docwithablog | storyline one.

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storyline one.

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[ 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. ]

[ A somewhat consistent rhythm builds, he finds a pace of in and out that's just right, just perfect, yes, and manages to fuck Sherlock for a few, designated full thrusts before the most beautiful thing happens.

Sherlock comes. First, that is, because John's quick to follow, but Sherlock comes and it's like nothing he's ever seen before, in bed or outside of it, really.

This time, apparently, it's John who's amazing and fantastic and every other similar description you may find in the English language, though the man loses all capability of speech when his orgasm takes over. John can't see his cock for obvious reasons (wrong angle, wrong position), but he can vividly imagine it, spurting cum all over the place. Sheets. Stomach. He can vividly imagine exactly when it starts and when it stops (long orgasm, prolonged, overwhelming), because Sherlock's arsehole is clenching around him in time with its progression. He's clenching around him, the tightness pretty much squeezing all logical thought out of him while he lies across Sherlock's back and thrusts harder now into the tightness of his arse, releasing, grabbing, releasing. Frankly, he'd be sobbing, if he had any air for it. Instead, he gasps and groans and grunts, hips working furiously into the heat of it, Sherlock's entire body, his.

And when he comes, exactly three seconds after Sherlock, it's a violent, all-consuming, overpowering orgasm like nothing he's ever experienced. He listens to Sherlock moaning senselessly, relentlessly, not really hearing himself, although he's muttering words in between his more animalistic sounds. Important words. Very, very important words. John just can't remember them and they die out in the stale stillness between Sherlock's and his bodies, front to back, so there's nothing left to remind him. I love you, I love you, I love --

Another half minute and it's over, his body feeling lax and heavy as his climax subsides. Muscles trembling. He breathes unevenly while slowly and carefully twisting his hips backwards, pulling out as gently as he can muster. He doesn't want it to be over, but here they are.

It never stops being fantastic, just because they aren't fucking. That's the point of it. ]

Edited 2020-05-21 14:13 (UTC)

[ His orgasm washes over him in waves, his cock pulsing against the sheets while John's thrusts grow harder, more desperate. He stays still in response, feeling dazed and somehow removed, like the fabric of reality itself has been altered around them. He feels... incoherent. Lost, in a way, to the heaviness in his body. He feels John chasing his own climax and cradles his neck in response. His chest feels suddenly remarkably broad against his back, his neck strong and sturdy - muscular - and he realises that he's noticing these things about John not because they're new or novel but because he feels taken by him.

Strong, temperamental, loyal John.

When the other man climaxes deep within him, he feels the pulsing of his cock and little else. But he hears him, smells him and knows, in a way he doesn't usually. He sees, yes, but he doesn't necessarily know. There's a difference that he's never been more aware of than he is, right now, with John panting above him, shoving into him a few more times before it all stops. Keeping his eyes closed, he takes a very deep breath and that's all he has time for before John pulls out. ]

Ah.

[ It's said with a bit of a hiss. Apparently, the nerves in his body are less than happy with him, particularly around his arsehole where everything either stings or feels numb at this point. Cradling the sheets and John's neck just a bit harshly, he breathes in, breathes out, waits. It takes a couple of seconds for the pain to dissipate. Then, there's just the... sensation of being very open, very wet, very used. And John, still draped across his back, his spent cock resting between Sherlock's buttocks. On a long, outdrawn exhalation, he settles down onto his belly properly, completely uncaring about the wet spot. Who cares. His arm finally gives up the battle and drops to the bed, fingertips ghosting over John's shoulder on the way.

He yawns. Settles in against the pillow with his John-duvet on top of him.

Nice. ]

[ He would move, honestly. And he probably should. Sherlock might be the taller one, but he's also thin as a twig and having John draped completely bonelessly across his back is not going to do great things for his back once they wake up again, so he really, really ought to move, he just -- well, he can't. He can't make himself. Sherlock smells too nice and feels too good and he wants to be closer, once more. He doesn't want to remove himself from him any more than he already has. So John remains where he is, cock pressing, spent and sticky, in between the other man's buttocks. Face pressed into his curls, carrying strong remnants of sex and arousal, sticky from sweat, slightly stiff and ultimately familiar, just like that. Besides, Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, settling in against his much tried pillow and yawning tiredly, because shit, they've exhausted themselves, haven't they? John can't even bloody well move.

Yawning, too, because people are gregarious animals and, let's be real, Sherlock is whatever family he has, isn't he, John closes his eyes and feels Sherlock's hand ghost over his shoulder before it lands, undoubtedly also bonelessly, considering the angle it's been working, on the mattress again. John turns his head a little, looking at it in the stark morning light pouring in through the window. Sherlock's huge as all hell hands. Without really thinking about it, he reaches up with his own, spreads his palm out across the back and interlaces their fingers lazily.

Mine, he thinks again and should be surprised at his own streak of possessiveness, because there has honestly never been anything, let alone anyone he's wanted to own before. Wanted to have be his. Except, despite all logic, Sherlock wanted him inside just a few moments ago and John isn't actually stupid. He knows what it means. The man who never tells him anything about himself, who never gives himself up, well, would you look at that, he just did. He just did. Completely willingly.

Who cares about birthdays, in comparison? Come on. ]

Edited 2020-05-22 04:09 (UTC)

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storyline one.

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