#But always framed as if he's deviously clever

[kaaragen]

Thrawn: And so, Ahsoka Tano has fallen into our trap.

Morgan: Do you mean, because they're all congregated in one area so we can bombard them with turbo lasers until they're all dead?

Thrawn: No, because she has lost the most precious commodity to her. [Smiles in a way that suggests this will be a grand revelation] Time.

Morgan:...But...but she has her starfighter...that you just told our fighters to stop shooting...how can...it has a top speed of one-thousand two-hundred kilometres an hour! She could be here in minutes!

[akwelvhi]

Liebling

(Bonn, Germany - 10 years on)

Category: 007 Games 2017

For the end of Fluff Week !!! Also for Fluff table prompt - Holiday & Anniversary (free space prompt)

-

The trip was long overdue. James had intended to whisk Q away on their 10th anniversary, even prepared a clever poem to go with the bouquet he had ordered. But alas, his carefully arranged words on binary and commemorations had to be delayed.

As a retired double oh, James found himself often being called up on sudden stand-by duties when M had this urgent meeting or that important gala to attend. Q having to oversee several double oh’s, whose missions all happened to coincide on that particular date, didn’t help either.

The moment they were cleared for leave, James whisked them straight to the airport from MI6. He had everything packed and ready, and even though he was in his fifties he was still quicker on his feet than a sleep deprived quartermaster.

Having landed in Germany just that morning, and checked into a hotel that was utterly indulgent. James accidentally let slip that he had a special date planned for the next day. Q spent much of the afternoon wheedling James for information, which eventually lead to their writhing bare bodies on the balcony lounge.

They managed to tear apart long enough to check out the pool-bar, confusing the poor german patrons when their bickering was followed by heated kisses. James swept Q back to their room where they didn’t even make it to the bed. Still half dressed and spent on the bedroom floor, the darker hues of the setting sun painted quite the picture of them and their tangled limbs.

Dinner was a sweet candle lit affair in the privacy of their bedroom. Which meant more wheedling from Q who hadn’t managed to get a peep out of James. Dessert provided the perfect cover for James to evade said questions, followed by a particularly overzealous bout of sex which had Q falling asleep promptly after.

Smug that he still had it in him, James made a few phone calls, before curling up around his lover for the night.

-

“Technically, it’s just a weekend trip.” James sighed, the sides of his eyes crinkling at Q’s petulant look. Their debate - if the present trip should be called a holiday or a weekend getaway.

“Holiday.” Q repeated, quite adamantly. “Four full days - and I trust R to not call me - I’m definitely calling this a holiday.”

“Is she ready to step down an alphabet then?” James steered. 

“We’ll see won’t we?” Q smirked, appearing very smug about something. James bumped Q against his hip, chuckling as Q huffed indignantly and looped an arm around the retired agent’s waist. Falling back to their comfortable banter as they walked on.

“Where are you taking me?” Q asked curiously, after several minutes of walking with no sight of the cafe James had mentioned.

“You’ll see.” James grinned as he led them to turn the corner, onto the street he had specifically picked out for this.

“Oh, James.” Q sighed, stopping right there on the sidewalk as he stared upwards. 

The dark wood of the tall trees stretched out on both sides of the whole street, their branches stretching across, heavy with pink blossoms. In full bloom, the cherry blossoms stretched like a canopy, shading cars and cafes alike.

Q seemed content to stand and stare, with his hand against the small of Q’s back, James led him towards the cafe. They had a table reserved for them, with a full view of the blossoms. Not an easy feat considering the holiday peak season. But totally worth it as he found himself on the receiving end of one of Q’s rare simpering smiles. James lips still tingled with the long kiss Q had given him, not bothering to reign in the pure delight shining in his eyes.

Heartened by the gorgeous ambiance, and a perfect cup of tea, Q turned positively charming. Their usual snark filled banter gave way for warm exchanges that was downright sappy, but they were both enjoying it too much to care. With his dark curls tousled in the passing breeze, looking relaxed and positively radiant. James found it hard not to fall all over again for the quartermaster.

His gaze lingered over Q, his thick curls messy as always, pale complexion void of any spots, and a jawline that appeared sharper with age. James once had pointed out how he was way past his prime while Q was on the cusp of his. Q had laughed, then proceeded to challenge James to a showdown of optimal performance.

The years were kinder on Q than they were on James. Ten, glorious, years it had been. James often feels a wonder with how, at more than half a century, he’d be this content and settled. Not only alive, but with a heart so full, that all his little broken pieces never mattered.

“I planted a neat little bug in our systems.” Q stated suddenly, sipping his tea as he gazed up at the blossoms hanging overhead. 

James blinked, his brain grappling to change gears from the beauty his eyes was feasting on, and any possible insects that may be afloat. Barking out a laugh when he caught on to what Q meant.

“They haven’t called you yet?” James asked, amused at the gleeful look overcoming Q’s features.

“No,” Q hummed thoughtfully, “but I did get a text from R, who’s quite insistent I enjoy my holiday.”

“And have you enjoyed yourself, Liebling.” James asked, loving how a simple german endearment could tease a blush from a 40-year old man.

“I have, very much indeed.” Q smiled warmly as he met James’s eye. The thought of what he had planned for later must have given him away. After so many years, Q caught on to even the slightest of tells.

“Somehow it feels like you’re buttering me up for something?” Q sighed - fond - despite the suspicious narrow of his eyes. James had been absolutely obliging the entire trip.

“Nothing you won’t like, Liebling.“ James smirked back. “Nothing you won’t like.”

“Honestly James, did you really have to go through all this trouble?” Q groused as they got into bed that evening. The oak poster bed had a subtle elegance, none of those heavy drapes, but sturdy enough for the silk ropes James had coiled beautifully on the overhead frame.

Ropes and bindings were something James liked very much, but Q not so. Only because he bruised so easily, and they usually left him feeling quite stiff the morning after. He needed his arms supple for the demands of his everyday job. Not achy, even if they ached in a pleasant way.

However, with nothing planned for the next day, except their evening flight back. The thought of that delightful ache, and an indulgent day spent in bed had Q’s heart racing in anticipation. It took some restraint to not strip too quickly the moment he saw James lay those silken thick coils on the bed.

“Really.” Q deadpanned, expression carefully uninterested. Yet leaning comfortably atop the thousand thread count sheets, completely naked, and very interested.

“Of course.” James replied charmingly. His thumb going over Q’s knuckles soothingly, as his lips ghosted over an earlobe.

Q’s eyes fluttered shut, letting his head fall back as he breathed deeply. James hands closing firmly around slender wrists, slowly raising them up. Deftly looping the overhanging ropes to suspend Q’s wrists in a tight hold above his head.

“Relax.” James deep voice rumbling against Q’s neck, pliantly tilted to give the man more room. Q tested the strength of the bonds on his wrists, arching his back to feel its pull as he felt the smooth material against his thigh. With his leg folded, calf to thigh, James soon had Q’s ankle bounded just below the curve of his buttock. James nipped at an inner thigh, earning a shuddering breath from the man below him. Leaving a trail of red marks back up to that lovely unmarked skin of his lover’s clavicle. Before sucking larger marks onto Q’s shoulders and neck.

“James.” Q gasped, hazel green eyes looking pleadingly to James. For what, he himself wasn’t sure.

“Relax, Liebling.” James smiled deviously, inciting a shiver in the body beneath his. “I’ll take care of you.”  

Blue eyes lit up, when Q blinked slowly with the barest nod, breathing deeply again. Surrender had never felt so good.

-

172-22415-D162-PF

[snowbellewells]

Looking for a Heart (that’s not walking away)  ~ Epilogue

(Well folks, this has taken way longer than I had hoped.  But here it is at last!  The concluding chapter of my first attempt at longer ouat piece not centered on CS.  It was certainly a challenge, but I’m sorry to see it end too.  The whole story can be found on ff.net as well, under my user name there: TutorGirlml.)

epilogue: no longer ships in the night

~eight months later~

           A light breeze on the placid, sunlit June morning comes in the opened windows of Storybrooke’s library, as Belle has opened them all to air the stuffy old building which sometimes takes on a bit of a musty smell along with the alluring scent of ancient pages.  It has never bothered the librarian, reminding her more of adventures yet to be taken, but she knows it can be a bit off-putting for most, as it can even tickle her nose a bit from time to time.

           Liam had helped her push them all up to let in the morning air before he left for the docks that morning in the early pre-dawn light.  The gentle gusts had ruffled her hair as she looked up into his rugged face, her word of thanks for helping with the corner frame that always sticks catching in her throat as he touched her face to brush off a flyaway strand, complete awe and adoration on his features, and she nearly forgot how to breathe.  Tucking the auburn lock delicately behind her ear, his fingers had lingered and she’d bitten her lip, shiver running through her, and she suddenly didn’t want him to go even as far as the water today, wanted to lock everyone else out, hold him close, and never let go.

           “There you are, Lass,” his warm voice, low and deep, had prolonged the shudders in her stomach.  He seemed hesitant to leave as well, even if he would return on his lunch hour as he often did; often stretching it to an hour and a half or ever two, and no one in town seems inclined to complain, or even notice.  If they spend that extra half hour in a far back corner like two lovestruck miscreant teenagers, his pleasantly solid weight pressed against her while she leaned back against the shelf of outdated encyclopedias no one ever looked at anymore… well, Belle smiles, deviously pleased with herself, that’s their little secret.

           Now, however, at half past noon, he is back with her and his lunch isn’t yet over. Liam doesn’t need to leave for another half hour at least, and he has joined her in re-shelving books the town’s residents have finished and returned. She is up on the ladder, sliding her beloved tales back into their places in the stacks, while Liam follows along with the cart, handing them up to her and – she knows – staying at the ready if she would reach too far, lose her balance, or risk falling in any way. She shakes her head slightly, knowing it’s a slim chance any such thing would happen – she’s been up and down ladders in libraries as long as she’s been able to walk – but she can’t help the touched, affectionate chuckle to herself. Liam’s protective streak a mile wide is just one of the many things she loves about him.  

           As if sensing her mother’s happy mood, Belle’s daughter chortles happily from her bassinet in the corner, waving her chubby little hands gleefully at the two of them and jabbering in her own cheery baby language.  

           “Is that so, Little Lass?” Liam calls over good naturedly, causing Mina Collette to squeal in delight at the sound of her favorite voice after her mother’s.

           Belle smiles at both of them from her perch; a few short months ago, she could never have imagined the scene before her.  It had seemed nearly impossible to have things work out this way – with nearly all her girlish hopes for a home and family of her own come true. Liam has turned out to be a doting surrogate father; she amends even that with a quick glance down at the glittering ring on her finger and a flush comes to her cheeks; he is soon to be father in name and law as well.  He is completely wrapped around the infant’s finger, and could not love Mina any more if she were actually from his own flesh and blood.  Belle can’t help but think that this is just another way her literature-inspired name suits her little girl.  Just as Mina Harker had inspired the devoted protection and chivalry of an entire team of men in Bram Stoker’s classic, her daughter seems to have done much the same in Liam, Killian, Henry, and almost anyone else she comes into contact with.  Belle had chosen the name for one of the first bravely self-possessed and intelligent female heroines in Victorian writing, hoping her daughter would be as stalwart and true in whatever she might face, with the middle name a tribute to her own beloved and long lost mother.  However, she has found that the second fit is amusingly apt as well.

           At any rate, this brilliant, noble, giving man, who laid down whatever childhood  he could have had in indentured servitude to try to be father, example, and only family to his younger brother could well have been lost here in this modern world – a man out of time, purposeless, drifting.  Instead, he has found his place, and quite possibly a sense of belonging, fulfillment, and happiness he never would have in his own.  Watching him now as he meanders over to peer down at Mina, whispering sweet gibberish to her and entertaining her with funny faces, Belle’s whole chest swells full enough to feel as if it may burst with love and pride for him.

           It hadn’t taken long, once things finally settled down with Rumple’s defeat, for them to set Liam up as Storybrooke’s harbormaster, monitoring the comings and goings from the town’s small port, making sure fishermen, pleasure boats, and all are lawfully satisfied and co-existing safely, as well as keeping the docks clean and well cared for.  The question of why the coastal town didn’t already have such a person had led to Killian’s shamefaced explanation of Cora turning the last one into a fish when they had first arrived on his ship some years back, when he had still been a villain and in cahoots with her, looking on without protest.  That poor man had actually been easily found once they knew – most large fish don’t linger right at the surface looking up at folks on the dock as if they want to be scooped out – and put back to rights, but he understandably wanted no part of his former position.  Liam is good at the job, naturally suited for it as well as possessing experience, plus he loves it and finds fulfillment there – as he does with she and Mina – but Belle would never begrudge him the exhilaration on his face, the twinkle in his eyes and the windswept hair when he returns from a day on the water.  It does her heart good to see him so satisfied.

           Liam has just glanced back to her, a mischievous quirk to his smile that make her nerve endings tingle just knowing he is about to cross the room in those ground-eating long strides and sweep her into his arms for a kiss, just like the dashing gallant men in her books whom she has dreamed of since she was a young girl. Her handsome hero found her at last. Her sailor has taken his first step toward her ladder perch when they hear the library’s main door open.  They smile at each other wryly, knowing just how Emma and Killian have felt for so long, always being interrupted, the sparkle of ‘later’ a promise in both of their eyes when they hear Henry call out a greeting a moment before he appears around the corner of the stacks.  

           “Hey Grandma!” he greets playfully, though she will soon be his aunt. “Uncle Liam,” he adds with a happy bob of his head.  Mina squeals with glee from her spot at the sound of Henry’s voice, equating it with bottles and stories the young man has been only to happy to provide while Belle feeds her many evenings after whole family dinners.

           Henry grins, blushing with pride in an endearing way at the babe’s recognition of him, and both Liam and Belle look on the sweet scene with love as the teen moves over to greet his young cousin, leaning over to the edge of her crib to speak with her and dangling his fingers for her to grab.  Clearly, he has come on a mission though, because once Mina has settled a bit, cooing occasionally still but calm, Henry turns back to them and steps forward, and a question clearly on his mind.

           “So,” he opens tentatively, looking from one to the other’s expectant face and then plunging on, “Violet’s birthday is next week, and I want to give her something she’ll really enjoy, and something she’ll know is from me.  I’m just not sure what.  If I ask Killian, he’ll give me too dramatic, grand gesture ideas – things I can’t pull off – and neither of my moms want us getting too serious for our age, whatever that means, so they’ll just suggest something nice but generic!” He looked up, his brow wrinkled as if personally offended by that last bit.  “She’s special,” he concludes after a short pause, “not every girl would understand all the crazy that comes with this family.  Anyway… I was hoping maybe you two would have some ideas.”

           “Well,” Liam ponders, smiling down at Henry paternally, a hand to his shoulder for a moment.  “We’re honored, aren’t we, Darling?”

           “Of course,” Belle agrees happily, her clever eyes sparkling in such a way that it’s clear she is already thinking on his request and simply bursting with ideas. Giving Liam a swift, silent glance; the two of them seem so in tune as to exchange a bit of conversation without speaking aloud at all.

           He nods his assent, and then looks back to his nephew, offering. “Well, Lad, you want something that says it’s from you and speaks of your connection, things the two of you have shared… What about a book?  You are the Author after all.  You met Violet in a land straight out of storybook and legend, and it is my understanding the two of you made quite a journey to a faraway city to see another library much larger than this one.  Perhaps the written word would be the most fitting symbol?”

           Belle nods vigorously, clearly full of suggestions if he seems interested. “Oh yes, Henry!  Books make the best gifts!”  She gestures a bit too excitedly causing the ladder to sway, and Liam to quickly steady it with his large hands.

           “Easy there, Lass!” he says with doting, humored affection.

           Henry shakes his head at them, both at the suggestion he should have seen coming, and at the fact that they are becoming almost as sickeningly sweet as his mom and Killian.  This makes sense, but there are so many books to choose from – so many stories – and Violet has been so understanding, so patient and supportive through so much craziness.  He really wants this gift to say thank you, to be just right for her and show her how special she is – just how very much she means to him.  Tilting his head slightly in thought, he offers, “Okay, a book does seem right, I’ll admit, but which one?”

           Liam speaks up first, “I’ve always found tales of adventure and valor to be the most gripping reads, especially if set at sea, but perhaps those aren’t the most suited to courtship or a young lady’s interests…”

           “Depends on the young lady,” Belle counters with an arched brow from her perch, making Henry snort a surprised guffaw at her quick comeback.  

           Liam merely nods to his love in deference, “Point taken. What about poetry?” he asks Henry.  “Do women not still love Shakespeare’s sonnets or the other blokes with romantic verse…um, Keats?  Or Browning, maybe?”

           Belle thinks for a moment.  “Browning is lovely,” she muses, “but isn’t poetry a bit predictable?  Too obvious?”

           Liam is the one who snorts this time, shaking his head at them both. “Predictable?” he challenges, “or popular because it works?”

           “Fair enough,” Belle concedes, grinning at his antics and thinking once more that now she knows the older brother and role model, her friend Killian’s quick-witted banter, his sense of humor, and his gentlemanly manner, and his caring nature all make perfect sense.  Still, after a moment beaming at him, she turns to Henry once more.  “Poetry wouldn’t be a bad choice, Henry.  But, I have another idea.  Violet strikes me as not being too fussy – despite the time and place she hails from.  I can’t help but think she would enjoy a bit of adventure and humor with her love stories.” She tilts her head in consideration then stretches far enough off to her left that Liam jumps to counteract the motion from below, overprotective but determined to be there if she would fall. However, this time the petite librarian manages without mishap, straightening up with a small, gilt-edged red leather-bound book.  “What if you tried your mom’s favorite?”

           Henry looks puzzled for a moment, then flushes as Belle hands the tome she has laid hold of to him and he glimpses the title.  “The Princess Bride…Oh, like the movie?” he asks, “Did they make it from this book? Mom did just have Killian watch this at our last movie night!”

           The young Author opens the book curiously and begins to leaf through the open pages, reading passages.  “How’d you know this was Mom’s favorite?” he asks after a few minutes.

           “She told me once,” Belle says.  “That, and she checked it out several times in the first couple of years she was here in town…said she’d loved it since she was your age.  Tell you what,” Belle says, “You keep that – regardless.  The library could stand to have a more recent printing anyway.”

           “Thanks!” Henry exclaims brightly, smile wide as he looks to her and Liam. “You guys were a lot of help.  I do think Violet will like this!”

           He talks with them a few more minutes, but before long Henry is bidding his goodbyes and heading on.  Belle smiles after him, and then turns to see Liam doing the same, looking after the young man with genuine affection.  

           Belle reaches out to take his hand in hers, smiling up at him, just marveling at the genuine, sensitive caring he has for all those he loves, and as he gazes back at her, she marvels at the openness in his eyes – no secrets or holding back.  He wants to let her in, to share a life in which she has an equal part, and she cannot help but lift his palm to her lips and kiss it in this moment.  This love is so different from what she’d grown used to, and she is grateful for that.

           “What is it, Lass?” Liam asks softly, a gentle smile on his face at her action and the soft smile she is directing at him. When she pulls back from the kiss to his hand, he simply pulls their joined ones to press over his heart.

           She merely shrugs at him easily.  “You’re pretty wonderful, Captain Jones.  That’s all.  You know that, don’t you?”

           He shakes his head and flushes red, making him even more adorable, “If I’m wonderful, which I am not so sure about, Love.  It is only because you have given me a way to show it.”

~~~~~ 000000 ~~~~~

           That night finds them relaxed at home on the long, cushy couch they have put in the corner of Mina’s nursery, for nights like this when they want to relax together but still want to watch over their little girl a bit longer. Mina Collette herself has been asleep for at least an hour, her lovely long eyelashes fluttering gently against her cheeks as she dreams of whatever sweet and innocent things are viewed in infant slumber.  Not a sound but the occasional small snuffle or peaceful little sigh comes from the crib.

           Belle and Liam revel in the quiet of the moonlit shadows around the room, a lovely calm settling over the space – allowing them to relax and simply be. After some coaxing, Liam has stretched out on the couch, his head resting in his love’s lap, stretching the knee that had been twisted slightly when some crates took a tumble and he dove to catch them – once he had returned to work at the docks that afternoon.  It is nothing really; he has had much worse in his long life and afterlife, but it seems to please his lady to tend him, to offer help and have her expertise and caring be accepted.  He knows she has spent too long being disregarded, kept in the dark, or left out of affairs of which she had every right to be part, and so he had let her fuss without comment.  Truth be told, though he knows Belle is not magic as Killian’s Emma is, he finds that his lovely brunette’s very touch is as soothing to him as any cure could be.

           For her part, Belle runs her fingers through her sailor’s tight, close-cropped curls, marveling at their softness and the vulnerable way he gave himself up to her ministrations – knowing it did her as much good as it would really do him. She pauses for a moment in the reading she had been doing, aloud, for the both of them to enjoy and looks around, savoring this cozy nursery room and this little cottage at the edge of Storybrooke’s forest, the shore in view from their back porch; her whole life now compared to the turmoil and sadness of just before and at Mina’s birth a mere half year ago.  So much has changed, and for the better, that it almost takes her breath away.

           “Alright there, Lass?” Liam’s voice questions, low and relaxed, but he still senses her thinking as she pauses and wants to make sure she is alright.

           Belle shakes her head gently as she comes back to the present and glances down to meet Liam’s eyes, brushing light fingertips over his brow.  “More than alright,” she whispers softly, not wanting to disturb the perfect tranquility of this moment.  “This is the life I always wanted,” she explains softly.  “I can’t believe sometimes that I am finally living it.”

           “Aye,” Liam affirms in a warm murmur, reaching out to twine the fingers of her free hand with his, his larger digits almost fully enveloping her own and bringing their joined hands to his chest.  “I know exactly what you mean.”

           Mina gives a sleepy little coo from her crib, and he and Belle share another smile at her peaceful sleep; despite her rough beginning, the infant seems to have all her mother’s determination and pluck, bearing no ill effects of the first few tumultuous days of her young life and sleeping soundly without the fears that haunt those who have lived a bit longer.

           “Let’s read a bit more, shall we?” Belle suggests eagerly.  Her enthusiasm for someone who will share the written word she loves so much with her both endearing and contagious.

           “Certainly, Lass… if you aren’t tired of reading, that is.  In fact, this reminds me of long ago – one of the few pleasant memories of Killian and my time on that ship as boys.  Some nights in that dark hold, if the sea was rough or if we’d been sent to our bunks without food, Killian couldn’t sleep.  I’d find the stub of a candle and a bit of flint to strike, and read to him.  He was voracious in his love of stories, adored hearing the words read aloud, even if all I was able to find was a discarded page of some log or a shipping order.”  He chuckles softly, and then continues, “Having you read to me now, like this, in our home together… I can see why he loved it so.”

           Belle blinks a bit through misty eyes, watching Liam’s face as he speaks.  Picturing the two frightened, mistreated, and abandoned young boys they had been, hearing what they had gone through, and knowing especially the worry and pain Liam had endured in feeling responsible for his younger brother but often not being able to do much for him, always affected her so.  For the moment though, she pushes that sympathetic ache aside; just as her worst days are behind her now, so are her captain’s.  This moment they have now is beautiful, and she isn’t ready for it to end.  “I’m glad,” she replies, scanning the page to find where they had left off in Longfellow’s poem once more, and picking it up again, “Ah! What pleasant visions haunt me as I gaze upon the sea!  All the old romantic legends, All my dreams, come back to me…”

           She reads with lilting cadence, and Liam hums softly, as if approving the words, looking so comfortable and pleased as he lies there before her, eyes closed and nearly drifting off, he could almost be a cat purring as one strokes behind its ears.  She smiles even more brightly as she comes to the final stanza, “Til my soul is full of longing for the secrets of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.”

           Upon finishing, Belle closes the book gently, sitting it on the end table at her elbow and turning off the one lamp still lit in the room.  She almost believes Liam truly asleep, until he turns slightly, pressing his face to her warm stomach through her robe.

           “That was lovely, Belle.” His whispered words send tingles along her skin deliciously, the love in his voice clear.  “Thank you.”

           Neither of them move, content to be in this moment as long as it can possibly last. To be here now, Liam thinks in the softness of long, blue shadows and the moonlight’s glow on Belle’s pale, perfect face, makes all his long struggle worthwhile.

Tagging a few folks who may enjoy: @whimsicallyenchantedrose @drowned-dreamer @mossandmushroom @nothingimpossibleonlyimprobable @bromfieldhall @kmomof4 @flslp87 @laschatzi @kimmy46 @jennjenn615

[doomsteady]

Look Again - ch3 (Final)

bi!John/ace!Sherlock, Friends to Lovers. Explicit. Will be posted on AO3 (will edit with link later)

<ch1> –> <ch2> –> <ch3>

There it was: The final proof.

Sherlock’s irises were slim bands of silver around the expanse of his pupils. He was waiting, breath held, as if John held the answer to the most important question in the world.

“Do you see?”

All John could do was nod.

Relief washed over Sherlock’s face, and that clever mouth and tongue returned to continue playing their dazzling symphony between John’s teeth. His mind was reeling, barely able to keep up with what was happening between them. He still wasn’t sure he fully understood, but one thing was plain to see: Sherlock wanted this every bit as much as he did.

What exactly he was getting from the experience, John didn’t know. The comfort of another body, perhaps. Feeling safe to be this open with someone, to touch him and explore him in ways that would otherwise be forbidden. Feeding the hunger of Sherlock’s mind, rather than his body.

But the way Sherlock was touching him, kissing him— there was a physical hunger there, too. Needy little noises spilled from both their throats, hearts pounding and lungs gasping for air. But even as he pressed close, their hips grinding together against the wall of his room, Sherlock remained modest and soft between his legs.

“You like kissing,” John murmured against Sherlock’s swollen lips. “Heavy kissing. It’s a sexual thing, for me, this. But how does it feel for you? What do you get from it?”

“Closeness,” he replied, breaking the kiss to rest their foreheads together. Affection wrote itself in the lines of his eyes, the upward tilt of his mouth. “It makes me feel warm inside, and glad.”

“Glad?”

He hummed, his eyes crinkling with a smile. “To be able to express how much I adore you, and see the answer in your eyes,”—John felt as a slender hand snaked down between them, brushing against the rigid length of him—”and feel the fullness of it, here.”

Sherlock’s fingers took hold of him through his jeans, stroking slowly. John could do nothing but sigh and drape his arms over Sherlock’s shoulders, powerless under his ministrations. Sherlock bent low to nuzzle at John’s neck again, finding that sweet spot just beneath his ear that made him shudder and clutch fistfuls Sherlock’s shirt.

“I see you’ve already learnt—ah—one thing to use against me,” John managed, pressing himself into the warmth of Sherlock’s palm. The deep chuckle by his ear was satisfying in ways that made little sense for mere sound. The smooth baritone rumbled through him on an express journey straight to his cock.

But one thing bothered him still. It was all well and good that Sherlock wanted to do these things for him, to touch him, pleasure him as a lover should— but John also yearned to feel Sherlock’s burning skin beneath his fingertips. Would he even want to be touched; to be as close as they were now, only lying in bed, skin to skin?

Or would such a thing repulse him?

He felt a tugging at his jeans then, the zipper sliding open, and Sherlock moved to delve beneath the waistband of his pants towards the centre of John’s aching need. It took a great deal of willpower to catch Sherlock’s wrist, stopping it before his hand could find its prize.

“Wait,” John said, “before this goes any further, I have to know something.”

“Anything.” He pressed a tender kiss along John’s jaw. So patient.

“Can I… touch you? Not in that way, just…”

“Yes,” he said. “Please. Anywhere. Everywhere.” He smiled at the look of gratitude that must have stole across John’s features. “Just remember what I said before, about the discomfort. You may touch, hold, feel any part of me you like. I only ask that you don’t aim to stimulate. Is that alright with you?”

“God, yes,” John breathed. “Thank you. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

He let go of Sherlock’s wrist then, his breath catching in his throat when those long, slim fingers curled around his cock. Their lips glided together again as John fumbled at Sherlock’s shirt buttons, hell-bent on getting his hands on the lean, muscular torso beneath.

The fabric fell from his shoulders, bunching around his elbows and exposing his broad chest. Tentatively, John’s hands traced over the firm mounds of his pecs, stroking along his heated skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch underneath. John grinned into their kiss.

“You’re ticklish,” he chuckled, feeling a stab of deviousness when Sherlock glared at him.

“Permission can be revoked at any time, you know,” he warned. “I wouldn’t push your luck if I were you. Not if you want this to continue.” He gestured below with a nod.

John was sure he meant it, too, so he wrapped his arms loosely around Sherlock’s thin waist, careful not to tickle him there, and pressed his mouth to the firm margin of his sternum. Sherlock’s fist worked in a slow rhythm, testing him with varying pressure, unsure and inexperienced. But it didn’t take him long at all to learn where and how John liked it most.

Soon John was like jelly in his hands, shaking with pleasure, and he thought that Sherlock meant to get him off like this, held up against the wall. Gasping, he mouthed at Sherlock’s skin; a light scrape of teeth, before sealing his lips and sucking red marks along his collarbone.

His knees were growing weak. Sherlock seemed to sense he was drawing close and withdrew his hand from John’s pants. Ignoring John’s whine of protest, Sherlock took his wrists and pulled him away from the wall. “Come over here. Sit,” he said, turning them both around and pushing John down onto the edge of the bed. “And take off your clothes,” he added, before sliding his crumpled shirt off the rest of the way.

Too far gone to argue, John obeyed, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of Sherlock unclothing himself. The shirt fell to the floor, and John couldn’t help but admire the sight of him as he divested of his own plaid button-down. Sherlock’s pale body was perfectly toned— not an ounce of fat on him. If not for the muscle mass, he would probably look gaunt. Instead he appeared sleek, powerful, like a jungle cat. Muscles flexed and tensed beneath his skin with the twisting of his frame. John drank in the sight of him.

“Hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you are dangerously sexy. You know that? You’re a bloody panther, Sherlock Holmes. God, what you do to me.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked into a sheepish smile and his eyes flicked down, showing off for a moment the dark fans of his eyelashes. “Thank you. And I don’t mind at all. I love to hear it, coming from you.”

His hands went to his fly next, unbuttoning, keeping his dark eyes on John all the while. His touch was light and unhurried; it wasn’t as though he was putting on a deliberate show of undressing, nor was it entirely chaste, but John could see the awareness of his audience in each careful motion. This wasn’t a man getting changed for bed in the privacy of his own room. Perhaps he understood that John would want to appreciate this, savour every moment as Sherlock revealed himself for the first time.

He was right, of course. He was always right, especially when it came to matters concerning John.

John matched him as he undressed, article for article. When nothing but his pants remained, Sherlock hooked his thumbs under the waistband, preparing to pull down. John thought he saw a moment of hesitation there. Their eyes met, and he couldn’t be sure if he caught a hint of self-consciousness in that expression, briefly, before it was hidden behind a mask of confidence.

Now that the moment had arrived, was he having second thoughts? John wanted there to be no regrets. If Sherlock wasn’t ready for this, he wouldn’t push him to it. It was better to be safe than sorry.

“Are you sure you feel comfortable with this? You don’t have to. I’ll be just as happy—”

“John,” he scolded, “I’m a grown man. If I’m not comfortable doing something, I’ll say so. Now shut up and take off your boxers. That’s an order, Captain.”

He giggled at that. “Yes sir,” he answered with a mock salute. He slid out of his underwear, tossing them unceremoniously aside.

Without pause, Sherlock followed, and John leaned back on his elbows to let his gaze roam lower, licking his lips appreciatively. Between the lightly furred thighs, Sherlock’s genitals hung in repose, clean and neatly groomed. He was uncircumcised, the head of his penis hidden within the folded silk of his unblemished foreskin.

Being a doctor — and a bisexual, to boot — John had seen his fair share of cock and balls. As such things went, he found Sherlock’s to be on the prettier side. The member seemed average in length, though it was impossible to tell for sure unless he was to somehow get an erection. It was slightly darker than the rest of his complexion, but not visually striking.

It suited him. It was an odd thought, but John could imagine him walking around the house like this, completely naked, and he would look as prim and as elegant as he did in any of his tailored suits.

Though, it did feel a bit strange being the only person in the room with a raging erection, now standing rigid and blushing in the open. Sherlock was eyeing it with obvious interest.

Now who’s the self-conscious one, he thought wryly.

Ever the mind-reader, Sherlock’s arms circled his neck and urged him to lie down, carrying Sherlock onto the bed and down on top of him. John’s heart skipped when their members brushed together briefly, before Sherlock shifted himself to a more comfortable position and laid himself flat.

It was ridiculous to think this wasn’t the first time Sherlock’s body had laid heavy and warm on top of him. Only now, both of them naked in John’s room and not a thug or a rope in sight, it was for a much more deliberate purpose.

“You have a gorgeous cock, John,” he murmured between languid kisses. Laughter bubbled up from John’s chest; that was unexpected. He’d had compliments in the past, but he couldn’t recall anybody calling it ‘gorgeous’ before. John himself was slightly above average in both length and girth, and if anything, he’d feared the sight of him fully erect might be a little intimidating.

But there was nothing but sincerity in that youthful face. John’s hands found their way to stroking up and down his back, tracing the hills and valleys of his muscles, dipping beneath the harsh corners of his shoulder blades, all the way down to the ridges of his slender hips and over the plump round globes of his arse. He gave them a gentle squeeze.

John’s cock was trapped between them, twitching insistently and leaving a patch of wet against their stomachs where the head was leaking tiny beads of pre-come. But Sherlock didn’t seem to mind it. His stomach muscles rolled in a wave, and John moaned into his mouth.

“God, you are amazing, Sherlock. You know that?”

“I know,” he beamed, soaking up the praise. “What would you like me to do?” he asked. “Everyone has their preferences. I must admit to having limited experience, but I have been told my mouth is my greatest asset, in all sorts of situations.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He tried to ignore the rumble of jealousy at the thought of Sherlock being like this for anybody else. His relationship history was a mystery to John. Had he even been in love before?

He almost hoped that was the case; the alternatives for his experience were either experimentation — which, knowing Sherlock’s haphazard ways, would have undoubtedly been risky, not to mention unpleasant for him — or as an exchange, a payment to his dealers during those dark times in his life where his addictions had taken hold.

He couldn’t stand the thought of Sherlock forcing himself to perform ‘favours’ in exchange for drugs. It must have been clouding his expression, because Sherlock sat up then, kneeling over him. His fingers traced lazy patterns over John’s abs.

“It was in university,” he said. “I thought I was in love. Turns out, he was just using me. But for a while it made me happy, and so few things did, back then. So I did everything he asked, to keep him close, because I was terrified of letting it end.”

John stroked his hands up and down Sherlock’s thighs. “What a prat. I’m so sorry. That must have been awful.”

He shifted his shoulders and flashed a quick smile. “I haven’t thought about it in ages. On the plus side, I did pick up a few tricks, and the experience taught me a few things about myself. Back then, I didn’t really understand my preferences— or lack of them. I knew I was gay, romantically speaking, but people always seemed to expect a sexual relationship out of their partners.

I found that I enjoyed those acts with someone I truly cared about, even if I didn’t receive physical pleasure from it. But I could never be someone’s casual boyfriend. It’s all or nothing, with me.”

“Lucky me, then,” said John, drawing out a more genuine smile from Sherlock’s angular face, one that made his eyes shine from beneath his dark lashes.

“Yes, lucky you,” he said, bending down to plant a soft kiss on John’s stomach. He trailed more kisses down, shifting back on his knees until his face was hovering above John’s solid erection. “Especially considering that I do rather enjoy sucking cock.”

Before John could prepare himself for it, Sherlock’s tongue flicked out to lick a broad, hot stripe from root to tip. It painted the underside of his cock in saliva that warmed beneath his breath. John threw his head back and gripped the sheets, his moan unexpectedly loud in the room. He gave a brief thought to whether Mrs Hudson was home, but Sherlock didn’t give him time to properly process it before he did it again, his tongue shimmying on its way up, applying extra pressure at his frenulum and sending sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine.

“Oh fuck, Sherlock—” he gasped, but his words dissolved as Sherlock’s wet lips sealed over the head of his cock. His tongue slithered over the slit, licking away the salty liquid even as more started to emerge. John squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to catch the embarrassing noises he was making before they could escape his throat.

“Don’t do that,” he heard Sherlock say. “I want to hear you.”

His answer was loud when he started to sink into the heat of Sherlock’s mouth, feeling those cupid-bow lips stretching wide around his girth. His hands found their own way into Sherlock’s dark curls, stroking through his hair and taking great efforts not to pull at it. He could feel Sherlock’s tongue pressing him up to slide against his palate, and when he pulled back, it flicked back and forth while his cheeks hollowed in suction.

He took John slowly, each time enveloping another inch of him, until John could feel himself encountering the back of his throat. He expected Sherlock to gag, but there was only the mildest fluttering and the cool rushing of air as he breathed through his nose. On the next pass, John almost lost it when Sherlock sank all the way down, blocking off his own airway and taking him deeper than he had any right to be inside another human.

Sherlock was deep-throating him.

Sherlock Holmes. Was deep-throating. Him.

He couldn’t believe it. Clearly, when he’d claimed to be ‘good with his mouth’ John had severely underestimated his meaning. As his cockhead pressed into the tight restriction of his throat, Sherlock attempted to swallow around him. John cried out, seeing stars behind his eyelids, his legs twitching and his fingers spasming between Sherlock’s curls. After a few incredible seconds, Sherlock came up for air.

This was quite possibly the best blow job John had ever experienced, and his orgasm suddenly felt very, very close as he sunk all the way back into that impossible space again.

“Sher—Sherlock. Fuck, that’s incredible,” he gasped, his heart pounding in his ears. His cock throbbed almost painfully hard between those lips, constricted by strong muscles as he was alternately being squeezed and sucked. Stealing a glance down at where Sherlock knelt over him, he could see the sheen of sweat forming over his brow, those dark eyes closed in careful concentration. It was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

Sherlock’s fingers gripped his hips like a vice, keeping them steady, something he was glad for; the urge to thrust up into him was beyond his ability to control. “I’m close,” he warned, barely able to form the sounds between dragging heaving lungfuls of air. His balls drew up tight and he felt himself thickening, wedged deep inside Sherlock’s long throat. “If you —nng— if you don’t stop, I’m—”

For a dangerous moment, Sherlock didn’t let up. John was right on the edge when he finally withdrew, slipping off the spit-soaked head with an obscene smack. His face was flushed and he was breathing hard, but his eyes were pools of black delight when he smirked up at John, wiping errant dribbles of saliva from his chin with the back of his hand. The debauched sight of him alone almost had John coming there and then.

Eager to keep John riding the crest of his orgasm, Sherlock quickly started pumping him with his fist as he clambered back up towards eye-level. His hair was wild and his skin gleamed with sweat, but John was in no better state. He was a wreck; breathless and whimpering, unable even to properly move his lips as Sherlock snaked his tongue between them, tasting of salt and John’s own heady arousal.

“Not that I have any qualms about finishing you that way,” he purred, watching John’s twitching features as he steadily jerked him, “but it was a bit dark last time I found myself here. I want to see you this time.” His fist slipped easily over John’s cock thanks to the generous coating of saliva, the sound of wet skin-over-skin friction competing for volume with the mutual sounds of their breathing into each other’s mouths.

“Next time,” he promised, dropping his voice to a low rumble, “I want you to come down my throat.”

It was glorious. He’d never heard Sherlock say something so filthy, and that’s all it took to tip him over the edge. The air left him in a rush as his orgasm thundered through him. His cock shot milky ropes of ejaculate between them, coating Sherlock’s stomach above him, spilling over his hand and dripping down onto John’s skin. He might have cried out in pleasure, but he couldn’t hear it. His vision tunnelled out, every nerve sparked into life as wave after wave of bright, electric pleasure scrambled his brain and compelled every muscle in his body to clench, and clench, and clench.

All the while, Sherlock’s sharp eyes fixated on him, wide-eyed and enthralled by the powerful reaction he’d wrought out of the body beneath him. His fist, still wrapped around John’s relaxing member, massaged him through the remnant aftershocks. After what felt like an eternity, John went boneless beneath him.

He hadn’t even realised he’d closed his eyes, until he felt a pair of soft lips against the tip of his nose and a gravelly voice floating over him.

“Did you fall asleep? I wouldn’t be surprised; that looked fairly satisfying.”

When John looked up, Sherlock looked pleased as punch. He had settled beside him on the bed, half-laying on John with his arm draped over John’s chest and their legs entwined. John tugged him down to share a lazy kiss.

“I haven’t come like that in… in…” He let out a deep sigh, barely able to muster the energy to form a coherent sentence. His lids felt heavy. He really could fall asleep like this, in Sherlock’s arms, except there was the slightly inconvenient matter of the mess drying over his stomach to deal with.

He made a move to haul himself upright, but Sherlock stopped him with a finger to John’s lips. “Stay there. I’ll grab something.”

He disappeared through the frosted glass door to the bathroom, emerging a minute later with a damp flannel. He cleaned John with such careful attention, making sure to get every last bit, and looked no less pleased to be doing this than he did at any other point during their lovemaking.

John’s heart swelled with affection for him. He didn’t understand how he could be this lucky.

He had woken that morning fully convinced of his decision to leave. With his feelings in turmoil, there was no way he could live here any longer. It had seemed that, not only did Sherlock not want to be anything other than his friend, but even if he did, John saw no way they could be together in the way both of them would have wanted.

He hadn’t actually met anybody asexual before. He knew of it, of course, but textbook definitions were far from an adequate primer when faced with all the complexities and nuance of a real life example.

He had assumed sex would be totally out of the question. After all, he’d recalled his own reactions so many times after masturbating to porn on the Internet. There was always a stark difference in his appreciation for the material before his orgasm, and directly after it; to put it lightly, some of the things he enjoyed in the heat of the moment could turn his stomach after the fact.

So he had imagined an asexual’s experience of sex to be like a permanent state of the latter. Sherlock had shocked him by not only being open to the idea of pleasing him in that way, but having undeniable enthusiasm for it.

Indeed, the man was positively glowing, as if he’d been the one to have just had the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life. To look at them both, John doubts anybody would have been able to tell the difference.

Sherlock finished up and tossed the flannel towards the bathroom door. When he looked back at John, he cracked up. “Good God, John. You look utterly exhausted.”

“I think you broke me,” John mumbled. Sherlock’s voice sounded rough at the edges. He reached up to stroke his fingers gently along his stubbly jaw. “That didn’t hurt, did it? Sounds like it’ll be sore.”

“Worth it though,” Sherlock said with a coy grin. “It’s not bad. People deliberately do far worse to themselves in the pursuit of satisfying sex.”

“Hmm,” John hummed. “Like anal,” he offered, without really thinking about it. Sherlock, bless him, looked mildly alarmed at the idea.

“Yes, well… As long as you never ask for that, we should have no problems. But everything else is good. More than good, in fact.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve never actually tried it, and not sure I see the appeal in doing so,” he said. “Seems a bit… destructive, physiologically speaking. It’s enough of a worry knowing most of us end up incontinent in our old age. Seems a lot of people are in a hurry to get there far sooner.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. John laughed. And just like that, they were back to their old selves, conversation spiralling into weird tangents about sex and the bizarre things people do about it. But now there was another layer to their relationship. A deeper truth to it. They had unlocked the door, solved the case, found the final piece of the puzzle that completed them both.

They showered, got dressed, and John popped downstairs to Speedy’s to pick them up some breakfast. When he came back into the living room, Sherlock was putting on an unfamiliar coat.

“Off somewhere?” John said. “Brought you a sandwich. Ham and pickle.”

Sherlock made a pleased noise. “Leave it in the fridge. We need to go shopping.”

“Oh?” John called from the kitchen. When he returned a moment later, Sherlock was waiting for him by the door. John followed him downstairs. It didn’t matter where they were going, after all; he would always follow, anywhere Sherlock lead him.

“Well for one, I need a new Belstaff, after those cretins stole mine last night. And also…” He glanced thoughtfully over John’s shoulder, a sly smile tugging the corner of his mouth up. “Actually, I think I’ll keep that a surprise.”

Sherlock opened the front door to the sounds of London’s busy weekday morning. He took John’s hand as they stepped out onto the street, and perhaps the most predictable thing about Sherlock, John thought, was that he always managed to surprise him.

<ch1> –> <ch2> –> <ch3>

(Fin. Thank you for reading!)