JackOff

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This is a little excerpt from a raw, unedited Johnlock fic my friend and I were working on about a year ago… I don’t know why we never finished it.  Perhaps it was because we stopped writing together.  I miss that.  BTW, it’s NSFW.  I wouldn’t read it if you don’t like Johnlock smut.

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There was a moment of silence, in which John lay very still next to Sherlock, his mind working.  He was not a genius, not like the Holmes boys, not even close.  But he was no fool, either, and if there was one thing he knew better than anything or anyone else… it was Sherlock Holmes.  Perhaps… the experiment had not been a total failure.  Perhaps it was simply not the outcome he’d expected.  He’d been trying to elicit a reaction from himself, and had failed in the wake of Sherlock’s sudden and outrageous petulance.  But he HAD gotten a reaction.  It was just from a different source.  After a few seconds of quiet contemplation, John settled down in the blankets once again, pushing the laptop aside and spooning his little body behind the lanky one.  A strong arm looped around, pinning Sherlock’s back to his chest, and John placed his palm over the great, beating heart.  And… there it was.  John’s body stirred, and the experiment was complete.  He exhaled, a little surprised to find that he was not more surprised.  He rested his cheek against Sherlock’s from behind, sighing softly.  “Tell me to go once more, and I’ll go.”

Sherlock gurgled again, his body immediately demanding that he grind back against the soft cock behind him.  John was just teasing him.  He knew it now.  John had figured out what the problem was, and now he was going to lord it over him.  Oh, Sherlock knew John wasn’t going to let him forget this!  He’d rubbed it in John’s face too many times for the little man to just leave him his dignity and go.  But he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of furthering his embarrassing predicament.  He wasn’t going to give John an inch!  The little bastard.  He could be so cruel sometimes without even realising it.  “I’ll get you back, you know.”  Sherlock finally snapped, pulling his knees up again, this time ready for the little surge of pleasure that went through him as the tops of his legs rubbed up against his almost painfully hard erection.  “I’ll find something on you that’s equally as embarrassing.  You know I will, so there’s no point in hanging around.  Just leave me to… relieve myself, and… keep quiet.”  The detective began to dig his fingernails into the soft fabric of his trousers, just to keep himself from rolling his hips experimentally.

"Is that what you think of me?" John asked quietly, his dry lips brushing Sherlock’s cheekbone.  He clutched the front of his chest, understanding exactly why Sherlock’s body gave a little jerk when his knees collided with his stomach, and loving him for it.  "Really, Sherlock… Is that what you think of me, after all this time?" He began to pet his chest, his thumb grazing him gently, and he sighed, disappointment colouring the warm breath that gushed over Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock, flustered, began to struggle again, but it wasn’t very effective.  His body had had enough, it was just ready to give in, consequences be damned.  “You’re ALWAYS teasing me!  Always!  And this is just… I know it’s too big for you to let escape!  Hell, I know even Lestrade would have a field day!”  The detective whined in desperation, the ache growing stronger with every second that passed.  And John was only making it worse by breathing on him, by… by… holding him like a lover.  Everyone loved making a fool of Sherlock when he stumbled over something.  It was inevitable that if he ever made a mistake around someone, that person would throw it in his face and never, ever let him forget it.  John was no different.  He still brought up that bloody constellation incident and laughed, even though he KNEW how much Sherlock hated to have his errors thrown in his face.

"This isn’t… a miscalculation." John’s voice was dropping by the second, until it was raspy, low, and sultry.  His lips now brushed up and down the curve of Sherlock’s ear, and his hand was beginning to slide lower, lighting over his flat stomach, rubbing comforting circles into his firm abdomen.  "And I’m not laughing. I’m not teasing.  If you want me to go, I’ll go.  But if you want me to stay…" The little hand dipped again, fingertips just glancing over the heated throb between Sherlock’s curled legs.  "I’ll stay."

Sherlock gasped, his body flying into action, rolling up in desperation, trying to find the pressure once more.  He shuddered as John’s mouth began to make a slow trail down his neck, lips dry and oddly stimulating.  It was just too much for the poor young man to bear.  He wanted so badly to just… rock against John.  To turn around and thrust his hips into the solid body behind him.  But his mind, his most powerful asset, faster and more reliable than a computer, held him back.  There was one more reason not to.  One more reason that was swiftly beginning to dissolve as John took this situation into his own hands.  “If you stay… things will change.”  Sherlock whispered, terrified.  “And then you might not be my friend anymore… and what if… what if you get bored, or you don’t like it.  You’ll leave.  I don’t want that to happen.”

"I’ll never leave you," came the whispered reply, more faint, because John was losing his breath. He was beginning to grind gently into his friend, and the sensations were wonderful, unfamiliar, sensational.  "Never, Sherlock, never, ever, ever. I’ll never leave you. I’ll never leave." His hand was shamelessly kneading the detective’s crotch now, and the feeling of the hard cock beneath his palm sent John’s blood boiling.  He rocked his own into the seat of Sherlock’s pyjamas, and groaned softly.  He gave him a gentle squeeze, exhaling.  "Never." His other arm slipped under Sherlock’s neck, and with precise care, John rolled him onto his back so that Sherlock’s head was cradled on John’s chest, and his hands had free reign.  John encouraged the lean thighs open, and with his right hand, he began to pet and stroke the virginal man, eyes trained on every shudder, every convulsion.

Filed under Johnlock Sherlock fic There are startings of porns in here Don't read if you hate Johnlock Don't read if you don't like sexxxxxx NSFW Johnlock porn

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snow-death:

BOW DOWN TO THE KING 

REBLOG IF YOU EVER SEE THE CREATOR OF TUMBLR .
Rule one: Reblog the creator.
Rule two: If you don’t blog the creator, get off of Tumblr
Rule three: It is impossible to ignore rule one so rule two is generally invalid.

snow-death:

BOW DOWN TO THE KING 

image

REBLOG IF YOU EVER SEE THE CREATOR OF TUMBLR .


Rule one: Reblog the creator.

Rule two: If you don’t blog the creator, get off of Tumblr

Rule three: It is impossible to ignore rule one so rule two is generally invalid.

(Source: wurnbo, via the-wishful-ginger)

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A More Permanent Solution

She stood behind, never seen, always felt.  The white dress she wore pooled around her pitch black feet, covering the ground like satin snow, trapping those around her.  There was no expression on her face, for how could a featureless face express any sort of emotion?   Often times she would glide through the room, moving through the walls – following, following, following, her head always turned toward the object of her obsession.  There were days when she seemed almost to fade into the shadows, but then there were days where she would step up right behind and wrap her obsidian arms around him, pressing her face to his neck as though to engulf him.  Those were bleak days.      He could not see her, but he could feel her.  There were times when the days would turn to weeks.  And no matter what he did, always, always she was there, black fingers tangling through his skull, spreading soot through his brain.  
    In the beginning he would call, he would shout.  He would beg her to leave him alone, but as the weeks turned to months, and the months to years it became obvious that she would not go.  He learned to live with her, and it was a functioning life, until one day he awoke to find her sitting on top of him.  As hard as he struggled he could not get out of bed.  All he could do was curl up and pull the sheets over his head, fingers biting into the palms of his hands as he silently pleaded with her to go.  She did not leave that day, nor the next.   By the third he had managed to crawl from the bed to the floor, struggling to stand up, for she was heavy on his back.  
    He began snapping at people, hissing and spitting like a wild animal, the pain and the weight so heavy upon his stooped back.  She had slid her fingers into the back of his head, wrapping them around his brain until all he could think of was her.  He could not see her, but she was there.  He could feel her breath on his neck.  Functioning turned to coping turned to barely existing.
    There were times when his heart would hurt, when she would plunge her arms into his chest and squeeze until it felt like the organ would burst.  He tried to explain it, tried to tell people why, but his words fell on dead ears.   They could not understand, and every time he tried it felt like she was laughing, though that was absurd - she had no face, no mouth with which to speak.
    When winter came she wore a cloak, a pure white garment that sparkled in the sun.  She would wrap it around him like a lover, as though trying to keep him warm.  Those were the days he could not feel a thing.  Those were the days he stared around the world with lifeless eyes.
    It got to a point where he could not remember a time without her, and when that happened lines began to appear on his arms, red and wickedly drawn across his once tanned skin.  After a while they grew in number, as though multiplying amongst themselves.  She raked her fingers across his wrists when he was alone, and it made the numbness evaporate, if only for a few precious seconds.  She would whisper in his ear, and he would lie there, letting it wash over him.  
   He could see her now, but in return he could feel nothing.  Not even the crush of fingers on his soul.  It was black, and bleak, and oh, so lonely.  He cried and screamed, but nothing happened.  Nothing ever happened.

She no longer stood behind him, now.  Instead her shadow loomed over him, engulfing him.  He could see nothing ahead but her.   He slept more and ate less.  Cried more and laughed less.  He could see nothing but the white dress, so white it blinded him.   She was as plain as day now, her black, featureless face.
 

When winter left so did he.

Not even she could follow where he went.

All it took was a leap to be free.

One leap to a more permanent solution.

Filed under original short story flash fiction random shit awww yeah