Yes! John!” Sherlock is desperate; he wants John to look at him, wants John to see him...

“Go ahead, then. I’ll watch.” And John nonchalantly turns to stare down at where Sherlock is falling completely, irrevocably apart. Their eyes meet.

Sherlock comes. His passage clenches down vice-tight on the vibrator as his cock pulses out his release in thick streaks. He coats himself from his abdomen to his collarbone, wailing helplessly as John observes.

“Mmm. Very nice.” He could have been describing his opinion on the weather! But John’s eyes just flick back to the television as Sherlock melts into a quivering puddle, sated and utterly spent.

John doesn’t turn the vibrator off.

It suddenly becomes blaringly obvious what he intends to do.

Sherlock closes his eyes, and moans.

John just cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and watches the movie.

Sherlock’s not sure how much time passes, but it feels like mere minutes before his cock begins to twitch wetly against his abdomen once more. He shifts uncomfortably; the vibrations feel persistent and unrelenting, and he doesn’t feel ready for another release, but it seems his body has other plans.

Sherlock hisses, the overstimulation invasive in its intensity. It doesn’t feel bad, per se, just on the right side of overwhelming, and he squirms as he attempts to take some of the pressure off of his prostate.

John’s gaze flicks to him once more. “Hard again already? That’s rather greedy of you, hmm?”

“Gah. John.” Sherlock’s chest is beginning to rise and fall rapidly.

“You’re alright, now. Just let it happen.”

“Mmph!” Sherlock braces his legs against the arm at the far end of the sofa and begins to raise and lower his hips, increasing and decreasing the pressure of the vibrations in time with his undulations. “Gah. Gah. John. John.”

John glances down at him and gives him an infuriatingly condescending smile. “You’re doing just fine.”

“NNNGH!” Sherlock doesn’t want to be doing just fine, he wants to be pleasuring John, but all he’s currently succeeding in doing is getting himself filthy while John ignores him. “Ah! J-John!”

John issues a slight huff through his nose. “It’s alright, now. Just come for me. Do you want me to watch again?”

“Yes! Please, please just…”

“Alright. Go ahead. Go on, you’ve got this, just let go, let go now, let go--”

And Sherlock does. His eyes slam shut and his body bows up and contracts almost painfully as his cock shoots another load up his abdomen. He can feel it land in hot, obscene spatters, and despite his current state of delirium, he’s certain he hears John issue a little gasp as he watches.

When he comes to, John is stroking his hair and smiling down at him. Every nerve in Sherlock’s body feels raw and exposed, and he’s shaking from head to toe. The vibrations that continue to radiate through him are crippling in their intensity.

But then John speaks, and everything feels better. “Very nice. That was gorgeous. Getting yourself all messy for me, hmm?”

“Hnnngh. Yes, John.” Sherlock shifts and tries to alleviate some of the pressure from his passage, but the plug is relentless; there’s no escape.

“Beautiful. The movie’s almost over, now. You’re being very good.”

“Th-thank you, John.”

“Of course. Now just relax.”

Sherlock tries. He really does. But the overstimulation in his arse is entirely consuming, and despite himself, he finds himself wriggling and moaning as he seeks respite.

“Sherlock. I thought I made myself clear. You’re being very distracting.”

“Sorry, John.”

“Hold still. Let me help you. Just be good for me.” And with that, John licks his fingertips and reaches down to begin to pinch and toy with Sherlock’s left nipple.

Sherlock goes nearly out of his mind with ecstasy. After being so engrossed in the impact of the plug, having another part of his body subjected to stimulation feels gloriously distracting. He smiles and arches up into John’s touch, and John rewards him with a twist to the pebbled bud in his fingertips.

And they carry on like that, John stimulating Sherlock’s nipples whilst remaining entirely engrossed in the film, and Sherlock riding the waves of arousal coursing through his own body.

The third orgasm hits him out of nowhere. One moment he’s delighting in the way that John is plucking at his nipple with just the right amount of pressure from his blunt nails, the next, he’s grabbing John’s hand and holding it for dear life as his transport takes control and delivers his third release of the night.

The orgasm is sharp and nearly painful in its intensity, radiating from somewhere deep within his pelvis, just above his balls, in that place that’s unreachable without the aid of vibration. His cock twitches and spurts, but the pleasure extends long past when the last of his release has been expelled, and he grips John’s hand almost painfully as the pleasure wracks through him over and over again. By the time he finishes, he feels so sated it’s like being high.

John gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. “That was lovely. Really perfect. You look amazing. I think you’re almost ready for me, hmm?” He sounds so damn calm, it’s infuriating.

Sherlock can’t do anything more than whimper. He thinks perhaps he’d like to cry now, but something in the back of his dopamine-drunk brain reminds him that part of tonight’s goal is not scaring John, so he manages to get a grip on himself and simply give John a dopey, dazed nod in return.

“Good. The film’s nearly over. Be good, now.”

So despite the fact that Sherlock’s cock feels hot and raw from overuse, and despite the fact that the blasted vibrations are relentlessly clawing their way up his passage, making him feel unsteady and overstimulated, he settles. John strokes his hair, and stares at the screen.

After a while, Sherlock does the same.

Sherlock drifts.

Eventually, he feels John shifting beneath him. He blinks rapidly, and notes that the end credits are scrolling up the screen; apparently, the movie had concluded. Suddenly, Sherlock’s heart feels like it’s in his throat; he’s practically drowning in anticipation.

“Alright. Up you get.” John’s hands are gentle but firm, and he helps Sherlock pull himself into a sitting position.

Sherlock moans and sways. He’s so completely beyond spent; the plug feels unforgivably invasive in his arse, and the three loads of come he’s released trickle down his abdomen obscenely as John looks on, unperturbed. He feels so utterly defiled, he shudders under John’s appraising gaze.

But John simply guides him to his feet, then looks him earnestly in the eye.

“You were so good, Sherlock. I’m going to reward you now. Would you like that?”

“Yes, please John.”

“Good. I’d like to give you my come as your reward. You can have it on your face, in your mouth, or in your arse. Which would you like?”

Sherlock swallows. Was John really going to make him say it? “My… my arse.”

“Ask me nicely.” John’s Captain Voice is back, and while his expression is still fond, Sherlock knows he’s walking a thin line.

“Will you come in my arse, please, John?”

John presses his lips together and wracks his gaze down Sherlock’s shivering, exposed body. Sherlock moans.

“Fuck, please John, please. Please come inside me. Claim me. Make me yours.”

John sighs. “Well. Since you’ve asked so sweetly, I suppose I will.”

Sherlock beams.

“Go stand facing my chair. Perfect. Bend over and put your hands on the arms. Lovely. Hold still.” Sherlock gasps as John flicks off the plug and hastily removes it; he feels obscenely wet and open. “Oh, fuck, Sherlock, that’s gorgeous, you look amazing.” His fingers casually circle Sherlock’s fluttering rim. “Now I need you to hold still. Keep your hands where they are. Be good and let me have you.”

“Yes, please, John…” The words feel thick with desperation, and Sherlock has to fight not to choke on them.

But the next second, all of that disappears. Because John tangles one hand in the hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, puts the other on his hip with an iron grip, and then impales him in one forceful thrust.

“Ah! Gah!” Sherlock’s body clenches instinctively at the sudden intrusion, but John is merciless; he simply tightens his grip, locks Sherlock into place, then proceeds to ream him mercilessly.

Everything is perfect. Everything is glorious. Sherlock is vaguely aware that he’s screaming and moaning and begging, but he focuses as hard as he can on keeping his hands in place on the arms of John’s chair, just where John ordered them to be. He can feel that John is fucking him fiercely, he’s aware that the hot pain of overstimulation is radiating from that place deep within him that John is ruthlessly plundering, but it feels so good he simply leans into it, letting the pleasure overtake the pain, blinding him entirely.

John is shouting too, deep, guttural grunts and declarations of, ’Mine, Mine,’ and Sherlock is echoing him, ’Yours, Yours,’ and he arches his back to let John take him deeper, push him further, and John obliges, and it’s so intense that Sherlock is momentarily vaguely concerned he’s about to black out.

Suddenly, John is pulling out, pulling away from him, and Sherlock whimpers and turns to protest, but before he knows what’s happening, John is shoving him to the ground. He goes without a fight, knees buckling, splaying awkwardly onto his back on the sitting room carpet, disorientated and delirious with arousal.

And then John is on top of him, grabbing him by the ankles and yanking him bodily forward. Sherlock moans at the sensation of being so roughly manhandled, but John doesn’t even pause; he simply props Sherlock’s ankles up on his shoulders and stares down at him, fire and steel in his eyes. “Hands by your head. Don’t you fucking move.”

Sherlock’s hands seem to move into place before his brain can even process the command, and then John is forcing his cock back inside him, and Sherlock is crying out and arching, torn between his body’s desire to flee the invasive ministrations or surrender completely. He squirms helplessly as John expertly adjusts the angle of his penetration, sinking deeper inside, until he strikes that beautiful sweet spot that paralyses Sherlock completely.

Sherlock succumbs.

It’s a surrender so sweet it’s like floating and flying and falling all at once, and he can no longer process anything. It’s just this, this moment, John on top of him, John inside him, John all around him, taking control. He relinquishes everything he is, everything he has, everything he’s ever been, and submits it all to the man commandeering him.

On top of him, John takes the reigns with grace. He absorbs Sherlock’s surrender and assumes his position of dominance without missing a beat. He thrusts into Sherlock roughly, but with pointed, accurate strokes that keep Sherlock teetering beautifully on the brink of too much and not enough. He doesn’t hold down Sherlock’s hands; he makes Sherlock submit to him willingly and without hesitation. He’s forceful and stern, while still careful and calm. He’s perfection. This is perfection. This is the man Sherlock has chosen to surrender to. This is the man Sherlock chose.

He will never, ever regret that choice.

The world goes blurry. There’s nothing but this.

Sherlock’s not even quite sure if he’s aroused. But none of that matters. All that matters is the way that John is looking at him, like he’s the most precious thing in the universe. The world around them could dissolve into flames, and none of it would matter.

Just this.

Just this.

“FUCK! Oh, oh, Sherlock! Be good now, be good…” John sounds breathless, and Sherlock vaguely registers he must be getting close. He spreads his legs, desperate for his his reward.

“‘M good, now, John. ‘M good for you.” Sherlock’s words are slurred and his tongue feels clumsy.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, you’re so good for me, so good for me, take me now, take it, gonna… oh, fuck, gonna come inside you, claim you, fill up your gorgeous arse…”

“Mmm. John. Yes. Yes.” It’s more a wail than words.

“You want it? You want my come?”

“Yes, John. Please. Please. Please, come in me, please…” Sherlock can’t do anything more than beg. His voice sounds pitiful in his own ears, but it’s all so distant, he can’t bring himself to care.

John’s thrusts turn frantic and brutal. “Oh! Oh, yeah! Oh, Sherlock! Sherlock! Nnngh, Sherlock! Oh! OH, God, OH! OH! Oh, sweetheart!”

And THAT.

That word, that name, it lights up every single one of Sherlock’s nerve endings like ultraviolet radiation from a supernova. It consumes him, wholly and completely. That word, that name, John only uses it when he’s dominating Sherlock and Sherlock finally submits to him. It is everything they stand for when they’re together like this. It is everything.

Sweetheart. Sweetheart. Sweetheart.

Sherlock comes.

Actually, he’s not sure if that’s quite true. The sensation that overtakes his body doesn’t necessarily feel like an orgasm (at least, not any orgasm he’s ever had before), but he’s not sure how else to categorise it; it’s an apex of bliss, a peak of ecstasy, a singular sensation of being utterly devoured by corporeal pleasure, but he feels it on a cellular level, from his toenails to his eyelashes. It is rapture, it is euphoria, it is a release so complete that everything goes dark and light at once and he’s flying, he’s flying, and nothing can touch him here.

He soars.

When he opens his eyes, everything feels still and distinctly surreal. He struggles to quantify his surroundings.

He’s still on his back on the sitting room floor, blinking dazedly up at the mantle, which looks upside-down. He’s pretty sure his skull is staring back at him.

Is he breathing? He’s fairly certain he must have forgotten to breathe for awhile there, because suddenly, he gasps and his lungs inflate and they’re burning like he’s been underwater for a long, long time. His vision swims.

“Ohhh.” The sound is so faint and muffled Sherlock doesn’t really register it at first. But he eventually becomes aware that there’s a weight on him, and from there he notices the hot puffs of air against his neck, and he manages to connect the dots and conclude that John is still on top of him.

Upon further reflection, it seems John’s still inside him as well, thrusting lazily into Sherlock as he moans into his neck. The sensation is unobjectionable, and Sherlock relaxes, letting John have him as he pleases.

John continues to move on top of him for a while. Sherlock doesn’t mind. John’s clearly come already; Sherlock can feel the evidence of his release slickening his channel and leaking wetly from his hole, and John’s cock is slowly going soft, but John seems intent on savouring every last moment of their union, and Sherlock simply lies back and basks in the perfection of it.

Time stands still.

The next thing Sherlock notices is John shifting and pulling away. His grounding weight disappears and Sherlock whimpers at the loss, but the world is so blurry and surreal that he can’t even muster the strength to lift his head to see where John is going. He simply lies there, splayed and ravaged, breathing. It’s all he has the wherewithal to do.

John’s face appears in his field of vision. His eyes are warm and fond, and Sherlock smiles up at him. “Hi there, sweetheart.”

Hi, John. Sherlock wants to say it, but all that comes out is an odd little hiccupping whimper.

John doesn’t seem to mind. “I need to check you over, love, then we can go have a nice shower together and I’ll get you cleaned up. How would that be?”

Sherlock blinks dumbly up at him. John’s brows crease in concern, and Sherlock realises he’d best get his act together before John thinks something is wrong and panics. Unfortunately, his hard drive seems to have ejected its connection to his mouth, so he just nods dumbly and spreads his legs on instinct.

John’s face disappears, but Sherlock can still make out his voice, and a warm hand resting on his inner thigh. “I’m going to touch you now, okay?”

Sherlock nods again, and he can distantly feel the sensation of John’s fingers tracing his rim. He’s so oversensitive, the sensation is overwhelming. He winces.

“I know, I know love, almost done. Can I touch you inside?”

Sherlock swallows hard. He’d really rather not, but he knows that John insists on checking him over for tearing. He nods.

John’s fingers slip gently inside him, and Sherlock gasps and bites his lip as John prods the lining of his passage.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re so open right now, so beautiful. I’m so proud of you, you were so good for me tonight.” Sherlock relaxes into John’s praise, and he can feel himself unclench in response.

John carries on for a few more moments (longer than was probably strictly necessary, Sherlock notes, but he knows how much John enjoys reveling in the evidence of his release inside Sherlock like this), and by the time he’s pulling away, Sherlock feels like he’s drifting again.

“Alright, love. Can you sit up?”

Could he sit up? Sherlock’s not sure. He feels so high he has no idea what his transport is capable of in this moment; his brain is offline entirely, and he’s not sure how to communicate any of that, so he gives a strange sort of shrug and whimpers again.

“Okay. Okay, we’ll just take it nice and slow, alright? You can’t stay here, sweetheart, we need to get you cleaned up.” John’s arms wrap around him and pull him into a sitting position. Sherlock sways and leans heavily into him. John presses a kiss into his hair.

The next thing Sherlock knows, he’s sitting on the floor of the bathtub, and John is washing his body with sandalwood soap. The scent is so comforting, so familiar, it conjures up the memories of all the past moments they’ve shared like this, basking in the afterglow of their exchange and coasting on the waves of endorphins.

Sherlock had thought he could never have this again.

But now they’re here, and everything’s alright, and John is taking care of him, and they’re not scared anymore. They don’t have to be scared anymore.

Sherlock knows he shouldn’t cry. He doesn’t want to scare John, after all, not when they’re just stepping back into this; he doesn’t want to overwhelm him or make him second-guess his decision to give this another chance. Before their session tonight, Sherlock had promised himself that he would not cry.

But before he can process it, the tears are coming in an overwhelming surge, and he’s sobbing, relief coursing through his veins as the sensation of John’s hands cleansing his skin soothes something deep beneath the surface of his epidermis. It’s a relief so thick it’s nearly palpable; the can taste it on his tongue, he can smell it mingling with the sandalwood, he can feel it in the cool weight of John’s dog tags resting against his sternum. It is affirmation, pure and simple.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

Sherlock wills himself to speak. He has to reassure John, let him know that he’s not hurt, that the tears are just another release.

But he can’t find the words. He just sobs.

Then John’s face appears again as he joins Sherlock on the floor of the tub. He’s drenched and his hair is sticking up at all sorts of odd angles and it takes Sherlock a moment to realise he’s crying, too.

“John. John.” Sherlock reaches out to grab his hands, and John takes them willingly. “Are you alright?” It’s the first time Sherlock’s felt capable of speaking, and the words feel strange and distant, but his concern over John is enough to spur him to action.

John nods quickly and gives him a watery smile. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine, Sherlock. I’m… I never understood what you meant about crying after a session before, about it being happy tears, a form of release, but now… now I understand.”

Sherlock blinks back at John through his own tears. “You’re happy?”

“Yes, sweetheart. These are happy tears. I’m so, so happy.”

Sherlock feels his lips curl up in a smile. “Me, too, John. Me, too.”

They hold each other until the water turns cold.