Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9267254.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Gundam_Wing
  Relationship:
      Trowa_Barton/Quatre_Raberba_Winner
  Character:
      Trowa_Barton, Quatre_Raberba_Winner, Duo_Maxwell
  Additional Tags:
      Smut, Fluff, Schmoop, Post-Endless_Waltz, Canon_Compliant, Takes_Place
      Right_After_the_Last_Scenes_In_EW
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-01-09 Words: 2293
****** What's In A Name ******
by Noelleian
Summary
     After the Eve Wars, Trowa and Quatre have their own private reunion.
Notes
     Just a little Snippet Sunday oneshot. I apologize for the delay in
     updates. I'm working as best I can to update APT, The Pact, as well
     as some of the others. I'm kind of going through a writing block atm
     so these little drabbles are helping me push through it. Thanks for
     you patience! *hugs*
     I tagged this as "Underage" just to be safe, but technically they're
     both 17 and over the age of consent. There is a brief mention of
     prior sexual activity that takes place towards the end of the first
     war where they would have been 16-ish.
     Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Christmas was bright and sunny, so unlike the murky gloom of the day before. It
seemed to signify the start of something new. A world without war, without
senseless violence. A brighter day, the promise of an even brighter future
shining down in warm rays of hope that peace would reign for years to come.
Trowa had decided that his stolen name was good enough. It got him this far and
he wasn’t exactly keen on falling back to “No Name”. It certainly wasn’t
something that looked good on a resume. What the hell. The original owner
didn’t need it anyway.
Quatre seemed to like it and for some reason, that was most important. They
stared at each other across the short distance between them, their silent
communication speaking volumes in regards to emotions not yet verbalized.
Elation, cautious optimism, affection, and longing were laid out within the
shallow depths of sky blue eyes, reflected in Trowa’s own. Eleven months had
been too long.
“Well,” Duo chirped. “I suppose I should let you two catch up. It’s getting a
tad awkward standing between you while you eye-fuck each other. ‘Sides, Hilde
will tan my hide if I’m not back in time for our date. Not that Ithought it was
a date, but if I don’t call it that, she gets mad at me and then I don’t get
any nookie.”
“Tragic,” Trowa deadpanned.
“Yeah, well. Gotta do wha’cha gotta do to make the ol’ ball ‘n chain happy,
y’know?”
“I’m sure Hilde appreciates being referred to that way,” Quatre mused.
“Pffft. Are you kidding? Where do you think I got it from? Anyway. I’ll see
ya.” Duo stepped away and headed up the hill towards the bus station, lifting
his hand in farewell. “You kids behave,” he added.
Trowa shifted his gaze back to Quatre who smiled charmingly, dimples appearing
in cheeks that still had yet to lose all their baby fat. He’d grown a little
since the last time Trowa had seen him. Not much. Perhaps an inch, or so. His
face had matured slightly, a bit more of an edge to the line of his jaw, subtle
as it was. It looked silky smooth, still untouched by a razor despite just
turning seventeen. Or perhaps his hair was simply too fair to be noticeable. 
Either way, he was still as angelic looking as he’d been when Trowa first laid
eyes on him, only far less like a kid and much more like the young adult he
was.
“Trowa.”
“Hm?” He jerked out of his reverie and blushed when he realized he’d been
unabashedly staring. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Quatre assured him. His voice, slightly deeper than it had been
eleven months ago, was laced with amusement. “I understand. It’s…been awhile.
You’ve grown. You look good.”
Face beet red and unaccustomed to compliments, he shuffled his feet and
murmured his thanks. He’d only grown a few inches in height, but he’d more than
made up for it with the muscle he’d put on during his rigorous performances as
well as the grueling labor that went into the set up and take down of the
circus’ attractions. “You look good, too,” he said, though that simple
statement didn’t really convey his appreciation for how good Quatre looked. 
“I’m - well, I just - you look beautiful,” he stammered and felt his heart
light up with something that could only be construed as joy when Quatre’s
brilliant grin widened even more in flattery. 
The pale eyes scrutinized him, lingering on the muscular expanse of his
shoulders and the swell of his arms and chest. At long last, he met Trowa’s
eyes again and cocked his head to the side. “You wanna get out of here?”
“Yeah,” he nodded and took a step closer. “You don’t have anywhere you need to
be?”
“It can wait,” Quatre said with an indifferent shrug. “Though I wouldn’t mind a
lift. I don’t have a car, I’m afraid.”
“Now that I can do,” he said and gestured up the hill with a sweep of his
arm. “My truck’s only about one and a half kilometers down the road.”
“Perfect,” the blond chirped, falling into step beside him. “It’s such a nice
day. A little fresh air would do us good, I’m sure.”
And God, how Trowa missed that sunny disposition. The optimism that Quatre drew
from a seemingly endless well. He could brighten up a room without even trying.
Chase the clouds away with that smile and a few words of unconditional
encouragement. He was so much like Cathy. It was no wonder so many people
flocked to him. He lured them in with his magnetic charm and kept them close
with his kindness and generosity. 
It was strange walking side by side with him down the shoulder of an old
country road. Strange in the sense that it was such a normal thing to do. A
civilian thing to do. Two young people not anticipating an order to run to
their stations and prepare for battle. There was no impending fear, or
expectation of death. No tomorrows without a promise. A vast, unknown future
was laid out before them and the possibilities were endless.
“So what are you going to do now?” He asked, glancing over at the sun-pinked
face. The desire to reach out and take Quatre’s hand was overwhelming and he
thought back to that moment in Catherine’s trailer shortly after Heero had
woken up from his failed suicide attempt. Those words he’d said to
Trowa, “Follow your heart,” still stuck with him to this day. It was one of the
few things that stayed with him during his amnesia. The other being the young
man walking beside him. 
He’d never forgotten that and often employed it during moments of indecision.
That “trust your gut” advice seemed to serve him well. It was the reason he had
decided to return to the battlefield and that choice was the catalyst which
gave him his memories back. 
Throwing caution to the wind, he grasped the blond’s hand and linked them
together, his heart swelling as Quatre’s fingers wrapped tightly around his
own.
“Back to WEI, I suppose,” he said, sounding less than enthused. 
“You don’t sound happy about that.”
Quatre’s expression was a mix between derision and exasperation. “I was groomed
for this since the day I was bo - created.”
“Being groomed for it and being happy about it are two different things.”
“I was never happy about it. Despite having twenty nine capable daughters
before me, he still reserved the helm for his only son. His heir,” he spat,
mouth turning down as if he’d just eaten something sour. “I always hated that
word.”
“What? Heir?”
“Yes. Allah, up until I was four, I thought that was my name. I got so tired of
hearing “the heir” every time someone was referring to me.” He petulantly
kicked a few stones in his path. “Made me feel like an object rather than a
person. He never cared what I wanted anyway. My destiny was set in stone before
I could walk.”
“But…he’s gone now,” Trowa said, wincing at his lack of decorum once his brain
caught up. He cleared his throat and pushed on, hoping Quatre wouldn’t react
badly. “You don’t have to do it. Like you said, you have twenty nine capable
sisters. I’m sure some of them would be up for the job.”
“I know they would be. Thing is…I just don’t know what I would do. Where in the
world I would fit in if I left? I don’t know how to do anything else.”
“What are you talking about? You’re the smartest person I know.”
“Smart only gets you so far,” Quatre muttered. “Anyway, what about you? I heard
Wufei mention something to you about a position in the Preventers.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. I need to think about it. Not sure I want to jump right
back into all this after it just ended.” He gazed up through the trees,
squinting at the sunlight that filtered through the rustling leaves. “Then
again, I’m not sure I want to be a circus freak for the rest of my life
either.”
“Trowa,” Quatre chided. “You are not a freak, much less a circus one. There’s
no shame in what you do.”
“I guess not. Oddly enough, I only got the job as a way to pass the time and
make enough money to get by. But…”
“But you found a place that you can call home.”
He glanced over, caught the understanding look in Quatre’s eyes and wondered
how he’d gotten so lucky to find someone whom he could share such a profound,
albeit inexplicable connection with. 
That feeling led to a sudden, all-encompassing desire to make love to him. It
swept over him like a tidal wave and his body responded in kind, remembering
the only other time he’d had that privilege.
They’d found each other again after he regained his memories and the natural
progression of such a connection had led to a physical need. A consummation
that would bring those feelings full circle and etch them in stone.
His body flared with heat as it remembered the phantom sensations of Quatre
beneath him. The searing hot clench around his aching manhood and the palm of
his hand smothering the blond’s cries so as not to wake their sleeping
comrades. 
Quatre sensed it, too, and nothing more needed to be said. By the time they
reached Trowa’s truck, they were both breathing heavily, on edge with arousal
and anticipation. 
Trowa swung the door to the cab open and pulled Quatre inside and over to the
makeshift bed. It was unmade, but neither of them were all that arsed to care. 
Quatre’s fingers trembled as he worked the buttons of his shirt open and
Trowa’s were surprisingly steady when he slid the fabric off, exposing bony
shoulders encased in silky, porcelain skin. He dropped his head and mouthed
hungrily at the warm flesh, working the rest of Quatre’s shirt and vest down
his back and off his arms.
The clink of Quatre’s belt buckle was loud and erotic to Trowa’s ears.Like
ringing the dinner bell, he thought. He helped him push the khaki trousers down
his narrow hips until they reached mid-thigh and then he hoisted Quatre onto
the bed, peeling the slacks off the rest of the way along with the brown
loafers.
Quatre’s chest heaved as he panted, the black of his pupils eclipsing the blue
of his eyes which stared up at Trowa in desperate longing. The last shreds of
Trowa’s tenuous control snapped and he tore at his own clothing, patience for
the constrictive garments wearing thin. 
He crawled onto the bed, into the welcoming space between Quatre’s opened legs
and settled into place. Quatre’s limbs closed about him like a sprung trap and
he hissed when their naked groins finally made contact. 
Both of them were too far gone to give much consideration for foreplay. Trowa
had just enough wherewithal to coat his erection with lotion before he pressed
inside the feverish grip of Quatre’s body. He worked himself in deep, fucking
roughly into the soft, velvety sheath that squeezed around him so perfectly, it
brought tears to his eyes. 
Quatre clung to him, slender arms hooked around his neck, and whimpered his
pleasure into the muggy air of the tiny cabin. Tiny mewls and the occasional
bleating of his name when Trowa pushed in at just the right angle washed over
his skin like rays of sunshine. Hearing not just any name, but hisname…one he’d
stolen from another man, bubble from the kiss swollen lips of the blond beneath
him drove him to unprecedented heights of ecstasy. 
He never thought he’d have a name to be remembered by, much less hear it spoken
with such unbridled emotion. He pushed harder, faster, digging in deep and
moaning with rapture when Quatre wept his climax into his shoulder. The hot
splash of come on his belly and the rhythmic contractions of Quatre’s body
manifested into infinite tiny explosions, like fireworks going off inside his
groin. The shock wave spread throughout his body, quick as a wildfire and he
shouted his agony into the darkness of the cabin, his release torn from him
with the white hot flare of a dying sun. 
He rocked his hips until there was nothing left to spill and collapsed on top
of Quatre, spent and panting against the blond’s clavicle. 
Time seemed to escape him and he had no idea how much had passed before he
registered the soothing stroke of a hand over the back of his head. The roar in
his ears subsided enough to recognize that Quatre was humming, the vibration
reverberating against his chin. 
“What is that?” He slurred against Quatre’s chest. 
“A Maqam. One of my sisters used to sing it to me when I was little.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Mmm…this was beautiful.”
He lifted his head and nipped at Quatre’s plush lips. “You’re beautiful.”
“And you’re a suck-up.”
“Only when it serves me.” He paused a moment and bit down into his lip. “So…you
like the name?”
“Trowa, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“I love it. I really do. It suits you.”
“Does it?”
“Yes, it does. But it’s your choice to keep it, or not.”
“I think I will then.” In fact, he knew he would. He knew with utmost certainty
that he could never bring himself to change it. Not since he’d heard it spoken
with such resonance, such worship, from the lips of the young man who’d saved
his life, resurrected his soul, and held his heart in the palm of his hand.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
, cluttered with papers and books, is under the television, to the
right a little bit. John drops his sports bag on the chair of the desk,
spreading his arms and spinning around.
“You like Led Zeppelin?” Sherlock asks, gesturing the poster beside the door.
“Uh, yeah,” John answers, rifling through the dresser on the opposite side of
the door. He pulls out two pairs of plaid pajamas, tossing one to Sherlock.
“They’re basically the best thing that’s ever happened to music, in my own
opinion.”
John slips his shirt over his head, turning away from Sherlock as he undoes his
pants and slips them off. Sherlock marvels at the way his muscles look,
rippling with the effort of keeping balanced, before turning away and also
undoing his. He doesn’t notice John’s slight intake of breath when he catches
Sherlock halfway through changing.
Sherlock decides to leave his raggedy tee-shirt on, as he climbs onto John’s
bed, leaning his back against the headboard, while
John grabs a travel case of DVDs out of his desk. “You can pick what you want,
I’ll go make some popcorn,” he nearly giggles, tossing the case on the bed.
Sherlock flips through mindlessly, looking for the most generically ‘masculine’
disc in the bunch. He settles on Die Hard, plopping it into the player before
settling against the headboard of John’s large bed. The title menu plays
through four times before John returns, holding a single bowl heaped with
popcorn.
Sherlock grins, snatching it away as John pushes play.
~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~
The credits roll as Sherlock’s eyes drift open again. John snuffles in his
sleep, curling on his side, facing Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes roam quickly over
John’s body, pausing on his peaceful face. Sherlock hadn’t realized how
stressed John looks at school, his eyebrows scrunched in the middle, his mouth
a tight line, until now, when John’s face is completely relaxed. Quietly
dropping the empty plastic bowl on the ground, Sherlock realizes he doesn’t
know where to sleep. He doesn’t want to wake John up; that’s rude. But he also
doesn’t know how “weird” it would be to just sleep in his bed.
Sherlock hasn’t had a friend for two years.
He doesn’t want to mess this up.
Sherlock feels a vague pang of unease as his head drops onto John’s pillow,
anyway. He presses his back against the rough wall, trying to maximize the
space between himself and John, and drifts into a peaceful slumber to the sound
of John’s even breathing.
~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~
John awakens to a slight shifting against his stomach, which, when John finally
slides his eyes open, turns out to be Sherlock trying to stealthily wiggle out
from underneath John. He grumbles his apologies, rolling onto his back.
Sherlock scoots an adequate distance away, willing images of his grandmother
and starving children into his mind in an effort to relieve himself of the tent
in his pajamas.
John pretends not to notice, opting instead to roll out of the bed and rifle
through his dresser until Sherlock sits up, stretching his arms. Turning around
to suggest breakfast, John is momentarily distracted by the band of skin
running just under Sherlock’s black t-shirt.
“Sleep well, I hope?” John asks, smirking for lack of an idea what to do
instead.
“Yeah,” Sherlock mumbles, looking out the window so as to not outwardly stare
at John’s bare chest. He really doesn’t want to mess this up. “I hope you don’t
mind,” Sherlock gestures to the bed, “I just didn’t want to wake you, you
know?”
“That’s fine, really,” John laughs, tugging a pair of jeans out of his dresser.
“Really, really fine.”
~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~
A week comes and goes, Sherlock is pushed about, shoved into lockers, kicked
behind the school; but all of these incidents are only finished when John picks
him up, wiping off any dirt or blood as he whispers apologies and threats
against the other football players.
Sherlock is sure John could easily figure out his name, if he asked any of his
teachers, but he also knows John wants to find out on his own. He wants
Sherlock to tell him, but they both know Sherlock won’t.
But Sherlock’s never been happier, seeing as someone actually wants to know his
name in the first place.
After the second football win of the season, Sherlock finds himself pressed
into a booth in the local diner with John beside him. Across the plastic table,
one of the more mild-mannered football players sits.
“That was brilliant, John,” Mark, number seventy-two, sighs, shoving a few more
fries into his mouth. “Absolutely brilliant.”
John just shrugs, smiling at Sherlock as he scoots almost imperceptibly closer.
“Thanks, Mark. It’s not that great, though. Honestly.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s not that great that you have almost singlehandedly won both
games this season, John,” Sherlock snorts, proud of himself for actually
speaking. His stomach seems to be protesting against it, though, so Sherlock
takes a quick sip of his soda.
John laughs and shoulders Sherlock against the table, lightheartedly.
Mark catches the message and wipes his hands on his pants, scooting out of the
booth. “I’ll see you guys around,” he winks.
“You two be safe. Don’t go too crazy!” Mark laughs as he shuffles into another
group of boys.
“’Don’t go too crazy’?” Sherlock asks. “Are we going to go crazy at all? I
don’t think I know how to!” John laughs with Sherlock, bumping his knee against
the other boy’s as he observes the crinkles by Sherlock’s eyes, noting them in
the back of his mind for later use.
“Going crazy is easy with the right people,” John answers, leaning his elbow on
the table so all he can see is Sherlock. “But, typically, you need to be on a
first name basis to do it.” John winks, knowing it won’t work, but trying
anyway.
Sherlock snorts, rolling his eyes and sipping his soda. “I guess we’ll have to
do without,” Sherlock murmurs, leaning his elbow on the table in a mirror image
of John. He looks into John’s deep green eyes for a long moment, watching the
wheels turn as a thought formulates in John’s head. Sherlock leans closer,
snagging a fry from John’s plate.
“Why?” John whispers, looking past Sherlock’s shoulder, through the window,
because he’s not sure if he can look at Sherlock without wanting to scream or
cry or punch Greg in the face.
Sherlock notes John’s shaking hands, going against his logical brain and
running his fingers quickly up John’s forearm. As he pulls his fingers away,
they brush John’s face lightly. “Why what, John?” he whispers back, scooting
until his leg is pressed against John’s.
“Why won’t you tell me your name?” John answers, swirling his finger against
the plastic table. “I don’t get it, I mean; clearly, I’m not ashamed of you!
Why are you so terrified of me?” Suddenly, John feels overcome with
embarrassment, turning away from Sherlock as his cheeks flush a dark red.
Sherlock feels like he’s locked in a tight space, suddenly. His chest feels
tight as he realizes just how much John’s been hurting.
Sherlock doesn’t know what to do other than lean closer to John, reaching under
John’s chin and gently nudging his cheek until John turns his head. “John,”
Sherlock murmurs, his stomach twisting when John jerks out of his grip.
“John and the freak sitting in a tree,” Greg sings, sliding into the booth. “K-
I-S-S-I-N-G! Nah, I’m kiddin’ John, even though the freak here probably’d like
it!” Greg sneers at Sherlock, kicking at him under the table.
“Greg, not now,” John mumbles, interlocking his fingers and leaning his
forehead against them. “You’ve done it all week, just give him a break.
Please.”
“I don’t get you, John,” Greg scoffs, turning to face his fellow football
player. “You hang out with him on the weekends, but I hardly see you say two
words to the guy at school. I just don’t get you, man.” Greg turns back to
Sherlock. “Not that I can blame him, Freak.”
With that, Greg laughs, pushing himself out of the booth.
John twists in the booth, looking at Sherlock’s fallen face, forgetting his own
frustrations at the look of worthlessness on Sherlock’s face. He’s staring at
his hands, waiting for one more threat, one more horrible comment, one more
reason why he should just go home. Suddenly, John feels his gut snag, and he’s
leaning forward, tapping Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Hey, buddy,” John mumbles. “’S okay. ‘S okay, everything’s okay.”
“Nothing’s okay,” Sherlock grumbles back, grimacing. John finds himself tugging
on Sherlock’s sleeve, pulling him out of the warm diner into the chilly autumn
air.
“Everything will be okay,” John laughs, trying to lift Sherlock’s mood as he
clambers onto the hood of his car. “Eventually. Like now. Right now. Not five
minutes ago, not last year; right now. This instant.”
Sherlock joins John on the car. “It’s a bit cold,” Sherlock jokes, nudging John
with his elbow.
“You know what I mean,” John murmurs, looking at Sherlock. The light from the
diner shines across the row of cars between John’s and the restaurant,
filtering itself in Sherlock’s brown curls and bouncing off his brilliant eyes.
“Just you and me, no Greg, no anybody. Just us.”
John’s not sure when his intention became to wrap his fingers in Sherlock’s
hair; but he does it, leaning in and pulling Sherlock nearer to him. “What’re
you doing?” Sherlock asks, his heart pounding due to the proximity of John’s
body to his. He hopes John can’t feel it.
“Touching your hair,” John whispers, twirling his fingers in the curls at the
base of Sherlock’s neck. “Is that alright?”
Sherlock takes a deep breath to steady his voice as he wills his fingers to
stop shaking. His pause breaks John’s heart, but
Sherlock almost flinches when John begins pulling his hand away. Sherlock
catches his wrist. “No, no,” Sherlock quietly replies, gazing into John’s eyes.
“It’s quite alright.”
“How about this?” John asks, leaning forward before he can lose his small bit
of spontaneity. He presses his lips against Sherlock’s, smirking against the
sharp breath Sherlock takes in, but, then, Sherlock seems to melt against John,
sloppily kissing him back.
John leans back with a sigh, breaking the kiss and receiving a disappointed
whine from Sherlock. John cradles Sherlock’s thin face in his hands, leaning
his forehead against Sherlock’s, suddenly feeling the missing spot in his mind
where Sherlock’s name should fit.
“You’re just really fucking important to me,” John whispers, placing soft
kisses on Sherlock’s cheeks. “And I don’t even know your name.”
Sherlock closes his eyes, smiling when John kisses his eyelids. “You’re going
to regret this tomorrow,” Sherlock murmurs, basking in the warm glow of
attention, even if it’ll only last a short time.
“I won’t regret something I’ve wanted to do since I first met you,” John ghosts
against Sherlock’s neck, laying on all the charm as Sherlock gasps. He needs
Sherlock to feel how much he wants this. He lets his teeth drag lightly against
Sherlock’s skin, relishing the way Sherlock shifts himself, widening his knees
and scooting closer to John.
“John,” Sherlock gasps as John’s fingers creep under the hem of his jacket.
“Do you see how your lack of a name puts a damper on this?” John asks, nuzzling
his nose against the smooth skin behind Sherlock’s hair. Suddenly, the door to
the diner flies open, and Mark lets out a warning, “John!” before Greg and his
cronies stumble out. Sherlock jerks away, sliding off the hood of the car and
making his way to the passenger door.
John does the same, shooting Mark a thumbs up before peeling out of the gravel
parking lot, barreling down the road towards Sherlock’s small house.
~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~
“We’re home, Mom,” John yells into the quiet house, dragging Sherlock behind
him. “We’ll be upstairs.” His mother’s muffled reply is ignored by both boys,
though Sherlock tries harder than John to hear it.
Sherlock drops his bag on John’s familiar bed, jumping up to join it on the
plain bedclothes that John seems to prefer. He unzips it, rifling about in his
school work for tonight’s homework, which Sherlock’s mother kindly allowed
Sherlock to do under John’s supervision, rather than, his brother, Mycroft’s.
John chuckles, sliding onto the bed beside Sherlock.
“Are we really going to start so soon?” John murmurs, laying on all the charm
and playfully pressing his lips to Sherlock’s shoulder as he maneuvers around,
so he’s standing on his knees behind Sherlock. For a moment, Sherlock can’t
remember how he got to be so lucky as to have the star football player
currently worshipping all his exposed skin.
“If I finish quickly, we can have more fun later,” Sherlock points out,
twisting his neck to connect his lips with John’s in a quick kiss, before he
turns back to the sheet of paper in his hand. “Besides, it’s only one bit of
work, it won’t take ten minutes.”
“Then let’s have some fun now,” John whispers against Sherlock’s neck, darting
his tongue out to quickly swipe against the sensitive skin. Sherlock shivers
against John’s body.
“I suppose this could wait,” Sherlock answers slowly, dumping his school
supplies on the ground as he turns to face John. John cradles Sherlock’s face,
giving him a long kiss, made of only lips and searching tongue skating over
Sherlock’s willing mouth. Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s neck, trying to
will away the sudden tightness of his pants; they’re just kissing for God’s
sake, they’re not even boyfriends, more like friends who kiss in their spare
time. He feels embarrassed at his seemingly immature lack of control he has
over his own body and hopes John won’t notice. However, much to Sherlock’s
dismay, John is pushing on his chest, making him lay against the pillows as
John settles himself on top of Sherlock.
Sherlock feels John smirk against his lips, so Sherlock pulls away, briefly
filling his mind with images of his grandmother before murmuring a quiet,
“Sorry.” John just smiles, sweetly kissing Sherlock’s burning red cheeks.
“I think it’s cute,” he murmurs, returning his attention to Sherlock’s neck
while his fingers brush against Sherlock’s warm stomach. John tries to memorize
the way Sherlock’s muscles move when he breathes, gasping when John playfully
bites the skin
on Sherlock’s shoulder. John pushes on the bottom of Sherlock’s shirt, asking
with his eyes. Sherlock simply pulls the thin fabric over his head, loving
John’s delighted smile.
John kisses his way down Sherlock’s chest, lighting all his nerves on fire.
Sherlock’s chest begins rising and falling quicker, as his breath picks up,
arching off the bed when John gently nips at one of the pink nubs.
Once again, Sherlock’s face burns with embarrassment, but John shushes him as
he kisses lower, onto Sherlock’s soft stomach, lifting his eyes to once again
ask silent permission. Sherlock nods, completely overloaded, as John undoes the
fly on Sherlock’s pants.
John expertly pushes both Sherlock’s pants and briefs down to his ankles, and
Sherlock feels another wave of complete mortification as he realizes he is
completely naked in front of John. He is suddenly aware of all the ways he
falls short, from his knobby knees to his too-long arms.
“Stop thinking like that,” John murmurs, reading Sherlock’s mind as he kisses
and licks his way up Sherlock’s thigh. “You’re beautiful. Absolutely
beautiful.”
Sherlock snorts, and John shoots him a look. Sherlock leans forward, tilting
John’s chin to give him another lengthy kiss, wondering what he did in a past
life to deserve this wonderful boy’s attention. John breaks the kiss, trading
Sherlock’s mouth for the sensitive skin at the base of his prick.
Sherlock forgets to breathe when John takes a tentative swipe at the leaking
head of Sherlock’s prick, enjoying the bitter and salty taste of Sherlock. John
licks a stripe up the length before taking the head in his mouth and sucking,
ignoring the bucking of Sherlock’s hips because ohmygod that feels great.
Sherlock can feel the tension building in his muscles already, and he feels
ashamed and betrayed once again at the immature responses of his body. John
smiles, breathing a puff of warm air out before placing delicate kisses up and
down Sherlock’s cock.
“John,” Sherlock gasps, grasping at the blanket with desperate fingers. John
slides up Sherlock’s body, rocking his hips against Sherlock’s. The rough denim
against Sherlock’s sensitive dick almost sets him off, but John backs off.
“John,” Sherlock says again, this time a whine.
John smirks again, kissing Sherlock’s lips and running his tongue against
Sherlock’s teeth. “I know what you want, don’t I?” John teases, giving Sherlock
another roll of his hips.
Sherlock nods, closing his eyes and seeing stars.
“But you know what I want, too,” John whispers, smiling again as Sherlock
realizes the trick John has played.
“This is unfair,” Sherlock protests, his words turning into a moan as John
returns the warm, wet attention of his mouth to
Sherlock’s member. Suddenly, the heat Sherlock hadn’t quite noticed building in
his stomach releases, and he lets out a whimper as his vision goes white. John
sucks him through the climax, coaxing needy cries from Sherlock long after it’s
passed.
Sherlock tugs on John’s shirt, so John slides up, lying next to a suddenly
sleepy Sherlock, who curls against John’s side.
“That was a mean trick you played,” Sherlock laughs, pressing a kiss to John’s
jaw.
“It didn’t work, though,” John laughs back, trying to keep the bitter
disappointment out of his voice. They lay in silence for a few minutes,
listening to each other breathe.
After a moment, Sherlock nibbles John’s earlobe, whispering something.
“What’d ya say?” John asks, roused from his sleepy state.
“I said,” Sherlock whispers, causing John to strain his hearing. “They call me
Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”
John feels a bubble of warm happiness explode in his chest as he twists his
body so he’s straddling Sherlock’s hips. He gives him
a rough, loving kiss, holding his chin in place.
“That’s an odd name,” he chuckles, peppering Sherlock’s neck with kisses.
“That’s it, I’m leaving,” Sherlock jokes, pretending to sit up.
“I think I can think of a few ways to make you stay,” John murmurs in
Sherlock’s ear, sliding down Sherlock’s body once again to the sound of a
contented giggle.
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