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Something Reckless

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This is a fill for a prompt on the kinkmeme. OP asked for “just the tip.” Click here to read the whole prompt.




Sherlock was baffled by John insisting, “We have to stop”…mostly because John was still clutching Sherlock tightly to him, and was nipping at Sherlock’s ear as he said it.

“Why do we have to stop,” Sherlock panted.

“I didn’t think things would happen this quickly.” Half of John’s words were muffled by Sherlock’s continued frenzied kisses to the corners of his mouth. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Forgive me, when you took out my prick and started stroking it I assumed that all relevant discussion had been sufficiently dealt with.”

In fact, Sherlock’s prick was still in John’s hand. A bit embarrassed, John removed it. “Right, yes. Sorry.”

“But you’ll forgive my naiveté…which we did discuss.”

“We did, yeah. That’s why I thought we were going to take things more slowly.”

Sherlock leaned back against the arm of the sofa. John was having a difficult time at the moment, seeing Sherlock the way he was: mussed and overheated and slightly damp. “Explain. What was too far?”

“When you said ‘fuck me,’ just now.” God, just repeating Sherlock’s words was keeping John’s blood pumping at an alarming rate.

“How long does one have to wait for that activity?”

“Long enough for you to just let me tell you something,” John snapped. “Jesus.” He averted his eyes from Sherlock’s hard cock still poking out of his unfastened trousers. Then he had to avert his eyes from the flush between Sherlock’s collarbones, and the strands of hair clinging to the back of his neck. Finally, with his neck turned uncomfortably far and his gaze fixed firmly on the wallpaper, he could collect his thoughts. “I have a situation that might prove an obstacle for us.”

Sherlock was nonplussed. “You don’t have any communicable diseases. You have no difficulty maintaining an erection or achieving orgasm. And you have no squeamishness, moral or otherwise, about the activity.”

“The obstacle is…structural.” John briefly considered just pulling his cock out and showing it to Sherlock, but decided that might cause more trouble. So instead he said it: “I’m very big. Like, really big.”

“How big?”

“Big. Too big for you right now.”

“Surely with adequate preparation…” Sherlock was already going for John’s zip. John swatted his hand away and said, “Right now, I do not want to deal with the amount of preparation which would be considered adequate, and neither do you. Look at you. Even if it wasn’t your first time, even if you knew how to take a cock, at the moment you’re in no state to handle the time and effort it would take to get you ready for mine. Let’s just do something else for now.”

“Alright. But get it out and let me see it.”

John found himself unable to refuse that demand. He sat with one foot tucked beneath him on the sofa and the other on the floor. He unzipped, tugged down his boxers, and let his cock spring out. Sherlock took it reverently in hand, ran a finger along the length of it, then encircled it with his thumb and forefinger. “A remarkable length,” he said, “though the girth will ultimately be the more problematic dimension.” He continued stroking it, quiet now, seemingly entranced by it.

“If you keep doing that, I’m going to come,” John warned through gritted teeth.

“I’m barely touching it.”

“I know, it’s ridiculous what’s going on right now.” John tried to think of something he could do with his hands, some way to guide or control, but they were shaking too much.

Sherlock began to bend down. “I want to put it in my mouth.”

Nononono, don’t do that” Just the thought of it made John’s cock jerk and leak some more. “I don’t want to come yet.” His eyes darted around. He was in a panic, desperate for a way to resolve this situation that was worthy of the build-up. “Here, turn around. Bend over the arm of the sofa.”

Sherlock had barely turned round before John was grabbing at him, tugging his trousers down his thighs. He pushed Sherlock’s shirt up, to give himself a clear view of that pale, plush arse.

“I thought you weren’t going to fuck me.”

“I’m not. Not with my cock, anyway.” With both thumbs, John spread Sherlock’s cheeks to expose his arsehole. A beautiful, tight, pink, virgin arsehole. Yes. He licked one finger and pressed it to the little opening, and Sherlock whimpered as it twitched.

Unable to restrain himself any longer, John dove in, giving Sherlock’s hole a sloppy wet kiss, lapping at the rim and echoing Sherlock’s groans as he did so. The situation became almost unbearably humid, but not once did he think of retreating. With one hand he continued squeezing Sherlock’s arse, and with the other he reached underneath to cradle his balls, all the while letting his lips and tongue make the filthiest wet noises of smacking and suction. Sherlock pushed back against John’s face, making strange, surprised little shrieks at every prod of his hot, powerful tongue.

John could feel that his efforts were relaxing Sherlock’s hole. He pulled back to examine it, poking it again with his finger and feeling how soft and pliant it had become. But only by comparison; it still squeezed firmly around his fingertip when he pushed deeper, and the tightness sent a sympathetic shock to his cock.

He felt powerful, to be able to make Sherlock quake and moan and perspire by exploiting one tiny, forbidden but highly erogenous part of his body. The thrill of victory put the urge in him to do something reckless; something just a bit foolish, that would pay off a hundred-fold. “Oh God, Sherlock.” The words spilled out of his mouth when the idea came. “Listen, I’m gonna try – I’m – I’m just gonna put the tip in.”

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, his face buried in his arms. “Do it. Now.”

Kneeling behind Sherlock with his back straight, John aimed his cock as best he could whilst handling it as little as possible. “Touch yourself,” he commanded. “I want you to come first.”

Sherlock shifted his weight to his left arm so he could jerk himself with his right hand. John spit on his fingertips and rubbed them on the head of his cock for good measure, then pressed it against that little pucker. Sherlock immediately pushed back against it, and John had to put one firm hand on his arse to hold him in place. “Don’t do that. You’ll hurt yourself on it.” With Sherlock properly still, John gripped his cock halfway down the shaft and pushed the head against Sherlock’s hole, until it disappeared inside just up to the crown. It took all his willpower to pull it back out again, though he found that just the squeeze of Sherlock’s muscles around the tip was about the most incredible thing he’d ever felt. And pushing in merely the tip was all it took to get Sherlock shouting and shivering with pleasure.

John jabbed at Sherlock’s hole, feeling the wet resistant flesh rubbing against the slit. His balls ached with the need to be emptied. “Oh God, this is mad, what are we doing,” he groaned, in between Sherlock’s own cries of pleasure. “You feel so good. It’s going to be amazing when I’m finally able to just plough you.”

“How long before I’m ready?” Sherlock rasped.

“Oh, it might take weeks of preparation before you learn to take all of me properly. But when it happens, you’ll love it. I’ll make sure you do.” God, they were in the sitting room with their clothes almost entirely on, making so little actual contact with each other, but it was the wildest, dirtiest thing John had ever done.

And it was over far too soon. When Sherlock came, he clenched so hard that he pushed what little of John’s cock was inside him out, and when John’s load surged out of him a second later it went all over the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. In the last moments before his cock went soft, he slid it up and down, gathering up the spunk and giving one last little shove to push some of it into Sherlock’s hole.

John collapsed back and viewed his handiwork; as he examined the shiny smears up and down Sherlock’s flushed skin, he thought about how intensely Sherlock had just pleasured him with only his rim, and wondered if the question, ultimately, would not be what Sherlock could handle, but what he could handle. He was also becoming gradually aware of how his clothes were sticking to his sweaty skin. Sherlock did not move, and eventually it occurred to John that it might be because he was such a mess that he didn’t know what to do with himself. He grabbed a few tissues and tried to tidy things, but admitted, “We both need a shower, I think.”

With John’s help, Sherlock stood up on unsteady legs. He looked down at himself, eventually deciding that taking off his sweaty clothes now would look marginally less absurd than trying to straighten them up for the few moments it would take to get to the bathroom.

“Will you play with it some more while we’re in the shower?” he asked John as he shucked his trousers, then his socks.

John followed Sherlock’s example, shivering as the cool air hit his clammy skin. “Play with what? Your arse?”


“I don’t see why not.” And he gestured for Sherlock to lead the way.