storyline one.

[docwithablog]

chronology -

00. word association w/ Sherlock

1. gen texting w/ Sherlock

2. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

3. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

4. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

5. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

6. texting w/ Sherlock

7. texting w/ Sherlock

8. texting w/ Sherlock

9. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

10. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

11. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

12. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

13. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

14. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

15. texting w/ Sherlock

16. otherwordly w/ Sherlock

17. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

18. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

19. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

20. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

21. texting - part one | texting - part two w/ Sherlock

22. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

23. texting w/ Sherlock

24. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

25. texting w/ Sherlock

26. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

27. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

28. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

29. truth or dare w/ Sherlock

00. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

30. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

31. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

32. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

33. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

34. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

35. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

36. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

37. texting w/ Sherlock

38. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

39. the case of the devil's root w/ Sherlock

00. word association w/ Sherlock

00. texting w/ Sherlock

00. penny for your thoughts w/ Sherlock

40. midnight texting w/ Sherlock

41. interlude w/ Sherlock

42. interlude w/ Sherlock

43. interlude w/ Sherlock

44. texting w/ Sherlock

45. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

46. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

47. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

48. texting w/ Sherlock

49. texting w/ Sherlock

50. texting w/ Sherlock

51. anniversary w/ Sherlock

52. texting w/ Sherlock

53. interlude w/ Sherlock

Comments

[acuriousincident]

[ 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. ]

[docwithablog]

[ 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.

[acuriousincident]

[ 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. ]

[docwithablog]

[ 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. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ 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. ]

[docwithablog]

[ 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. ]