[ The halting movements might generally be annoying to John, who has had everything from clumsy to articulate, but hardly every hesitant. This time, however, he feels on edge and touch-starved, enough that any brush of skin against skin has his own hands twitching. He lets Sherlock have his mouth, and it's far enough along by now that John doesn't mind reminding him that he's not so perfectly polite all the time. He sucks on that tongue.
He has no other choice but to breathe when Sherlock pulls back. Good, too, because he was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded. The sound of his name gets the next inhale to come quicker, to earn a response that's certainly pitched deeper than his normal timbre. ]
Yes.
[ He doesn't know what he's promising, but he means it. His eyes open briefly, half-mast and silently savoring the other's expression. Sherlock is... gorgeously debauched, open, fragile, almost human. John loves him.
Soon enough (perhaps later today), Sherlock will say something insensitive and John will be annoyed; he'll continue to be a perfect storm of imperviousness and John will follow behind him, tutting and sweeping aside the damage that he can. Because John will remember moments like this, the flashes of humor, of passion, of vulnerability - of good. They are rare, but he's thankful for every one of them, because sometimes, like now, he feels like he's earned them.
He's not lying to himself anymore - he could try to take this a step further and he'd be alright with it. His body is warm and shaky with an arousal that can be indulged, could be fanned to flame. It's been so long. He could probably push; Sherlock trusts him, and John would be willing to bet that pleasing a man would not be half as difficult as pleasing a woman. Not with how attentive he'd be. Any other time, any other person, and John would be sliding his hand up a shirt right now, testing his boundaries. However, there's something in him telling him not to be greedy, to savor what has been more than enough, more than he ever could expect. John respects it.
Tilting his head after he's somewhat caught his breath, he presses more kisses to Sherlock's lips, each one slow and almost aching, reverent. Three in total, each succeeding pressure more shallow than the last. It's thank you and goodbye. When John pulls back properly, he misses it immediately.
But he's sucking in a slow breath, trying to gather himself back in and beginning to unwind himself from the other man. ]
Ready?
[ He inquires softly, hands just barely brushing Sherlock's sides now. He doesn't have any doubt that the door will open now. ]
no subject
He has no other choice but to breathe when Sherlock pulls back. Good, too, because he was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded. The sound of his name gets the next inhale to come quicker, to earn a response that's certainly pitched deeper than his normal timbre. ]
Yes.
[ He doesn't know what he's promising, but he means it. His eyes open briefly, half-mast and silently savoring the other's expression. Sherlock is... gorgeously debauched, open, fragile, almost human. John loves him.
Soon enough (perhaps later today), Sherlock will say something insensitive and John will be annoyed; he'll continue to be a perfect storm of imperviousness and John will follow behind him, tutting and sweeping aside the damage that he can. Because John will remember moments like this, the flashes of humor, of passion, of vulnerability - of good. They are rare, but he's thankful for every one of them, because sometimes, like now, he feels like he's earned them.
He's not lying to himself anymore - he could try to take this a step further and he'd be alright with it. His body is warm and shaky with an arousal that can be indulged, could be fanned to flame. It's been so long. He could probably push; Sherlock trusts him, and John would be willing to bet that pleasing a man would not be half as difficult as pleasing a woman. Not with how attentive he'd be. Any other time, any other person, and John would be sliding his hand up a shirt right now, testing his boundaries. However, there's something in him telling him not to be greedy, to savor what has been more than enough, more than he ever could expect. John respects it.
Tilting his head after he's somewhat caught his breath, he presses more kisses to Sherlock's lips, each one slow and almost aching, reverent. Three in total, each succeeding pressure more shallow than the last. It's thank you and goodbye. When John pulls back properly, he misses it immediately.
But he's sucking in a slow breath, trying to gather himself back in and beginning to unwind himself from the other man. ]
Ready?
[ He inquires softly, hands just barely brushing Sherlock's sides now. He doesn't have any doubt that the door will open now. ]