From my medieval thing.  It’s actually almost finished. I thought it would never be finished. ;_;

The prince is infamously cold. He has a reputation as passionless save for his intellectual pursuits, and is known to draw blood, not always metaphorical, from those who cross him.

Only John knows better. Sherlock is anything but passionless when he waves John into his fire-lit rooms and bids him to strip. John lies on his belly in the skins before the fire, its ruddy light baking into his skin, and moans with Sherlock’s movements inside him, their sweat-glossed bodies gliding easily together. Sherlock licks sweat from the well of John’s spine, and John is nearly unmanned, his fingers knotting in bear fur with his fight to keep frustrated tears from falling. 

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