I’m sorry in advance. Please don’t be mad. I had this rough idea in my head and just figured out where I wanted to go with it. Read the fic after the cut. I’m sorry for any typos.
How does one tie up an angel? Jack’s gone above and beyond the call of duty to work out a creative solution. (Explicit, one shot, Jack Harkness/Castiel)
Additional Tags: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, Closet Sex, more tags will be added, Masturbation, Smoking, Dom/sub, Spanking, Frottage, BDSM, Flogging, Negotiations, Relationship Negotiation, Kink Negotiation, Aftercare, Domestic Fluff, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Punishment, Gags, Sherlock is a Brat, Anal Play, Vibrators, Gunplay, Consensual Non-Consent, in, Roleplay, Rimming, Sleepy Sex, Bondage, Rope Bondage, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Public Sex, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Sherlock, Double Penetration, Sounding, Nipple Play, Blood, there is a happy ending
Summary:
At first everything is simple. It’s just sex. Release. So, how will Sherlock handle facing the fact that he might be falling for one Detective Inspector?
they never showed sherlock getting off the plane so theoretically s4 could begin with him stepping back onto the tarmac, walking straight over to john, gripping his face between his hands and kissing him as if the world were about to end
The thought had occurred.
Sherlock gets off the phone with Mycroft and just breathes.
The plane is turning around; in four minutes or so, he’ll be back on London soil (not that he was off of it for very long). He’ll have a new mystery, a new game. Likely, he’ll have the promise of his old life back at the end of it—no time to worry about a petty murder charge after dealing with Moriarty.
He’ll have John.
Sherlock tilts his head back against the seat, his eyes closed, and thinks about the pathetic speech he made before he got on the plane. Sherlock is a girl’s name, how eloquent. It had made John laugh, at least: an image he had intended to carry with him until his inevitable death in Serbia, however long that took.
He has another chance, he thinks, and the thought makes him smile dryly. Fate is a ridiculous concept coined by people who are incapable of observing the goings-on in their own lives and are too stupid to fix it in a logical manner, but it comes to mind anyway that fate has given him chance after chance after chance to tell John the truth, and he has wasted every single one. Sherlock came back from the dead because of his love for John, twice if one counts both the sham and the literal event, and he still couldn’t be bothered to tell the truth before he boarded a plane for parts unknown.
Moriarty wasn’t the most dangerous man in London, he thinks suddenly. The concept of facing Moriarty hadn’t been half as terrifying as facing John.
The plane rattles onto the tarmac, stirring Sherlock from his reverie. The plane cruises to a halt, and after a moment, the hatch opens, spilling sunlight into the cabin.
Sherlock feels like he’s suspended in helium, curiously dizzy and weightless as he steps onto the stairway down to the tarmac. Down below, Mycroft stands by his sleek black car, peering up at him. Mary and John wait a few feet away. Mary’s expression is unreadable; John’s is a grin so brilliant that it could rival the sun they stand under.
Sherlock knows that he’s moving, though he doesn’t recall telling his feet to take him down the steps. He hits solid ground, and then the distance between him and those gathered waiting for him is shortening. He’s dimly aware of the presence of Mary and Mycroft, but his focus is on John. John may hate what he’s about to do, but he cannot, will not waste this opportunity, not when he’s wasted so many before, not when he came within a hair’s breadth of losing John forever not ten minutes ago—
John opens his mouth to speak as Sherlock approaches, then pauses when he realizes Sherlock isn’t slowing down. His face falls from elation to confusion. Sherlock can practically see the questions forming on John’s tongue, but his stride doesn’t break until he’s standing directly in front of John.
For some reason, it’s so easy now: take John’s face between his palms, close his eyes, lean in.
The kiss is awkward at first. Sherlock barely registers that John is still with shock, He anticipates a punch or a shove; he can feel the gazes of their witness burning into him.
But it is so, so worth it to feel the moment that John relaxes, huffing out a breath against Sherlock’s mouth, his lips turning soft and fitting against Sherlock’s with a precision that locks and keys could never accomplish. There’s a hand sliding across Sherlock’s shoulder and curling around his neck, pulling him down, closer. Sherlock strokes his thumbs down an unshaven jaw and feels the mirroring scratch of fingertips on the back of his neck. They kiss like the world is about to end, and it’s the most glorious thing he could ever imagine.
Sherlock could leave now. He could get back on that plane and survive six months of Serbia on just this memory alone, recalling John’s thin lips and the weight of his body and the tiny, bitten-off noise he makes at the shy touch of Sherlock’s tongue on the upper curve of his lip.
In the next ten seconds, Mycroft will interrupt with a clearing of his throat and some snide remark about being too busy to focus on the mission ahead. Mary won’t; she’ll be too shocked to say anything and won’t want to cause a scene. John will probably shy away, though Sherlock hopes that he won’t. In all likelihood, nothing will change in their future—too many factors to consider—but he knows now with absolute certainty that John loves him, too. That will have to be enough.
It won’t be, after awhile, but for now, it’s everything.
soulmate AU where everyone has their soulmate’s name on their wrist and John has “William” on his but after he meets Sherlock he decides to ignore it because he knows that this man is going to be the most important and amazing person he’ll ever meet and then Sherlock dies so he meets Mary and then Sherlock comes back and tells him his full name and John just understands
William.
William.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
John rubs his wrist, heart shattering into a million shards as the plane taxis down the runway. He walks back to Mary, an invisible anchor dragging behind him, fighting him with every step.
If she can read anything on his face, she says nothing. Let her just think he’s missing his friend.
Suddenly her face lights up, and John blinks, confused. She points and he turns to see the plane turning around in mid-air. His heart swells, painful, filling his whole chest. He can’t breathe.
As soon as Sherlock steps back off the plane, John runs. Doesn’t walk. Runs. Floats.
“John.”
“Sherlock. I… there’s…”
Fuck it, the words won’t come. John clenches his fist. Relaxes. Clenches. Relaxes.
He raises his arm, pulling his sleeve back.
The smile Sherlock gives him could light up the dark side of the moon. He reaches up, rolls up his own sleeve, revealing the flowing script on his arm.
“I know, John. I know.”
William. Such a boring name. Sherlock hated it. Since childhood he’d demanded to be called by his middle name, because it was him, truly. And it would throw off any idiots who would try to convince him that they were soulmates, that he needed them. He didn’t need anyone.
John had a woman’s name on his wrist. It was obvious. The constant streams of girlfriends in and out every week told him that. It had to be a nickname of some sort, something that more than one woman could easily have. The four letters on Sherlock’s wrist burned every time he saw John with someone else, as if they wanted to claim John as his.
It seemed that fate had miscalculated.
It’s his last chance, now. His last chance, last hope. With nothing left to lose in case this goes wrong, Sherlock doesn’t care. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he recites, and watches John’s face fall ever so slightly.
He almost doesn’t want to believe it- they could have had an infinity together and now they’ll never- but the evidence is there. Sherlock keeps his mask on, doesn’t sway.
Sam remembered one time, years ago, in some middle-of-nowhere dingy motel. He was eight or nine, maybe. Dad was gone, hunting. He’d only said he had a lead. Sam was pretty sure now that it must have been Azazel. Nothing less would have kept him away for three whole months.
There was a tree outside the hotel. Dad never let Sam climb trees, but Dad wasn’t there, and Dean was busy swiping food from the local gas station. He came back to Sam huddled and crying in the mud at the foot of the tree.
His arm was broken. He’d never seen Dean so scared. They didn’t have insurance, and the money dad had given them was quickly running out. So Dean wrapped Sam’s arm in ace bandages from the gas station and they left it alone, the way other boys hid broken vases from their mothers.
This is shameless, silly, fluffy, smutty nonsense. It’s fluffersmut. Basically everything it says in the title/on the tin. It is a gift for a lovely group of ladies without whom my days would be a lot less fun. I hope you enjoy!
Rating: Explicit Category: M/M Relationship: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Other Tags: Fluff, Smut, Fluff and Smut (Fluffersmut, as I like to call it), Body Shots, Friends to Lovers, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Resolved Sexual Tension, Post-Reichenbach, Oral Sex, Hand Jobs Word Count: 4658
Summary:
Sometimes, even after coming back from the dead, Sherlock can be a bit of a party pooper.
John helps him live a little.
/throws at all of you and hides
This fic is delightful, if you’re into johnlock at all
