docwithablog | storyline one.

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storyline one.

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[ Oh. Oh, God, it's so... Christ! He pushes his forehead into the pillow and groans, loudly, as the thickest part of the fifth plug stretches him, for a second to such a grotesque degree that he can't think about anything but how open he feels. His hard-on flags a bit as the stretch pitches from crazy but oddly good into crazy and slightly painful before he finally pops it out. With a gasp, he drops it on the other side of the bed. He's washed off the other ones, just for the sake of some orderliness (in the midst of what feels like absolute chaos in his mind) but right now, he can't even envision getting off the bed to do so. Instead, he stares at the sixth plug.

Just. Stares at it.

His cock grows harder. Apparently, it really has no shame nor any regard whatsoever for his arse. The rim feels puffed up and tender to the touch as he fingers it lightly. Aside from the wetness of the lube, sticky still, there's nothing. No pain, no blood, no excessive tenderness. Okay then.

Lying down on his stomach, his cock trapped against the bed, he closes his eyes for a moment and simply breathes in. Out. In. Then, eyes still shut, he reaches out and grabs the lube from the bedside drawer and puts it next to the (giant) plug, waiting for John because he's going to need... help... with this. Well, technically he could just push it in, the same way as all the others, but for some reason he'd just rather not. He'll happily avoid over-analyzing any of it, thank you. Maybe some other time. He winces, shifting slightly.

Maybe never. ]

[ While Sherlock's gone to the bedroom to do the Lord's work, undoubtedly, John's gone to the bathroom, intending to be proactive here and rid himself of everything that could and would get in the way of him planting his cock in the other man's arse within the next, what, half hour? Fifteen minutes? Time's a strange entity when it comes to sex of all kinds, but anal sex especially. He remembers. Standing naked, except for his boxers, in front of the mirror for a moment, he breathes in and out slowly, trying to ignore how bloody hard he still is, has been, all along. His boxers are tenting nicely and if there should be any doubt as to how much he wants this, then you only need look down. Not that Sherlock wouldn't deduce it from the sweat on his brow or the way his pupils are completely shot, but in this household, you really can't win those particular battles anyway. He's settled with that a long time ago.

Hearing Sherlock groan and move about on the bed in his bedroom, John finally pushes off the sink and steps through the door, leaving it open behind him, because there are important things and less important things right now. Yes. On the former list, the headline must be Sherlock, lying on the bed, a gigantuous butt plug on the bedspread next to his body. Lube. Oh, Jesus Christ. John stops half a meter from the bed, just looks at him. Takes him in, the long lines of his body, his buttocks spread -- open -- something else, open. There's a physical rush to his pelvis that's almost flooring. He exhales harshly, before crossing the distance the rest of the way, leaning in over the other man with an hand supporting him on the left of Sherlock's head and kissing his shoulder, his now very hard cock pressing against the curve of his buttock.

He turns his head, chin and cheek slipping over increasingly reddening skin. His voice is very close to Sherlock's ear like this. ]

Okay, just to be clear. You need my help with this?

[ He hears the sounds of John doing... whatever he's doing in the bathroom, his brain is actually at the point where individual impressions blend together and become blurry. When the other man joins him, he doesn't just step inside and await instructions; whilst John will do so, willingly, on a case because the soldier in him needs the work-out, he's not actually prone to self-doubt or passivity. Sherlock's known that about him, well, since the first time he saw him. Danger, he thinks as John leans down over him, he likes danger, he likes dangerous people and with something close to a moan, he turns his head, just to feel the other man's forehead slipping against the side of his neck.

He's warm, slightly sweaty. Quite evidently aroused. His voice is a gust of hot air against Sherlock's ear and he shivers, his back tingling all the way down to his - yes. Arse. Which feels open still, even now. ]

Yes. [ He grasps the plug blindly and more or less tosses it at John - not harshly, just a bit... uncoordinated. ] Yes, I - [ He swallows. ] - if you would.

[ With the other man suddenly so close, his naked skin hot and smooth and damp, his arousal keeps increasing with every passing minute. It's the scent, too, the proximity. All night, they've been relatively far apart at all times, solving the case, doing separate things in the flat. To have that distance breached, now, like this - it's startling. And it reminds him, very forcibly, of what he needs. ]

[ Sherlock tosses the plug at him, not a lot of coordination left there, huh, and John only manages to catch it, probably, because his motor control skills are still somewhat unaffected. Somewhat. The plug does slip between his fingers, smooth as all hell, but he manages to catch it before dropping it on Sherlock's back. Which he, then, slides off slowly, his cock slipping along the curve of Sherlock's arse like a hot trail of something -- hot, while he finds a somewhat comfortable position on his side, stretched out next to the other man. Looking down Sherlock's back now, his arse, his arsehole, wide open and tender-looking, judging by the colouration, he quickly shakes his head. Come on, not now.

Not here.

He licks his lips, twice and goes for the lube, unscrewing the lid and pretty much just emptying the tube over the plug, leaving it glistening in the early morning sun from outside the windows, where there strangely enough is a world that's completely unaware of the fact that John Watson will be buggering Sherlock Holmes very soon. Really, what a sad world that is. John breathes out harshly and leans in over Sherlock again, halfway this time, a shoulder, half a back. The plug is massive in his hand, it weighs its fair share, too and he smears the lube out over the surface of it slowly, getting his fingers nicely slippery as well. ]

Remember, safeword if it gets too much. [ He says. Followed by a pause. Brief, but pointed. ] Don't chase it like you do everything else, Sherlock. I'm not going to be that person.

[ Then, he quickly, methodically pushes his slicked-up fingers in between Sherlock's buttocks, lubing up the rim of his open as you couldn't and probably wouldn't believe arse, before leaning in the rest of the way, slipping the plug into place between the man's arsecheeks, resting it against his entrance. His breathing sounds loud to his own ears. He's sweaty and overheated and he might just combust in a second. Even so, he pushes -- until the first sense of resistance sets in, then holds the pressure like that, waiting.

Giving it time is of the essence. ]

[ John catches the plug - nice reflexes, there - and proceeds to lube it up whilst Sherlock relaxes his back and the muscles along his hips, thighs - other places. He feels almost hyper-exposed. As the other man leans in over his back again, he very nearly shudders at the feel of it, anticipation making him tense up before he can properly catch himself. Then, John's voice - I'm not going to be that person - and he'd scoff, he really would (not that he isn't right, he's absolutely right and therein lies the problem because John's not supposed to be observant, he's not supposed to see through him) if John hadn't proceeded to push his fingers between his buttocks, slicking up his arsehole.

Instead, there's just a sharp exhalation as he spreads his thighs a bit, the sudden sensation of fingers, of something not hard and plastic touching him there making the heat in his abdomen gather almost to the point of pain. His balls draw up a bit and he bites his lip, hard, focusing on the sting rather than the building pleasure. Then, John's fingers disappear. Instead... oh. Oh... ]

Fuck.

[ It comes out a strangled, hoarse exclamation as he grabs onto the pillow with both hands, holding on for dear life. The plug feels impossibly large, even with just the tip inside. Earlier, when he'd inserted number five, he'd pushed past the resistance just a bit too recklessly which hadn't felt good at all (ow - really). But naturally, obviously, John isn't doing that. Instead, he's taking his time, pressing in carefully and pushing it further with each little give and he's going to perish from this, it'll be the end of Sherlock Holmes and they'll have to bury him somewhere with the words he got it good and it wouldn't even be true because John still hasn't -- ]

[ The plug really is massive. Just the tip is stretching Sherlock open maximally, John feeling the resistance that doesn't just give like when he's inserting his fingers, but keeps his arse working to constantly accommodate. There's something almost, almost unbearably arousing about the feel of it, the way he pushes and Sherlock's body pushes back, his arse opening only very gradually, not even inch by inch, we're talking millimeters here. Fuck, Sherlock says, grabbing onto his pillow like it's going to save him and maybe normally John would have told him not to be uncouth to lighten the atmosphere, reclaim some of the control, but now he's just inhaling sharply, the other man's voice doing very distracting things to his general pelvic area. He can honestly not remember being any harder than this, ever. Ever.

Leaning down, he presses a kiss to Sherlock's left shoulder, closest to him from this position and exhales slowly, trying to will his body not to spontaneously combust, would definitely be nice, thank you. You're doing good, he mutters against Sherlock's sweat-slick skin, lips moving over muscle and tissue and bone. When he glances down, the plug's halfway in, the way it's disappearing inside the other man actually causing him to bloody well shudder. He's bottomed, yes, he knows how penetration feels, but Sholto wasn't close to this girth and even further from John's size. Comparatively, Sherlock could as well be fucking a baseball bat. For him. He's -- Yes. ]

Fuck. [ It's more an exhalation than a word, but the way they're mirroring each other is making his system feel expectant, his balls tight and drawn-up. With his free hand he reaches down, grabs himself hard by the base and just gives his cock a squeeze to block the signals for a moment. Then, he lets go, reaches up and grabs Sherlock's shoulder, pushes himself flush up against him. ] Fuck, you should see yourself. Very good, halfway there.

[ And then some, presumably. If John's cock is going anywhere near that arrangement. He presses his forehead to Sherlock's shoulder blade. Breathes him in. Pushes, a bit more forcefully now. ]

[ His focus has centered itself squarely and solely around his arsehole, the burning sensation of stretch, of the massive plug going in, in, in -

Then, John kisses his shoulder, telling him he's being good and sounding breathless from it, from whatever this does to him (his cock is rock-hard against Sherlock's thigh so that much, at least, is very evident). He's warm, his physical presence steady against his side. Sherlock breathes out shallowly, feeling suddenly completely overtaken with the combination of the plug, stretching him open and John, flush against him, naked and breathing and satisfied, really, with him. It shouldn't matter at all, whether John's... pleased with him or not and he ought to feel pathetic but, well, they've done this power-dynamic switch for more than a month now and quite frankly, he's been over it enough. It's pitiful. He shouldn't. But here they are and this is happening in real-time.

And despite it all, his heart is beating along with it.

Groaning loudly this time, he presses back, first against John's lips, then against the plug. He focuses on relaxing his muscles as much as possible, feeling John push a bit more forcefully at the base of the plug and following his initiative because really, they're here, they're doing this. In a matter of minutes, it'll be... John. Just him and nothing else. His cock twitches pathetically against the mattress, a wet spot forming between his thighs and he forces out, voice a lot lighter than usual: ]

Just - you can push it in, just do it.

[ John doesn't have a file on Sherlock, he doesn't catalogue stuff -- or delete it the way Sherlock does, his head isn't his hard drive. At this point in their acquaintance, their relationship, though, he's got quite a lot of stuff memorized in a more normal people-fashion. He could undoubtedly wax poetics about the various ways Sherlock intonates his speech, particular words, the quality of his voice and obviously, he won't do that anytime soon, but the fact is. He knows. Things. About Sherlock. Yet, the way he sounds as he asks him to just push it in is new and exciting and makes his cock throb and jerk and take on a bloody life of its own. Jesus. John breathes out harshly and goes for the last -- well, stretch, so to speak. Gradually, very gradually and at a very resolute pace, he pushes the plug in the rest of the way, watching the massive thing disappear inside Sherlock's arse, his sphincter giving and giving and giving until there's nothing left to give and the plug slips into place, lodged inside him so hard that John can basically feel his cock weep at the implications. He's going -- there. In a moment. Soon. Very soon.

Another row of kisses along the slope of Sherlock's shoulder blade, up over the back of his neck, left shoulder, his breathing escaping him in hard puffs of air. Sherlock's hard, hot presence against him and he doesn't care about domination dynamics at the moment, about telling Sherlock he should be patient and he should behave. Instead he groans, loudly, rubs his cock up against Sherlock's thigh once and then kisses his earlobe, just within reach, telling him in a hushed voice -- because this is much, much more important than all that, thank you: ]

You're amazing. [ Beat. Beat. Then, because they are who they are and he can't help himself, all right: ] However, you're also not going to rush my cock, you're aware of that, right?

[ John follows his lead and pushes the plug the rest of the way inside him and Sherlock, in turn, gasps and buries his face in the pillow again, feeling almost obscenely full, his arsehole stretched open around the stem of the plug. He breathes fast, getting lost for a moment inside his own head, John's lips against his shoulder, his breathing, the feel of his cock against his thigh, all happening in the very periphery of his consciousness. He blinks. There's water in his eyes, though he manages not to actively weep. God knows what'll happen once John's actually... Christ.

You're amazing he says and Sherlock really, really likes hearing him say that. He will never get tired of it, even if he likes to pretend to find it ridiculous or overbearing. Opening his eyes slowly and raising his face from the pillow, he cranes his neck sideways, enough to look at the other man out of the corner of his eyes. Then, very gingerly, he turns onto his side (oh, oooh, prostate, right there, oh) enough to slip his arm around John's side, spreading out his palm against his back. With a shudder, he presses his forehead against whatever he can reach of John's face, neck, really, whatever, he just... needs it. Here. Come here, it means. ]

Don't pretend your cock isn't begging for it, though.

[ It comes out rough around the edges, like his throat's too dry for actual speech production and he swallows, hard. Shifts, just to - at this angle, the plug's doing all sorts of funny things inside of him and he can't actually think to make his point, hoping faintly that he's already done so somehow. Instead, he kisses John's jawline, leaving a wet track along his skin, his fingers digging into his back almost convulsively. Stay, it says. Come closer. More. ]

[ Showing quite the amount of iron will, Sherlock rolls over on his side after a moment of gasping and burying into his pillow which you'll have to forgive him, because come on. He's got what amounts to a plastic beef tomato lodged in his arse right now. With more coordination than you could expect from most people in his situation, he slips one arm around John's waist and draws him closer, pressing his forehead against his neck. It's an open invitation and a very insistent one, too. John shifts closer, feeling more than hearing the other man tell him that he can't pretend his cock isn't begging for it. Oh no, he really can't. Two jerks and a twist of his hips and he'd be done for, all over very quick and disappointingly -- and he has no idea how he's going to last, let alone survive the way inside the other man's body. They'll just have to take it very slow and be very controlled about it, except it's Sherlock he's fucking and slow and controlled aren't his usual MO. Neither of them, together or separately. ]

Very good deduction. Very good.

[ A smile as Sherlock leans in and kisses his jawline, faint traces of moisture tracing his progress upwards. John angles his head for easier access, making a sound of contentment at the way the other man's fingers are digging into his back, keeping him close. It's begging, in its own way, the only way Sherlock knows outside of his subspace. Or perhaps not begging, requesting. Relatively politely, mind you. John reaches up with both hands now, burying his fingers into Sherlock's hair and gently tugging his face up at a proper height for a kiss, pushing their mouths together warmly and wetly, tongue tracing his bottom lip. Tasting.

He really needs to fuck him soon or this will be the end. Of him, probably. ]

[ He'd raise an eyebrow at John's reply - nonchalant, isn't it, for someone who's currently waiting to stick his gigantic cock in his arse - but he's busy being full and oversaturated with physical impressions and all he can manage is a moan from the very back of his throat. When John slips his hands into Sherlock's hair and tugs his face up for a kiss, he can feel his entire body going lax for a moment, tension bleeding out of his muscles. He parts his lips and pushes his tongue into John's mouth. It's not particularly elegant but quite possessive in its own right; the man is about to fuck him, something must be done to balance things out. He groans into the kiss, raising one leg and sliding his foot up John's shin, feeling out the strong lines of muscle, the soft hair. It's so good. It's - oh God, they can't just lie here, he's got to - uh -- ]

John, let's just... [ He speaks against the other man's lips for a second before pulling back, breathing erratic. ] Let's just do it.

[ As he speaks, he reaches behind himself and fumbles for the plug, fingers sliding over the large (large) handle a couple of times before he manages to get a grip. He digs his fingers in and flexes his wrist. Pulls at it very slowly.

Then, his eyes widen.

How in the world is he supposed to get this - out... oh! He stares at John's face, somewhat cross-eyed as he pulls at the plug, realising gradually that his arsehole doesn't want to loosen up enough - at least not at this angle, Christ. He bites his lip and wriggles his hand back and forth, feeling the muscle give very slightly in response. This, in turn, sends a spike of pain up his spine and he gasps, his fingers tightening. He knows, logically, that he needs to relax, breath, push back and let it happen but he can't, at this very moment, figure out how. Instead, he pulls at it a bit uselessly, which doesn't really help but at least it takes care of some of his arousal, his cock somewhat less excited by this particular turn of events. ]

[ They kiss for a little while, a very brief while, in fact, but it's good -- they need to get moving, yes, when Sherlock breaks away to start fumbling for the plug and tells him they need to do it. Now. John, in turn, could've told him that trying to remove the butt plug from this angle is pretty much hopeless and besides, he's being too uptight about it, does he know how many patients John has seen about alleged plug-related obstructions and complications? Never anything some relaxants and a good pull couldn't fix, but they'll skip the relaxants in this case. If he'll just -- for God's sake, Sherlock. John sits up, putting a calming hand on the other man's hip, urging him to lie down on his front again. Or rather, pushing him down. Relax, it says. ]

All right, just let me. [ He waves Sherlock's hand off the handle, nudging the other man's thighs apart and positioning himself there before closing his fingers around the plug, beginning a slow, measured wriggling motion from side to side while he upholds an even back pull. It's not violent or harsh, but it's very determined. Very professional, yeah, he's tried this before, why do you ask? At the back of his mind, for the most part meditatively focused on removing the plug, he makes a note of Sherlock's cock going slightly flaccid again and reminds himself, firmly, to spend some time fingering him first, get him back on track. After all, the pain will do that, John knows from experience. It's just a matter of prioritizing the right build-up when they get to the good stuff. Sholto was always good about that and it really only improved the rest, didn't it? ] You okay?

[ The plug releases with an obscenely wet, sloppy sound that makes his balls draw up. Close to impossibly. John tosses it off to the side, hearing it land -- somewhere on the floor with a thud, then leans in over Sherlock's back, letting him really feel the outline of his cock against his buttocks. Obvious, wet traces of precum. It's a bloody miracle he hasn't come twice over already, Christ. ]

[ It takes John precisely no time whatsoever to take over, pushing Sherlock onto his front and seating himself between his thighs. Sherlock breathes in sharply as the other man starts working the plug out, the pressure of it alternating between mind-numbingly good (nerves in the arsehole, quite a lot, prostate, also there) and painful. He digs his toes in as he feels it move towards the thickest part, his arsehole stretching once more, more, more - and then, out it pops. He shudders. Tries, instinctively, to clench and feels quite incapable of it, even as he knows it ought to still be physically plausible. It's not like the sphincter is dead, he's certain he would know if it were. It doesn't hurt in any way that says damage, it just feels... very open, still. Very wet. He swallows. Realises that John's asked him a question and tries to remember what it was, precisely, nevermind how to answer. The sound of the plug hitting the floor somewhere close to the closet seems loud in the stillness between them.

John then proceeds to lean in over him, his cock sliding up between his buttocks. It's wet, warm and very hard. Large. Quite... large. He props his chin onto his forearms, his spine curving very slightly. Like this, John leaves traces of precum along his skin, the small of his back and he'd rather like to lick them all up, to taste him on his tongue. Not now, though. Not tonight. He tries to breathe normally, realising only then that he can't, actually. What? Is he - is he...

Christ, is he nervous??

He wrinkles his nose, then pushes his face against the pillow again, hard. Deciding that this simply won't be tolerated, he takes a deep breath, shoulders actually rising at the movement, clears his throat and says, words only slightly muffled: ]

Please go slow.

[ He wants to press back against John, feel the whole length of him against his own back, maybe shift his hips a bit so the other man's cock slides back and forth between his buttocks. It would be delicious. Except right now, he feels empty, he wants to get going and have John fill him up all the way and simultaneously, he's quite... worried (scared, shut up) though he doesn't know what for or why. Naturally, that's the worst part of it. ]

[ Please go slow, Sherlock says after having, one) buried his face in the pillow and two) had to force himself to breathe properly and John would be a right bastard if he'd ignored the signs or even worse, failed to read them properly, but what do you know. Sherlock tells him he's unobservant often enough for it to actually have become truth at this point, yes. As it is, though, John does notice and John does catch on, even if it seems ludicrous to think of the great Sherlock Holmes as capable of nervousness in the first place. Nevertheless, John's seen it before, he remembers their first time, vividly, thank you and considering how the man is about to have John's very much larger than average cock shoved up in his arse now, maybe it's understandable, too. He swallows something. Eases back on his haunches and just looks down at him for a long moment, the lines of his back, strong and lean, slightly too thin, still, even if it's getting gradually better... He remembers the first time he bottomed. He remembers the bloody dread. And unlike John, Sherlock's bottoming for someone with too many inches to count, pretty much and who has no topping experience to speak of. It's probably the only logical response in this case, nervousness.

Taking a deep breath, tempering down his own arousal as best he can, he leans in the rest of the way, until they're chest to back, his face pressing in against the side of Sherlock's neck, chin on his shoulder, it's really quite nice. Their legs become entangled like this and John's cock presses up between Sherlock's spread buttocks, sliding wetly over the other man's very widely open arsehole. Christ. Another deep breath, then he says, voice a mutter: ]

We're both going to get by on trial and error, Sherlock. [ Kiss against his ear, then John reaches to the side and blindly locates the lube, rolling off the other man halfway as he squeezes a heavy amount out on his hands. ] Haven't exactly done this part before, after all.

[ Shifting a bit more, leaving Sherlock's arse bared and accessible, John reaches down with his left hand and runs two slick fingers up between his buttocks, ending up following the expanded rim of the other man's arsehole with two unintrusive fingertips. Just feeling him out. How tender he is. ]

[ There's a moment when John lies down on top of him, chest to back, his cock pressed up between his buttocks, that Sherlock's reasonably certain he just wants him to do it. His warm weight and the scent of sweat and arousal is making him decidedly light-headed; really, he'd like for John to just. Stay there. Exactly there. Pause the moment.

But then, John rolls off him and his weight disappears, at least partially. He glances at him sideways, on the verge of telling him to get back there, when John says trial and error before kissing his ear and lubing up his hands. Sherlock swallows. Thinks about the implications (meaning John's bottomed, obviously, but never topped - for some reason, this realisation makes his shoulders sink a fraction, some of the tension going out of them). He shifts, from one hipbone to the other, his cock rubbing against the bed, growing harder once more. The past seven hours have been a seemingly endless circle of growing and receding arousal, to the point where he can't currently remember what it's like not to fluctuate. To ride the wave all the way to the finish line.

Wetting his lips (nervously, for God's sake), he leans against John slightly as the man lies down by his side. Spreads his legs a bit as John reaches down and fingers the rim of his arsehole. Wet, he thinks. Slick. He shivers, nerve endings impossibly sensitive at this point and pushes back. Just a bit. ]

Yes. [ It comes out as a groan. ] Yes, you can - if you want...

Never stop being this eloquent.

[ It's murmured with quite a lot of affection to it, not a lot of edge -- he's in no position for edges right now, is he, but he's in position for something else. Definitely. Breathing in harshly, he twists his hand slightly and inserts the tips of two fingers, pushes them past the very, very widened sphincter, but realises exactly two seconds into Sherlock's arse that the butt plug has done it's job so bloody well that two fingers aren't exactly cutting it anymore. Would have been plenty before, mind you, he's fingered Sherlock enough times to know exactly how full he feels on two fingers, but the times they are a-changing and John has never been anything if not incredibly -- well, adaptable.

Thus, he withdraws slightly again, adds another finger, the ring finger, and pushes all three inside, feeling only a slight resistance as he slowly, carefully buries into the other man. To the knuckles. Around the base of his fingers, the feeling of tightness as per usual returns and he flexes his hand a bit, spreads his fingers to open him up more. Sherlock's hot and slick and tight, Jesus Christ, John's cock jerking almost on the regular against his abdomen now. It's a job to stay focused, not to get ahead of himself and he remembers (it's such bad form to think about your ex when in bed with your current partner, however, it serves a purpose here, trust him, he's taking cues) how Sholto would fingerfuck him until he was begging for it. Until he couldn't take it one single second longer, not to have him inside.

Let's see if the same approach doesn't work in general. Keeping his fingers buried inside Sherlock's arse for another long moment, he hears his own breath tremble out of him. When he speaks, he sounds hoarse and wanting, basically. Needy as fuck. ]

You're getting a fourth in a moment. We're doing proper prep here.

[ As he speaks, he starts slowly, slowly, gently pulling his fingers out, pushing them halfway in, out, a bit deeper again, out, keeping it shallow, out, in, out. ]

Edited 2020-05-20 16:34 (UTC)

[ He scowls at John's comment - thank you, he's aware that he's currently not exactly linguistically brilliant - but then, the other man pushes two fingers inside of his arse and he can't breathe. It's not that it feels particularly overwhelming; the butt plug's left quite a lot of room, it seems, back there. But there's something incredible about having John's actual fingers inside of him once again. While he doesn't mind the butt plugs, they are very... artificial. They are things, obviously.

Where as John's fingers... ]

Ah! [ He moans out loud when John adds another finger and buries them all inside of him, spreading them enough for him to really feel the stretch. Gasping, lips more or less permanently parted at this point, he reaches out on impulse and grabs hold of John's wrist next to his shoulder, fingertips digging in along bone and muscle. ] Ah, no - no, you absolutely can't - [ He gasps, nerve-endings doing something to his nervous system that he can't even properly comprehend as John's fingers work inside him. ] - John, you can't - we've waited for hours.

[ He only just manages not to sound whiny, probably due to the utter desperation underlying every syllable. He's panting heavily, hips working in time with the thrusts of John's fingers, back and forth, his cock rubbing against the bed. He's completely hard now and sensitive. It probably wouldn't take more than a mere brush of his hand. He keeps thinking that he wants more of John, he wants him pressed up against his back, filling him up, and he - yes, it might hurt. It might be difficult. But as the seconds tick by and John's presence - next to him, inside him - seems to grow exponentially in his consciousness, the need to get there begins to outweigh the nervousness. ]

[ Sherlock moans and says that he can't -- and John's inclined to agree, actually. He absolutely can't imagine going through just two minutes more of this bloody torture, but he's set his mind to it and he knows, he knows it's going to work. It's going to make it better, less like something you'd pick up at a gay bar somewhere with their particular brands of underwear and their tired clubber's eyes and more like something that actually matters.

He's just as well acquainted with the difference as Sherlock probably is.

Trying, pretty much in vain at this point, to control his breathing just somewhat, he shifts on top of Sherlock's back a little more, feeling the long stretches of warm, sweaty skin, heat, muscles moving, shifting, tissue, flesh. Oh God, he's hot to the touch, he's hot wherever they're pressed together, furnace-like. Burning. John presses his face in against the side of Sherlock's neck in response to the tight grip the man's serving him, fingertips digging into his wrist. Forehead against his jawline, nose pressing against his jugular, he sticks his tongue out, no coordination whatsoever. The man tastes salty against John's lips, slipping over his neck in a wet, uneven trail. He tastes salty and dark and sharp. Like himself. ]

So we can afford two minutes more. [ It's a heated mutter against the slope of the man's neck. His tone isn't sharp, but it's slightly exasperated, because for God's sake -- don't tempt him. He'd like nothing better than to ignore all courtesies and just force it in until it fits, but he won't do that, because... Well, you don't. You don't when you care. And Jesus, does he care. ] Sherlock, bloody hell.

[ On an out-stroke, he gingerly adds a fourth finger, pinky, working the almost full width of his hand, curled up into something rounded and pointed, past Sherlock's opening, feeling it give a little more for every slight push he does. His cock is heavy and throbbing between his legs as a consequence and he honestly can't imagine how he'll get it into that tight, tight space and not come on the spot, but he'll work it out. They're both beginners at this.

Which means they're in this together. Which means -- they need a fourth finger. They need it proper, they need it good. ]

[ Oh - oh, it's a fourth finger, it's... He blinks, hard, feeling his arsehole contract slightly around the width of John's... hand? Most of his hand? Oh. He shifts, meeting the thrust of his hand with a backwards push, fucking himself experimentally on his fingers. It feels... good. It feels fantastic. He can - yes, he can take it. More. He can take more. John's warm and heavy against his back and when he licks his neck, he leaves a trail of wetness behind that cools in the aftermath, making his skin prickle. Micro and macro-impressions, he thinks, mindlessly and grinds back again against John's hand. It's a whole.

In a few moments, he'll be lost to it. ]

I -- [ He breaks off, panting, feeling his sphincter actually give again, though it shouldn't really be possible at this point. Afterwards, John's fingers feel just a little less, the stretch becomes less overwhelming and all he can think is nownownow, his cock jumping against his abdomen. ] Yes. Do it, John, do it.

[ And on impulse, without even truly knowing why, he reaches up and curls his fingers in John's hair, fingertips running over heated skin, damp from sweat. It's an awkward angle and he'll probably lose his grip in a moment as soon as John moves but all the same, he just... He holds on. Runs his fingers through John's hair slowly, soothingly, hand curving against what he can reach of his neck in a hold. You're fine, it says. Go on. ]

[ He's working most of his hand in Sherlock's arse and Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, seems to -- Oh. There's his hand, in his hair, fingers scraping over his scalp and holding on. You're fine, it says. It's fine. John hears himself exhale sharply, his cock leaking precum everywhere, really and okay, then. ] Okay. [ Carefully, he pulls his fingers out, withdraws his hand and reaches for the lube again, squeezing the last amount out onto his palm and shifting onto his hip to give himself room to move. His breathing is irregular and laboured, catching in his throat when he reaches down to slick himself up, going for the lightest possible strokes, because anything more's definitely going to do him in. It takes two seconds, smearing lube over his length and two additional seconds to roll over on top of Sherlock -- though he's more careful with that than with his cock, mind, savoring the feeling of skin against skin, chest against back, his cock slipping over one buttock before he reaches down and takes hold of it around the base, steering it into the other man's cleft with relative ease. He knows the way now, doesn't he? He bloody well should. ]

Please relax.

[ It is an actual plea. Steadying himself with his right hand against the mattress next to Sherlock's shoulder, keeping himself elevated enough over the other man's body to look down at himself, get a good overview of what he's doing, he uses his left to steer it in between his buttocks, head slipping over the open rim of his arsehole once, before going for that first push, into him, tip first. The resistance is -- mind-blowing, really, his entrance feeling like the snuggest, tiniest, tightest little hole you could imagine as he manages to slide in an inch, two. He can't even wax poetics about it, he's beyond that, it's that -- shit. Wow. His arm trembles where it's holding him up, he's dripping sweat. Hot. He's hot and tight and all-consuming. John bends down over Sherlock's neck a little, not touching, just. Closer. Oh, God. So close. ]

Please don't tighten up or I'm going to lose it.

[ His voice has never sounded like that before, has it? That raw. Every syllable is shaking out of him, every word punctuated. ]

[ John moves, dislodging his grip on his hair in the process. Sherlock feels bereft as a consequence as he lowers his hand to the bed once more, grabbing onto the sheet. John slicks up his cock and lies down on top of him once more. He can feel the wetness of the other man's length sliding against his thighs, between his buttocks, before John goes please relax, sounding half-gone himself. He breathes out slowly. Feels a sudden and violent spark of anxiety as John positions himself before the feeling bleeds away entirely, replaced by... by... ]

Oh my God. [ His voice is thin, almost breathless but not as affected as John who sounds destroyed. His cock feels massive against his arsehole and he can feel himself stretching even further as the tip presses inside, his body adjusting slowly but surely to the intrusion. It's not really difficult, as such; it's more than before but not drastically so and he has no real trouble adhering to John's plea. Breathing raggedly, he reaches back up with his hand and strokes John's shoulder and upper arm, his touch light. ] Oh this is - [ He shuts his eyes. What? What is it? John's cock, breaching him, going in, the whole, hard length of it, inch by inch. John. JohnJohnJohn. ] - this is nice. You feel nice.

[ He can't recall feeling this... genuine, ever, in his adult life. It's like they're being ripped of layers and complications, leaving just the bared remains - John, taking care, doing his utmost to fulfill whatever he's expecting from himself and trembling in the face of it; and Sherlock, feeling... grateful because he has rarely been chosen (never). Blinking sweat out of his eyes, he shuts them again and relaxes into it. His cock is dripping precum against the bed and his stomach as he spreads his legs a bit further and angles his hips upwards, pushing back and taking John in another inch. Or two. ]

Edited 2020-05-20 19:01 (UTC)

[ There is a moment, brief and passing, but it's there, where John feels certain he won't make it, the pressure around the head's too much and he's going to come, he's going to die. His breathing sounds ragged and uneven, his lungs aren't filling up properly. His balls tight beyond all measure. Then, as bodies are wont to do, his adjusts, uses itself to the new normal and slowly, he catches his breath a little. Slowly, he regains control.

Just in time to hear Sherlock say that it's nice, that he feels nice. His touch against his shoulder and upper arm light, caresses, not a grip. He can feel the other man pushes back now, taking him in, impaling himself on his length and it's unbearably intense, the additional inches of emersion. It's tight and slick. Warm, so warm, burning. Carefully, he eases down onto Sherlock's back more fully, pushing his face in against the side of his neck, breathing the scent of him in greedily, lips parted and heaving wetly.

His free hand comes up, running through Sherlock's at this point rather damp curls, just -- fingers slipping through his hair, not gripping or holding, just -- yeah. Nearness. Proximity, that's all it is. Meanwhile, he works his hips forward, keeping the forward motion of his cock going, pushing into him in stages, head inside, big relief, half the shaft and then, second half, oh. He's -- buried in him now, like this. He's almost completely seated in Sherlock's body. The man's all around him, there's nothing but -- him. John stutters out his name, manages a ridiculous shortening, Sherl or something along those lines, then has to lick his lips, licking Sherlock's skin in the process.

Remembering himself, he manages, voice having darkened considerably from then until now, few seconds worth of progression: ]

Still nice? [ Please still be nice, he has no idea how he's ever going to stop now. ] God, Sherlock, you feel -- [ With a groan, he pushes his entire face in against his neck, feeling muscles working and feeling the whole of the man's rectum stretched tight around him. ] -- amazing, so, so amazing.

[ For a moment, there's just the sounds of their collective breathing, out of sync but equally ragged, as John slowly pushes in, the stretch in his arsehole becoming a familiar pressure rather than a burn. Sherlock rests his chin on his elbows once more, curls sticking to his forehead. He brushes them away a bit distractedly, feeling gradually more and more immersed in his body. His focus of attention narrows down to nothing but this - John's weight against his back, the sudden, brief wetness of his tongue against his neck again; his cock, buried in his arse, his body working to adapt. His brain is producing rapid, single-word registrations (full, heavy, warm, slick, nice, amazing) and he simply floats amongst them, feeling his mental state become... fluent. Indecipherable. ]

Mm. [ His voice is low, more so than usual, all words slower and more drawn-out. ] Good. It's good.

[ He tilts his head a bit to the side, craning his neck as a consequence, just to properly catch the next time John says his name like that, stuttering and weak and affected, it sounds better than normal even, which speaks volumes. God, John's big like this - he's everywhere. His cock is buried inside him so deeply, he suddenly can't quite tell where they start and end, individually. Ouroboros, he thinks and the thought makes his lips quirk upwards in a dazed smile. He pushes back once more, just for whatever inch might still be unaccounted for - because now that he's got John like this, he wants all of him.

He realises, distantly, that he's never had anything or anyone like this before and that regardless of how life might change in the future, he never will. There's something very definite about that thought, something that settles within him along with John. Eyes fluttering shut, he runs his hand up John's shoulder once more to the back of his neck. There, he simply holds on, the stretch in his upper body insignificant enough to ignore. He can't tell anything about his own state of arousal at this point and doesn't much care, either.

It's simply better than that. ]

[ It's good, Sherlock says, his voice deep, several notches deeper than normally and that's just unfair, he's got a pitch that's basically to die for as it is. John breathes out, slow and shaking, returning his one hand to the mattress to give himself a balance point as he stays in place for another long second, two, three. His other hand comes to a rest over Sherlock's hip, fingers digging into skin and muscle and bone. In turn, Sherlock keeps him there, his huge as all hell fingers curling around his neck while the man pushes back against him again, taking him in that last inch. Shit. A moment of indulging in that, just that. Then, John starts drawing back his hips, cock pulling out of the other man again in the same gradual stages. He's just getting a feel for it. It's meditative, the movement, the feeling of it. Meditative, sure, and maddening. The pleasure shooting down his shaft, pooling in his balls making him moan, rather loudly, too. ]

Oh, fuck... [ Stuttering, breathless, gone. He inclines his head to the side, face pushing into Sherlock's curls, his nose somewhere near the man's ear. Doesn't matter, then, that the volume goes down, his voice weakening into a whisper while the wet, slick sound of movement reverberates between them. The echo of skin against skin. Lube, suction, harsh breathing. Once he's pulled almost all the way out, he pushes in again, keeping it slow and even at first, although the tightness is literally killing him. His vision black around the edges. His exhalations shallow. Honestly, however, one thing is how tight Sherlock is, his insides working around him, but another is how John's never actually fucked anyone this deep before. Most girls can't take him, full-length and well, like he said. This is s a first for them both, dynamics-wise, experience-wise. John's never -- with anyone. Never like this. As always, what do you bloody well expect from the man, Sherlock Holmes is very, very special. ] Jesus Christ.

[ And that's really all he can squeeze out as he focuses most of his mental energy on fixing his penetrative angle, angling his hips down a big and pushing up, knowing he'll slide over Sherlock's prostate like this, because he's a doctor and he knows how to locate -- stuff. For God's sake, the pressure in his balls is impossible, just impossible. Automatically, he starts an in- and outward motion, pull and push, pull and push of his hips that's faster, but careful. Harder, but gentle. Wouldn't want to destroy him, would he? Although it would only be payback, Sherlock's destroying him very thoroughly right now. ]

I can't, Sherlock, you're -- [ He doesn't quite know what it is he can't, they're doing well, very well, it feels like and similarly, he doesn't know what it is Sherlock is, but he's something. Come on, he's known that from the beginning. He's something very remarkable and incredibly special. ] -- perfect, like this.

[ Despite himself, despite all logic dictating that naturally, evidently, the most intense part was yet to come, Sherlock's still completely taken aback (... yes, thank you) when John actually begins to move. Inside him. Out, first, the head of his cock feeling incredibly big as it stretches him open on the way, and then in again. Upon which John actually angles his hips, pressing against his prostate. ]

Ah! Oh - oh God. [ He's not being particularly loud, still, but the sudden edge of amazement makes his pitch just slightly thinner. Pushing his face against the pillow and holding onto John for dear life, he moves along with him, meeting his thrusts whilst feeling utterly, utterly undone. Every slide of John's cock, be it in or out, stimulates his prostate and makes his balls feel achingly heavy, his cock hard once more (he can't remember when that happened) and so sensitive that every moment of friction against it makes him breathless. ] You feel amazing, John, you are - fantastic -

[ His voice dies off as his climax suddenly starts building, explosively and completely without warning (if you don't consider seven bloody hours of build-up), his cock twitching and his balls drawing up. He thinks for a moment that he doesn't want to, he wants to make it last a bit longer, to -- but it's too late, he can't, and instead he simply pushes his face hard against the pillow and gives in. He comes, hard, against the sheets, his arsehole contracting repeatedly around John's length and the feel of that, of fullness and stimulation against oversensitive nerve-endings prolong his orgasm until he can't fucking see, his hand against the back of John's neck clenching convulsively. He's moaning, relentlessly. He has no clue what he's saying, whether he's saying anything at all. ]

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

storyline one.

42.

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