John had been lurking near the shore for hours, waiting for Sherlock to return. He was worried that someone in the village would recognize Sherlock as a pirate, and hold him there, or worse. But the badly broken arm required tending, needed human care, and so John anxiously kept his vigil, long past sunset.
Finally, Sherlock returned, striding confidently down the beach, as if it weren’t nearly pitch dark and he hadn’t just had his arm set by hostile strangers. John had to smile at the cockiness of his Captain, who was utterly unbowed by the dramatic events that had led them here.
“John!” Sherlock called, imperious and utterly without caution. “John!”
John flipped his tail, attracting Sherlock’s attention through the smacking splash, and he adjusted his course. “All right, Sherlock?” John asked, as he came to the water’s edge, waves lapping against ankles long since bereft of boots.
“I’m fine, John. Don’t fuss,” Sherlock replied impatiently. He waded in further and held out his good arm. “Come here. I can hardly see you.”
“I can’t come that close, Sherlock. You know that.”
Sherlock growled, and lunged forward, trying to catch John by the shoulder. Startled, John jerked away. Sherlock lunged for him again, and John laughed, feeling suddenly playful. He moved back, teasing, and Sherlock followed until the waves were up to his shoulders. There. Now John could be face to face instead of staring up, up, up that tall, lanky body. He was a little worried about the arm, although Sherlock held the splinted, bandaged appendage protectively against his ribs.
John came closer, smiling, and grabbed tightly to Sherlock’s hips when a wave knocked him back. John could balance fine in the rollicking water, easily compensating for change in current and depth. Sherlock grabbed his hair and pulled him in for a kiss. Their bodies were pressed closely together, and John’s hands were free to roam. He twitched his tail into a gentle curve, so that it circled Sherlock’s legs and fluttered against his bare calves. Surprised at the slick, supple contact, Sherlock gasped into their kiss. John inhaled it, took in Sherlock’s air, directly from his lungs, and was momentarily arrested by the intimacy of that act. This kissing thing was... quite amazing.
He licked the exquisitely cut lips moving against his own, felt for the interior softness, chased wet heat until Sherlock’s tongue again played with his own, strong, thick, deliberately writhing and confident. They were both making noises, little grunts and murmurs of satisfaction, hands rapidly moving from face, to shoulder, to waist, unable to settle. John tightened his tail, pulling Sherlock closer, and he lurched back with a stifled shout. Of course, John didn’t let him fall; he grabbed him securely in strong arms, tilted himself back in the water so that Sherlock stretched out a bit across his chest, long legs kicking alongside his gently beating tail.
“I’ve got you,” John said. “Relax. Let go.”
Sherlock did, experimentally. John’s skin was warm against his, even through clothing, and if it hadn’t been for his thrice damned injured arm, he thought he’d like to rub himself against it. He had to settle for nuzzling John’s neck while water lapped at his ribs and hips. But John was strong, and Sherlock’s entire upper body was almost completely above the water; they didn’t sink, but bobbed like corks. He licked the wet salt of John’s neck, and bit at the delicate skin below his jaw. John jerked beneath him, groaning, so Sherlock nipped again, harder, and again, taking in a larger mouthful of flesh this time. John’s hips pumped against his own, big tail momentarily losing its rhythm.
Sherlock chuckled almost soundlessly. “You like that?” he murmured. This time he sucked, slow and hard, timing each pull to match John’s liquid movements against him. John gasped, Captain, and Sherlock rumbled in response, letting it vibrate through his chest. He mouthed down John’s neck, encountered the ridges leading to his gills, and dodged around them, nibbling instead on his Adam’s apple. John’s hands slipped from Sherlock’s hips to his arse, fingers tracing the seam that divided him with wonder.
But Sherlock’s clothing was floating all around them, wrapping around the pair and hindering their movements. John tried to fight his way past them, or even just press straight through the fabric, eager to explore where his human split in two, but was foiled. He finally stopped with a frustrated Hrmph, and swam Sherlock close to shore with just a few, impatient strokes. “Go, take it off,” he demanded.
Sherlock just grinned, shark-like, and walked quickly to the sand. He stripped with difficulty, catering to the aggravating broken arm, while John waited impatiently, wishing he could crawl out of the waves to help. He thought about calling Sherlock back into the water for assistance, but decided that would just prolong it further. Grunts of annoyance floated across the sand as Sherlock peeled himself out of sodden trousers, and tried to untie the wet knots that held his shirt together without causing his arm undue pain. Finally he had it off, tossed it unceremoniously to the ground, and turned back to John.
John had enjoyed the show. Sherlock’s trousers had come off first, and John found himself fascinated by the bifurcation of the human, watching intently as he’d struggled with his shirt. He could see the seam running straight up the middle of his rounded arse, muscles in two separate mounds, thick round thighs supported each half, forming a long, elegant line clear down to his feet. Either half, if covered with scales, could have made an adequate, if quite slender, tail.
John had never seen a bi-tailed fish before.
When Sherlock straightened up and headed back toward him, the sex at his front was a definite contrast to the bilateral theme. A single organ rested there, thick and heavy, bouncing as he walked. John was a little relieved at this development. Not that he was planning that far ahead, he thought, mischievous and sly, certainly not. He had had sex with males before, of course, it was not uncommon among the merpeople. Nor was fucking a fish; tuna had charming personalities, and marlin were always accommodating. With fish, the cloaca was the only option, never any confusion there. Dolphins were complete sluts, males and females both, they would take it anywhere, including blowholes. There wasn’t an adolescent merman anywhere who hadn’t been introduced to a good time by dolphins on the prowl.
Humans, however, he was unsure about. Already there were unexpected differences. For example, the man’s penis was just hanging out in front, not decently and safely tucked into a sheath of skin housed in his abdomen. He assumed there was at least an anus. He wondered if Sherlock was single or double on the receiving end, and lewd curiosity and arousal flashed through him.
Sherlock strode straight back into the waves, staggering at their strength, for they were much more aggressive so close to the shore. John surged forward and quickly swept him off his feet, balancing that long, slim body atop his chest as he had done before, broken arm cradled carefully between them. “Let’s move further out,” he said. “The tide is coming in, and it’s too rough here.” Sherlock nodded and let him swim, tail pumping strongly as they rode the waves up and swooped back down, Sherlock’s hand digging into his shoulder with each descent. But nary a drop ever touched his face, and John soon guided them out to smoother waters, still within sight of the shore.
Blue phosphorescence glowed around them as he swam, and Sherlock trailed a curious hand through, watching as the streaming light swirled down deeper in the eddy behind his fingers. He lifted it, and flicked, and a little shower of stars scattered across John’s face. He laughed, and for less than a second, John’s eyelashes shone. Sherlock leaned down to kiss him again, and it was all hot mouths and hard teeth, deep-plunging exploratory tongues, and frantic, gulping suckling. Sherlock couldn’t get enough, opening his mouth wider, fighting John’s tongue, feeling the tail against his legs mimic the movement of the tongue in his mouth, a single, giant wet muscle - twisting, and gliding, flicking and thrusting.
Sherlock pulled back with a toss of his hair, and more blue drops flew back to the sea. A distinctive, familiar ridge was developing against his stomach, and he rubbed against it. He gasped, “Oh, god, you do have-” and John hummed, his eyes half shut, and his lips swollen in the scant light of a slivered moon. He used Sherlock’s arse as a guide, rocking him slowly up and down, body undulating like waves underneath him. Sherlock gasped, and let his knees fall to either side, clamping the thick, smooth muscles of John’s sliding tail between his thighs. It nestled his bollocks close against those scales, and Sherlock shuddered from his head to his toes, holding hard with hand and legs. “Oh, god,” he said again.
Sherlock held himself canted over John with one hand, the shoulder beneath it steady as a rock, warm and hard with muscle. He ground himself down, teasing the back of his bollocks, almost managing to make contact with his perineum. He groaned and squirmed again, dropping his head back. John grabbed his hips hard, and moved him. “Here, here,” he said. “Here. Sherlock let go, let me--” Sherlock’s legs were clamped tight, chasing sensation, and John had to shake him loose. He was resettled a bit further up, and suddenly, there was John’s cock, wedged firmly against him, where it was best to ride, and his testicles fell to either side of it, floating gently in the water. Sherlock rolled his hips again, eyes shut tight in pleasure as John surged up, cock hot underneath him and pressing against the crack of his arse. Sherlock wriggled for a few moments and finally achieved contact with his hole, then just writhed in tiny back and forth movements, relishing the heat of the cock between his legs, the glassy brush of scale against his most sensitive areas.
John pressed Sherlock’s hips tight against him, and drew his other hand across Sherlock’s thigh to explore his cock. It was hard, and fit neatly in John’s fist, having grown and stiffened since the beach. John slid his hand up and down the length, and Sherlock gave a gasping cry, bucking into his fist and then rocking back against his cock. “John-!”
He thumbed over the slit, and rubbed the ridge of the crown, similar to his own hard shaft. The viscous fluid from his internal sheath lubricated his cock, and Sherlock was riding it easily now, fierce and intent. "Where--... Sherlock, where...?" John fumbled his hand down further while Sherlock shook, felt around the tender sac, seeking out a hole. “Where--?”
“Oh, for god’s sake, John,” Sherlock finally exploded. He tried to shift his weight with only one arm, and winced as the injured one instinctively moved to help. “Ah! Fuck. John, dammit. I need to let go.”
John tried to focus through a rutting frenzy, having just as much trouble as Sherlock. “Ok, ok,” he muttered, gasping a little. He let his hips sink down, until Sherlock was floating again, and held him firmly about the ribs. “There, now--”
“Yes, yes,” Sherlock cut him off. He grabbed John’s cock with his good hand, pumped a few times, seemingly delighted with the self-lubrication. “Here,” and he wrapped his legs around John again, “lie back down.” So John did, becoming a bit more horizontal in the water, and Sherlock guided the organ to his anus, dragging the head lasciviously back and forth with a yeeess as John held his weight. It was a totally different kind of yes, not the impatience of before, but deep and sibilant with satisfaction, and he shuddered with pleasure. “Here, John. Here,” he pushed down while John thrust up. “Ah, aah. Oh, god.”
John could feel budded flesh at the tip of his cock, and let Sherlock lie more fully against him to free up an exploratory hand. He felt around from Sherlock’s back side, which he hadn’t investigated fully before. Ah, yes. He followed the crack with his fingers until he encountered the tip of his cock. There it was. A small, tightly closed hole. Oh no, is this going to work? He rubbed with his fingertips, pressing down, circling the little muscle, trying to coax it open. “Will I fit, Sherlock? It’s so small.”
“Yes, oh, keep doing what you’re doing,” Sherlock hissed, and John could feel the ripple and flex of the muscle he was working as Sherlock wiggled to further open his legs. John ran his hand along his own cock, scooping up fluid, and went back to Sherlock’s hole, yielding a bit for him now, what had been recently been puckered now relaxing into smoother skin. “Keep--”
John was struck with a salacious idea, and smirked at the genius of it. “Keep your head above water. I’ll hold you up, don’t worry. Just balance.” And he quickly disengaged Sherlock’s legs, eeled around with a flick of his tail, and dove under, holding Sherlock by the hips to keep his head up. It was far too dark to see underwater, and John needed both hands to support Sherlock, so he explored with his mouth, starting at the delightfully intriguing crack of his arse, tonguing his way down until he encountered his goal. John inhaled deeply, water rushing pleasantly across his gills. He could smell Sherlock, faintly permeating the water around them, musky and mysterious. He tasted like he smelled - deliciously exciting.
John went straight for Sherlock’s center without hesitation, circling his tongue around the loosening muscle and then flicking it teasingly in and out. The body between his hands was shaking, and he held it harder against his face, licking and sucking, probing inside at the hot velvety tissue he felt there. It was pulsing around his tongue, conveying Sherlock’s arousal with each rippling contraction.
He pushed in a thumb the next time he pulled his tongue free, and then replaced that with two fingers. Sherlock’s arse welcomed them in, and John flipped his tail, felt it splash across the water as he swept around until he was facing Sherlock’s front, fingers still in his arse, both hands holding him stable and supporting him in his precious air. John mouthed the length of his cock.
The air whooshed out of Sherlock's lungs. Oh, god. Never, had he thought of a scene this filthy or unique. John’s tongue on his arse had been almost... overwhelming. Being tongue fucked, after the first clench, he could feel his body opening up to welcome the intrusion. That had never been done to Sherlock before, and he had to grab his own shoulders to have something to hold on to. That agile muscle, wiggling and sucking on his arse, oh, god, it was sinfully decadent. Sherlock thought he could come from just that.
And then John’s tail flipped out of the water, creating a scattered fountain of blue, burning across his retinas in the returning black of the night, and he felt John’s warm mouth on his cock. Oh, his mouth! He rocked his hips against those lips, fucking it back, and let out a loud groan when he felt further intrusion. A thumb, perhaps. No. Oh, god, the slide, the friction: it was fingers. Sherlock groaned again, and relaxed his arms, shifting his body forward a little. John held him, stable, the water only up to his shoulders, and sucked him down.
Jesus, it was erotic, all the more for not being able to see. For not knowing exactly what was going on. For being in such an alien element... IN THE DARK. Anything could be down there, and he was at his most vulnerable, arse opened wide as fingers fucked and pulled at it, legs spread open, cock caught tight in John’s mouth. He had to trust in John. To keep him afloat. To keep him safe from whatever else may be swimming in the deep dark water.
John pulled his fingers out, kissing the tip of Sherlock’s cock as he let it slide from his mouth, swimming back up and shifting his grip until he held Sherlock by the buttocks, hands keeping him spread and open. He gasped as he breached the surface, and whipped his body so that his tail was again between Sherlock’s legs.
“John,” Sherlock growled, clamping his legs around it again. “God. Fuck me.”
John brought them chest to chest, shimmying until his cock was pressing against Sherlock’s hole, and kissed him ferociously. He pumped with his hips, felt his cock slide in, engage, and catch inside just behind the glans. Sherlock made a wild noise, sucking at his tongue almost mindlessly. John fucked in a little more, harder, as Sherlock demonstrated enthusiastic acquiescence, melting into bonelessness, pliable in his arms. John went deep, seated himself fully. Thank god he fit. Oh, yes, oh... Sherlock was so tight: his entire body throbbed with his pulse and John could feel it in his cock, feel it through his chest, feel it in the suction of his mouth.
He began to pump in and out, and he didn’t know if it was the bioluminants or sparks behind his eyelids that were lighting up the night. The catch and drag on the skin of his cock... he pulled all the way out, and plunged back in. Sherlock cried out, bucking against him, and each breath was a moan, a constant low murmuration of pleasure so intense it was nearly anguish. “John, John, oh, my John.”
John reached between them slicking his hand down Sherlock’s cock, fisting it brokenly as he lost rhythm. Sherlock shouted, and shook, and dropped his head to bite at John’s shoulder, digging his ankles into the back of John’s tail, and John could feel the ephemeral heat of semen against his belly; felt the throb of Sherlock’s cock in his fist, the orgasm pulsating, pulling him to his own release. He came with a force that blurred reality for a long moment, his only two thoughts the thrumming of his body and the man in his arms.
They shuddered through the aftershocks, kissing necks and cheeks, hands stroking backs, bodies doing gentle rolls against one another to remind them of their peak, not wanting to stop, or separate. But they did, eventually. John’s softening cock slid free of Sherlock’s arse and slipped back into his sheath. Sherlock shivered against him, kept him wrapped in his legs, one arm around his shoulder, as the hard elegant cock between them sank back into quiescence.
John couldn’t stop murmuring. Wordless things, thoughts that were almost, Sherlock, or I’ve never felt anything like that before or I love you, I’d follow you anywhere but were never quite said.
And Sherlock whispered back, similar slurred, inarticulated phrases, You’re amazing, and I never want to stop, and how can I ever leave you and go back to dry land.
But his shivers became more regular, and John realized he was cold. “Come, Captain,” he said. “You must get back to shore. You need dry clothes, and you must rest.” He gently touched the broken arm, which had to be hurting, no matter how careful they had been. “Go take care of yourself.”
So he brought his love to the ocean’s edge. Took his weight and his body and all that came with, as close to shore as he could swim, before he had to let go. And Sherlock rolled off his chest with a final, soft kiss. Shivering violently now, he had to speak through chattering teeth. “John. That was... wonderful.”
And John cupped a hand around his face, kissing him back. “Come back to me,” he said. “Go now, and sleep. Come back to me in the morning, Sherlock.”