Bedroom Hymns

[mirabilelectu]

 

Press play, and begin reading with the music.

(Silence)

Waiting. The crushing weight of tension in the suffocation of the heavy room. Trepidation and fear from years of cautious tiptoeing; excitement and longing from burning certainty and desire. Judging, weighing, hoping, and then at last – action.

(Reaction)

Breath. Gasping, catching, heaving breaths taken in choking sobs and skittering stutters. Burning touch, delicate connection, electrified contact that sparks and flames in the evening air like a living thing between two men who cannot bear it and yet yearn for it with all their being. Skin sliding against skin, sweat pouring and mingling, strong hands bunched in raven curls, pale flesh laid bare in dim light.

(Release)

It was not the ideal place for this, nor the ideal time, but it would have to do. This was how it always ended for them anyway, the two of them together either making the best of the situation they were dealt or falling utterly apart. Sometimes both. Perhaps after all the sitting room was the best place for this time, the first time, the most important time that would ring true and vivid in both their memories no matter what came of it. Anywhere else would be too predictable, too safe, too easy for them, and safety would not do for either of them now. Because to see Sherlock there, bent down on his knees in the evening gloom, flickers of light and shadow playing across him in dancing alternation as he looked up at John in supplication, it nearly undid him.

(Inhale)

Sherlock’s breath, hot and heavy and burdened with potential, ghosted over John’s electrified skin in waves, building ever higher and breaking just as beautifully, and as sweetly. A dull sheen of sweat gleamed on his bare skin, a remnant of their earlier exertions renewed by the heat and tension and crackling potential of now that made him glow like an unearthly thing in the uncertain light. His body trembled with that potential, shattering the stillness with quivers of deliberately repressed motion, those same tremors echoing through John’s limbs as he forced himself into unmoving calm. Now was the time to look, to appreciate, to drag out the moment in the exquisite torment of delayed satisfaction. He had waited this long – a few more moments would not kill him, no matter how much it felt like they might.

(Pause)

But with a sudden surge of movement, a lunge forward born of checked desire and negated longing, John moved into Sherlock’s space to block out the possibility of anything else. He crowded against the delicate and dangerous creature kneeling before him, looming and pressing flush against the whipcord-thin body that leaned eagerly into the touch with beautiful desperation. With rough and reverent tenderness he reached down to take hold of Sherlock’s chin, forcing him with no force at all into a kiss both bruising and explosive in its passion. One body strained upward, muscles quivering with exertion and skin alive with desire, and the other leaned down to dominate and control the kiss with easy force. The kiss was a demand for an apology that was freely given and yet slow to be felt – an apology for three years, a hundred lies, and countless wounds still healing.

(Exhale)

As lips slid and teeth caught on delicate flesh, John could swear that he felt a tear roll across Sherlock’s upturned face to wet his own. Whispered words both hoarse and fierce (John, I did it for you. It was all for you), echoed in his memory even as his mind focused sharply on sensation; words that still stung and burned and yet were truly meant with every piece of a mind shining and crystalline in its brilliance. But, now, in this moment that would last a lifetime and yet slipped by all too quickly, Sherlock was bent in the sweetest submission to him, and John devoured it whole. He would likely never see this Sherlock again, this impossibly proud and wonderful man who now acquiesced gracefully to John’s will, so John would drink it in like the finest and most sacred wine and play the body before him like an instrument in a hymn of impassioned ecstasy.

That body, bent and swaying beneath him, already laid bare and open and willing for whatever John desired. That body, pale and lean and beautiful beyond comprehension, covered with countless scars and remnants of a life dangerously and beautifully lived, pressed down onto the floor to receive John’s devotions as he sighed and shifted with restless energy and blissful frustration. John’s hands roamed in endless exploration over skin flushed red and hot, his mouth ghosted over reddened lips and straining neck and heaving chest, tongue tasting the salty tang of sweat and exertion even as teeth and lips left behind gentle bites and tender kisses as reminders and promises. A tiny gasp flew from Sherlock’s lips as teeth closed down on a sensitive nipple, pained and sweet and full of promise for more to come, and John hoarded it away for himself to keep. If it is selfish for him to treasure these moments, to store away the sight of Sherlock lost and mindless and writhing in ecstasy, then selfish he shall be. He cannot possibly have enough of this, not when it might never happen again, and he will never let it go.

(Gasp)

Even as Sherlock’s breathing was reduced to shuddering gasps, even as that silky voice rumbled a moan of frantic need into John’s very bones, even as John felt himself coming undone he knew that Sherlock was not looking for absolution from him. He was seeking forgiveness for pain and understanding for why it was inflicted, but even this was not an apology for what he had done to cause it. Just as these gasps and keens of pleasure were a gift for John’s ears alone, so too had his departure, his abandonment, his sacrifice been a gift freely given to save him. John understood now, knowledge coming as coherent thought vanished in the slide of skin and the pounding of erratic hearts and the grasping of frantic and desperate hands. Let words be saved for another time – for now they had the old solution, the primal instinct, the answer that sang in their blood and brought them to the brink of mindless, wordless understanding.

Both bodies now, naked and tangled on the floor in anticipation of what was to come, thrusting and writhing to take in and savor each sensation even as they hurried on to the final finish. Sherlock, stretched out beneath him with head thrown back to stretch out that gorgeous neck, that impossible chest, that beautiful body, at last driven mad by John’s ruthless hands looked up to face him, blue eyes gone black with blown pupils meeting John’s own. The sight stole what breath John had left, the depth of love and feeling that could never be spoken shining there like a beacon to stop John’s heart as he whispered with a voice wrecked by desire “Please”. It was a request, a petition, a prayer from a man who never begged in his life, and John could do nothing but grant it for him.

(Moan)

Two bodies, become one. Two bodies, surging and swaying and thrusting in unison, sharing and giving pleasure even as they took it for their own. No more words spoken now, no need for anything besides the slick joining of flesh and the incoherent cries of pleasure wrung out of them both, rising up as a benediction for into the evening air. Sherlock moaned as John’s strong and capable hand wound through his hair to hold him in place, his brilliant mind lost in the overwhelming sensation of coming so close to the edge that would undo him. The edge approached, yawning and immense, and with a final thrust, a final cry, an explosive joining they tumbled over together. The world went white, and they fell.

(Wail)

Shuddering aftershocks. Tremors rippling through oversensitive skin. Blessed emptiness, sweetest blankness, ecstatic nothingness before minds restart and the world returns. A heavy, boneless collapse of sweat-drenched limbs onto the floor, still tangled together and unwilling to part even as they come down together. Words will come later. Now, there is peace.