docwithablog

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[ While John familiarizes himself with the weight of his cock on his tongue, Sherlock does something to the water, turning it into misty droplets hanging heavily in the air and that's nice, that's good, very clever, Sherlock, very clever.

Making a noise of utter enjoyment, he pushes his tongue up against the underside of the other man's cock while he takes him in again, running it along the shaft, feeling out the intricate outline of veins and -- when he draws back again, the ridge of foreskin, the curve of the head, glans, slit, the taste of precum very recognisable there, good, very good. Folding his fingers around the part of his cock that he can't swallow, remembering what the visual did to him back when Sherlock was on his knees, sucking him into his mouth, John begins a slow bobbing motion of his head, letting the other man's cock slide into his mouth as far as it'll go a couple of times, the rhythm is probably not quite there yet, not fast enough, not even enough, but he'll get there, he just -- upping the pace a little, he eventually draws back, until just the head's inside his mouth, resting on his tongue and he hollows his cheeks and sucks, gently, running the tip of his tongue up along the slit.

God, he could get used to this.

The taste and feel of it, sure, but really -- it's more about the way Sherlock's spreading his legs, fighting not to push forward with his hips, not to just shove it in, the way he says hell, all strangled and hoarse and deep as -- well, deep, his voice is very deep and John will have to live with the fact that he can't touch himself right now, his fingers elsewhere occupied, but it's a close call and his cock is straining against his abdomen, leaving sticky trails in its wake. ]

[ Oh. Oh. Sherlock's breath keeps catching in his throat, his fingers curling uselessly against the back of John's head before he slips his hand downwards, unto the plane of his shoulder. He holds on for dear life, as John starts bobbing his head up and down. The sensation is terrifyingly stark - the wetness, the constant friction against the glans. He gasps. Watches, as his cock disappears between John's lips again and again, realising with a strange sort of clarity that yes - yes - John Watson is, in fact, on his knees in front of him, giving him a blowjob. They're here. They're together. He screws his eyes shut and looks up, the mist settling on his face, along his cheekbones and lips.

God, this is incredible.

When John pushes his tongue up along the slit, he actually groans (moans) out loud, shifting in place and pushing inwards, just a bit, just - he's trembling from holding back, his free hand curled into a fist against the stall wall. He swallows harshly, controlling his hips, his lower body straining from effort. All the same, after another few seconds, his hips jerk forward again - and again - along the width of John's tongue. He manages not to push deep but he can't - oh, he needs it harder, he needs it... ]

Faster, John, please. [ Brow furrowed, he cradles the other man's shoulder. ] Please just -- oh God.

[ He'll probably end up saying this quite a few times, John imagines, but Sherlock moaning is honestly the hottest sound he's heard, ever, deep and guttural and vibrating in what little space is left between them. He shifts on his knees (ow, ow, doesn't matter, go on) and leans in closer, sucking the other man's cock further into his mouth -- helped along quite generously by Sherlock himself, pushing in between his lips, just a little, so he can feel the long, wet, heavy slide of flesh over his tongue and he groans, audibly, finally just letting go of Sherlock's cock to grab his own, giving it a long, hard jerk and breathing out shakily on a pullback.

-- Scratch that, the hottest sound he's ever heard is definitely Sherlock saying please and meaning it so unreservedly.

His hand having dropped from John's head to his shoulder, he's holding on for dear life, evidently, and John looks up at him around his mouthful, unspeakable amounts of heat and a certain fondness probably evident in his gaze, while he does as he's being asked, so very nicely, right? For God's sake -- he starts moving his head against the motion of Sherlock's hips, pushing against him, lips tight around his shaft for every thrust the other man makes. He takes him in faster now, the sounds of his sucking wet and slurping and saliva is dripping down Sherlock's length, pooling by his balls, looking very tight, very -- fuck, yes, very that. ]

[ And there goes his last reserve. John looks up at him and there's something in his eyes, the way he looks at Sherlock, that says amazing and fantastic and Sherlock can barely remember what his stupid, scarred body looks like now, honestly, all he can think about is the wet suction around his cock and the way John's looking at him. He's been very convinced, in his adolescent years as well as later, well throughout his twenties and thirties, that he'd be alone forever and good riddance, too. In retrospect, it's almost incredible how stupid he'd been to hope for something like that.

He moans again, louder now, and thrusts very shallowly inwards, the stimulation immense and over-powering. He can't feel anything beyond the heat and wetness surrounding his cock, the tightness in his balls. Oh, oh - it's too much, it's too -- ]

John!

[ It comes out loud and keening and this, alone, should probably hurt his pride. It doesn't, though. Pride, in essence, is a concept created as a false stronghold against reality, against your own weaknesses and failures. Before he left, he had too much of it. Now, with everything that's happened? He's quite happy to call out John's name in the quiet, to let it shatter the stillness between them. He gasps again, his muscles twitching, and suddenly, his orgasm explodes out of him. He doesn't manage to warn John, he can't even manage a coherent thought; instead, he spends himself soundlessly, mouth agape and breath stuttering out of him in small, desperate huffs of air. It's the most powerful orgasm he's ever had. ]

[ The way Sherlock says his name makes something inside him practically melt, okay, he isn't even ashamed to admit it, it makes something ache and vibrate and beat and feel bloody well alive. He keeps the pace up, feeling the first pulsations along the shaft of the other man's cock and he seems to know what's coming (quite literally) before even Sherlock does, because the other man doesn't manage any warning whatsoever. One moment he's thrusting into John's mouth, the next he's ejaculating, long, hot spurts of cum shooting along the back of John's tongue and he -- well, he can't really do much but swallow, can he? Not like he's going to spit it out, come on, that's just rude. Even if he usually doesn't have all that many reservations in regards to niceties, of course.

Fact is, it doesn't bother him, it simply doesn't. The feeling of Sherlock's cock, climaxing between his lips, is intoxicating and he's jerking himself off, slow, hard strokes of his hand, nothing that'll make him come, just -- it'll take the top off.

Groaning, he sinks -- and sinks, and sinks, the taste not particularly pleasant, but not particularly revolting either. Neutral. Tart. Finally, when the first signs of flaccidity starts to set in, John pulls back slowly, his jaw aching quite -- noticeably, yeah, you might call it that and sits back on his haunches, smacking his lips to get the worst stiffness out of his temporomandibular joints. Shit. Shit. He glances up at Sherlock.

Then, slowly, very slowly and very stiffly, too, he gets to his feet, supporting himself against the shower stall's nearest wall in the process. Because it's a process, if you ever saw one. His poor knees. ]

[ Body riding a positive rush of chemicals, Sherlock takes a long moment to react as John struggles to his knees, having swallowed his cum (meaning that it's now inside John, dissolving into his chemical set-up and the thought is making him dizzy). He blinks slowly, every muscle in his body feeling heavy, depleted. Then, movements sluggish, he reaches for John and pulls him close by the waist, all the way in, until they're flush against each other, John's hard cock pressing against Sherlock's lower abdomen. He realises only now that he's breathing hard, as if he's run a bloody marathon. His brain is fighting to keep him upright, his legs wanting very badly to simply give in and leave him in a pathetic pile of limbs on the floor.

He straightens slightly. Freeing one hand, he reaches behind himself and presses the fancy soap dispenser blindly, coating his palm before reaching between them, quickly and without preamble. He curves his hand around John's stiff cock and starts jerking him off, movements fast and slippery. He'd kiss him simultaneously but quite frankly, he can't focus enough to do so, his post-orgasmic neurochemistry leaving him a quivering, trembling mess. It's a matter of priority, now and surely, getting John off is on top of the list, now that reach orgasm and come in John's mouth has been well and truly taken care of.

Thus, he simply rests his chin on John's shoulder, breathing slowly and evenly against his neck while he works his hand up and down, pressing his thumb over the bared head softly on every up-turn. ]

[ The taste of Sherlock lingers, clinging to the back of his tongue, the roof of his mouth and he licks his lips a couple of times as the other man pulls him close, flush up against his front. His cock is positively aching where it slips up against his lower abdomen and John shifts from foot to foot while Sherlock coats his palm in soap and reaches down between them, curling his fingers around the shaft. The heat of his hand, practically burning the both of them up, right, at least that's what it feels like, makes him sigh out in a very genuine show of relief and he eases into the most comfortable position he can with Sherlock's chin resting on his shoulder, turning his own head slightly to press his forehead against the side of the other man's face.

His strokes are long and even and he runs his thumb over the bared head on every upturn which is, to be quite frank, bloody amazing and the soap makes all movement slippery and smooth, John's hips quickly falling into a rhythm of pushing forward, in against the other man's palm, thrust, thrust, thrust. Christ, it's so good.

The damp mist makes every place where they touch moist and slick and the sound of Sherlock's hand, skin against skin, slapping together wetly, fills the quiet between them along with John's harsh breathing, in, out... His eyes have fallen shut at this point, he's just pushing back against Sherlock in every way that matters and he's so close, so close, so close. Honestly, he was close while sucking Sherlock off, this is just extra, for God's sake.

A loud groan as he angles himself a bit and Sherlock touches him just fucking so and everything is white behind his eyelids for a moment. So close. A shuddering inhalation: ]

Shit, Sherlock...

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