docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ The past five hours have been hell. Every single minute since Sherlock sent him that picture of his butt plug collection... Has. Been. Hell. No matter what else Sherlock might think of him, normally he's on their cases with everything's he's got to give, but this one -- he can't even remember the name of the victim whose autopsy reports he's been reading quite thoroughly. It's all sort of a blur. Because all he'd have had to give on this particular case, knowing Sherlock was running around with a size two butt plug jammed up his arse, had been a very premature ejaculation, probably.

He's managed. He's managed to remain semi-professional during the remaining three hours of the case, whenever they weren't alone for him to stare dumbfounded at Sherlock's backside and he's managed not to come after that either, which is really quite the miracle, everything considered. Currently, he's at a constant half-mast. His balls are killing him.

And then he looks over at Sherlock on the sofa, lying on his stomach with his head buried in a pillow, groaning quite pitifully and John thinks, well, maybe he won't be the first to go. He remembers how it feels, having something stretch you open so much and the last couple of plugs in the line-up aren't exactly normal penis size, are they? They're meant as prep for, what do they call them, size queens, yes, very apt. If John thought Sholto's was a challenge, imagine what -- it mustn't -- his in -- Sherlock's...

He licks his lips, popping the teabag out of the cuppa he's been preparing, because Sherlock wants his dick in his arse and you have to reward good decision-making in this company and walks over to the sofa as well. Doesn't attempt to make the man move, just puts the cup down on the coffee table next to him, saying: ]

Here. [ Pause. ] Though, I guess you can't actually drink it without sitting up.

[ Ugh. He turns his head slowly, craning his neck up (and as a consequence, activating his spine and hips, buttocks tightening at the movement, meaning oh, Christ) and blinking, hard, before giving the tea a look-over. Then, laboriously, he turns onto his side on the sofa, his dressing gown falling open slightly around his chest and hips but he can't really do anything about that. Priorities. Tea. Try not to die. That's it.

Lips tightening as he settles onto one hip (being reminded once more that there's an object close to six centimeters wide currently lodged in his arse), he reaches for the tea. His fingers are slightly sweaty at this point and he has to focus to grab the handle properly, eyes narrowing almost comically as he balances the liquid all the way to his lips. Sip. Siiiip. It's nice and hot and he gives John a slight smile, one eyebrow quirking: ]

I could get used to this, you know.

[ Not that John doesn't generally serve him tea but there's a distinctively different mood to it right now. A sense of... what? Worship, almost? He's definitely starting to feel pampered. Then again, if he were to walk into the kitchen right now to make his own tea, he might very well accidentally combust before getting anywhere close to the tea kettle. Spoiled by necessity, one might say. He sips his tea again, looking at John over the rim of his cup. The other man is starting to look at bit frazzled, too, which is nice. It's good to know that they're both... yeah. The both of them. Right now. ]

[ Impressive.

In his efforts to prove he can actually do anything better than anyone, Sherlock manages to ease -- though, easing might not be the right word here, himself up on one hip, his dressing gown falling open around the hips and revealing a very half-hard cock and John doesn't even pretend he isn't looking, doesn't look away either, just watches the man while he clearly struggles to lift the cup to his lips and sip the tea. His own cock gives what might be a sympathetic jerk in his loose training trousers, old, from his army days, green. A deep breath, all the way into his lungs, both shoulders rising slightly at the expansion of his chest cavity. Finally, he looks up at meets Sherlock's eyes over the rim of his teacup. I could get used to this, the man says, referring to how John's been making breakfast for him, bringing him tea, biscuits -- shit, he forgot biscuits, damn it. And, obviously, because Sherlock's got sass enough for an entire artillery battery, even with something of a circumference equalling a small eggplant lodged in his arsehole, he's got to comment on it. John manages a smile, just a tug at the corner of his mouth. ]

Don't. [ Don't get used to it, although it's pretty much always John making breakfast and tea anyway, the difference wouldn't be insurmountable. Except, it is, right now, isn't it? It really is. So, don't start and, for God's sake, don't be that bloody delicious, Sherlock.

John shakes his head, licks his lips, shifts from one foot to the other and then, finally, carries on like nothing's happened. Ever the trooper, yes. ] Listen, I bought ginger nuts on my way back from the church. Want any?

[ Indeed, John Watson stopped by the grocer's five streets over, because that's the one which is open around the clock and always carries low-quality ginger nut biscuits, because Sherlock's going to do him in in relative style, okay, if he's going to do him in at all. And apparently Sherlock wants to. Do him in. Who'd have thought? Poison him, sure -- or experiment on him in his sleep, yes, but let him push the whole fucking length of his cock into his arse? Only proves how crazy the man is, when all is said and done. ]

Edited 2020-05-18 09:02 (UTC)

[ Don't, says John, as in - don't get used to it, except spoken with more than a tint of warmth, one of those times when language means a hundred different things except the most obvious one. He's never been particularly delighted with that aspect of communication, to be honest, but right now there's something about the mood between them - the knowledge, probably, of what they're doing and why - that makes his lip quirk upwards a bit further in response, until John starts talking about ginger nuts.

Does he want that? Does he want to eat? He shifts. His arsehole twinges, the muscle starting to relax into the girth of the plug. In a moment or two, surely he can... go further. With the last one. His cock gives an interested jerk at the idea and he sighs, heavily, before placing the cup back on the coffee table. Then, he gets to his feet. Slowly. ]

No. [ He grabs onto the sofa for balance before straightening up carefully, his body tightening up at the feel of it. God, that's - oh. Prostate. Oh. Lips thinning for a second, he breathes in deeply, shifting from foot to foot to find a better... angle. A more bearable one. The plug shifts inside of him and the pressure dissipates slightly. Pause. Breathe. ] No, I'm going to lie down now. In five minutes, come join me.

[ He looks back at John over one shoulder. His dressing gown is slipping down a bit, his skin damp underneath and reddening a bit. He's feeling overheated, inside and out. And from this angle, he can't stop glancing down at John's sweatpants. At the hints of bulge. That's... that's going inside. Him. In a bit. The thought feels equal parts ludicrous and almost mind-shatteringly arousing. He turns away quickly and starts shuffling towards the bedroom before his cock can get any stiffer. ]

storyline one.

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