That is a mouthwatering fucking nape right there.
The wash of warm air returns to John’s nape. Sherlock runs his tongue from the base of his neck to the base of his skull. John swallows and shivers, and feels his nipples harden.
“I do so love the back of your neck,” Sherlock purrs. “When I’m fucking you it’s all I can do not to savage it.”
(I loves me the nape porn. Backs of necks are soooo delectable.)
Hey, Prof. Here’s some nape porn for you, for no good reason other than that it happened.
The back of John’s neck is warm, and soft, with a subtle nap that’s a delight for Sherlock to have under his lips. Living with it is ceaseless temptation; at times, like this one when the afternoon light pours through the windows to gleam in the fine golden fuzz at John’s hairline, Sherlock breaks. He pulls John back into his arms and nuzzles until, with a sigh, John tips his head forward and allows Sherlock to help himself to that delectable nape.
Sherlock laps at him like a grooming cat, tongue spread broad and clinging to feel every grain, to taste John to the full in this expanse of him that’s so naked yet forbidden. It helps him think, knowing that John is stowed safe and snug in his arms, all his intimacies accessible should Sherlock want them. He can safely let the world beyond them fall away, shrunk down to the space encompassed by John’s warm body and that which immediately partakes of it.
Sometimes the gentleness of lips and tongue aren’t enough, and nothing will do for that sweet, soft nape but to be possessed by a corresponding hardness. John gasps, then, as the sharp edges of Sherlock’s teeth sink into his flesh and grip. Sometimes that’s enough, a reminder of roughness, a celebration of the vulnerability of that beautiful span. But at other times, Sherlock feels himself creased with the need for John to feel him to his utmost, through every filament of him. And then, oh then he bites down, seeks and finds the tendons of John’s trapezius and captures them, squeezes them between ridges of enamel till the pressure pulls John’s neck into an arch and his body surrenders itself, enervated, into the clasp of Sherlock’s arms.
Caught in that grip, Sherlock knows, John can feel him in his fingers and toes, the backs of his knees and the small of his back, over the curve of his arse and his belly and nipples and in the roots of his teeth. It drives John slowly, beautifully mad, to be held this way. Sherlock keeps him, caught and feeling, till John’s hips are rolling gently against his groin and he can taste John’s rising pulse against his tongue.
Sometimes John wants to be fucked like this, caught between Sherlock’s teeth and cock, but today, this is enough for them. At length, John pulls Sherlock’s arms tighter around him. Sherlock finally releases him to nibble gentle apologies up and down his neck, and they stand together, feeling the tingle of each other in their bodies.
PA. Are you. Trying to. FUCKING KILL ME? I mean. I mean. “all his intimacies accessible…he can taste John’s rising pulse against his tongue…” I am being literal and not exaggerating when I say my goddamn mouth is watering.
(I especially like how you got the whole cat thing in there without being explicit about it. Somehow that made it all the more, well, tasty.)