Work Text:
His wicked sense of humor
Suggests exciting sex
His fingers, they focus on her and touches
He's Venus, Venus as a boy.
He believes in beauty, he's Venus as a boy...
He's exploring the taste of her
Arousal, so accurate;
He sets off the beauty in her;
He's Venus, a Venus as a boy.
All across your lips and then - until
Well, be that, it's a little now - until...
Since John has decided to ignore me for his scribbles, I shall occupy myself with some scribbling of my own - a sort of counterfactual to John's ongoing hagiography of me, providing the Faceless Denizen of the Future a less varnished glimpse at the man whom John has created. While he sits busily embroidering upon one of my past problems, I will detail my present one - a conundrum which, in some ways, is far more difficult than any which has been put to me by one of London's scurrilous criminals.
The problem is perfectly simple, and one I daresay hundreds of thousands of men all over London have managed to achieve at least once today: I have decided that I should very much like to kiss and embrace John soon, but have yet to figure out how to cross this sitting room in order to do so. So hopelessly mired am I in this problem that I have spent the past several minutes contemplating how this urge arose in the first place and have been unable to resolve even this most basic point of analysis.
John is sitting at his desk, bent over his foolscap in his customary way when writing, which is reminiscent of a studious collegiate fellow. Rather charming, I suppose. His jacket is hung neatly over the back of his chair, his sleeves are rolled tidily up to his elbows against ink stains, his stiff leg stretched forth beneath the desk, his opposite foot tucked back beneath the chair and slumping sideways; his forelock has fallen forward and sways gently as his pen scratches across the page.
I like to see John writing, particularly when things seem to be going well with his work, as they do tonight, and I find his presence comforting in general; John has a lovely gift for silence, and I do my best work when he is in the room with me, writing or napping or reading. I suppose the sight of him thus occupied has engendered an awareness of my affection for him, which then led to my urge to embrace and kiss him. Very well - but how?
I learned quickly that the safest means of navigating the treacherous intimate waters of this relationship was to simply imitate whatever John does in any given situation, adding my own particular variations over time. This comes naturally in many instances, as it does when I return his kisses. Other things have become habit from repetition - remembering to see John to the door when I am able, as he always does for me, and that sort of thing. In this way John has always been inadvertently teaching me how to treat him, and even more so when it came to all of the subtle little changes which followed our transition to a romantic relationship. The kissing of goodnight, the announcement of one's intention to relocate one's self for an extended period of time, etc.
This handy rule of mimicry occasionally fails me when it comes to the Ritual, unfortunately, and the fault lies neither with John nor his guidance, but rather with something inherently shy about my nature. The Ritual comes easily, even naturally to John in a way which I cannot comprehend. Given my lack of passionate interest in either sex, my tactile anomalies, and my lack of prior experience, the Ritual makes me feel uniquely alien and inept - much more so than any other form of interaction with my fellow man.
If I have time to prepare myself, to summon up a sort of character and role to play within a scene of seduction, I can be so forward and brazen that I've shocked myself on multiple occasions. These incidents so delight John that I've never regretted them. It is when I would like to act spontaneously that I frequently find myself paralyzed by a self-consciousness which would make me the laughing stock of even the tiniest police constabulary, and on these occasions following John's example is absolutely no help at all.
Let us return now to my current problem - specifically, how to cross this sitting room and act upon my urge to kiss and embrace John - which we will use for an exemplar of this phenomenon. Asking myself how John would handle this particular situation is no help to me whatsoever, as John would simply get up, walk across the room, and kiss me if he so desired. He might even announce his intentions upon his arrival as he frequently does when I am otherwise engaged. ("I'm getting ready to kiss you, Sherlock, so don't startle and lose your place.") He certainly wouldn't sit there dithering about it for twenty minutes; indeed, I believe that John's dithering about the Ritual would likely be the catalyst which would lead to the breaking open of the First Seal and subsequent commencement of the Apocalypse.
Simply standing up, walking across the room, and bending down to kiss John is nigh on impossible for me; this approach would provide him ample time to question me as to my intent, which would activate my paralyzing shyness and derail my plans entirely. John would be able to do this with a perfectly, infuriatingly casual air, and even more infuriating is my inevitable and automatic compliance to his bids for affection, as if I were mesmerized.
I could wait until the next time that John gets up, at which time I could get up myself and intersect with him at the end of the tea table, as if by chance, but this seems like a bizarre and inexplicable thing for me to do. The only thing beyond the tea table is the front door, and I have no reason for heading in that direction.
It has just now occurred to me that I could have prevented this conundrum by better positioning myself in the room. If I were sitting at my chemistry bench rather than here in my chair, John would have to pass me on the way to and from the bathroom, providing me with ample opportunities to waylay him with any urges which may arise. Yes, I think I will try this the next time John sits down to write.
Thinking further upon the matter, however, it occurs to me that nothing is really preventing me from relocating right now. I have no reason to move towards the door, but I could have any number of reasons for moving over to my workbench. As long as I remain in the room, John is unlikely to notice that I've moved at all. I'll just gather up my pipe and my tobacco pouch…
No sooner have I risen to my feet than John drops his pen into his ink bottle with a sigh, then clasps his hands behind his neck, leans back in his chair, and turns his head round to speak at me over his shoulder.
"I think I'm done in for the night, Sherlock," he says, then yawns and stretches, sending up a volley of muffled cracks from his vertebrae.
This development has upset my plans entirely, but I continue on to my chemistry bench as if with definite purpose. No sooner have I settled myself upon my stool than John is at my side.
"Starting an experiment?"
"Yes, trying a little variation on some of the work I was doing with acetones last week…"
"Well, it must have really captured your imagination for you to be starting this late. I'm going to bed, love. Godspeed with your acetones. Give us a kiss goodnight…" I numbly comply and watch John make his way to the staircase, thinking all the while that this will never do. The kiss, the interaction, all of it had been wrong, had been nothing like I had planned, had done nothing to…to sate my desire to embrace John.
I rise from the stool and begin to pace the sitting room. On my second circumnavigation I notice that John had left his pen in the ink and remove it, wiping it clean and replacing the bottle's stopper. Overhead I can hear the faint thumping of John's footsteps over the floorboards as he stops at the privy before continuing on to his bedroom. The thumps become irregular, barely audible; when they cease entirely I know that John has gotten in to bed. The weather being passably warm, he will have certainly decided to forgo a nightshirt and will being laying in his darkened bedroom, the left side of his features limned by moonlight…And here I pace in this empty sitting room, with only the embers of a dying fire for company, the tickling ghost of John's mustache and lips still lingering upon my own…
A minute later I am slipping into John's bedroom and pushing the door quietly shut behind me. I hear John throwing back his blankets as I cross the short distance to his bedside, where I pause and begin to disrobe, grinning blindly into the darkness at his eagerness.
"Have you any room at the inn?" I mutter blasphemously as I drop my shirt to the floor and peel off my undershirt.
"What about your experiment?" John asks. My eyes have not yet adjusted to the extreme gloom of his bedroom but as I shove my trousers down off of my hips I can hear the wry little grin in his voice.
"The experiment will be lifeless without an inspiring visit from my muse," I say. My drawers have joined my trousers in a puddle around my feet, my shins find the edge of John's mattress, and I lower myself down into John's embrace. Here, in the obscuring darkness, it matters not that I do this clumsily, inexpertly; it matters not that I have to leave one leg hanging momentarily out of the bed and flailing about until I finally untangle my foot and drawers; it matters not that I miss John's mouth with my initial kiss. Here, in the obscuring darkness, free from my shyness and self-consciousness, nothing exists but John and sensation.
His burly, finely furred chest beneath my own; his lips and breath, tickling and hot against my neck and cheek and ear; his strong hands gripping and kneading my buttocks; his sturdy arms wrapped around my shoulders, my back, my waist, pulling me down into the heaven of his embrace; his legs wrapping around my thighs, my hips, all four of his limbs occasionally coordinating to squeeze me into minor paroxysms of joy, and as soon as I feel all of John in this manner I find that I somehow need even more. _
I push upwards, loosening John's arms so that I can inch lower in the bed and press my face to his chest, thrilling at the sensation of its crinkly, silky hairs against my lips. Here in the darkness I navigate John's body by dead reckoning, feeling my way along with my lips and hands, kissing, suckling, kneading whatever passes beneath them, blazing a path down his torso until my chest is wedged beneath his legs, my arms are slung over his thighs, and I bury my fingers in his chest hair as I locate John's penis and maneuver it into my mouth.
I take him deeply right away, hearing him gasp as I engulf him with my throat and then pull back, sucking firmly in the way which I know makes him sigh and tremble. I realize that I want him excited, very excited - I want more of John, all of John, all of John and then more, so I plunge down again, and again, and again, ignoring my own discomfort in pursuit of my goal. John's increasing excitement gives me additional data, now permitting me to navigate by sound as well as touch. I suck and lave his penis, making tiny adjustments as I feel his hands clutching my shoulders, his fingers trembling upon the back of my neck; as I hear him groan and gasp and blurt my name with that thrilling, whispery shiver in his voice; as my hands rove blindly over his chest and arms, until I feel like a conductor commanding a symphony orchestra - summoning his reactions at will, then amplifying, diminishing, or terminating them with the mere gesture of my hand, lips, or tongue.
When I decide that John has reached the point of maximal arousal I reverse the journey I had earlier made down his torso, licking and sucking and nipping my way along his warm, firm flesh while his hair tickles my nose and cheeks and chin, resisting John's attempt to pull me upwards, reaching down between our bellies to stroke his penis while I linger at his nipples and axillae, waiting him out, forcing him to pull me away once again but now allowing myself to be engulfed in John's arms.
In a flash he has flipped me over beneath him and I know that I judged correctly: having brought him to a state of near desperation, I can now surrender myself to John's embrace. He has learned how to coax the most exquisite pleasures from me, using methods and sensations which I would never have even imagined being able to tolerate before John. His fingers intertwining with mine, sliding my hands up past my ears and pressing them down into the mattress, lowering the full weight of his body down onto me, immobilizing me beneath him so that all I can do is writhe and strain and whimper and thrust my hips upwards against any available part of him while he feasts on my mouth, ears and neck.
"John -!" I finally gasp, twisting my mouth away from John's, feeling him moving atop me as I pant and undulate beneath him. His hands abruptly leave mine and I instinctively move to wrap my arms around him, but he is already making determined movements towards the bedside table and when I hear the drawer open I know what he wants, and want it, too, still aching with the need for more of John, for all of him.
He sits up astride my thighs, and when he opens the jar of cold cream our fingers collide as they dive greedily in. I hastily scoop out a dollop which I begin to stroke onto John's penis while he readies himself, curling myself up at the waist to kiss him in the interim, churning my fist around his organ with a slight twisting motion, delighting at the muffled gasps and grunts he expels into my mouth.
When he is sufficiently prepared John places a hand in the center of my chest and pushes me back down upon the pillow. He positions me beneath him and begins lowering himself down onto me, a nerve-wracking process that will never fail to cause me some degree of alarm, regardless of what John tells me, until I am at last engulfed in his tightly gripping heat.
My eyes have adjusted to the darkness and I can see the silvery moonlight outline John's contours as he moves on top of me. I still my hand around his penis but tighten my grip so that he begins to thrust into my fist, simultaneously massaging my penis in his all-encompassing clutches, and when he presses down on my chest with his hands I know that my submission is imminent. The hotly glowing ember of pleasure in my groin begins to expand, quickly becoming so intense that I lose control of my movements, and there is no self-consciousness in the delicious darkness of John's bedroom; there is only sensation.
"Jo-" I begin to gasp, but John's lips are suddenly against mine and his tongue is silencing me as I collapse into paroxysms of pleasure, finally having all of John that I had wanted and more, vaguely aware of the sticky warmth sprinkling down upon the skin of my chest.
For a moment we remain frozen in that configuration, coming back into command of our senses. I immediately become aware of the sticky mess congealing on my sternum and solar plexus and lean over to fumble around on the floor, coming back up with my drawers dangling from my fingertips. After allowing me to wipe off my befouled hand, John mops up my chest before falling happily down onto it. Because it pleases him, I allow my organ to remain ensconced in John's backside as long as I can tolerate it, although why he should like me to do so is mystifying; it seems to me as though things have run their course, and once I am no longer aroused the sensation becomes increasingly terrible.
Once that trial has ended, I quite enjoy this phase of the Ritual. Indeed, it was the main impetus for my performance in our early days. It is particularly delectable here in the comforting darkness of John's bedroom, with his weight and his voice guiding me back to Earth after I've soared to such giddy heights of private pleasure.
"I really ought to keep you under lock and key, you know," John says presently, his mustache brushing my cheek as he kisses it tenderly.
"Why?" I inquire.
"Because you're the best kept secret of Baker Street...perhaps all of London," he answers, his lips moving along my jaw.
"I hardly think I'm a secret with you rather sensationally thrusting my existence in the public's face with the regularity of a Swiss clock."
John chuckles. "Yes, I know," he says blithely. "Well, have you been sufficiently inspired for your experiment?"
I nod. "My muse has come to my rescue once again."
"As a good muse always should," John adds with a peck on my cheek in the snug and pleasant darkness.