The problem with the sorts of cases Sherlock enjoyed was that they always turned out to be the crazy ones. 85% of Greg’s professional life was taken up with poring over spreadsheets and timelines, but then Sherlock signed on board and suddenly people were getting shot at and super-villains were falling out of the trees like acorns in a stiff wind.
A bloke built up frustrations, dealing with that sort of nuttery. Which was why he liked to ask John over to his place, at the close of a Holmes-populated case. The stacks of closing paperwork cleared out a lot easier with memories of John moaning in knots of rope to keep him company.
Somehow, John always sussed out the intent behind the invitation; his maniacal flatmate rubbing off on him, maybe. But he always accepted anyway, because if ever a man needed post-Holmes stress relief, it was John Watson.
He came over, dressed in his weirdly stylish old-man-casual with his cheeks flushed rosy with sheepish anticipation, and Greg fed him pasta (he could make one hell of an Italian sauce, even if he was hopeless at 90% of other cooking), plied him with bloody good beer, and enjoyed watching John pussyfoot through the evening, waiting for the hammer to fall.
This time, Greg brought it down after they’d finished clearing the dishes into the sink. “You know what I’ve been thinking about all evening?” he said casually over his shoulder. Too casually, maybe, because John’s shoulders stiffened instantly. Greg shrugged mentally and rounded on him, wolfish grin blooming at the way John backed up at his advance, cool and wary. John didn’t believe in going down without a fight.
“I’ve been thinking,” he continued when John’s back hit the wall, “about how you lied to me.”
“It’s not-” John cut off when his hands were pinned next to his head.
Greg leaned in to keep them there with his weight. “I know it wasn’t your idea,” he answered silkily. “But you know better than to withhold evidence. I should run you in for it, god knows. But instead, tonight you’re getting an object lesson in proper procedure. Turn around, and put your hands behind your back.”
John didn’t obey immediately, even after Greg released his hands. He gave John the moment. It wasn’t insolence; John was sorting something in his head. He had issues, did his John. They’d talked before, drowsy in bed with their barriers down, about the lives they’d lived and the scars they’d taken, and how it twisted up what they thought they wanted and what they thought they could bear. Giving him time paid off for both of them.
Sure enough, it only took a few seconds before John sighed quietly, his shoulders settling with the exhale, and turned to press his chest against the wall.
Greg stripped John’s shirt and jumper off together, and then reached up to pet down the locks of soft hair that stuck up in their wake. John’d be a mess again by the time Greg was done with him, but it was too adorable to resist touching. Smoothing his hands down John’s bare arms to settle on his wrists, Greg bent them up to the small of his back and put on the speedcuffs, locking his hands crosswise, palm to wrist.
John jerked at them, startled by the inflexibility. The position immobilized his upper body beautifully; he couldn’t so much as twist one wrist without it working both arms and shoulders. Greg kept an eye on the pretty sight of John’s shoulders straining and rolling, testing the limits of his movement, while he ducked around the kitchen doorway to grab supplies off the shelves there.
He clipped his police baton to his belt as softly as he could manage, but John caught the sound and froze. He couldn’t know what it was; just that Greg’d broken out some kind of equipment.
Greg slid up behind him and put his hands on John’s belt buckle. “Maybe I should make you guess what it is,” he teased.
John flashed his teeth cheekily over his naked shoulder. “You mean deduce it?”
“Oi! Watch your mouth, cocky little bugger.” John’s laugh cut off with a fierce tug on his belt that nearly jerked him off his feet. Greg freed it from the rear belt loops with a second yank, then swung it up to catch the other end and give John a good solid thwack across his bottom. “Now behave, or there’ll be more where that came from.”
John’s contrite, “Yes, Greg,” didn’t quite manage to hide the laughter still bubbling under the words.
Probably he ought to nip that sort of cheek in the bud, but Greg couldn’t help getting a bit mushy at the delighted sound of John’s laugh. So he just smirked and swirled his fingertips through the dark blond treasure trail that plunged from John’s navel down between his legs, till he had him jolting and hissing with ticklish arousal in his arms. He never could get enough of John’s lower belly and the delicious soft roundness he’d gained there since they’d met, and it had grown more sensitive to go along with the plush.
“Mmm, aren’t you my sweet little armful,” Greg muttered into his neck, steering him with a busy hand down his trousers and a grip on the cuffs to stand by an armchair near the window. The overstuffed back was a little higher than waist-height on John, who yelped as he was picked up by the hips and tipped him over like a sack of wilful potatoes. Greg caught him before he could slide off.
Trying to right himself, John rucked around and kicked at nothing, feet inches off the floor. “Greg! Oh, don’t tell me--”
Greg laughed and pantsed him.
“I should strap you down and keep you like this,” Greg growled, taking handfuls of those lush buttocks. “You’re bloody voluptuous. Fuck, how do you manage to get through life without getting stripped naked and thrown down for a good shag every time you turn around?”
“Happens to me a lot, actually,” John quipped, his voice muffled, and then shouted as Greg’s palm slapped stingingly twice across that ripe bottom.
“Warned you about the cheek.” Bloody hell, though, who could resist giving a bottom this pert and rosy a good squeeze? It filled his hands so satisfyingly. Greg sank his fingers in and kneaded at it till John’s wriggling and grumbling took on an enthusiastic edge, and then let go with one hand to pull a small tube out of his pocket.
John groaned in resignation and pleasure at the sensation of oil being massaged into the ring of his entrance. “You are actually going to shag me over the back of this chair.”
“You’re going to want to relax,” Greg said silkily, rather than agreeing, and pushed him down as he pressed the tip of his cock to John’s entrance. The noise John made as the head breached his unprepared body might’ve been meant as words, but they didn’t come out that way.
It drove John nuts, being opened up on Greg’s cock; uncomfortable and uncomfortably hot at the same time, he never knew what to do with himself. He twisted as best he could over the back of the chair, but with no leverage it basically added up to his arms tugging uselessly at his bonds while his arse wiggled back and forth as Greg entered him.
Greg kept his thrusts teasing and shallow, shamelessly winding John up. When he started trying to rub himself against the cushion, Greg tightened his grip on John’s arse cheeks so he couldn’t move. John’s hands, caught at the small of his back, fisted into Greg’s untucked shirt. “Nn-- Greg, d--. Come on, please.”
A glow of pleasure sparked in Greg’s chest. It’d taken a long, arduous series of lessons to teach John to beg instead of demand. He still wasn’t perfect, clearly, but frankly it was hot to hear him nearly fail. Greg liked the threat of it, that ‘oh shit’ spark that snapped in John’s eyes when he realized how close he’d just come to earning a punishment.
But in this case... “Forgetting already, John?” He unclipped the baton, extending it with a flick of his wrist, and brought it around across John’s throat. “You’re learning a lesson tonight.” He settled the baton a little lower, catching at the base of John’s throat where it could dig nice and hard against his windpipe without doing more real damage than a mild bruising, and pulled John’s upper body up and back. “Now don’t struggle,” Greg purred, “or I’ll take you in for resisting arrest.”
Christ, yes, he loved a good arch to John’s spine. The way it pulled him taut and hard but held him immobile with the force of his own body... Fuck. Graceful and strong and helpless. Greg circled his hips a few times, enjoying how delightfully John squirmed with Greg’s movements inside him, fighting his own body to obey the command to keep still.
The noises John made with each progressive penetration were delicious. He didn’t like to be loud; too many years of handjobs under blankets with ten men sleeping in the same tent, probably. So instead of shouts or full-voiced groans, Greg was treated to a bubbling spill of quiet moans, gasps, clicks of his throat, and soft ‘ohs’ and ‘nnnnns.’ Obscene and intimate, they tugged at Greg’s balls as effectively as desperate fingers.
The moment when John’s body went from trying to push Greg out to trying to pull him in was exquisite. Greg’s knees almost buckled at the sudden eager grip on his cock; he had to shuffle his feet and rebrace them both, letting go of the baton with one hand to push John’s wrists down into the small of his back and keep him in place.
John groaned, hips jerking in tiny, abortive thrusts as he tried to be good for Greg and not move. The exertion had him panting in no time.
“Christ,” Greg muttered over his back. “Look at you, you wanton tart. You’re well and truly stuck, aren’t you?” Naked and off his feet, bent over, handcuffed and plumped securely into plush cushions that wouldn’t let him slide off without a good bit of squirming around. “Bet you’re just dying, aren’t you? What would you do for me, John? Hm?” He jerked himself a bit deeper into John’s body with a tug on his arms. “What would you let me do?”
“Anything. Please, Greg!” He sounded strained, and a little rough, from the bollocking his voicebox had taken. It was almost as sexy as the way his little rump was dancing on Greg’s cock. He had to be so far beyond ready to come, by now, but Greg had been careful to avoid giving his cock the kind of stimulation he needed to get off.
He grabbed John by the hair to pull his head back. “Open your mouth.”
When John did as bid, Greg wedged the collapsed baton into his mouth like a thick bit. Holding both ends, he wrenched John’s head and shoulders back with it again. “This is what you get for lying, John. But don’t say I can’t be generous; right now I’m going to fuck the daylights right out of you.”
With the leverage the bit gave him, John flexed back onto Greg hungrily. Greg gave him what he wanted with a ruthless thrust, falling into a blissfully unrestrained rhythm that had his eyes wanting to roll up into his head. Underneath him, John struggled to catch the breath Greg kept knocking out of him. His fingers clung and scrabbled at Greg’s shirt and skin, trying to maintain some kind of stability. They felt like they might be drawing blood. God, he’d waited fucking long enough, but having John like this, forced to rely on Greg’s cock and hips and the fucking baton in his teeth to keep him from tipping over--yeah, this was worth it.
No mercy, now; the brat deserved to be bent tight into a helpless bow and have the stuffing fucked out of him. Greg controlled his movements with the baton gag, using the tension of John’s body to pull him back onto his cock, twisting his head a little this way and that just because he liked being able to make John do it.
The sounds he was wringing from John around the gag shot straight to Greg’s cock; he was whining in his throat, keening noises of need and pain, pleasure and protest, like all the air in his body was being forced out to make room for Greg’s cock.
And yet after all that teasing, he couldn’t fucking come. “Shit,” he hissed. “Bear down. Struggle. I need--” Shit, John sounded so far gone, though, maybe he was asking too much...
John’s body jackknifed with sudden strength, flinging himself back so hard that he cried out as Greg’s cock was driven into him right to the balls. Greg nearly wrenched John’s shoulders, holding him in place, and then threw his weight forward to force John down, crush his strength, transfix him brutally on the chair.
His orgasm cracked open at the sensation of John’s resistance breaking under him, hard thumps of pleasure jarring through his body with each ejaculation. John kept fighting as Greg pulsed into him, sparking continued jolts of high-voltage pleasure through Greg’s body even as his cock began to soften.
Greg didn’t need John’s shapeless complaints around the gag to know that he was desperate to come himself, at this point. Greg withdrew gently, letting the meticulous lack of further stimulation make his statement for him. John didn’t get to have it that easy tonight.
John was gaping wide after that ride, frothed white fluid leaking out of him, and so turned on that his balls were an angry reddish purple where they peeked from between his legs. “Poor lad.” Greg reached over to squeeze them a bit. “You must be absolutely gagging for it by now.”
Baton still securely between his teeth, John gurgled desperately enough to be an affirmative. Trying to be good, now, and no wonder. Greg stroked his sweat-dark hair. “Don’t worry, love. You’ll get yours.” He grinned when John’s head twitched suspiciously in his direction. Between the men in his life, John had developed an excellent sense of when he should be worried.
Leaving the baton to John for the moment, Greg fished out a condom and fought through the sodding foil packaging. He held John in place with one hand while he reclaimed the baton, then tucked it under his elbow to roll the condom down the handle and apply lube. He slid a broad carabiner through the hole in the base, to ensure the thing wouldn’t slip into John if it got away from him. John tried to worm around for a peek at the clinking noise; Greg nudged him warningly with a knee.
“Now,” he said after a moment. “You’d better relax for this.”
John didn’t even get a word of question out before he felt it. “Wait, fuck!”
Slow but steady, one hand keeping John’s shoulders down, Greg pushed the baton into John's body. It had a slightly thicker metal knob on the end; that was going to feel a treat. “I fucked you nice and open, John. Just surrender to it and it won’t hurt you.”
John exhaled and tried to obey. Greg was taken by surprise at how clearly he could feel the tension bleeding from him. He’d had things inside John before, but nothing this hard; the metal baton picked up the movements of John’s body and translated them to Greg’s grip with a startling clarity. Bewitched, Greg slowed further to explore the nuances. The rod pushed back harder against his hand where the lubrication was a bit thin, and tugged in his grip like a living thing where John was slick. He could feel John’s interior contours flex and yield around the thing--fuck, he could see it, his hips and back twisting subtly as he sought to accommodate his forced reshaping.
“Oh god, John,” he breathed when he felt John’s body beginning to grip rather than push. “Just like that. Let it happen, love. You can’t stop it.”
John moaned, head down and sweat dripping from his hair. Jesus, he was shaking. Greg rubbed soothing circles into his lower back with his free hand, and tried to imagine what this must feel like for him. His own body was doing this to him; clenching, shifting the baton inside him with barely any help from Greg. Greg swallowed hard at the way it jumped with each twitch of John's passage, and...oh, god, if he held carefully still, he could feel the hummingbird thrum of John’s pulse through the metal. Even balls-deep, Greg had never felt so thoroughly inside him. It was so fucking dominating, like John’s own body was in league with Greg. It wasn’t often Greg got to see him so utterly surrendered. But he had no choice now, did he?
It was like living sculpture, this bound, shivering, sweaty mess of a man laid out for him. Yeah, John was a living work of art, and Greg had never been satisfied with just looking. He stroked his hand over all that form and shadow, the wet-velvet skin, the curves and angles of this incredible body permitting itself to be so vulnerable for him. He stroked the soft skin at John’s wrists, checking to make sure the cuffs weren’t cutting into him, and ran fingers through his damp hair, and down along the ramp of John’s jaw where stubble rasped against the back of his fingers. John trembled and keened for him, and Greg caught it to himself like the gift it was.
“That’s right,” he encouraged, “I’m right here. Let go, John. Let go and let me have you.” He wanted to whimper himself when John’s body softened and drooped in response to his words, the last scrap of resisting tension draining from his muscles. It did maddening things to the long swooping curve of his spine. Greg had no power to resist skimming two fingers through the rivulet of sweat that traced down through it. “Don’t struggle. Don’t try to move. Just lie right there and let it take you. Can you feel the knob inside you?”
John nodded weakly. He was shuddering steadily, unbearably turned on and unable to help himself.
“Tell me what it feels like.” When John didn’t respond, Greg waggled the baton ever so slightly and repeated the question.
John gritted his teeth, visibly fighting to make words. “Hard,” he whispered. “God. So hard. I can. Feel. The edges.” His hips twitched a little and he drew in a ragged breath. “Oh god, Greg. It’s big. It’s so deep. It’s so deep.”
“Tell me,” Greg encouraged.
John sobbed. “I can’t move. It’s so deep and hard. I can’t move or it-- It won’t let me move.”
Greg gasped with arousal. Holy hell, it was like he hadn’t already come tonight. He leaned in to murmur, “It’s not all the way, though, John. There’s still more you need to take.”
The sound John made was so destroyed that Greg had to close his eyes and count to regain control. This time when he resumed the slow push in, he didn’t stop till he had the baton seated as far as he could safely get it inside John.
“Jesus fuck,” Greg whispered. It must’ve been a good eight inches; the carabiner brushed against the curve of John’s arse, and there wasn’t much left showing of the handle. And if it felt like it had been hours of work to Greg, it must have felt like geologic ages to John.
John’s breathing was shallow and ruthlessly controlled. Greg stroked soothingly up and down his gleaming back. “I’m not going to be rough with this, John. But I’m going to be thorough. You need to be very good for me and not fight me on this, right?” John nodded, a bare bob of his head. “That’s your lesson, tonight. I told you I’d make sure you learned it.”
He shook while Greg moved the baton handle slowly in and out of him. As his body eased and got greedier, Greg sped up the penetrations a little, but this wasn’t like fucking him with his cock or a dildo. Greg had to be careful, every time, and every time John had to give himself up to it all over again. Watching him surrender over and over again was sublime.
John couldn’t do a damned thing about it; just had to lie there and take it, hips tilting up a fractional, pleading increment, back flushed ruddy with the force of his arousal. Finally he couldn’t hold back anymore, and his hips began moving up to meet the baton as it penetrated him.
Greg let go and stepped back.
“Oh fuck no.” John flopped like a landed fish. “No no no no Greg!”
“Shhhhhhh.” Greg gave John’s bum a reassuring rub and tugged him backwards till his feet hit the floor, his chest propped up on the chair back. He raked his nails down John’s spine, a grin that felt evil spreading on his face. John couldn’t see it, of course, but Greg suspected it came through. “You’ll get everything you want tonight, John, don’t you worry.” He slipped lube-covered fingers between John’s thighs. “Now, cross your ankles and keep your thighs tight for me.”
Understanding, John lowered his head meekly and did as he was told. Greg pushed in between John’s thighs and groaned, letting his head fall to John’s shoulder. Oh god, he was so turned on it hurt. Christ, when was the last time he’d managed twice in a night?
He was physically incapable of stopping himself from pumping his hips a few times, moaning with the sensation. The carabiner pressed cold and hard into his stomach with each roll of his hips, shifting the baton inside John. John made a sound like he was being strangled, and tried to thrash. He failed spectacularly, in a series of writhing collapses so erotically powerless that a hot white bolt of arousal shot through Greg’s entire body.
“Hush.” Greg petted John’s hair with sloppy pride. “So good, John. So beautiful. Oh fuck, if you could see yourself.” It felt like having two cocks. The baton wasn’t even in a strap-on, but watching John forced to ride it helplessly with Greg’s every move made Greg’s balls tighten with incipient orgasm. He fucked John’s thighs harder, burying his own panting breaths in the tilted wing of John’s shoulder blade. “Oh god, John. Oh god.”
"Jesus Christ.” John whipped his head back and forth so hard it had to hurt, his arse rolling with small, frantic movements against Greg. Greg reached around to grope for John’s balls, squeezing them to hear John’s vocalized exhales as Greg shook with climax.
He had to collapse for a few seconds as the vibrations of his orgasm died away. Twice in one night. He wasn’t built for this anymore. But he kept his hand busy on John’s cock, stroking and massaging it, till his knees regained function again. John was making lost, begging noises, rocking on the balls of his feet to keep the baton fucking him, drunk on stimulation and desperate for more. Greg pressed his mouth to the curve of John’s sacrum and laughed; it probably sounded more giddy than sinister, but holy fuck, if he wasn’t going to enjoy what he was about to do next.
He circled his tongue around the ring of muscle held open by the baton at the same time he stepped up the handjob he was giving John, and laughed again as John screamed.
It didn’t take much. A few pulls on his cock and working his tongue down in with the baton, and John...John came completely apart for him.
Greg caught him in his arms as his legs crumpled and his body short-circuited, caught frozen in the muscular contractions of pleasure. Bound and sobbing in the wracking force of his orgasm, John turned his face into Greg’s chest and tumbled into ruin.
Carefully, Greg pulled the baton out, and lowered them both to the floor, John splayed across his lap in soft armfuls of wrecked human being. There wasn’t a clock visible from here, and it was lovely to simply sink into the moment together, both of them adrift in endorphins and the muscle memory still echoing through their bodies. John’s skin was magnetic, calling Greg’s hands to stroke him everywhere; hair and face, throat and chest and shoulders and hips. John’s body felt like an extension of Greg’s. The idea held a profound peace: the two of them here, just here, safe and joined and soaking in their pleasure.
Eventually, John made a noise and stirred, wincing as he tried to pull himself together. Greg carefully helped him sit up.
“Alright, love?” Greg asked him.
John nodded. “I, um.” He swallowed. “I think I...need to sit here for a bit.”
His eyes were wide and drowning; the beauty of it ached in Greg’s chest. He cupped John’s cheek as gently as if he could shatter him, and turned John’s head to kiss him. In a bit, he’d go fetch a flannel and some water. But not yet.