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221b_recsTitle: These Days You Don’t Know How to March
Author: cranberryloops
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 10,341
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none needed by comm rules
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: It's not easy to be Sherlock's. Saved. Owned. Loved. These aren't words John ever thought to associate with himself.
Reccer's comments: This is the kind of love story where one or both parties are desperate and damaged but find stability in each other. In this case, John is the more obviously damaged one, floundering after his return from Afghanistan, in search of a place to emotionally and physically belong. Cranberryloops’ dom Sherlock is compelling too, sharp and abstract and palpably devoted to John.
John is sent back to Afghanistan for part of the story, so he gets to keep that side of himself, and reconcile it with his increasing attachment to Sherlock. The story as a whole charts John’s progress as he (re)learns to be all his apparently contradictory selves, and it explores how, in a tenable BDSM relationship as in any other, responsibility goes both ways.
One of my favourite things about Sherlock fandom is the volume of thinky BDSM fic and IMO this is one of the best. It’s not extensively and graphically sexual, but the entire thing is suffused with sexuality and need. Many of the sex scenes are just beautiful, suggestive, one-line vignettes, and everything that happens is fully plugged in to the characters’ complex, entirely real psychologies. Nothing is simple, John Watson, even if you think you are.
Sherlock pushes John a little into the mattress, shifts the angle and drives in with all the force he can manage. Then does it again and slaps John's arse, sharp and unexpected.
John's cock twitches between them and Sherlock smiles, does it again and again, slaps John's arse until it stings as they move desperately against each other, his other hand tight on John's wrists.
"Whose soldier are you, John?" he whispers into John's ear. He can feel Sherlock's cock inside him, huge and unbearable, his hands taking and giving and shaping John the way Sherlock wants to have him. But Sherlock's words are even worse, scolding hot and tight in John's chest, forcing him to find new places for Sherlock to hurt, to fill. The answer is so clear John wonders why he needed to go back to Afghanistan to see it. Or why Sherlock, with all his brilliance, needs to hear the answer.
Author: cranberryloops
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 10,341
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none needed by comm rules
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: It's not easy to be Sherlock's. Saved. Owned. Loved. These aren't words John ever thought to associate with himself.
Reccer's comments: This is the kind of love story where one or both parties are desperate and damaged but find stability in each other. In this case, John is the more obviously damaged one, floundering after his return from Afghanistan, in search of a place to emotionally and physically belong. Cranberryloops’ dom Sherlock is compelling too, sharp and abstract and palpably devoted to John.
John is sent back to Afghanistan for part of the story, so he gets to keep that side of himself, and reconcile it with his increasing attachment to Sherlock. The story as a whole charts John’s progress as he (re)learns to be all his apparently contradictory selves, and it explores how, in a tenable BDSM relationship as in any other, responsibility goes both ways.
One of my favourite things about Sherlock fandom is the volume of thinky BDSM fic and IMO this is one of the best. It’s not extensively and graphically sexual, but the entire thing is suffused with sexuality and need. Many of the sex scenes are just beautiful, suggestive, one-line vignettes, and everything that happens is fully plugged in to the characters’ complex, entirely real psychologies. Nothing is simple, John Watson, even if you think you are.
Sherlock pushes John a little into the mattress, shifts the angle and drives in with all the force he can manage. Then does it again and slaps John's arse, sharp and unexpected.
John's cock twitches between them and Sherlock smiles, does it again and again, slaps John's arse until it stings as they move desperately against each other, his other hand tight on John's wrists.
"Whose soldier are you, John?" he whispers into John's ear. He can feel Sherlock's cock inside him, huge and unbearable, his hands taking and giving and shaping John the way Sherlock wants to have him. But Sherlock's words are even worse, scolding hot and tight in John's chest, forcing him to find new places for Sherlock to hurt, to fill. The answer is so clear John wonders why he needed to go back to Afghanistan to see it. Or why Sherlock, with all his brilliance, needs to hear the answer.
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