docwithablog

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[ 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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