#monsterlock

Zing and You'll Miss It by Raina_at

Johnlock Love Letters #2381

Preparation is key.

A little pain is to be expected--John will ache for hours afterward, sometimes enough to keep him from sleeping, in which case Sherlock will pet him, near-cooing apologies John reminds him are unnecessary--but there are measures to be taken to ensure both pleasure and safety.

First, a shower with water hot as he can stand it, and the most fragrant soaps and gels he can find--oily body scrubs are good because they slough away aromatic layers of flaking skin as well as clinging on, slick and oily, insulating. Shampoos all his hair--head, chest, underarms, thighs and shins and toes and of course his pubic hair--even in the cleft of his arse. Conditioner, too, for the same reasons as the oily scrub, the lingering scent even after he’s left the bath.

Two layers of lotion--one is called butter, and indeed is thick enough to pass for the real thing, scented with jasmine flowers and dank patuchouli. To Sherlock’s sensitive nose it smells like rot, like death, and he is no scavenger, and so is subliminally repulsed. A perfumed cream in a scent John enjoys and Sherlock finds tolerably unattractive. After shave on his cheeks, cologne over his heart, inside his elbows, down the sides of his throat. He cleans his teeth for what seems a mad amount of time--sets the timer on his phone, sings an entire 1980s top 40 hit to himself. Alcoholic mouthwash to kill every bug on his tongue.

Sherlock’s purring growl as John enters the room is weirdly pitched, as if John is only hearing half of it, the rest beyond the range of his ears, and as John draws nearer Sherlock’s skin bristles with gooseflesh, every tiny hair leaping up to attention, tiny bumps rising on his neck, his long arms, his belly and thighs and even places that should be hairless--the backs of his hands, the insteps of his feet. His torso quick-shifts tightly side to side, ready to pounce.

Sherlock’s kisses are objectively disgusting, all tongue and watering mouth, so John will offer his throat, the insides of his wrists, his belly just below his navel--all the soft, vulnerable places that make Sherlock hum and groan, drawing away now and then to smear away running saliva with the back of his hand. John has nearly grown used to the fact of no fingernails, is still shocked how no one ever seems to notice something so uncanny. John kisses him back, and his skin is always fever-warm and dry, chill bumps rising and subsiding in time with the waves of their passion, never settling to soft and smooth, instead a range from mild desperation to terrifying frenzy. Without John’s built-up layers of chemical fragrance to mask his own, human smells, Sherlock would eat him. And it would take him less than an hour. And he would leave nothing but gnawed-apart, shattered bones.

The way Sherlock nips and pinches at him, pushing and pulling, bending him into place and pinning him to the mattress (or the wall) reminds John of a cat playing with a caught bird or baby rabbit. His noises are all the usual ones made by a man in the midst of a rough shag. . .nearly. There is a growl that comes from his chest that John has tried to imitate and cannot. And sometimes his moans sound distinctly howl-like. His pupils are slit-shaped and when he is aroused, they widen so each eye is two slivers of white framing only liquid black; John finds this an incredible turn-on, and so he likes Sherlock to fuck him face-to-face, with his eyes open, his mouth running, growling, purring, and even when John starts above, he always ends up beneath.

Sherlock’s prick is in every way ordinary, on the generous side of average-sized, curves slightly upward, plump-crowned, not prone to leak pre-cum. But when he comes, it is hot, and copious. When he comes deep inside John, it oozes forcefully out, soaking them both. When he comes in John’s mouth, John chokes, and it runs down his chin and onto his neck and chest. When he comes on John’s belly, or thigh, or in his hand, it pulses and pulses, almost too hot to touch, sticky and vaguely pink. It tastes of blood and dirt.

By the time they’ve finished the preliminaries, Sherlock’s nose twitches and his muscles tense, and John can feel him holding back from an urge to bite, to devour, surely as powerful as his urge to suck, to penetrate. John’s robe of perfumes begins to fail him, and that is when things get dangerous. When things get dangerous is when John begins to growl, too.

All the slick is scented, but even still, as John works cherry or pineapple or wintergreen scented lubricant over and into his hole, his fingers and wrist will constantly bump against Sherlock’s face; Sherlock noses around for John’s scent, and when he gets it, he grabs, licks, sometimes roars. John encourages him with streams of dirty talk, of a particular sort--

“You want to slit me open, don’t you? I want your hands in my guts. I want to feel you shoving my intestines out of the way to get to my kidneys.”

“Are you thinking about spreading my arse open to bite right there? Eat your way through, suck the juice from my spine, all the way to my brain.”

“Sherlock. . .I want you to. . .I want you to--god, fuck!--I want you to eat me. Eat me all up.”

Sherlock fucks hard, always. Fast, always. Deep. Relentless. And his mouth is always sopping wet and wide open, and he licks John wherever he can reach, and the points of his teeth sometimes scratch but never pierce, He is so careful. He holds himself back; John can feel the tension in every fibre of muscle; it must be a sort of agony for him. . .

John comes first, because once Sherlock has finished, John smells of himself--his sweat and his cum and his breath and his skin--and Sherlock goes rigid and his black eyes flash and he sometimes shoves John away from him. Back to the shower, and now that their desire is sated, it’s less dangerous, so he need only wash away the mess, clean himself once, and rinse away the excess suds and oils. The methodical scrubbing gives him time to inventory the marks Sherlock leaves on him; there are always so many.

Lovecraft AU. John is the monster, or the monster is John. POV of eldritch horror; Sherlock flirts with madness, Hound of Baskervilles AU.　

Words: 3019

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"You know, sometimes I wish we could simply take a cab or even the bus on a day like this."

"Nobody hinders you, John."

"Yeah, right, as if any would take me like this, drenched to the skin and smelling of wet horse. Come on, get us home. And this time, I will light a fire, despite your objections to it."

"It's not the fire I object to, it's the fuel."

"You do know that this sounds completely irrational, don't you? Anyway, I don't care. I just want to get dry and warm."

This is my second contribution to November's “Let’s Draw Sherlock”. The Monster Character Generator gave me the following prompt: Soggy Centaur Boy who wears a robe and hates Fuel.

Soggy centaur boy who wears a robe and hates Fuel

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