docwithablog

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ 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. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

psl.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject