docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ Though his jaw is starting ache noticeably, Sherlock keeps going, keeps the pace fast and his lips tight. John tells him he's doing well and the words register, as they would in most contexts, but his mind performs a curious processing response, dimming the literal meaning behind the words and leaving him with an impression of them. A warm, heavy feeling that goes straight into his chest and his abdomen, his cock jerking helplessly while he follows John, taking him towards the edge faster, faster -- ]

Mmf.

[ He lets out a gutteral sound coming from deep within his throat when John's cock suddenly starts pulsing between his lips. John's grip on his hair doesn't lessen, far from it, and Sherlock finds himself incapable of doing anything except swallowing, again and again, while the other man spends himself down his throat. The experience of it is equal parts foreign and intoxicating and when he finally pulls back, popping John's cock out of his mouth (careful not to dislodge his grip on his hair), he feels completely devoid of rational thought. There's just this, the taste of John on his lips, the ache in his jaw and mouth. The desperate need to come. ]

John...

[ He says John's name roughly, his vocal cords sounding thoroughly abused. He looks up at the other man slowly, gaze half-way blank, cheeks flushed and his lips swollen. He doesn't know what else to say, at this point. His cock is so hard that he almost can't bear it but he doesn't reach down, doesn't touch himself. Instead, he simply looks at John. Speaks his name again (John), thinking that he can't ask, he can't make himself.

Not yet. ]

Edited 2020-05-04 14:49 (UTC)

[ He comes to only gradually, blinking himself back into this world at present -- there, sheets, sweaty and sticky against his skin, there, his arm, finally giving in as he collapses onto his back, staring up at the ceiling blindly for a few seconds, until Sherlock's voice brings him around, full-circle. John wets his lips and lifts his head, looking down at the other man who's popped his cock out of his mouth and is sounding like he's just gone through a pack of cigarettes. Hot, very hot. Also, although his cock looks absolutely painful between his thighs, he's not gone ahead and just started working on it, he's waited, because John told him to, because John said so. A rush that's roughly comparable to the very good orgasm he just had hits him and he doesn't quite know what to do with himself, except follow through. Take it home, boys, as they'd have said in the army. Not about this specific mission, of course, but there are similarities worth of note, he thinks. They've been to war. They've been comrades. Now they need to get out alive.

John swallows heavily and sits up completely, one long push of abdominal muscles and upper chest working. Nodding once, breathing through his nose roughly, he gestures at Sherlock with a wrist maybe slightly looser than normally. He did just have the orgasm of his lifetime, okay, give him a break. ]

You've got permission. Touch yourself.

[ Small pause, mostly to allow for a deeper intake of breath, open mouth, all the way into his lungs. Chest heaving. He supports himself with both arms at this point, easing into the most comfortable position he can manage, leg stretched out in front of himself. He holds Sherlock's gaze, doesn't even blink. ]

Let me watch.

[ John releases his hair and sits up, looking well and truly spent, his movements laxer than normal and his expression dazed, his pupils still slightly dilated from orgasm. He nods, gesturing at Sherlock to go ahead and follows up with words, more words, and God, they go straight to his cock as well, everything inside him screaming for release. Let me watch he says and holds Sherlock's gaze, unblinkingly, the way you associate with hunters and Sherlock swallows heavily, the taste of cum lingering on the back of his tongue. Gaze slipping away from John's, he spits in the palm of his hand and reaches down, sitting up partially on his hip and keeping his thighs spread because someone wanted to watch and Christ, he'll get to watch.

With a long, outdrawn sigh he folds his fingers around the base of his cock, giving it a slight squeeze before stroking upwards towards the head. His breath comes out shaky now, his thighs quivering as he tries not to just push himself wantonly towards the void except he can't - he needs it so badly. Eyes gliding shut, he leans his head back slightly and just goes with it, his hand moving up and down slickly, thumb brushing quickly over the head on every upstroke. He's not trying to finesse it in any way, shape or form. Instead, he just chases the end, lips parting and breath coming out in short, airy gasps as it builds up, builds up, builds up - ]

Oh -

[ When he comes, coating his fingers and his thighs with cum, it feels like weightlessness. His mind blanks out as he slowly, almost as if in agony, lies down with his head on John's stomach, curled in on himself, his cum-covered hand stuck between their bodies. He's breathing, he thinks. It's actually pretty hard to tell. ]

[ The thing about orgasm is that it's one of those bodily reactions you know looks ridiculous on yourself, but it's absolutely beautiful on everyone else. Now is no less the case. Now is actually the prime example of that rule of thumb. Sherlock starts touching himself, strokes himself harshly and without any finesse whatsoever, nothing like how John would have taken him through it, if he'd done it for him, but it's good, it's incredibly arousing watching him jerk off, chasing his climax. Really, if John hadn't been well and truly spent at this point, he'd probably been left with another erection for it, but fortunately that's just not going to happen and he can focus on the movements of Sherlock's huge hand, his long fingers, brushing over the head, taking him -- yes. He gasps for breath just a little bit as Sherlock finally comes with a simple sound of oh, surprise, and what in the world is left that can surprise this man, reaching out automatically as he collapses in the wake of it, head on John's stomach, curled in on himself like he's in pain. Which John very much imagines he's not. It's just -- it's huge. It's big, all right. This thing, between them.

Breathing out slowly, he leans down and folds both arms around Sherlock's upper body, kind of dragging him up along his front, getting cum all over his hip and side, but who cares, it'll wash off tomorrow. Tugging the other man's head in against his shoulder, he aligns himself with him, their legs slightly entangled. Pushes his chin into Sherlock's curls, breathes him in. He smells like sex and arousal and cum. And something sharper. Darker. Always underlying everything else with him. ]

Just stay here, okay?

[ He doesn't say anything sappy like I've got you, though he means that whole-heartedly, or you're safe, because by now Sherlock must know. If John weren't a murderer before he met him, and it's highly debatable, let's be real, he certainly became one afterwards, to save him. Not to mention, they survived Moriarty, face-off number one. Yeah. He just holds him like this, arms soft where they touch. It's okay, it means, you can stay in this space a little while longer.

Some things need orders, others don't need words at all. John can tell the difference, always has. ]

storyline one.

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