psl.

[docwithablog]

the first | action
the second | random scenario
the third | action
the fourth | texting
the fifth | action
the sixth | action
the seventh | shipping picture prompt
the eighth | action
the ninth | texting
the tenth | texting
the eleventh | action
the twelfth | texting
the thirteenth | action
the fourteenth | texting
the fifteenth | action
the sixteenth | action
the seventeenth | action (unfinished)

Comments

[acuriousincident]

[ 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. ]

[docwithablog]

[ 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...