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Every Other Freckle

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The flat's a shoebox--an untidy, creaky, dusty little stretch of mismatched furniture, ancient wallpaper, and groaning pipes. There are empty mugs and stickered laptops and uni books and papers strewn everywhere, a tiny bathroom with damp towels on the floor, and a kitchen overrun with science equipment, with a fridge covered by Post-It notes and a set of half-missing magnet letters spelling, "JO N LO ES SH RL C ." There's a bedroom with a bed that thumps, a mattress that squeaks, that eeek-eeek-eeeks to the rhythm of thrusts as it gently cradles love and rocks warm, sweaty, shifting bodies that seek each other in the dead of night.

There's a Sherlock on that mattress, buried in blankets and wrapped up like a burrito with nothing visible but a puff of unruly curls. John slurps on a coffee and watches him, a mischievous smile on his face.

"It's too early," Sherlock grumbles, a barely-distinguishable muffle.

John hmms and sets down his coffee. He cuddles up to the lumpy blanket-burrito, wrapping his arms around it and giving it a squeeze. "It's Valentine's Day, and it's snowing!"

"It's too early. Shut up."

"It's half-nine."

Sherlock hrrmmmphs and kicks at John ineffectually, the blanket hindering his movement.

"I've got break-faaast," John sing-songs, rubbing at Sherlock's belly through the blanket and planting a kiss somewhere around his shoulder.

"Not hungry."

"I've got coff-eeee."

Sherlock groans and twists, pulling the blanket round him more tightly.

"You're a lazy git," John comments, giving Sherlock a bum-tap and sitting up. He climbs off the bed, removes the lid of his coffee, and places it on the bedside table closest to Sherlock's head.

...

As predicted, Sherlock saunters out ten minutes later, the blanket round his shoulders like a cape, slurping away at John's coffee.

"This isn't because of you," Sherlock assures in a sleep-grumbly voice, taking a look out the windows and huffing, exasperated, at the steadily falling snow. He moves across the living room towards John.

John smirks and adjusts his outstretched position on the sofa, making room for Sherlock beside him and holding out his arms. "Mm, 'course not," he says, sucking three little mwuh kisses onto Sherlock's cheek once he has him in his arms.

They watch telly for a while, some inane morning talk show, and Sherlock finishes John's coffee whilst complaining and deducing and sighing through his nose as if so terribly put out by it all.

To shut him up, John gets a hand in his hair, fingers gently combing through tangled curls, and presses his mouth to his neck.

"Good morning," he murmurs, a little muffle against warm, sleep-sweaty skin. He wraps an arm around Sherlock's blanketed waist and pulls him against him until they're properly spooning, snug and close and sleepy, still. Sweet.

Sherlock's got on one of John's old T-shirts, an oversized thing with a stretched out neck that hangs off his shoulder and exposes a complex pattern of freckles, brown stardust pinpricks on his pale flesh, remnants of childhood holidays by the sea. John kisses them, little squeaking pecks, and holds Sherlock tight.

"You're intolerable, you know," Sherlock murmurs, voice cloudy with sleep, shifting, wriggling his slim hips back against John, the soft curve of his bum pressed into John's groin.

"Happy Valentine's Day to you, too." John laughs breathily against Sherlock's shoulder and gives him a little nip with his teeth. "What'd I do, now?"

Sherlock yawns and stretches out, twisting onto his back and looking up at John, who studies him with an amused, flirtatious look in his eyes.

"You've ruined me."

"Yeah?" John whispers, dipping his head and touching his lips to the tip of Sherlock's nose, kissing those freckles, too, adoring every inch of him.

"I want sex all the time, John." Sherlock seems genuinely displeased, a tiny crinkle appearing between his eyebrows, though he's betrayed by the curious hand he strokes down John's arm. "It's unbearable."

His breath smells of coffee, and there's a faint smear of dried acne cream on a spot on his chin, a faded, purplish love bite on his neck below his ear, and he's beautiful, beautiful, and John loves him so painfully much. He presses his lips to Sherlock's mouth and gives him a chaste kiss, a comfortable kiss, and gently brushes the hair back from his forehead.

"Whatcha gonna do about it?" John teases, breath a warm puff against Sherlock's mouth. "Huh?"

...

After two years, they know every inch of each other's bodies, have kissed and licked and touched every mole, crease, scar, and bit of hair, know quirks and sensitive spots and what feels so, so very good. John knows exactly how Sherlock tastes and how that taste changes throughout the month, knows he has a tiny freckle on his labia hidden beneath his pubic hair, knows the patch of thin stretch marks on his hips and the depth of his navel. He knows which body parts he washes first in the bath, knows how he folds his loo roll, knows the tampon brand he prefers and that removing even the teeniest bit of his pubic hair gives him an itchy rash for a week.

After two years, sex is comfortable, something they don't have to prepare for, don't have to plan or anticipate. John spreads Sherlock out on his back and presses up the oversized T-shirt to expose his pale, flat belly. They'd had sex the night before, Sherlock gripping the headboard of the bed as he straddled John's face, and John smells it on him, still, the faint, musky scent of sex, of dried wetness and sweat. He sucks at the smooth skin above the waistband of his black boxer briefs as he hooks his fingers under and tugs.

Sherlock's still a little wet, his pubic hair dark and damp along the folds of his labia. John rubs his index and middle fingers, spread in a V, up both sides of him, stroking and playing, seeking to arouse.

"You were so hot last night," he says, remembering the warmth pressed against his face as Sherlock gripped the headboard with tension-white fingers and panted, murmured, "God, John, that's-- that's-- God."

John leans in and licks at Sherlock, a gentle stroke with his tongue, before pressing an affectionate kiss to the small, deliciously sensitive, rosy pink bit of him. He'd sucked at it for what felt like hours the night before, pausing when Sherlock's thighs began to tremble, when he'd feel a warning pulse at his opening, before starting up again when Sherlock had calmed.

He hmmms at the memory and gives Sherlock a few playful, gentle bites--into the mound of his pubic hair, his lower belly, above his navel--as he slides his way up, hands moving all the way under his shirt to the soft, warm space at his chest.

"Yes or no?" John whispers, and after two years, he still asks the question because the question is important.

Sherlock hooks his fingers in the neck-hole of John's T-shirt and begins to yank it over his head. "Yes, anywhere," he says, one hand pulling and the other rubbing at the warmth of John's newly naked upper back, at the scar from his rotator cuff surgery--rugby injury--moving around to touch the damp fluff of hair at his armpit.

John slides his hands across Sherlock's breasts, tiny, soft little things, and presses a gentle, squeaking kiss to his sternum before sitting up and climbing off the sofa in order to easily untangle himself from his own clothing.

He's gross; God, he's gross, he realises as he slips off his pants and notices the dried bit of last night's semen below his navel, a residual streak from where he'd jerked off as he brought Sherlock to a post-edging orgasm that almost earned himself a broken nose due to Sherlock's thrashing and riding.

"Oh, do come here," Sherlock grumbles, testy but sweet, his top caught over his head in his knot of morning curls like a bloody nun's habit, and Christ, he looks ridiculous and adorable, naked as the day he was born with a pair of black boxer briefs hooked around one ankle, a wild, messy thatch of pubic hair, and fluffy little armpits. "We're awful, the both of us."

As if to prove the point, Sherlock sniffs at his armpit which is just starting to lose the scent of yesterday's deodorant.

"Well, isn't this fucking romantic?" John asks, climbing back atop his boyfriend. "Two smelly dudes getting their rocks off. Happy Valentine's Day."

Sherlock wraps his legs around John's waist and, as if just discovering them, holds his hands over his own breasts and gives them a curious cup. "I s'pose there's only one thing for it, then," he says.

John slides a hand down and starts to teasingly rub the head of his cock against Sherlock, up and down between his slick folds. "Mm, and what would that be?" he asks, arching down and pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock meets John's hand between their bodies and touches at him, running fingers through John's thick pubic hair, palming at his heavy scrotum, helping John rub the now-sticky tip of himself over and against and just the littlest bit in. "Get as messy as possible and then--" He pauses, simply feeling it for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing steadily in and out as John focuses his attention on Sherlock's most sensitive spot, circling it with his glans, dipping lower to gather wetness before sliding back up. "Then have a long--" Sherlock swallows. "--thorough shower."

"Mm. Happy Valentine's Day to me." John kisses Sherlock's forehead and easily slips into him for a moment, just flirting with the first few inches inside, thrusting a handful of times while Sherlock rubs gently at himself with the pads of his fingers.

They do this more often than they should, and it's risky, so risky--John's a medical student, of course he knows this--but he can't help himself, and Sherlock's as into it as he is, impossibly turned on by it, by the textures, by the heat of John, and yes, God, by the danger, if he's honest.

John aches at the sight of his bare cock inching in and out, at the whitish wetness gathering on the shaft, a sign of Sherlock's intense arousal.

After a minute, he withdraws with a heavy sigh because they really, really can't do this, absolutely should not do this--Christ, he can't imagine that situation. He grips himself and moves back to rubbing himself against Sherlock, who is flushed and swollen with blood flow.

"What do I have to say to get you to put it back?" Sherlock whines because that isn't enough, grabbing blindly for John's cock, which is slick and warm from Sherlock's body, and giving it a firm stroke.

John gives him a look, which is hard to do whilst biting his lip because honestly, this man is bloody magical, and his body's warm, and he's gleaming wet and pink-cheeked and-- "Condom," John, with difficulty, pushes past his lips.

Sherlock scowls. "Spoilsport," he says, though he knows, of course he does, reaching out with one hand and tugging open the coffee table drawer.

John reaches into the drawer and takes out a condom, which he proceeds to unwrap and put on.

They do it the other way sometimes, lube-slick, extremely gentle, unprotected anal sex, but John is the large side of average and Sherlock's impatient and often pushes himself beyond comfort. The bigger part of it, really, is that they're lazy as hell on most days and both simply enjoy Sherlock's vagina so terribly much.

"I'm glad I've got it," Sherlock told him once whilst he was leant back against him, computer in his lap, researching top surgery. "These I don't much care for"--he gestured to his chest--"but the rest is alright." He, of course, detests his periods, but that can be solved easily enough when he's ready.

Sherlock's legs go back around John's waist once John's again settled between them, once he's pressing kisses to Sherlock's cheeks, his eyelids, his nose, and slipping inside.

"Christ, you feel good," John grunts, thrusting deep.

Sherlock sighs with pleasure and, hands in John's hair, drags John's mouth to his in a warm, wet, coffee-flavoured kiss.

As he moves, pressing into Sherlock with a steady rhythm, feeling Sherlock's wetness spread down to his balls, the softness of their damp pubic hair pushing together, butterscotch-blond against a deep, cinnamony-brown, the hard little peaks of Sherlock's nipples beneath the pads of his thumbs, his lips, and his tongue, he murmurs, "You're beautiful, so fucking beautiful," and "God, I love you, you gorgeous thing."

Sherlock pants and groans low, pulling John down against him with his legs and canting his own hips up so John's thrusts rub him in just the right way. He hooks his arms around John's shoulders and sucks open-mouthed kisses onto his throat.

They'll never get enough of this, this push and pull, the mounting pressure, the pyrotechnic pleasure explosion.

The first time they did it, Sherlock wondered why people enjoyed it so much, why it seemed most people his age sacrificed it all, gave up their wits and pride and leisure time to chasing orgasm with another person. He was seventeen and shy, and when John slowly worked his way inside him for the very first time, he was pink-cheeked and embarrassed.

But, God, he understands, now. He's nineteen, and he craves his boyfriend like a drug, and he cannot fathom how he once thought this to be a waste of time, orgasm to be an unworthy pursuit.

"Completely ruined me," he breathes out against John's mouth, before kissing him with a smile. He hitches his hips, presses the bottoms of his feet against John's arse, and tugs in and in and in because he wants him deep, he wants him everywhere.

Noting the pull and wanting to give Sherlock more room to move, John thrusts a few more times and, circling his hips, feeling Sherlock clench around him at the different approach, whispers, "Want on top?"

It takes some maneouvering, but a moment later, John is sat up on the sofa, and Sherlock is slowly lowering himself onto his cock. As he hovers, grasping John and sliding him in, John feels a stringy drip of wetness land on his inner thigh, and something about that, about how turned on, how wet and real and so very, very human Sherlock is, nearly drives him over the edge. God, it's sexy, this beautiful, wonderful, brilliant, and complex man pressing John's cock up inside him and biting his lip as he does it, scrunching up his nose and closing his eyes.

"Fuck, I'm gonna make you come," John chokes out, grasping Sherlock's hips and gently assisting, encouraging, as he starts to move, pushing up and then lowering once more.

He licks at his mouth, pressing his tongue inside in a sloppy, sloppy kiss, and Sherlock hrrmmmphs and wraps his arms around John's neck, rocking in his lap, gently, gently, then faster.

They're properly sweating after a bit: a bead sliding down Sherlock's temple, wetness gathering in the notch of his neck, more slicking up John's lap, his chest.

It's snowing outside and the windows are beginning to fog. Sherlock laughs when John points it out with a snicker, his fingers playing in the crack of Sherlock's arse and his mouth on his throat and Sherlock squeezing around him with the rhythm of his puffs of laughter-breath. John loves him more than anything in the world. He presses their sweaty foreheads together and whispers silly things, little endearments and teases and, referring to the windows, "Christ, they'll know what we're doing, won't they?" He pants and laughs and kisses. "Havin' a good shag."

Sherlock chuckles as much as he can through his heavy breathing, and his cheeks flame up with embarrassment over it--and God, isn't it just fucking cute how even the suggestion of someone knowing what they're doing gets him all shy?

"Should fuck up against the windows," John teases, pushing it further just because, squeezing at Sherlock's bum.

Sherlock groans and tells John to shut up, but he moves faster, tightening his grip around John's body and gasping something that sounds like his name.

"Come inside you while you're--" John pauses to moan, "--pressed to the glass and--"

"John," Sherlock whispers, whimpers.

"--squeezing around me and--"

"God, you're unbeara--" Sherlock keens, "--ble...fuck." He lets go of John's neck with one arm and moves it down to rub at himself.

"You are so hot, so hot," John murmurs, leaning back to watch Sherlock ride him and touch himself, and Jesus Christ, if it isn't the most gorgeous thing--

John holds Sherlock about the waist, thumbs digging into his belly, and helps him move faster, harder, lifts his hips up to help with the rhythm, watches his dick move in and out of him, sees the wetness from Sherlock's body gathered at the base of the condom, and it's getting too much--too, too much.

"Uhn, I love you," John says, sliding a hand down to pet at Sherlock, helping him touch himself, rubbing his fingers anywhere he can and feeling the push and pull of his latex-covered cock entering and exiting the wet warmth.

Sherlock pants hard, mouth open, head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut as he rides and and moans and feels, hand moving rapidly, searching, searching--

"Come, come," John whispers into the air between them, rubbing at Sherlock's back with the hand not busy stroking every inch of him he can reach, coaxing him, loving him, "Please."

Sherlock moans and starts to shift, losing his rocking rhythm, belly tightening, doubling over and breathing hot air into the skin of John's neck as he pushes up on his knees and rubs at himself, chasing his orgasm.

"Oh, love, that's it," John encourages, lifting his hips at a slow, gentle pace and stroking Sherlock's spine, letting him find what he needs. "Come on, sweetheart, you're almost-- Uhh."

Sherlock bites at John's shoulder, drags his mouth and tongue along his neck, and shakes. "God, John," he pushes out, palming himself and sitting fully on John's lap, taking his cock as deep as it'll go and squeezing his thighs against John's, tightening and tightening and-- "I'm going to--"

"Come on me," John says, breathless, himself, feeling the little tremors inside Sherlock, feeling the orgasm rising within him, the muscle contractions poised to begin. "Come on, love."

"Oh!" Sherlock nearly shouts, as if making a fascinating discovery, dropping his forehead to John's chest and rocking, hard, once, twice. "God, John. Feels so--"

"Right there." John runs hands over his body and bites his bottom lip as he feels it all kick off, the stasis inside, Sherlock going rigid, before the squeeze, squeeze, squeeze as he orgasms, panting and keening, eyes nothing but crinkles, his hand gripping at himself and fingers touching at the base of John's cock as he squirms and squirms, and it is just the most gorgeous thing.

"Oh, you're lovely," John murmurs, mouthing at Sherlock's hair as he starts to come down, as the contractions slow and fade and he begins to slump, weak, now, exhausted from all the movement.

He lifts his head and gives John a slow, sweet kiss, a lazy, drunken kiss, and John rubs at Sherlock's sacrum and his bum and gentles him with love.

Sherlock makes an exasperated sound as he pushes up on his knees and slides John out of him. He strips off the condom and strokes his cock and kisses him with little sips of kisses that are so, so achingly lovely. John whispers and hmms and comes onto Sherlock's belly with a grunt against his smiling mouth, and in that moment, he knows that there is nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.

...

"I adore you," John says, kissing at the streaks of come on Sherlock's belly, moving down to lick at his tender, pink parts, just loving him more than seeking to arouse, before sliding back up to tap their lips together.

Sherlock sighs against his mouth and pulls their reclining bodies flush together. They're disgusting, now, far past gross, wet and sticky and matted in certain places and sweat-smelly.

"You're awful and unbearable," Sherlock breathes out, "and I love you so impossibly much, John Watson."

It isn't the first time he's said it, but it causes John to ache as much as the first time, ache with so much affection he thinks he'll burst into a million pieces.

How is it possible that he has this? He's twenty-one years old, and he's already found his entire life in a strange, brilliant, beautiful boy he will learn with, grow with, grow old with, he will marry, he will kiss and hold every day of his life. Why is he so lucky?

He rubs his nose against Sherlock's, touches at his wild, knotted curls, his messy eyebrows, the bit of sleep crust in the corner of his left eye, the ridiculousness of his cupid's bow. "Come on, my valentine," he teases, kisses, and smiles.

He climbs from the sofa and pulls Sherlock with him by the hand. "We're absolutely foul."

...

They shower together, wash each other's hair, laugh and kiss at John's shampoo mohawk and the pompadour John gives Sherlock as he tells him how hot he looks.

They dance together, careful in the spray, Sherlock's arms around John's neck, as John sings something silly and embarrassing. They're happy, and they're in love, and isn't it the most wonderful thing?

John kisses Sherlock's nose, those tiny, tiny little freckles he adores so much--

Every single one.