Work Text:
Bite the junction where neck meets shoulder, suck under the jaw to purple the skin, chase the fingernails over the nipples to incite a reaction. Push the thigh between the legs, rub and press, unhook the trouser buttons one-handed.
These are the things that John has taught him.
“Fuck, god—”
There’s an opening there for a truly terrible joke, but Sherlock isn’t the mood to be smacked around the head and besides, his mouth is occupied at the moment. Or, well. It will be.
John’s wings quiver against the wall they’re propped up against, strong muscles quaking that has Sherlock spreading his own wings in answer, pressing up flush until they’re wingtip to wingtip, primaries flush. Sherlock’s wings are long but John’s are broader, more heavily muscled. If he wanted to he could flip them with half a wingbeat, have Sherlock right there against the wall or, god, on the floor. The thought makes Sherlock’s belly burn.
Sherlock kneels, and their wings slide out of alignment. It’s a sad loss but it puts him of a height with John’s tented, half-open trousers, and there’s something to be said about the benefits of that.
He pats at John’s hips to get him to help shimmy his trousers down a bit, then slides his fingers into that precious gap where underwear don’t quite lie flat, between hipbone and cock. He moves his hand down a little further and touches heat, and John’s breath catches on a whine.
“We should – fuck – we should fly first, you arse,” says John. “You’re doing it – you’re doing it all backwards.”
“I don’t see you complaining,” says Sherlock.
“Ex – excuse me, you prat, I think I just – oh, wow, okay, no fair—”
Sherlock, who has wrapped his hand around John’s cock, executes a long, slow tug of his hand over hot skin. “Oh?”
“You’re an arse,” mutters John into the back of his hand, trying to muffle himself as his breathing speeds up.
“Slander,” says Sherlock, raising his eyebrows. “I’ve heard tell about the many great aspects to this particular arse.”
“Fucking fuck cunts,” says John. “Shut the fuck up and suck me off!”
“Is that an order?”
“Absolutely, you insufferable fucking wankspout,” says John, pushing his own hand past Sherlock’s and pulling his cock out to bob heavily forwards. He settles his hands in Sherlock’s curls and tugs.
Sherlock leans forwards, licks delicately for a moment. John looks about ready to eviscerate him, and that really won’t do if they’re to make a successful courting flight after this is all over and done with, so Sherlock opens his mouth and sucks in the head. He curls his lips over his teeth and smoothes his tongue against the underside, adding a little suck as he pulls back a little. It has John’s hips pushing forwards against his face, and Sherlock pushes back against it and takes a little more, a little more.
“I’m going to fuck that arse,” gasps John, as he grips Sherlock’s hair tighter and starts to move his hips. “I’m going to stick my fingers up there and have you sobbing, spread you out—”
Sherlock hums, unable to speak, and John cuts off with a quiet fuck, wings spreading wide, mantling, shoving them both away from the wall towards the middle of the room, where the bed is. He grabs Sherlock by the shoulders and hauls him up, directing him towards the bed with arched wings and bristling feathers. Sherlock responds with a dipped head, his own wings mantled. They net together, shading the floor beneath them with a geometric pattern as they tilt closer and kiss.
Sherlock steps back and hits the bed. His wings stretch wide to catch him as he tips over, one gentle downwards push enough to lift him off his feet and over the edge of the bed. He lands kneeling, wings still half-mantled, the sheets twisted up over one leg where the stirred air had tossed it. John’s own wings shake themselves out and then give a push of their own that thrusts John after Sherlock, pitching him against his chest. They kiss again and John pushes him down, wings directing them the way Sherlock had imagined it. The dingy yellowed ceiling is slatted with the dusty brown of John’s wings, and his own wings are a little squashed, and his cock is starting to hurt, but Sherlock – Sherlock is exactly where he wants to be.
John cups a hand over Sherlock’s right knee, guides it outwards, and then there’s the lube that Sherlock bought months ago, the day after they fucked for the first time. It smells like cherries and the vomit of Hello Kitties, and really, since when did Sherlock know about Hello Kitty, he’s clearly been spending too much time away from the Work—
There’s a finger at his asshole, working in, and ha, work. Sherlock’s brain isn’t quite on all cylinders, it seems. He gasps and tips his head back, and his wings go slack. His primaries splay and there’s the black-white, there’s the magpie. John pushes deeper, gentle, dropping a kiss on his temple. Green light?
“Green,” says Sherlock.
It’s only when the push and slide is easy that John adds a second, and there’s a burn that has Sherlock’s hips leaping after him when he tries to pull back. John pins his hips down, soothes him, asks him his colour again and Sherlock says green, green, green.
There’s three, and that’s hard, but they’re most of the way there and Sherlock can wait just a little longer for John to get his cock involved. John twists his fingers and there’s a pulse of something that has him making an undignified squeaking noise. John stops, startled, and giggles. Sherlock glares at him, and John giggles even harder.
“John.”
“Okay, okay, coming,” says John. He pauses and – winks, infernal damnation, Sherlock is going to—
There’s a cock and there’s pressure and a push that drives his air out of him, and John really has no right to be that efficient at putting a condom on, it’s simply unfair.
“Green?”
“Green, yes, fuck—”
It’s slow, and awkward, and there are some truly hideous noises involved, and John misses that spot that made Sherlock squeak more often than not, but – it’s good. It’s good, and he groans and braces his feet, pushes up against John’s thrusts. The shoulders muscles that anchor his wings tense and push against the mattress, steadying him as John’s thrusts get harder, as John’s own wings stroke through the air in the room, balancing him in turn.
John fucks in, fuck fuck fuck fuck, hips slapping against Sherlock’s arse, and then he swears and stops, juddering, and Sherlock knows he’s done. John swears, pulls out, ties off the condom and chucks it off the side of the bed before sliding three fingers home and closing his mouth around Sherlock’s cock.
It is quite possible that Sherlock wails. Whatever noise he makes, it has John kissing his nose, his cheeks, his eyelids when he’s finished.
“How about that flight,” says John, when the sweat on their bodies has cooled enough to leave them chilled.
They climb out through the window and onto the roof, the white bedsheet strung out between them, and when they leap skywards it’s in a flurry of beating wings, black white brown, long pale limbs and stocky tan muscles. They circle high over Baker Street and it’s easily the most embarrassing thing John’s ever done, flying out what is essentially an airborne version of a stride of pride in the middle of London, but it’s sweet, too. It’s an old tradition, a courtship flight, meant to signal when a couple have decided on forever.
Sherlock doesn’t believe in forever, or romance, or emotions, really, but that doesn’t seem to have stopped him.
Forever doesn’t sound so bad. Not if it’s with John.