docwithablog | storyline one.

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storyline one.

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[ 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. ]

[ It's an odd experience, on the first try, the way the head of John's cock, in particular, stretches his mouth and makes his jaw feel somewhat unhinged. He takes a split-second to adjust the angle and relax his muscles while John runs his fingers through his hair. Mm. It feels good, like there's somehow a dimension of proximity that they've yet to traverse, even now, even with all this between them. He breathes out, breathes in. Through his nose, that is. It's different from sword swallowing, he decides. The angle, yes, obviously, but also... well. The taste. Of skin and sex and precum, salty and musky. Not exactly what you'd find on a foil, now is it, unless something decidedly strange had occurred. Pushing that thought aside, Sherlock takes in John's cock all the way to the back of his mouth.

He pauses. Breathes. Relaxes.

Then, he pulls back, feeling his head bob, the same way John's did moments earlier. The motion of pulling back makes his whole body tingle once again, the sensation of out, coupled a few seconds later with in as he sucks it back inside his mouth so distinctively sexual. His own cock gives a pathetic little twitch. Nothing more to be done there, for the night, it seems. Good. Means it won't distract him. With a harsh intake of breath, he repeats the motion, tightening his lips experimentally around the shaft just to see how John reacts to it. So far, the verbal exclamations are on point. He realises suddenly that he's actually having oral sex - giving, receiving - for the first time in his entire life. The thought doesn't linger; it just settles within him, then dissipates. ]

[ Although things are relatively quiet at this stage still, the sounds of their breathing, John's gasping more than actually inhaling at this point, fills the air around them and he's soon sinking into it, the complete package, the noises (slurp, slurp, slurp) and the smells (sweat, bodily fluids, musk, man) and the sensations, lips stretched around his shaft, tightening experimentally and making him groan again, his buttocks tightening up as he holds back from thrusting upwards, although his entire body is screaming at him to jerk forward in time with Sherlock sucking him in as far as he can take him, easing him out again, in, out, head bobbing beautifully. John's fingers grab the other man's hair harder, yanking at it somewhat, not attempting control here -- that ship's sailed, he regrets to inform you, but to underline exactly how much he's getting lost in it, how good it is. Because it's good, of course it is. Sherlock Holmes is currently just showing off, really. He caught on to the challenge, then. Give it your best shot. And he is.

The notion of rhythm that Sherlock's building is making John's balls feel increasingly tight. He licks his lips again (regretting it a little less this time, if only because all sorts of sex hormones are making the throbbing seem irrelevant, in comparison) and lets his head fall back a long moment while Sherlock slides his cock into his mouth again, the pressure of his lips tighter, the friction almost unbearably intense. ] Oh, God -- [ Another half-jerk of his hips, a little less controlled this time, because he is going to come in approximately two minutes and besides, wasn't fast enough to catch it. Sorry, Sherlock. ] Fuck, it's -- [ His voice is more breathy than raw by now. ] -- amazing. So good.

Edited 2020-04-20 18:44 (UTC)

[ Yeah, that's - John's grabbing his hair quite hard at this point, his hips jerking upwards with increasing desperation and Sherlock takes the opportunity to test out his gag reflex each time John accidentally shoves it in a bit further, relaxing and swallowing whenever there's time. It's good. He... rather likes it, even, his cock filling out a bit despite how spent it is. John's taste is growing muskier on his tongue, it feels like he's everywhere, absolutely everywhere, and Sherlock groans again, louder now, before he takes a deep breath through his nose.

Amazing says John and with that echo in his mind, he closes his eyes and swallows, pushing his head forward simultaneously to make sure that it goes... all the way... oh.

John's cock goes deep, it stretches out his throat, flattens his vocal chords and buries itself in his esophagus. Eyes wide, he pauses, not even attempting to breathe because really, he's not stupid. Conclusion: this is much, much different from swallowing a sword or whichever item he practised on back in the day. This is... this is wide and firm and hard, it's heavy and it fills him up to the point where he can't be quite sure of his own existence at this very, very moment. Lips brushing John's pubic hair, he keeps his tongue flat and stays absolutely still, hands gripping onto John's hips for balance. ]

[ He's busy panting up a lung, pretty much, eyes closed and head hanging low between his shoulders when Sherlock uses the momentum of his last half-thrust to -- what's he doing? He's -- Oh. Oh, he's going to -- Oh. John's eyes fly open and he's staring up at the ceiling, all of it blind sensation as Sherlock actually pushes himself all the way down over his cock, taking him in to the hilt and you don't just bloody well do that, it's not beginner's stuff, it's difficult, halfway dangerous and John's not exactly of average size either, you don't just -- No one's ever. Fuck, but of course Sherlock Holmes does. Because he's an idiot. And better than thou, too. Fucking fantastic.

The feeling is overwhelming. It's like a flood of heat and tightness, the other man's throat fighting to accommodate him and shit, he's going to be so sore afterwards, he's going to be -- The first shiver goes though John almost unnoticed, seeing as he's busy being halfway concerned for Sherlock's oesophagus, then another moment and his body's taking over, the sensation of contraction beginning somewhere around his balls first. ]

Sherlock -- [ The orgasm that washes over him is hard and fast and he's moaning, loudly, keeping his hips still by sheer force of will as his balls draw up, cock pulsing and cum shooting down the other man's throat in long bursts. The ceiling's shadow and light and nothing else, his body's tingling and he thinks he could die very, very happy right now. ] -- fucking hell.

[ Once it ends and it ends rather abruptly, only the warmth lingering, John quite unceremoniously sags down on his back completely, breathing uneven and his fingers in Sherlock's hair trembling a little. He licks his lips, licks his lips again and runs his free hand down over his face.

Give him a minute here, because this apparently happened. ]

Edited 2020-04-21 04:21 (UTC)

[ One beat, another, John's breathing stuttering out of him and then - yes. His cock pulses between Sherlock's lips, along the length of his tongue and while he can't taste it, he can feel the load as it quirts down his throat. Swallowing multiple times, his throat working quite hard at this point to accommodate the massive girth of John's cock, he slowly - slowly - pulls back. John sags down onto his back, clearly spent, his fingers trembling in Sherlock's hair and that's nice, must be a sign he's done it right, if his orgasm two seconds ago didn't already prove it. As he draws back, John's cock sliding slowly out of his mouth, he tastes traces of cum, sweat, skin. He's feeling almost oversaturated with it and his cock, half-hard until now is slowly becoming flaccid. Well, it's not like they'll have any use for it in any other state tonight.

Glancing up, he looks at John's face, the way he keeps licking his lips and touching his face. Oh, he really is done. With a smirk - his lips feel mostly numb right now, along with his throat - he sidles up to him and drops onto his back, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. He tastes John at every intake of breath, every time he wets his lips or swallows. It's almost as if there's a John-filter on his sensory system, it's quite impressive and not at all unpleasant.

The fact that they've just had sex is an odd thought, like something that must have happened in a parallel universe of sorts, because Sherlock's long since decided that he won't and John was willing to die for him tonight which is also flat-out unrealistic. Sherlock doesn't have friends, let alone anyone willing to... But there you go. Lots of things he doesn't have or doesn't do. Happens anyway. He glances sideways slowly at John, lips still quirked in a half-smile. ]

[ He comes to only slowly, blinking himself back into existence -- an existence, apparently, where Sherlock and he are having sex and where Sherlock swallows his cock to the base without, he presumes, ever having done anything of the sort before. Meanwhile Sherlock moves up next to him and John only catches a glimpse of the smirk on his face as the other man looks him over, a bit preoccupied with the afterglow riding through his body. Smug bastard. As Sherlock wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, traces of his taste still clinging to John's tongue when he swallows in response, and glances at him sideways, John raises an eyebrow at him in a manner exactly that telling. Saying exactly that, I see you. ]

You're absolutely mad. Fantastic, granted, but mad. [ A contemplative pause. ] I've never been deep-throated before, you know -- [ His own voice still sounds raw from his rather intimate acquaintance with Sherlock's cock and he keeps it low to save his sore vocal chords some work. It's an observation, not an admittance, by the way, because... ] -- most sane people think twice about trying. Not to flatter myself, but that thing could kill you.

[ Turning his head, he looks directly at the other man, smiling slightly. If this is what Sherlock's first attempt at sex looks like, John sure hopes he's going to be around for the whole, long ride, because he's going to be a god at the end of it. The way he's good at just about everything else, if you cut his general people skills some slack, yeah. Which you learn to do when you're a person and you happen to live with him.

He shifts a bit, freeing his left arm and gesturing with it once in invitation, come here. He has no idea whether Sherlock's even a cuddler, but judging by how he can actually fold himself up in a tiny lump when he wants to, he wouldn't be surprised. ]

[ You're mad, says John and proceeds to tell him that he's never been deep-throated before which makes Sherlock's smile just a little bit sharper. Hah! Worth the soon-to-develop ache in his throat, certainly, as well as the rawness of his lips. Stretching out a bit on his back, all his muscles feeling pleasantly relaxed and his mind soaking in chemicals, still, he looks away from John, gaze gliding across the room lazily. For once, he doesn't concern himself with what he sees. ]

I learned to swallow a foil, once. [ Pause. His voice sounds as if he's smoked five packs of cigarettes in one go. ] For a case. Technically there are... similarities.

[ He doesn't attempt to elaborate or expand upon the story, it isn't even altogether interesting and he's tired, exhausted. It's as if his mind's suddenly aligned itself with his body properly, like the fact that they've had a terribly eventful day and night is only now truly sinking in. He looks at John's outstretched arm for a moment, frowning. He's been alone for so long. Sometimes, distance becomes a matter of psychological certainty, something that can't and isn't supposed to be bridged and right now, his brain is trying to tell him that he can't, he should get up, go to bed downstairs and stop pretending that having it both ways is an option.

Taking a deep breath, he shuts his eyes and rolls sideways into John's waiting embrace, pressing his nose against the side of his neck. Though he may not always be as clever as he wants to be, he's certainly brave enough to take risks. And John, surely, can never be an exception to that. ]

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storyline one.

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