docwithablog

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[ Eloquent, he wants to comment, but even Sherlock knows what they say about speaking with your mouth full. Instead, he allows the meaning of John's breathless words to go straight past the barrier of thought and into his body. The underlying sense of command, instruction for... for a sexual act, and it ought to piss him off as in all other areas of life but instead, he gasps loudly, scrambling to wrap his free hand around his cock again. He has to shift to manage it, enough to put his weight fully onto his knees.

Then, as he pulls at himself without even half a thought to the pacing, to drawing things out, to... anything, really, he tightens his throat, looks up at John and sucks, his cheeks hollowing at the strain. The taste of him intensifies, something that must be pre-cum slipping down his throat and his fingers feel equal parts painful and lovely in his hair, it's - it's all incredibly... hot, incredibly intense and he can't - oh, God...

On a strangled moan, he feels his own climax suddenly washing over him, his cock pulsing between his fingers as he spends himself on the duvet. It takes him completely, utterly by surprise but all the same, he doesn't let up, doesn't stop sucking John's cock, taking breaks only to move his mouth up and down the shaft. His climax settles within his limbs heavily, pleasantly, and it truly is a bit like being high on some alien substance. He can feel (and see) himself drooling down John's length and it probably ought to make him feel repulsed by his own lack of control but instead, all he can think about is John's cock in his mouth, the wetness of his glans against the back of his throat. He hums. It's a very low, very deep sort of sound, rumbling up from his throat. ]

[ The man who never obeys a command if he can at all help it (I'd like to see you try, yes) -- well, he obeys, starts jerking himself off without much finesse to it, just harsh, fast strokes of his hand down his own shaft and John watches, watches, for God's sake, it's almost killing him. When the other man hollows his cheeks and sucks at his cock, the entire feeling of suction going straight into his system, making everything positively reverberate, quiver, John's about ready to -- well, it's so close, so very close. His hips are working against the heavy motion of Sherlock's head, back and forth and although he isn't really thrusting, he's pushing forward just slightly, because he can't not, look at the man, look at him, fuck. He's drooling down his length, he's pretty much just worshipping his cock with his mouth and if you thought Sherlock would do that for anyone, anyone (else), then you'd be stupider than a brick.

He gasps when Sherlock comes, audibly, the moan a heated exhalation around his shaft and the head of his cock and John groans, too, matches him fully, his hips jerking forward angrily at the entire display. Cum shooting out over the duvet, between Sherlock's long, stupidly long fingers and yet, he just keeps up -- doesn't stop -- oh God, please don't stop, Sherlock, he can't, he's almost --

The humming does him in, to be quite honest. It's not just the sensation of it, the vibration, but the sound makes his vision blacken around the edges and he moans, loudly, bending his neck and closing his eyes and feeling his balls draw up harshly as he -- fuck, he should probably have warned him, shouldn't he? It isn't very polite at all to just -- come in your partner's mouth, in case they're not the swallowing type -- not that John's ever had to deal with those kind of considerations before, because -- condoms, yes, but this and he's -- he's coming and it's so good, his knees wobble a bit and one of his hands drops to the back of Sherlock's neck, fingers curving there, not quite holding him in place, just -- holding on -- Jesus, for dear life. It's a long, outdrawn orgasm and he's gasping halfway through it, sweat running down the side of his face and fuck, for fuck's sake, Sherlock.

Shit. ]

[ It takes John another couple of shallow thrusts into his mouth - and yes, that's less than delightful, the tip of his cock hitting Sherlock's gag reflex and making him draw back just a fraction - before the other man finally groans, his balls drawing up visibly before his cock starts pulsing. Sherlock focuses on the feel of it, the throbbing sensation between his lips, as John spends himself in his mouth. His cum is a thick, gooey mass and it tastes quite salty. It's not unpleasant, he thinks, and keeps it in his mouth while he follows John through his orgasm, drawing back only when he's certain that the man's got to be on the brink of overstimulation.

He pops John's cock out of his mouth with a wet sound and, gaze somewhat distant in thought, he passes his cum back and forth on his tongue for a few seconds before swallowing it, registering the different sensations as it passes over his taste buds. Hm. Definitely getting the bitter after-taste at the back of his tongue (might be worth it learning how to deep-throat, in case John ever wants to do this again; additionally, remember to touch the slit with tip of tongue next time - provided there is one, oh God, don't just assume, do not assume - must be extra-salty, definitely worth a try).

Blinking slowly, he finally lets himself fall back onto the bed, trousers around his thighs and his cock soft and spent. He can't think about anything but sex right now. John's taste. Smell. Girth. He shuffles backwards on his arse until his back hits the headboard and just sits there, limp like a rag doll, cum all over his shirt and lips. He feels... immensely done. Just... finished. He stares off into space, wiping off a trail of semen from his bottom lip with a trembling hand. ]

[ It feels like -- forever, basically, it feels like it doesn't stop, Sherlock's tongue doing -- something -- there's heat and wetness and then, there's almost too much of it and finally, finally Sherlock pops his cock out of his mouth, cum clinging to his lips and John just stares at him, tiredly, gaze less than focused, really. His arms drop to his sides, fingers curled loosely into fists. His breathing eases into something deeper, slower. His heart rate slows down, too. His entire body is spent now, he couldn't do anything but what he does, even if he wanted to -- and luckily, he doesn't and what he does is to unceremoniously drop down on his knees on the mattress, crawling over next to where Sherlock is leaning against the headboard, legs sprawling, arms sprawling, fingers buried in the sheets. He's got a shin placed probably in the middle of Sherlock's puddle of cum, but it's fine, he doesn't care, it's -- fine. Come on.

Turning his head slightly, so he can look up at the other man, finding him in the middle of wiping off some cum from his lower lip, John raises a very tired, very non-argumentative eyebrow and rolls over on his side, putting his entire well-spent front on display, his cock quickly losing hardness between his legs. Oh, well, it did commendably. Sherlock did well, too. He should undoubtedly tell him that, if he wants this to be a repeat performance. And Christ, does he want a repeat. He's actually just busy figuring out when they'll be able to do this next. Obviously, he should be ready again in a few hours, but on a slightly grander scale, he means. He wants -- something slightly more long-term than just an hour from now, doesn't he? Doesn't he just. ]

This isn't going to be once under a blue moon, right? [ He isn't even attempting to sound nonchalant about it. The transition from being friends to being people who slept together, then people who kissed and touched and -- yeah, it was easy, but this is a slightly bigger step forward and he wants them to be on the same page about it. He wants the tone to be properly set and if nothing else, Sherlock should be able to appreciate that, as a musician. ] It was too good for me to wait until next time you accidentally walk in on me starkers, Sherlock.

[ The dip of the mattress - the rustling of clothes, the scent of John increasing slightly along with the smell of sex, semen and sweat - Sherlock registers John's approach on all parameters save the visual. How he crawls up next to him, his movements slow and heavy, speaking of post-orgasmic bliss. He doesn't glance sideways, his gaze still distant, though the realisation brings his mind closer to the surface. John, drawing nearer. John, who's just spent himself inside his mouth. They've... oh. He blinks. Hard.

Then, John tells him, in his typically romantic-but-blunt fashion, that he'd like them to... do this again, possibly with some sort of regularity and Sherlock suddenly remembers Azerbaijan once again, the promises made to empty air in a clear-cut reflection of John, speaking over his gravestone, asking him for just one, more miracle. I'll give it to you, he'd thought and in his Mind Palace, John had told him to prove it.

He pinches his left thigh. Hard. The memory dissipates, and he glances sideways at John, focusing with an effort. ]

You'd like to?

[ He manages to squash a pitiful little really? and licks his lips. The taste of the other man bursts though his system again, another dose, another high. ]

I mean - [ Ugh. Shut up. ] - I wouldn't mind.

[ This time his eyebrow does arch somewhat. The man -- wouldn't mind? Really? Shit, Sherlock, that's pitiful.

Nevertheless, John finds himself smiling, shaking his head and easing down onto his back again, hands folded behind his head. Okay, then, apparently they're the kind of people who do this now, they're the kind of people who have sex and mind you, in some constellations you'd call that a relationship, if nothing else then friends with benefits, yes? However, here -- between them, getting anal about the terminology is probably only as beneficial as their bodies make it out to be, because they still both vividly remember how things played out with Moriarty, he's sure (I'll burn the heart out of you). Getting involved with your hyper-intelligent, crime-solving detective -- friend (and that's really in lack of a better word for the time being, they'll come up with something -- else) probably isn't all that advisable, but when did John Watson ever care about anybody else's advice? Is he supposed to start now of all times, after a very good, very satisfactory blowjob? No, he doesn't think so either. ]

Good, because I'm blowing you next time.

[ His eyes have already fallen shut and he inhales deeply, shifting into a more comfortable position, fully planning on just -- yes, going to sleep would be good, would be very good. Fuck, he's so spent. Having spoken the words, however, he does have to give a thought of admiration to Sherlock's utter skill. You'll just have to hope that he can do something similar, having never been anywhere near a dick with his mouth before which is honestly a pity, thinking about it. If nothing else -- and of this, John's completely sure, Sherlock will be very good at letting him know what to do, what works and what doesn't and Jesus, does he look forward to that part of the process.

No, truly. That part and any other part of it, too. ]

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