atlinmerrick:

thehoneyedmoon:

Looking at John, many people assumed he was
plain, ordinary. Vanilla even. It was a common mistake, what with his wool jumpers, comfortable shoes, military-tidy hair and grooming
habits. Vanilla seemed a pretty good bet.

Sherlock knew differently. John was anything
but plain vanilla. Sherlock knew what an exquisite and subtly nuanced
flavor vanilla could be. Sherlock knew how John’s variety of vanilla
could awaken his desire and send it soaring.

The vanilla of
John’s surgeon’s fingers entwined in Sherlock’s hair and pulling back
his head to expose his throat so that John could more easily ravage it
with his teeth and lips.

Or the vanilla of John creeping up
behind Sherlock to undo his flies and push down his trousers and pants.
Bending Sherlock over the desk, spreading the cheeks of his arse and
lapping and teasing at the puckered, secret entrance there.

Sometimes
the vanilla was sharp-edged like whiskey: John bound to a chair, naked
and straining, prick buried inside Sherlock and being ridden hard enough
to scrape the chair across the floor, leaving scratches in the floor
boards.

Other times the vanilla was soft and sweet like
buttercream frosting: Sherlock sprawled face-down on their bed with John
resting his weight lightly over Sherlock, massaging the knots out of
his shoulders and back before rolling him over to suck Sherlock off
slowly, and with great care.

But, oh, the feeling of John sinking
slowly down onto Sherlock’s rose-flushed and slicked cock was one of
Sherlock’s favorite variances of the flavor. The quiver in John’s
legs, the stutter of his breath, and the deep, open-mouthed groan of
pleasure all combined for a rich, heady vanilla that was the rarest of
all. And it was the most cherished because it was Sherlock’s alone to
savor.

Vanilla, indeed.

So, sharing is caring, right? @missmuffin221

Holy cow Jesus Christ fucking hell and all the other swearing necessary and this isn’t all of it.

I…this…