docwithablog | storyline one.

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storyline one.

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[ There's a moment where he thinks he might simply not get a reaction at all, when Sherlock remains unresponsive beneath him and he frowns, wondering when to draw back without completely shattering the atmosphere, but then the other man raises one hand, shaky where it makes contact with the back of John's neck, curling over the slope of it and fingers curving against his skin. His palm feels huge and warm, overheated, slightly sweaty and John breathes out harshly through his nose, cocking his head a little more just to feel the slide of muscle beneath Sherlock's fingertips. Then, the man actually -- parts his lips a little and presses back, meeting him halfway which is that thing they never do, Sherlock leaves and John follows, this is new, this is very new.

A very unmistakable heat is beginning to pool in the pit of his stomach, too. Christ, he's going to be so hard before they're done kissing, if this is how little it's going to take.

Swallowing again, he angles his head a little, nose following the curve of cheekbone, those bloody cheekbones, and pushes back against Sherlock's mouth, their lips slipping wetly over each other, bottom lips, upper -- lip, fuck. It takes another couple of seconds, even as Sherlock's lips remain parted and inviting, before he decides, sod it, and just attacks. Slipping the tip of his tongue over the curve of the other man's bottom lip, he finally really tastes him, dark and hot and sharp like his wits, yeah, because what did you expect. John feels his body responding immediately, the heat in his stomach turning into a hard throbbing between his legs and he shifts a bit, slips his hand into Sherlock's curls and brushes them away from his forehead just a tad roughly.

It's been a while, now that he thinks about it. He hasn't had sex since he came back, pretty much. At the back of his mind, he wonders when a man who considers himself married to his work last shagged. If he ever has. Carefully, calmly, keeping himself in check, he pushes inside Sherlock's mouth with his tongue, slipping up along the length of Sherlock's all wet and slippery. ]

Edited 2020-04-19 12:14 (UTC)

[ John's lips are very warm and soft, slightly damp. Breathing in unevenly through his nose, Sherlock watches John's face up-close through half-closed eyes. People always look different at a distance; the closer they get, the more your mind reduces them to details and micro-impressions. Right now, John is eyelashes, unevenly spaced, number in the lower average range and bridge of nose, sturdy, skin very faintly heated, the beginnings of a flush, arousal. For a couple of seconds, that's just that - the soft pressure of John's lips against his, the highly increased sense of proximity.

Then, it changes.

John drags his tongue along the length of his bottom lip before dipping inside. Logically, it's unsurprising - after all, isn't that what you do? When you kiss? He realises only now as he keeps his lips parted and feels John explore his mouth (there's something incredibly fascinating about that idea, something that makes his spine tingle all the way down his back) that he's got absolutely no idea how to respond. John's hand in his hair is slightly rough, steady, unshaken and he tightens his own grip on the back of his neck in turn, fingertips digging in a bit. For a moment, he just lies there with his mouth mostly open, feeling like a gaping fish, except he isn't drowning, he's just not...

Frowning, he focuses on the movement of John's tongue, the way the tip slips up the length of his own. The other man manages not to actively drool into his mouth, too, which must be a quality sign as he's bound to keep himself from doing so on purpose. With a sharp intake of breath, lower body twisting slightly against the sheets (restlessness, no wait, something else - a tingling in all his limbs, heat pooling in his abdomen - oh, right, that), he pushes his tongue along the length of John's tongue experimentally, applying a little pressure just for emphasis. As soon as he does so, the other man's taste intensifies in his mouth and he gasps, suddenly overwhelmed with stimuli. John's tongue (thick, strong, wet, slick), his taste and scent (familiar), his hand in his hair. Christ. ]

[ Once more, there's a moment of unresponsiveness in which John's left to wonder whether he's doing something wrong (he isn't, though, he's been reliably informed he's a fairly good kisser), whether Sherlock doesn't like it, whether there's too much tongue, too little? He just doesn't know. Well, for all of two seconds, he doesn't and he hesitates. Then, the other man tightens his grip on the back of his neck, meaning he isn't supposed to pull back at least and gasps for breath, his body slightly restless beneath the weight of John's front as he pushes back, finally, tongue following the length of John's, slight hint of pressure, nice.

He's probably analyzing every bloody step of this, he finds himself thinking, panting into Sherlock's mouth hotly before drawing back enough to press his forehead against one prominent cheekbone, fuck, those things. Between his fingers there are curls aplenty, soft and springy and strands much longer than they look when you pull at them. Which he does. He likes the feeling of them, the way there's a slight resistance to it. His breathing sounds heavy and quickening now, in the space between them. What little's left.

Pulling back enough that he can look down on the other man again, just a moment of taking in the visual of him, he's still in his shirt, that might need to go, trousers, definitely... John licks his lip again, everything feeling slightly tingly. He's obviously not an experienced kisser and without really ascribing much relevance to the thought, John concludes that the man either hasn't kissed anyone before or it's -- been a while. He'd never admit to it, but he likes the concept of being Sherlock's first. It's -- special. As far as he knows, he's never had the honour.

A non-committal sound, somewhere between a grunt and something breather, he leans down again and kisses the other man, leaning in over him further, supporting himself with his free arm against the mattress while he pretty much just sucks Sherlock's tongue into his mouth, caressing it more assertively now, the vacuum of his mouth creating a whole row of lewd, wet sounds as their mouths slip over each other, half-open, wanting. Well, he's hopes it's wanting, doesn't he? Sherlock would probably just leave if he didn't want it, tell him it was boring, dull, give him a case, yes? That's how he works.

Although exasperated about it at times, John likes it. He really likes the taste of him, too. Also, he needs to get out of his t-shirt, the rubbing of fabric against his nipples is driving him to distraction at this point. ]

Edited 2020-04-19 13:51 (UTC)

[ Oh - oh, that's - John draws back for a short moment and looks him over, just... looking at him. Saliva cooling on his lips, Sherlock watches him back, conscious of the fact that they aren't by any means looking for the same things because they never are, him and John, it's how they usually compliment each other. It's how John both inspires and emphasises his strengths. Right now, Sherlock looks at him and wonders what, exactly, the other man gains from their relationship, aside from wild adrenaline rushes and a blog with a wide readership. Aside from the cases, what's really in it for him? It's not like Sherlock's a very attractive companion in the grand scheme of things, he's well aware and usually unbothered by that particular fact. But here, like this, with John looking him over, pupils dilated and breathing heavier, his lips shiny and wet, he really does... wonder what he sees.

He knows what he sees, obviously, when he looks at John. He's got a huge, mental catalogue detailing every single observation.

Another beat, then John leans back down and kisses him again, harder now, taking. Yes, there's something distinctively assertive about it, it's quite... quite... oh. He gasps again, louder, and twists his hips. His trousers, already tight, feel like a vice around his groin, his cock straining and hard. Pushing back against John's tongue, pushing in (because two can play that game, John, he's not going to just lie here), he reaches down with his free hand and unbuttons his trousers, rolling down the zipper as well and trying not to wince at the loudness of it. The relief is immediate, though his underpants are still in the way. It's fine. It's yes. Very. Spreading his legs just a fraction, he slips his hand beneath the hem of John's t-shirt and spreads out fingers against the small of his back. Strong, he thinks and runs his hand slowly upwards along the length of his spine. Warm, steady. ]

[ They kiss. Sherlock's picking up on the pacing, thrusting his tongue back into John's mouth and taking in turn, John beginning to feel slightly faint from a distinct lack of oxygen and quite a lot of Sherlock everywhere, touch and taste and sound, groaning and -- did he just roll down his zipper? Jesus. John feels his cock respond by growing harder, more than half-erect at this point and John should honestly be beyond five minute fucks at this point. He's 40 years old, seriously. Another few seconds of kissing, hard, wet and he pulls back rather abruptly, heaving for breath and sounding throaty as he speaks: ]

That's -- yes, very -- good. Very good. [ Pant, pant, pant. Sherlock's hand burns against the small of his back and his t-shirt feels drenched at this point, his arousal not exactly helping in the sweat-emitting department. Swallowing once, John meets Sherlock's eyes a long moment before pushing himself upright, very reluctantly moving out of the man's grip. The other man's trousers are open around the crotch, glimpse of fabric and an unmistakable bulge and if John wasn't hard before, the sight of that certainly helps things along. His underpants feel uncomfortably clingy.

A lick of his bottom lip, tasting like Sherlock now, too and it's everywhere, the reminder that he'd rather die with this man than live on without him and he pauses, just a second. It quite simply needs no emphasis. They've had enough realizations tonight, enough big reveals. All he needs to know is that this matters, oh, yeah, this matters very much, because John has had a lot of sex in his life, but never anything very meaningful, because he has never slept with very meaningful people. Few exceptions. Few.

Then again, Sherlock's exceptional, isn't he, he's known that from the beginning. He knows that now as well, looking down at him with a sort of -- fond admiration, fantastically and incredibly clever Sherlock, before pulling his shirt over his head in one swift motion, fabric slipping over skin, baring his upper body fully. ] Don't cheat me of the rest, Sherlock. Come on.

[ Dropping the t-shirt on the floor, he kicks down the duvet, pants straining around his cock as he eases down on his haunches, hands on his thighs, posture straight. Military. Like that, he just watches, patiently, for Sherlock to get on with it. Don't give him a show, Sherlock, give him skin. Give him you. ]

[ Wait, what, where - as John pulls away and sits up, Sherlock's grip falls away and he feels instantly bereft. It's as if his body is slowly but surely waking up from a very, very long hibernation (talk about decades) and he wants to... to... John pulls off his t-shirt and bares his upper-body, his body hair light and scattered enough to make his chest seem almost hairless in the faint light from outside. The bullet wound in his left shoulder is a wrinkled mass of scar tissue, relatively unremarkable from the front, though large enough to give away the violent nature of the incident (military rifles leave terrible damage, even if the worst isn't plainly visible). For a moment, Sherlock just looks at it, gaze narrowed slightly. Please God, let me live, John had thought, at the time. Then, he'd been wrapped in explosives by Moriarty. He certainly has a way with cheating death.

Come on, he says now, John, as he sits back on his haunches and watches him, his pants straining around his cock. Sherlock blinks. Looks at his face, then down again, all the way to his...

Pause.

Uh, well that's.

Not average.

He swallows something that feels like thirst, hands trembling a bit as he reaches for his shirt and begins unbuttoning it. It's a bit of a process, admittedly, for there are many, many buttons and John's not wearing anything except his pants and Moriarty very nearly killed him and what's the point of John surviving a war if Sherlock then proceeds to get him killed? He fumbles with the buttons somewhat, though he's getting there, it's happening. As he bares his chest, however, he realises that he's actively getting naked in front of the other man which, well. Usually, he'll at least wrap a towel around his hips or what have you. That would be weird, given the current context. Very. Looking down, focusing on getting the shirt open all the way, he takes a deep breath and inhales John's scent all over again. His shoulders relax, minutely. ]

[ As they sit opposite each other, Sherlock working on his shirt, the other man looks at him and John won't pretend to know half the stuff that must go through his brain, he knows how Sherlock's mind works as a general rule and expects it would give him a headache, frankly. His eyes land on his bullet wound, though, that much is obvious and John remains motionless, leaving the man to his conclusions. It's not a pretty piece of scarring, let's be real here, but it carries a lot of history and a lot of meaning, if not by itself (there's no meaning in war, there's no meaning in injury and death on the battlefield), then to him personally. Without that bullet wound, he'd probably never have met Sherlock, he'd have still run around in Helmand and fixed people up until one fine day, a roadside bomb had taken him out.

After that, his gaze travels lower, stomach, crotch, back to his face, back to his crotch. So, he noticed, then? Judging by the way he's swallowing, something is definitely going through his mind. John smiles slightly, just a tug at the corner of his mouth while he shifts a bit in place to accommodate the fact that his cock is currently very, very hard and very, very confined to his pants. Sherlock makes slow progress of his shirt, a bit too slow, really and it isn't that John's getting impatient, he's just growing hungry and Sherlock looks edible, the way his chest, sparsely haired like his own, looking almost hairless, appears in stages, a bit of skin for every button he flicks open. Once he reaches two-third down, he just -- you can't expecting him to sit through that, it's torture and John begins moving over the bed towards the other man, on his knees, stopping in front of Sherlock expectantly. Hands coming up. Fixing his shirt from the bottom up to where Sherlock's fingers are working on the last button, now. He reaches up and pushes the fabric off the other man's shoulder, his chest all pale and flat and halfway malnourished, but who's surprised. Sherlock never eats enough.

He'll need to work harder on that from hereon out, he thinks.

And really, Sherlock's still delicious as fuck. John leans in, presses a row of open-mouthed kisses to the other man's chest, following his ribcage down, not all the way to his navel, but there's no doubt a distinctive feeling of drop. They're going places. ]

[ John's usually quite patient, even if, at times, his temper gets the better of him. Right now, however, he's very decidedly impatient, moving over to Sherlock on his knees and stopping in front of him before undoing the buttons from the bottom up, until they're fixing the two last buttons in tandem. Then, he pushes the shirt off Sherlock's shoulders and he has to actively remind himself not to just sit there with his hands still stuck in the sleeves. He untangles his arms and pulls it off the rest of the way while John starts... kissing his way down his front, oh, oh. He looks at the other man for a moment, licking his lips again before grabbing onto his shoulders with both hands. His lips are so soft and it feels both curious and lovely, his skin breaking out in goosebumps all the way down his front and back.

He's still wearing his trousers, though, and right now he'd really rather not. Squeezing John's shoulders lightly, he urges him off and away, just to give him enough room to drop the rest of it. Well, most of it. John's still wearing pants and he's certainly not getting more naked than him. Shifting backwards, he starts nudging out of his trousers which is a complicated process involving a lot of hip wriggling and fabric pulling. They're close-fitting, it's part of the charm, supposedly.

Then again, he's never had to take them off in front of an audience. ]

Are we... [ Pause. He looks over at John, feeling a blush sneaking its way up his chest and neck. ] Aren't you taking those off? [ Nod nod, in the direction of John's gigantic cock (because apparently), still tugged away beneath the fabric of his paints. Christ. ]

[ Sherlock bravely fights his way out of his shirt, dropping it to the floor where it looks like heavy improvement on John's old Army t-shirt. Then, the other man slides his hands down John's shoulders and urges him off and John obliges without resistance or hesitation or comment, simply moving back on the bed again, leaving Sherlock plenty of room to get his trousers off, seeing as they're so tight you'd think they were painted on, because that's the sort of clothes Sherlock wears, isn't it? Consulting model clothes.

While Sherlock fights yet another battle with his trousers this time, not exactly an elegant sprawl of limbs, but a very enticing one, John is beginning to take the logistics into consideration. He's got condoms -- somewhere, probably his desk drawer and God knows, he doesn't feel like walking all the way over there now. Common sense seems to suggest that since Sherlock hasn't actually slept with anyone else, there's a very low risk of STD transfer there and John hasn't had sex in more than four months, showing no symptoms yet, so he should to the best of his own belief have a clean bill as well, which means they might actually -- is he saying this, he's a bloody doctor, skip the protection. Yeah. Shit.

He just really wants to suck Sherlock's cock.

At that point, Sherlock interrupts his train of thought, asking him whether he isn't getting out of his pants and John raises an eyebrow at him slowly, very slowly (you'd like that, wouldn't you) before prying them off, inching out of them about as elegantly as Sherlock managed his trousers. Halfway lying down now, he looks up at Sherlock, the man's crotch all but on eye level. He purses his lips, eyes snapping up to the other man's face again. ]

Just tell me if I need to slow down, okay?

[ It's a genuine question. Accommodating. It is, however, also a challenge (faster) and an observation (you're slow tonight, Sherlock) all at once, because that's how they work, that's how they communicate at the best of times. If you're asking him, this is the best of times, definitely. ]

[ He manages to get his trousers off after a tiny battle, leaving them in an inelegant heap on the floor. As he reclines next to John on the bed, he stares at the other man's bared cock. It's not just the size, really, it's the fact that it's his and just. There, suddenly, within touching distance and his brain is definitely taking its sweet time here, sucking up the details (approximate length, girth, at least one deviation above standard, uncut as you'd expect, blood vessels not too obvious or large, taste? scent?). He swallows. Slips out of his underwear, last, trying not to think about the fact that John's face is basically less than one foot away from his cock.

Tell me if I need to slow down says John because he's quite a bit ruder than people tend to think and Sherlock's being unusually slow, yes, he understands, it's just... Giving John a would-be haughty look - which is hard, frankly, when your cock is pointing straight up and your face is getting progressively redder - he straightens up on his elbows a bit and keeps his gaze very firmly averted from the other man's crotch. It's not that he doesn't want to look. Quite... the contrary, actually. His cock gives a tiny jerk, as apparently, it also wants him to look some more, thank you. Ugh.

Your body really is a pitiful instrument. ]

I doubt we could go much slower without going backwards. [ He tries to affect nonchalance. It's not going well. ] What now?

[ It's a bit surreal, waiting for John to take the lead again and again, when they've only just been running all over town with Sherlock pulling John along at a mindblowing pace. Usually, he knows exactly which way to go and how because usually, he's not trying to, well. Have sex? Are they doing that? Not right now, evidently, but... He looks away. Bites his lower lip and tries not to feel like an utter fool. ]

[ A scoff. Sherlock's nonchalance is failing him which is endearing in its own way, quite attractive, too, when you're used to the man being an utter cock, instead of having his cock out as he is right now. John shakes his head, moves over next to him and sits up, reaching out to fluff Sherlock's curls a bit with his right hand, the left coming to a rest somewhere to the side of his abdomen, fingers splayed out, warmly. In the dark, the difference of their skin tones is almost impossible to make out. Besides, John's tan has faded noticeably at this point, no Afghan sun beating down on him every hour of every day anymore. He watches Sherlock for a long moment, just -- the lines of his body, his cock (perfectly proportioned, not too small, not too big, the curve of the head enticing), his face, eyes, lips, cheekbones (fuck), before straddling his thighs slowly, carefully, balancing himself with his hands against the other man's waist. Sitting like this, their cocks are only a few inches apart. If he didn't want to taste Sherlock so bad, he'd probably go for some frotting. They'd be able to snog simultaneously. It'd be nice.

Well, it'll be later. One can hope. ]

Now I'm going to kiss you -- [ He says, repeating himself from earlier, because it still holds true and some things bear repetition. Like sex. The muscles in his shoulders and upper arms shift underneath his skin as he leans in and presses his mouth softly to Sherlock's, nothing like the kiss from before, it's brief and warm, but also superficial. John's got places to be or well, his mouth has. ] -- and then, I'll leave you to it.

[ With that, he relocates to Sherlock's neck, kissing a trail down the side of it, over pulse point (beating firmly) and shoulder (long, elegant slope), collarbone and just a brush of tongue against nipple, nothing lingering, licking his way from midriff to navel, down pleasure trail. Oh. The scent of him is getting increasingly stronger in John's nostrils and his breathing feels heavy and hard against Sherlock's skin. Sod the condoms. Isn't dangerous their memo anyway?

He straightens up slightly, licking his lips to avoid any uncomfortable chapping, then he pushes himself on perfect eye level with Sherlock's cock and Jesus, it's a beauty. ]

[ He's just about to say something more, seeing as John doesn't immediately reply - sadly, Sherlock's mouth tends to start running when he doesn't know what else to do - but then, the other man shifts closer, reaches up and... fluffs his hair. His other hand feels large and warm against his abdomen and there's something distinctively calming about it, like his nervous system's been attuned to this without his knowledge, like it's been waiting. He breathes out slowly, feeling his pulse quicken as John straddles him, the heat of his crotch evident and very real. Oh, there's naked skin against naked skin, an overwhelming amount of sensory inputs rushing through his skin, into his blood. He's distracted enough that he doesn't manage to kiss John back before the man shifts downwards. I'll leave you to it, well, what's that supposed to -- ]

Ah!

[ He startles at the touch of John's tongue against his nipple, everything feeling hypersensitive, his chest tingling in the aftermath as he keeps moving down. Shifting a bit, he balances himself on his elbows and watches John's progression, his tongue leaving a wet trail down his front and heat rushing to his face as he realises exactly where he's headed. Oh, so he's going to... oh. Eyes widening a fraction, he forces himself to actually breathe properly, in and out, in and out, because John's going to - but he's never... ]

John, you should know that I haven't - I'm probably not going to last very long. [ The words are coming out quite fast, here, textbook definition of babbling and by God, they nearly died tonight and he didn't lose it to anywhere near this extent. Then again, he's faced death multiple times, too. Blowjobs? No. Nope. And there you have it. ] That's not to say you can't, uh, do... that. But I haven't. And I wouldn't know how to do it, either, so I can't... reciprocate, well, I can but I'm not sure -

[ Yeah. If there's an off-switch somewhere, he'd love to know about it. ]

[ As Sherlock starts running his mouth, John -- is left staring at his cock for a while without really seeing it, just trying to keep up with the influx of info that's being dumped on him. Sherlock hasn't been on the receiving end of a blowjob before, no surprises there. Neither has he given one, which seems in perfect line with the rest. His first kiss and his sexual debut, then, and John has been entrusted with both, talk about things that apparently happen to you when you sacrifice yourself for someone, gratitude raised to the fifth power... He thinks about the little red dots moving over Sherlock's face for a moment. The weight of the bomb vest against his front. Breathes deeply, really filling his lungs. Quite a different reality from this, Sherlock's cock two inches from his nose, but the two still connected. One wouldn't be without the other. They'd probably have continued their lives as hitherto, in and out of drugs, in and out of cases and been no wiser for it. Thank you very much, Mr Moriarty. Now, fuck out of his mind, will you?

John blinks, focuses on Sherlock's cock again. It's even better up close and although John likes cock, that's probably not his first impression of most male genitalia, let's be honest. ]

Sherlock. [ He says the other man's name calmly, neutrally. As little arousal in his tone as he can manage when he's five seconds from just swallowing him whole. Well, he'll probably not start there, but you know... ] It's fine. It's fine.

[ At which he closes his fingers around the base of the other man's cock and leans in all the way, opening his mouth, flattening his tongue against the underside, just below the head where the frenulum connects the shaft with the glans. He tastes distinctly salty, musk-like and dark, something John's beginning to realise is his underlying taste, him. Moving downwards, dragging his tongue tip along the shaft wetly, he groans none-too-loudly and feels his own cock jerk in response.

Prognosis seems to be that neither of them are going to last very long at all tonight. ]

[ John interrupts him with an ease that he really can't imagine on anyone else. There's just such a fluency to it, like it's a matter of course. Could be the military thing, yes, but Sherlock has a sneaking suspicion it's really just... him. John Watson. Who's now closing his fingers around the base of his cock and he said it's fine but it feels like fire, inside and out, and he has to remind himself to breathe again as John leans in and flattens his tongue against the - ]

Oh! [ His hips actually jerk, the wetness and pressure against the sensitive skin below the top of his cock making his head spin. Desperately, he grabs onto the sheets with one hand, clutching the fabric between his fingers before reaching for John with the other. He doesn't know quite where to hold on - not his head, surely, unless he wants to choke him accidentally - his shoulder, then. The slope, between neck and arm. Fingers digging in, he twists his hips slightly as John groans, licking a trail along the shaft. God. God. ] Oh, that's - that's so good. John...

[ He manages not to thrust upwards, having calculated the risk of him poking John squarely in the left nostril with his cock as highly probable. Instead, he watches the other man, fingers stroking along the slope of his shoulder, up the side of his neck. Sherlock's not just blushing now, he's beet-red in the face, breathing shallowly as John's mouth sends sparks through his system, abdomen one, big ball of heat. His cock keeps jerking happily in response to John's ministrations and you probably can't fault it for being a bit... overeager. He's in his mid-thirties. It's led a long, lonely life. ]

[ It appears -- and he shouldn't be surprised, he supposes, that Sherlock is a talker in bed and John likes that, Christ, he loves the sound of his voice, the quality of it when it gets all breathy and raw and his name sounds almost foreign in that pitch, like it doesn't belong to him, like it can't be, because this can't be happening, except it is and it's fantastic. Finishing the long, broad lick down the underside of the other man's cock, John returns to the head again, fingers closing around the base just a little bit more to keep him in place while he licks his lips sloppily, very sloppily and tugs his teeth away well and proper. He wants to say something, something comforting, because he's getting the distinct feeling that Sherlock could need it, but his breathing is ragged and he honestly isn't sure he could squeeze out many words of more than one syllable, perhaps just noises, really. Moans for the most part. He wants to ask him, it's good, yeah, keep talking, but instead John just leans in over his lap and closes his lips softly along the ridge of the head, pushing his tongue all slippery against the curve of it as he -- yes, okay, good, he's going down, he's actually sucking Sherlock's cock (sans condoms, he hasn't done that since he was a teenager and much, much stupider) and it's indescribably good. His taste seemingly magnifies on his tongue like this, an explosion of salts and musk and a sharp sort of darkness that can only be Sherlock's, because that's what Sherlock's like in everything. That exact sensory input. He looks it and he sounds it and he is -- exactly like that. John resists the urge to touch himself mostly because he wants Sherlock to touch him, he wants it so bad, pulling back slowly without taking his cock in too far. There's drool everywhere, it's pooling around his fingers, along the outline of Sherlock's balls. God, he's spectacular, he wants to tell him that, but funnily enough he's got his mouth full, so it'll have to wait.

They've got time. Who the hell knows how, after what happened tonight, but they've got time. ]

[ He watches for a moment longer as John licks down the underside, the sensation less poignantly pleasurable than before but... nice, yeah, all the same. Then, the other man tucks his teeth away behind his lips - naturally, smart trick, noted for reference - before opening his mouth and leaning in. Sherlock has all of two seconds to realise that this is it, he's going to -- ]

Christ. [ One arm buckling beneath his weight, he flops down onto the bed, upper body slightly twisted now. He can't stop staring at the visual between his legs - John, bend in over him, lips parted and his cock disappearing into his mouth, oh, oh! And the heat of it, the... the tightness... Brain completely swamped with impressions, he tries in vain to make sense of them, to properly... categorise them... There's John's tongue, flat against the underside (it feels particularly intense once he gets closer to the tip and right beneath the head), the heat of his mouth, the slickness (saliva, he's basically just drooling all over him and it's nice, it's... yes). He releases the sheets (just to do something), running his hand through his hair instead, fingers clenching for a second, then relaxing.

John's mouth is so warm. It's - and he's sucking his cock. Meanwhile, John's cock looks almost painfully hard between his legs and there's something even more arousing about the fact that he obviously likes doing this as much as he does. The noises he makes, the ragged sound of his breathing... Blinking hard, he tries once more to gather all his impressions, to collect them, to give them structure but with the pleasure pooling in his abdomen and balls, it really isn't happening. ]

I can't - it's nice, but I can't think. [ He runs his hand up the side of John's shoulder, fingers finally curving around the back of his neck once more. ] It's so much, it's so much...

Edited 2020-04-20 05:32 (UTC)

[ As he pulls back once more, only to begin bobbing his head a little, a slow start, but this stuff's intense the first time (and every time after that, granted), Sherlock's arm gives away beneath him. He collapses onto his back, the entire motion shaking through his body, John shifting to accommodate. His cock's beginning to weep and he really needs -- but come on, so close. Then, Sherlock starts talking about can't, about thinking and John halts his movements briefly, popping the other man's cock out of his mouth with a wet, slurping sound. His lips have begun feeling quite swollen, though there's really no comparison to make to his cock, for God's sake, he's hard. ]

It's a drug. [ He sounds throaty already and he hasn't even taken him in that deep yet. It's the eagerness speaking, probably. The several levels of arousal currently building in his body. ] You're not supposed to think, you're supposed to enjoy.

[ Distantly, at the very back of his mind, he halfway regrets not slapping a condom on the man -- it would have dulled the sensation a tiny bit, not to mention that speaking of drugs, Sherlock's an addict and his addiction sometimes involves needles and John should really know better, but he doesn't care. Fuck it, he doesn't care. Sucking in the head of Sherlock's cock again, he focuses on the glans, hollowing his cheeks a bit near the tip, flexing his tongue along the slit softly, trying not to be too harsh about any of it. Considerate. Even if all he wants to do, really, is to deep throat him, have the full weight and girth of him rammed down his throat. The thing is, of course, it's about Sherlock's needs right now. John's just in line and he's quite okay with that, actually. Really.

Relaxing his jaw somewhat, he lets the topmost half of Sherlock's shaft slide into his mouth again, the bobbing motion resuming, though he only takes him in half an inch extra for each downward motion. His tongue's flat against the underside again, dragging over the glans on the way up. The wet noises loud between them. ]

[ John pauses at his words and looks up, Sherlock's cock popping out with a sound that's frankly obscene and Sherlock looks at him through half-narrowed eyes, dazed by arousal. You're supposed to enjoy, he says. And he is, by God, he really is. Looking down, he threads his fingers through John's hair almost mindlessly as he goes back to work, flexing his tongue gently against the slit before sucking him down further, his mouth open and stretched around his shaft. For a long moment, there's just the wet sounds of his mouth along with the slight bobbing up and down of his head. Sherlock's breathing picks up gradually, pleasure rising and rising and rising in his groin. He hasn't even had a wank for God knows how long. He'd forgotten, almost, this gradual but steady push towards an invisible edge.

Sinking down more fully onto his back, he shifts again beneath John, nothing much, just a small jerk of his hips and lower body. The sensations are incredible. It's a drug, John said, and last time Sherlock took any drugs, the man had been right there besides him in the aftermath, just as he's leading him through this with obvious, undeniable care. This man, who'd been willing to die for him only hours earlier, who tells him he's fantastic and brilliant. Eyes falling shut, he moans (John, just his name, everything else is redundant) and stretches slightly against the sheets, trying to deal with the physical sensations spreading through his limbs faster and faster. It's a drug, sure, it's purely chemistry but there's something else, too, something that makes him want to die a little bit for John as well, just to make sure he understands. ]

[ Sherlock relaxes down onto his back fully, shifting against him, hips jerking and John glances up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, watching how he stretches out now, gets a little lost, because even the great Sherlock Holmes, with his mental GPS over the better part of London, can't stand by his logic when he's on the receiving end of a blowjob, apparently. Another moment, head bobbing up and down continuously, faster now, too, John notices how the man closes his eyes, takes it and thus, he relaxes his jaw further in time with Sherlock moaning his name (God, his voice, it's killing him, shit) as he takes in another inch of his cock. The head is pressing against the back of his throat now, well on the way down, feeling heavy and hot every push of the way. It might not actually be necessary to get him off, but John wants to do it anyway, deep-throating him. With a keen observer like Sherlock, why not give him the grand tour? Honestly. Lots of things to see, yeah.

Besides, a part of him is two seconds and a wrong twist of his hips from coming at the thought of Sherlock just -- being Sherlock. The essence of himself. Preferably on his tongue. Not that he's swallowed before, ever. Even Daniel only got him in the eye that one time way back when.

Inhaling deeply through his nose on the next down-push, he relaxes his throat as much as he can and forces himself to continue past the point where he's sure he's going to gag and take in the rest of Sherlock's length, until he's nose-deep in dark pubic hair. It smells like sex and sweat and Sherlock.

The essence of him. It'll be more than enough for the next three seconds, until he has to draw back or risk choking. ]

Oh! Oh my God.

[ Eyes snapping open, he stares up at the ceiling, for once without seeing anything at all. There's just a white haze of pleasure as John swallows his cock to the base and how does he do that, how (supposedly, it's a relatively simple matter of relaxing your throat and your tongue, if the gag reflex doesn't trip you up) - gasping, he feels his hips jerk slightly upwards and he halts the motion as fast as he can because he doesn't actually want to choke John, he just wants him to keep... doing this... preferably forever...

But forever, as it were, is never quite as long as you think. One second, two, three - and he's coming, hard, down John's throat without any warning. He's moaning now, though he can't really process what exactly's coming out, his hands clenching and unclenching desperately in the sheets and against the back of John's head. The orgasm is long; it rages through his body from his balls and outwards and leaves his toes curling. His mind is nothing but white noise, streaming from neuron to neuron. Pure, unadulterated chemistry. ]

[ The one thing about Sherlock he's ever managed to predict, mind you, the man coming down his throat within a few seconds, his cock pulsing against the back of his tongue and cum shooting directly down his oesophagus, so hard that he's barely tasting it at all -- shame, really. He swallows quickly, knowing he has exactly one second more to go on before he'll be feeling just slightly asphyxiated. Sherlock is moaning, not anything remotely coherent which is a nice change from the deductions he usually makes and John breathes through his nose while drawing back a bit, just enough that he doesn't die, while the man continues to climax, his orgasm prolonged, the last rounds of ejaculate registering more fully with how they actually land on his tongue. It's salty. Sharp, tangy. Dark, again. Always dark with him.

Another second and he seems to run out, finally, John feeling raw around the mouth, his throat throbbing rather noticeably. He pulls back, slowly, carefully, popping the other man's gradually softening cock out between his lips. Releases his hold on him, instead pressing his warm, sweaty palm to his rather prominent hipbone. Too prominent. He'll really have to do something about his food intake... Shifting a bit, cock achingly hard between his thighs, he looks up at Sherlock's face. His voice is raw and a fraction deeper than normally, when he speaks: ]

All right? You okay?

[ His orgasm recedes only gradually, leaving traces of itself behind in his limbs and his mind. He blinks up at the ceiling for a moment, just lies there on his back and blinks, while John pops his cock out of his mouth (the wet slide of his cock along the length of his tongue is almost too much to bear at this point). At the touch of his palm against his hipbone, Sherlock finally cranes his neck off the mattress, enough to look at John through slitted eyes, still light-headed and so, incredibly relaxed all over. ]

Yeah.

[ He watches the other man, really looks at him, at his familiar features. His lips, visibly swollen and wet. His voice sounds positively rough and it's quite attractive on him, really, contextual... cues taken into account. Most of all, though, there's the way John looks at him which is unique to him. There's warmth, there, and pleasure. Understanding. When he thinks back, this is something he can remember from the very beginning of their acquaintance. What do people usually say? Very slowly, Sherlock's lips curve into a rare, genuine smile. Then, he slowly sits up and gives the other man a slow look, up and down, gaze landing squarely between his legs. Voice deepening a fraction, he raises an eyebrow slightly and looks straight at John. He nods at the bed. ]

My turn.

[ It's fine, it's good, Sherlock's not dead and neither is John which is quite lucky, considering how deep-throating works for him 50 percent of the time, the rest of his attempts end up with him coughing up a lung. Glad it worked out tonight of all nights. As Sherlock confirms that he's okay, sitting up, John leans back on his haunches and watches him for a moment, cock ridiculously hard against his abdomen. My turn, says the man in a voice pitched deeper than his usual one and how do you even do that, it's like velvet already. Just the slightest hint of a drawl, too. Fuck, he's doing this on purpose. John narrows his eyes at him for a moment, exhaling long and hard (the taste of Sherlock very, very prominent on his breath) once before simply nodding and lying down on the mattress next to the other man, shifting a bit about to find the most comfortable position. There. Here's good. Very good.

It's a low mutter, hoarse and rough from a slightly bruised throat, when he looks up at him and says: ]

Give it your best shot.

[ His gaze is holding Sherlock's for a long moment, his already much-tried breathing pattern speeding up audibly. Well, this is happening, apparently... Jesus. Have mercy. ]

[ As John lies down on his back, Sherlock's mind gets ready for business - it's a bit of a slow start, what with his brain positively drowned in chemicals - but eventually, after a couple of seconds, he starts working out how to make this happen. Even if he can't upstage John in this particular context, he can certainly give it his best shot. Looking him over from head to toe, gaze softening ever so slightly for a second or two, he shifts onto his knees, his spent cock leaving a wet trail against his thigh at the movement. Tilting his head sideways, his gaze finally lands on John's hard (so hard, oh Christ) cock.

Long, erect, meaning stiff; physiology of throat, particularly with John's current position on his back, will require that the shaft bends slightly, meaning he'll have to use a bit of force to get it past the back of his throat. Expect gag reflex to set in near uvulva, keep tongue down to control epiglottis. Simple.

But first... Straddling John's legs, he leans down over his lower body and simply looks his fill. He looks at the veins running beneath the thin skin of his shaft, at the foreskin, retracted, and the folds of it. The glans looks pinkish-red and damp, as you'd expect really, but he probably hadn't thought he'd find it so enticing. Leaning in, closer yet and closer still, he finally curls his fingers around the base of the shaft, parts his lips and flattens his tongue against the side of the glans. Saliva immediately runs from his lips, down the shaft and onto his fingers. The taste of him - warm, salty, complex - lands on his tongue and goes straight into his blood. He groans. Sucks the head into his mouth, remembering at the last minute to fold his lips over his teeth. ]

[ As Sherlock straddles him, all endless lengths of arms and legs and back, John breathes out slowly, looking up at him from his reclining position and thinking, yeah, won't take long tonight. Not because he's normally got pre-ejaculate tendencies, but because Sherlock is looking at him in that way of his where you just know he's running all sorts of scenarios and facts and figures through his mind to make it all add up, that suddenly John's cock is a puzzle to him and not only has he held for about half an hour already, pretty well done all in all, but if he's completely honest, he's actually held out for this for months. He jerked off to a mental image not much different from this just the other day, for God's sake. He's been patient and now he really needs -- Sherlock curls the fingers of one huge hand around the base, then, John hearing all air shuddering out of him, pathetically and as the other man flattens his tongue against the side of the glans, he carefully, very carefully so as not to disturb him, pushes himself up on his elbows, looking down. The visual is -- well, it's something. It's a mess of unruly, black curls taking up his entire lap.

John swallows something thick, his throat protesting vehemently and he ignores it bravely in response. Dear God.

He's had a lot of different fantasies about the other man the past month, almost constantly since the heroin incident. In his mind, their sexual repertory is already quite vast, but the one he seems to keep returning to is this, exactly this, Sherlock blowing him, all hair and hands and soft lips, pressure of tongue -- When Sherlock then proceeds to suck the head of his cock into his mouth, managing to keep his teeth tucked away behind his lips, he can't really be expected to -- anything, really, anymore. Come on, Sherlock is sucking his cock and his mouth burns and John's making a hoarse, pitiful groaning sound, hand trembling a bit as he reaches down to run his fingers through the other man's hair, just. As encouragement. Don't stop. ]

Jesus, Sherlock...

[ Inhale, exhale. He licks his lips, although that proves a bad idea with how sore they're feeling still, but -- yeah, Jesus. Sherlock. ]