docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ The slick sounds of John's hand working his cock, fast, hard, without finesse seem to resonate in his mind as he keeps his eyes closed and his lips parted, fully capable of imagining the picture he makes for the other man, pliant, open, taking it. The thought of that, in turn, makes the heat in his chest spread to all his limbs. He breathes in deeply. Waits.

John runs his palm up the side of his face, coating his skin in sweat and remnants of cum, the smell of sex, of cock. He keeps breathing, keeps waiting, letting himself getting pulled closer until John's basically pressing his cock against his face and then - wetness. Sticky, stringy wetness all over the side of his face. John, moaning his name and that's actually quite beautiful. He doesn't look though he'd suddenly like to, quite badly in fact (just to see the cum escape from the slit of John's cock, the texture of it, its speed of projection). John told him to keep his eyes shut and at this point, he's doing exactly that and nothing less.

At the touch of John's cock against his lips, he can't help but touch the tip of his tongue to whatever he can reach, the taste of cum landing on his tongue like a salty emphasis. His breathing is still slow, almost too slow, his muscles utterly relaxed. When he finally opens his eyes (We're done now, says John), he has to blink the cum from his right eyelid, some of it getting stuck in his lashes. He doesn't look up. Doesn't look at anything, really, because he can't - he really can't. Instead, he simply gives up.

Crumbling down onto one hip, he presses one hand flatly against the floor to keep at least partially upright. His upperarm trembles slightly from his weight. Head bowed, he just blinks and stares and blinks again, mind out of business and body equally so. His world is reduced to basic questions, the barest essentials. Sleep? Like this? Fall over? John? And beneath it all; exit. That's what this is and that's what it feels like. He wipes his other hand sloppily across his face, smearing John's cum everywhere in the process and then, he just lets it be. ]

[ As if by some kind of automatic response, like we're done now were a magic spell, Sherlock crumbles to the ground, bonelessly, only just managing to catch himself against the floor with one hand while reaching up limply with the other and wiping his palm across his cum-covered face, getting the stuff absolutely everywhere and John shouldn't find it beautiful, but he does. Jesus, he really, really does. His own breathing is still escaping him in hard puffs of air, his lungs burning like he's been doing a lap (or a couple) on the obstacle course back in Helmand, burning sun, water post ahead. Slowly, he collects himself, packs his cock away in his pants, zips up his trousers and rights his shirt as much as, well, can be salvaged. Then, he straightens up and crosses the small distance between them, bending down and closing his hands over Sherlock's shoulders, pretty much dragging him first to his knees, then to his feet, supporting him on one side all the way. ]

Come here. [ He keeps his voice soothing, more soothing than most get to hear John Watson sound, mind you. Tone calm and volume lowered. Looking sideways up at Sherlock's face, his cum still sticking to two-thirds of his features, no doubt drying and uncomfortable, he breathes out through his nose, manages to fish up Sherlock's shirt and leans in to wipe the worst of the fluids off him. Just... right eyelid, free, lips, there, cheekbones. The rest is tracing. It'll have to do until the man's in a mindspace again where showering seems a feasible activity. Not now. ] Let's get you to bed.

[ It's not normally a long walk, but with Sherlock basically under one arm and post-orgasmic bliss raging through his muscles, it feels like it is a long walk all of a sudden. The bedroom temperature has cooled down over the evening and the curtains drawn, shadows following them inside. John puts Sherlock in bed, just -- places him on the mattress and pulls up the duvet. While he undresses, he watches him. The way he's been pacified completely.

It's how it works between them, of course. After sessions. The problem being if it works that way with anyone, right? John blinks, toes out of his socks and walks over to the bed, lying down behind Sherlock and pushing up against his back, draping an arm around him from the right.

Like that, he keeps him close, very close. ]

storyline one.

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