Author: Ella Jane (roquentine)
Word Count: ~1600
A/N: I stayed in a hotel room in Baltimore, banged my foot on something, and a fic was born. Pour a cocktail, it's a mood piece. Dedicated to my Sister Fitches with love and admiration. I bow down to your awesomeness.
PSA: Not everyone grooves on light text with a dark background. Click here to read the entry in your own LJ format.
* * *
They’re finished, but he cannot separate, not yet. It’s all breathing, and scent, and salt.
He swears there’s something rising from the skin, something measurable, but invisible. Because it’s magnetic, physically magnetic, the attraction between his mouth and the top of John’s shoulder. He moves his lips over it. Not kissing, exactly. He’s not pulling at the flesh. He just breathes in, closes his mouth over one spot, then adjusts his lips a fraction of an inch, and starts all over again. And again. And again...
Occasionally he laps at the skin, tastes it, and it feels like a luxury, an indulgent gift, something he can’t allow himself too often or he won’t come back from it. A stroke of his tongue along John’s collarbone, then he rubs his mouth over it, licking his lips indirectly, savoring the salt, and the indescribable note beneath that exists nowhere else on earth.
He moves up, mouthing over the carotid artery, and leaves his lips pressed open against John’s heartbeat for several seconds, breathing in the rhythmic pressure of pumping blood. He runs a flat tongue up the pulsating skin, and he can almost taste the tang of iron underneath.
Minutes pass, although he isn’t thinking about time, time means nothing. He could spend hours doing this. He could do just this for the rest of his life.
His hands are tucked under John’s arms, pressed flat against the glass, and occasionally he adjusts his balance, but he doesn’t pay attention to any other sensory input. He’s vaguely aware of John’s fingertips drawing aimless paths over his sweat-slicked back, but he doesn’t focus on it. He also doesn’t register any effect this might be having on John. He’s not doing this for John.
He’s moved to the rough flesh under John’s chin, relishing the curves of his neck. He brushes his lips along the edge of the Adam’s apple, barely hearing John’s head lean back and bump the window. He touches the tip of his tongue to the hollow of John’s throat, without pressure, so, so slowly, and feels John’s quiet moan vibrate against his mouth.
A part of his brain sparks with the realization that, after all this time, he still has an entire shoulder to cover, a shoulder with a brilliant, life-affirming scar, offering up an entirely different palette of tastes and textures, and he exhales with excitement.
* * *
They discovered it sort of by accident. A metal riser, all along the bottom of the floor-to-ceiling window in their 19th floor hotel room. Covering a heating vent, or something, six inches off the floor and about as deep. They had moved into the room without turning on a light, wrecked with adrenaline and need, mouths fused together and hands pulling blindly at clothing, stumbling into fixtures and not caring. Then John had shoved Sherlock up against the window, and Sherlock had banged the back of his heel into it, at first cursing its presence, but then, in a flash, seeing its possibilities.
Whatever clothing they had left was shed in an instant, and Sherlock backed John into the window this time, whispering one word into his mouth in between hard, greedy kisses: “Up.”
And so John stepped on the riser, and Sherlock sucked in a breath at the change in their usual height differential. Now face to face, Sherlock wrapped his hands around John’s head, pressed him into the glass, and kissed him as though he’d never kissed anyone before in his life.
John gasped into Sherlock’s mouth -- it was December, and a window 19 floors up is cold -- and his back arched reflexively, his stomach meeting Sherlock’s ribcage for a second before Sherlock pushed against him, pressing his back once again against the glass, now at least warming a little from his own body heat.
If John’s mouth weren’t so fully engaged, he may have managed a small smile, imagining what he must look like, flattened against a floor-to-ceiling window, absolutely naked. They hadn’t turned a light on in the room, but still, he could only hope they were too high up for anyone in the harbor below to see what was happening.
The new angle, or lack of it, felt unusual to John too. He was so used to leaning up to kiss Sherlock that he didn’t even think about it anymore, so this was new, and strange, and quite brilliant. He wondered why they had never thought to try this at home. They’d stopped to kiss on steps before, but then he was too high, and had to lean down. Now, they were exactly even, and it felt amazing.
“John...” Sherlock breathed desperately, seemingly unable to decide whether talking was worth having to stop kissing, even for a second. “John...” kiss.... “Please...” kiss... “Turn around...” kiss...
The image caught fire in John’s head and he groaned into Sherlock’s mouth, then gripped his upper arms and pushed him back, holding him at arm’s length. He suddenly needed to see him, to see what this looked like, this blinding, deafening need rocketing between them. His eyes blazed as he stared at Sherlock for a full second, then another, both of them gasping for breath, mouths open, Sherlock’s face lit only by the faint glow of night from the other side of the window, and John’s desire kicked at heights he never thought possible.
So he stepped down, turned around, and stepped back up. He rested his forehead against the cool glass, pressing his hands flat against it at the height of his shoulders, and focused on his breathing as he stared almost unseeingly out over the water and listened to Sherlock dig through jeans pockets.
Then, finally, he felt Sherlock at his back, and closed his eyes. Sherlock moved into him then, but much, much too slowly. John very nearly whined, desperate for pressure, for contact, but then he felt Sherlock’s mouth settle at the base of his neck, sucking gently at the flesh, at the same moment Sherlock’s hard cock brushed against his backside.
John gasped, and the glass in front of his mouth fogged over. He felt gooseflesh prickle up on his arms and back that had nothing to do with the chill of the window. “Please,” he whispered, his breath catching so hard that it took multiple attempts to form the consonants.
He heard the container of lube snap open and took a deep breath, trying to keep still, anticipating contact somewhere near a very particular area of his body.
Instead, two cold, lubed fingertips suddenly replaced the warm mouth at the back of his neck. John gave a strangled cry as they made their way slowly down his spine, his body jerking wildly at the sensation, and he winced at the uncomfortable position of his own erection, rubbing awkwardly between the glass and his abdomen, countering the sheer pleasure vibrating every cell of his body. His hands were starting to become slick with sweat, and he slapped at the glass, searching for friction.
“God, Sherlock, please...” He couldn’t form any other words. The need was becoming absolutely unbearable, and John felt as though he might well and truly fly apart.
When Sherlock reached the bottom of John’s spine, he rewet his fingers and slid one, then two, slowly inside. John mindlessly banged the glass with his fist as Sherlock’s long fingers worked to bring his focus back from beyond, sharp and here and now. John concentrated on his breath, in and out, until Sherlock finally withdrew his hand, slicked himself up, and entered him.
And then John stopped breathing altogether.
He heard Sherlock groan behind him as he slid all the way in, felt his breath on the back of his neck and the long, lean body flush against his. Pressed against the glass, he was completely surrounded in one way, totally exposed in another, and it became more than he could process. His mind seemed to go blank, drowning in the moment, until the lack of oxygen became an issue and his need sharpened to a point.
“Fuck, Sherlock, I can’t... please.... fuck me...”
And so Sherlock started to move. Slowly, at first, just barely withdrawing, like he didn’t want to be pulling any part of himself away from John. But gradually, so very gradually, he increased the pace, and force, as though he too had surrendered to his need, and conscious thought no longer played a part in the movements of his body.
John imagined for an instant smashing through the window, even though he knew they couldn’t, then he realized he didn’t care if that happened, couldn’t possibly care if anyone could see in, didn’t even care that his own cock throbbed uncomfortably against the glass with every one of Sherlock’s thrusts. He didn’t care about any of it. He never wanted to be anywhere else, doing anything with anyone else, ever, ever again.
So, for as long as he could, John balanced precariously on that razor-thin line between pleasure and pain as Sherlock slammed him into the window. He never wanted it to end, not ever, but even he couldn’t control the demands of his body. He came hard and messy between the glass and his stomach, and didn’t even try to reign in his full-throated yell as Sherlock pounded his way to his own release.
And then they came down, and stood there, enveloped in each other, John’s cheek sliding against the window, Sherlock’s head bowed on John’s shoulder, and they existed, there, then, together.
* * *
After a time, reality creeped in. John gently pushed back at Sherlock, attempting to separate himself from a window now coated in an array of fluid. At first Sherlock didn’t let him move, seemingly unable to lift his head from where it had collapsed. Finally, he pulled up, giving John just enough room to turn around, before capturing his mouth and shifting him, one more time, back against the smeared glass.
Sherlock broke the kiss and pressed his forehead into John’s. A few moments passed.
“Not yet,” he whispered.
“Okay,” John replied.
They kissed again, softer this time, unhurried. Then Sherlock lowered his mouth to John’s shoulder.
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