whatofthewarts | (no subject)

He's still wild and unguarded, and arching for him with the most shocked little sound, like no one has ever touched him purely for pleasure.

He rests the more painful of his cheeks against the floor, weight of his head heavy on what is rapidly darkening into an ugly bruise.

Holmes ticks off the physical symptoms of arousal he is experiencing, an entire checklist full of them. And yet when it comes down to what he ought to do about it, he isn't sure what the outcome will be.

Nor is he sure how, exactly, to go about it. Not with Sherlock, who is far more difficult to predict or manipulate than he would have expected. He proceeds with care, lower and lower, until the palms of his hands can run over Sherlock's hips, to cup his ass, to massage the backs of his thighs. That was an area Sherlock had mentioned, he recalls, but he's sure Sherlock hadn't meant like this.

"Why are you doing this?"

He asks, dazed and frightfully needy, somehow, as though he's wanted-

"Because it's what you need, now. And I have never done this before. Only in theory..."

Yes, yes, those are all good, logical reasons. They have nothing much to do with how warm Holmes's hands have become, how when he gropes Sherlock it's not clinical at all anymore.

"I need you."

He tells him.

"That doesn't mean you have to be gentle."

His voice is deep and low now, turning slowly into treacle.

"Well, in that case..."

He stands up, and kicks him--very lightly, compared to before, but with all the bruises it's not a kind gesture.

"Roll over."

He begins undressing, and he tosses his clothes onto the ground to serve as a very hasty protection from the stone floor.

He rolls over for him right away- and his body is coming in with colourful patches. He'll be a right misery tomorrow, but still manages to be a faintly beautiful trainwreck right now, with a faint smear of blood along his lip. The inside of his cheek had cut on his teeth, it spreads when he licks his bottom lip now.

He takes in Holmes' nudity, eyes very dazed.

"We are terribly self-involved, aren't we."

He is never self-conscious when nude...except, it seems, for now, when someone whose opinion matters will be sizing him up.

No matter. He settles down again, trying to appear as if he has any idea what he's going to do next.

Fortunately, he has Sherlock's impetuousness, self-loathing and rapidly growing fondness of degradation and filth to help steer.

He's on him in a second, before he can come all the way to the floor, stilling him, missing, nuzzling hip, then crotch, still sprawled between his slightly spread stance, but eager about it now. He tries to remember what he knows about sexual mores of this era, suspects sucking cock isn't in vogue.

No, it isn't, at least not in Holmes's personal life and limited social circles. He knows what it is, of course; he does speak often with prostitutes. But still, when Sherlock's warm, bruised face is just there, Holmes can't help but gasp an, "Oh!"

He uses a hand on his thigh to scramble, arch upwards and take him in his mouth, still sitting. The angle pulls him downwards, somewhat- he really ought to kneel. But it's awkward anyways, and inexperienced and rash.

He hisses at the touch of teeth; it's unavoidable when they're trying so frantically to get situated. But he strokes Sherlock's hair back, and as strange as it is to see your cock in someone's mouth, it's impossible not to be drawn in by those keen blue eyes.

"Keep going."

All he can manage are two words.

He pulls back after a moment, shaking his head, panting. It's too- uncoordinated, too difficult. His mouth is swollen and red.

Ah...yes, of course. He feels a jolt when he realizes that he hadn't thought of what trouble that would cause, at all. (And he tries to remember the last time he did this, but the simple fact is he's never lain with a man. Nor has he had oral sex, from anyone, ever.)

But between the two of them they must have the booksmarts of more than half the population. And so he does know one thing.

"Whatever we decide, we will need lubrication of some sort."

Whether they use hands, or...go another route...

"I don't know that I have anything."

He almost whispers, voice hoarse with desire.

"I've never-"

"Unfortunately, neither have I."

And he's certainly not going to leave to find something. He settles on the very hard floor, confident again.

"We will get creative."

He draws his knees up to his chest, less so.

"I don't like that much pain."

He does, but he doesn't really know it.

"The beauty of being a living creature is that you have a number of ways of telling me when 'that' much is 'too' much."

The floor is cold, and it makes it very difficult to stay aroused.

"Lie back. I wish to test a theory."

"You'll listen?"

Sprawling out for him, apparently unperturbed by the cold. It hurts a little, which honestly helps.

"Most certainly."

For this.

He gets up briefly and looks around until he finds a common emollient jelly, used sometimes to help in removing rings or washers in plumbing. He puts a little in the palm of his hand, and begins stroking Sherlock's length firmly. He doesn't build up to anything--just immediately goes as fiercely as he had with everything else.

He cries out in response, surging under him, as sensitive to this as he has been to everything else, instantly harder under his touch.

He keeps it up, although the pace he's going has his arm burning before long. And Holmes is not a man who could be considered out of shape.

He screams, arches, and comes hard, dotting his chest, his throat, with white.

"As I thought. Vegetable emollient works perfect well as this sort of lubricant."

For anything more strenuous, he's...really not sure.

"Do you want me to roll over?"

He offers, trembling, trying to do so.