docwithablog | storyline one.

Skip to Main Content

Entry tags:

storyline one.

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ There's a second where Sherlock is Sherlock, about to continue down his very own path with no acknowledgement of the game they're playing, the roles they're taking on, but then he catches himself, of course he does, bloody genius that he is, and clears his throat. Says understood, sir. John feels his own cock harden noticeably in his pants and he shifts from one foot to the other once, almost without redistributing his weight in the heavy army boots, before stepping forward, closer. Getting a better look, yeah?

Sherlock undresses in stages, nice shirt, he was definitely expecting a date, maybe even sex, the works, then his trousers, socks, his underwear. It forms a neat stack, folded and fixed and John won't have to comment on that, will he. It's fine. It's good. He's being very good about it, even if he can't hold his posture for the life of him and his hair's about to step out of line, way out. John doesn't smile, although he might have normally. The man's quite endearing this way, you sort of just want to -- eat him. Eat him all up. Especially with his cock at least halfway interested. Instead he raises an eyebrow and walks over to him, very close, careful not to step on his toes with his heavy as hell boots. John's staring directly up into the man's face like this. Breathing him in. Oh God, he smells clean. ]

Watch your posture -- [ It's not a full order. The rest following once he turns slightly and indicates the uniform on the desk. ] -- when you follow me to the showers. Take your things. [ And as such, John steps back, walks over to the door which he opens, waiting only briefly for Sherlock to stay on top of his game, grab his things and -- ] Fall in line.

[ It's not a long walk, but it is a naked one down what was once a very busy hallway in the middle of a very busy military base. Well, John takes the lead. Except he's appropriately dressed. ]

[ John watches him all the while as he undresses and the feeling of it - of his gaze on his naked body - lingers all the way down the hall towards the showers (showers? he's actually going to...?). He has to fight not to scramble or cover his cock with his hands as they walk down the hall which is interesting, really, when normally he wouldn't necessarily care. His mind can't stop projecting images of him, on his knees in front of John in that uniform, staring him down. Christ. And consequently, he feels just a bit more naked than he normally would, just a bit more...

Also, he's carrying a pile of army clothes and trying not to think too hard about the two plugs still on the desk, waiting for them because John has been planning ahead. It's fascinating. Sherlock rather loves it.

As they enter the shower room, the white tiles plain and somewhat worn to look at it, he pads in and puts his clothes down without asking which he probably shouldn't - uh. Well, he isn't picking them back up unless John tells him to. Looking over at the other man, he tries to assume the right posture (???), managing not to step towards the showers. Instead, his gaze darts around the room quickly, taking in the details (tiles on the wall near the corner broken, re-painted, there's been a fight over there, rough and tumble; ring-shaped traces of soap dispensers; signs of wear near all the obvious places, one spot in particular near the bottom-most showerhead seems to have been favoured by many). Blink. Re-focus. He waits for John to move them onwards. ]

[ It's a short walk. They cover, perhaps, ten meters of hallway floor, but it feels longer, because Sherlock's right behind him and John has to fight not to turn his head and look at him, see how naked he is in comparison to the ghosts of past eras, filling these walls. Not that John believes in hauntings, come on, but as a symbol it works pretty well for this specific situation. Besides, he has vivid memories of long, army hallways, running from one office to the next, talking to superiors, inferiors, boots echoing against the floor. Sherlock's feet, in comparison, make very little sound.

Inside the showers, he steps back enough to let Sherlock through, waiting for him to put his clothes down and stand at ease, which obviously isn't happening with all the shuffling around the man's doing, clearly uncomfortable and clearly in need of a cue. John frowns, purses his lips for a moment and watches him, notes every part of his body that is wrong. Well, for this particular purpose, it's fine the rest of the time. It's perfect. It's beautiful. ]

Shoulders back, chin up. Feet apart. [ He says it calmly, walking around the other man at a slow pace, pushing at the arch of his foot with the toe of his boot to indicate which direction it ought to go. ] Hold that position for thirty seconds, then go shower. Yes?

[ With that, he steps back and walks away, over to the towels he's brought with him tonight, a small white one that only dries the necessities and covers even less. He picks it up, slings it over one shoulder and waits, arms tense by his sides. ]

[ Oh. He obeys without second thought as John pushes at his foot and comments on his posture. Shoulders back, okay. Chin up. There. Feet - yes. He's actually quite at peace with the holistic nature of it all when he realises a few seconds too late that John's told him to hold for thirty seconds (28 - 27 - ) and then... He glances towards the taps, concluding all too quickly that there won't be any heating available, meaning that... God.

He hates cold showers.

The seconds pass as he holds his posture. Thirty seconds sound like nothing but when naked and trying not to squirm, it's actually quite a long time and there's a fine layer of sweat forming on his brow when he finally counts thirty in his head and breaks out of it, almost rushing towards the showers despite knowing what awaits him. Nervous energy. Excitement. He glances back over his shoulder at John who looks completely in tune with this, with the role he's re-claiming.

It looks good on him in a multitude of ways.

Sherlock pauses underneath the nearest showerhead and stares at the water tap. He frowns. Bites his lip and turns it on very gently. The plumbing struggles for a few seconds and then -- ]

Aaah!

[ He actually jumps at the feel of icy water slipping down his spine, over his buttocks. Forcing himself to at least remain beneath the spray, he sort of wafts water onto his front with his palms, the flow of water very gentle still. It's gone beyond dripping - but only just. ]

[ Sherlock doesn't reply, that's his first mistake. He does what he's told, certainly, so John lets it slide, but in the army -- any branch of the military, confirmation is of the utmost importance and he'd have been expected to go yes, sir, had it been anyone but John standing here, overseeing him. This is why Sherlock Holmes has even made it this far up the ranks, isn't it? John letting shit slip. The man's lucky, very lucky.

Following him with his eyes, feeling his cock take definite interest in the visual of the other man, starkers, heading for a shower stall that won't offer him anything but cold water, John remains grounded, only moving enough to put extra weight on his heels now and then, to keep the blood circulation in his feet going. Sherlock is a pitiful sight without his clothes (hot, though, very hot), turning one of the tabs as little as possible, letting out what amounts to a drizzle of water -- and it still makes him squeak like a girl when it hits him, which is quite impressive, considering the man's normal vocal range. A slight tug at the corner of his mouth, though he manages to tame it halfway, turn it into a frown.

Because then the man starts wafting water on his chest, like that's a shower. No, do it properly, you idiot. Dropping the towel on the floor, carelessly, John marches over to the stall, keeping well out of the way of the water and leaning in enough to turn the tab that extra notch, letting out a harsh spray of what will probably feel like fluid ice.

You're welcome.

Returning to the towel, wordlessly, he picks it up. Waits for Sherlock to finish. All he says, with a clipped, professional air, is: ]

And your curls, Lieutenant Holmes. Don't dally around.

[ His brain shoots him a warning about a split-second before John steps up to the tap, turns it with a swift flick of his wrist and sends cascades of liquid ice down his back and chest. With an indrawn breath that seems to last forever, Sherlock freezes on the spot as his nervous system goes into some sort of hyper-alert disaster mode; limbs tightening up, skin going positively numb and his brain telling him to get the hell out, now, nownownow.

Instead, he just stays there. He blinks owlishly through the water dripping down his face, hearing and your curls, lieutenant in John's commander-voice, a voice that will surely leave him sleepless for many nights to come. With a massive shudder, he turns his face upwards, into the spray, closing his eyes and just letting it wash over him. The cold. And in the periphery, there's John, watching him all the while (signs... of arousal... pupils... crotch area, hints in the fabric, the way it rises and falls). God. His brain is sluggish in analysing inputs, overwhelmed by the cold, the stark realisation that they're in an empty military base, doing this, locked away from the rest of the world. There's an element of claustrophobia to it, danger and beneath it all, potential helplessness.

Potential surrender.

He turns slowly, getting wet all over before he looks up at John, his curls sticking to his face. Swallows before straightening, feet apart, shoulders back, chin raised. ]

Permission to turn off the water, Sir?

Edited 2020-05-30 08:14 (UTC)

[ There's something about watching Sherlock submit himself to this kind of experience, to the elements, to the cold that turns him on to an almost unbearably degree. It's a twofold feeling, his body being aroused the way bodies are, skin prickling, cock hardening, pupils no doubt shot... And then the mental state that follows only when they do this, their sessions, a complete calm, almost impenetrable, almost sacred. He breathes out on a long exhalation and waits for the other man to get his head all under the spray, get good and wet there, yes, then Sherlock turns around and stands straighter, shoulders back, feet apart. Chin raised. So much pride and so much submission in one, as he asks: permission to turn off the water, Sir.

John thinks he might never get this particular mental image out of his system again. Lanky, lean Sherlock, all wrists and neck and cheekbones, hair in his face, emulating military stature. His cock jerks in his pants and John's actually inclined to agree with it. Without replying at first, he yanks the towel off his shoulder and walks over to the stall, stopping just out of the water's reach. ] Permission granted, Lieutenant. [ With that he holds out the towel for the other man. ]

Dry off and then, stand at attention by your uniform. [ A nod over at the pile of clothes, uniform and beret and boots. No underwear today, because Lieutenant Holmes is very lucky, indeed. ] We need to get you dressed properly.

[ With that, John straightens slightly, lifts his chin and looks Sherlock up and down, eyes lingering on his crotch, his chest, his face for a long moment, before he turns on his heel and marches back, waiting by the pile of clothes on the floor. Hands clasped behind his back, posture straight and unyielding. ]

Edited 2020-05-30 08:40 (UTC)

[ He turns off the shower, his hand trembling from cold. Accepting the towel (tiny, slightly crumbled from lying on the floor), he dries off quickly, rubbing harshly at his skin to stimulate blood flow. John, meanwhile, walks (marches) back to his clothes and waits for him, posture ramrod straight and impossibly strong. Sherlock's cock gives a pathetic little twitch of appreciation, too cold to manage a proper salute.

As he finishes drying off (his upper body still damp in places, as the towel got too wet half-way through to soak up the remainder of water), he heads over to John. Pauses and runs his command through his head again, while his brain quickly categorises the pile and its implications. No underwear. Meaning that even within the confines of a military uniform, he'll be exactly as exposed as he is now.

Trying to tamper down the surge of arousal relased by that particular thought, he stands at attention (feet apart, shoulders back, chin raised) and waits. Because he does remember - John didn't tell him to put it on. ]

[ Clever, clever Sherlock. Naturally keeping in mind that John hasn't actually given him green lights to put any of these things on yet. One eyebrow going up in the slightest show of impress, he looks Sherlock up and down once, gaze lingering on the long lines of his upper body, his broad shoulders, narrow hips, torso defined, but too bloody thin. Not a man who has run many laps or done push-ups on command ever, is he? Very good, very nice. They can change that. John cocks his head to the side, nodding faintly at the clothes between them. ]

You will put this on in the following order: socks first, trousers with belt, t-shirt, jacket, boots. You'll find an insignia for each shoulder, put them on in accordance with rank, then plaster your name above your jacket's chest pocket, left side. [ A small, slightly sharp intake of breath punctuates the order, because it was very long and he got very hot, very bothered, saying it, didn't he? Meeting Sherlock's eyes straight on, then, he barks out: ] Understood, Lieutenant?

[ Of course, Sherlock won't forget a word of what he's said, the man's got a computer for brain, the curious thing is whether he'll catch himself in time and not put on the beret yet, since it'll be the only item of clothes left behind. Some things happen automatically, even for Sherlock Holmes -- especially when he's as useless a lieutenant as he's currently making himself out to be. God, they'd hire him exactly nowhere but here, in their own little pretend army with a little less pretend commander John Watson.

He's the stamp of authenticity right now, yeah. And he's quite enjoying it, too. ]

[ Every time John looks him up and down like that, his body seemingly heats up from top to bottom, though he isn't quite blushing yet, mostly due to the cold. He looks back, trying to maintain his posture and realising rather quickly that it isn't easy. Whilst Sherlock isn't the type to slouch by any means, he doesn't necessarily care, either, and right now he must. Care. Remember.

Apropos.

Obviously, he'll have no trouble remembering John's commands (oh God) nor the way they're ordered. He nods before he can stop himself, then adds: ]

Yes, sir.

[ The words are starting to feel less foreign already which should probably surprise him more than it does. Right now, trembling minutely from cold still with his wet hair dripping into his eyes, on a stage set entirely by John and equal parts strange and intriguing, all he can think is yes. He sets about dressing himself, the feeling of the trousers sliding over his bare arse and cock making him shudder slightly before he ties the belt (he's got a narrow waist but happily, the belt adjusts nicely). Clothes for his torso, on, done. Insignia, easily sorted - those, at least, he's seen before and knows how to identify and categorise - and the name tag. He straightens up slightly, squares his shoulders once more, then - pauses.

... the hat?

Or whatever it's called.

He points towards it before he can stop himself and blurts out: ]

What am I supposed to do with that? [ Realising only then that he probably shouldn't have asked, he quickly adds, almost on instinct: ] Sir.

[ It's quite amazing, actually -- how easy a transformation it is, with the other man, seeing him put on his uniform piece by piece and thus change, piece by piece, into a soldier. At the end of it, only the beret is missing, so from the neck down, at least, Sherlock's a lieutenant now. Lieutenant Holmes. Who's fucked his way to where he is and probably wouldn't mind fucking his way a bit further, right. Sure. John clears his throat as Sherlock asks what he's supposed to do with that, pointing -- yes, pointing at the beret on the ground. John's eyebrows go up in a show of obvious displeasure. You were doing so well, weren't you? Shit.

Stepping forward and picking up the beret, carefully, now this is a statement piece, isn't it, he holds it out towards the other man, a sharp, flicking movement of wrist and hand. ] Repeat beret twenty times to commit the name to memory, Holmes -- [ His not-smile makes it onto his lips now as he leans forward and basically slaps the beret against Sherlock's chest, fully expecting the man to take it, so it doesn't drop to the floor again when John releases it. ] -- and then, put it on. Edge binding one inch above your eyebrows and straight across your forehead. Center flash and stiffener above you left eye and pull the excess material down over the top of the right ear.

[ Another hard inhalation. John's getting increasingly hard now. For God's sake, he should consider investing his savings in buying one of these closed-off barracks and just do this all day, every day, shouldn't he? Shift, shift from one foot to the other. More visibly this time, before he steps back, leaving Sherlock to it. ]

[ Oh. Oh, John's looking... tetchy. His cock looks really stiff, too. Swallowing heavily, Sherlock actually shifts from one foot to the other as his own cock hardens a bit between his legs, the cold water well and truly forgotten. He grabs the beret quickly and lets John's instructions slip into his memory system while, mindlessly, he repeats the word exactly twenty times (beret, beret, beret, beret, beret... ), trying not to stumble across any syllables in the process. It's a short word but the b, in particular, gets tricky after a while (beret, beret, beret, beret...) and he cradles the hat (beret, beret, beret...), looking at John, at his obvious arousal and wanting quite badly to simply drop to his knees and suck him off (beret, beret, beret, beret, beret, beret). Instead, he turns it around in his hands, flattens his curls with one hand (beret, beret!) and puts it on.

It's hard without a mirror, he quickly realises and he uses his index finger to the first knuckle for measurement (1.18 inches), subtracting accordingly and taking care not to accidentally shoot John the bird while he's at it. Ugh, and then what, straight across his forehead - there, hopefully, can't tell if it's a little bit uneven - and then the rest of the process, done. He can feel his curls popping the thing out of alignment because he doesn't exactly sport an army cut, does he? It can't be helped.

Once they dry, he realises as he straightens up again, shoulders back, feet apart, the beret will be impossible to control. Meaning that John might very well have ample opportunity to correct him on it. Seemingly on cue, his cock jerks again, harder this time. More insistently. ]

[ It's a valid attempt, really, as you'd probably expect from Sherlock Holmes who can measure out an inch with his finger and think his way around the rest, so while he says the word twenty time, no stumbling or syllable-assimilation in the process, he actually manages to place the beret on his head -- well, on his curls and that's the tricky part, isn't it. It certainly won't stay there, not when they get started. John will have to correct him on it a hundred times tonight and that prospect is making his cock ache. He'll need a first round soon, because if he's going to last all night, he'll be taking turns.

He licks his lips, looks the other man up and down as he stands at attention again, the stupid thing already popping out of alignment, thanks to a particularly stubborn curl on the right side of his head. A deep breath as he steps closer, all the way up in Sherlock's face, taking fast notes as to how the beret should be angled (one inch about eye, very good, uneven across forehead, not good, flash and stiffener not very well-centered, not good), then he reaches up and harshly, with exactly two tugs and nothing more, fixes it so it's properly in place, at least for the next ten seconds. This close Sherlock smells like himself, obscured only slightly by the smell of new fabric, unused, shoe polish, a little bit of sweat.

Honestly, John wants to eat him.

Letting his arms drop to his sides, he doesn't step back. Only keeps his gaze, slightly narrowed now, on Sherlock's face as he says: ] I should buzz you, Lieutenant. [ It's a commentary, not a threat. John would never take Sherlock's hair, he bloody loves those stupid curls, all over the place, always. However, Captain Watson might indeed be thinking of buzzing off Lieutenant Holmes' hair, because it's just one more thing making him inappropriate for his position. And curls, unfortunately, you can't really fuck out of anyone. ]

Do you need further incentive to improve yourself, Holmes? [ Pursing his lips, he doesn't give the man additional options, come on, he doesn't get to pick his own rewards, he's here, he's had enough to say for himself already. Besides, he's so prettily at attention, strong front, strong shoulders, his skin pale in khaki. Yes, John's going to have him now, just like this. Just -- like this. ] Because then you better get on your knees.

[ John licks his lips and looks him over, his gaze hard and decisive, clearly looking for faults as well as sufficiency. Sherlock maintains his posture throughout, even as John reaches up and tugs his hat (beret) into place harshly, the weight of the fabric altered enough that he can feel it. He memorizes it without thinking about it, without wondering what to do with this knowledge when they're done (because he knows, obviously; it'll go in the John!file along with everything else, an archive that might in time even rival all the others in magnitude and scale). Watching the other man's face (pupils dilated, expression habitually set and unmoved, dominance), he blinks at his comment. Buzz? Good thing he won't, imagine how that would look but all the same, there's a part of him that gets... excited at the imaginary prospect. The thought of John actually buzzing off his hair because it doesn't please him, because it doesn't fit. Swallowing, he can feel himself actually redden across the bridge of his nose.

Naturally, once John tells him that he'd better get on his knees, the slight blush turns into an outright flush. With a sharp, indrawn breath, Sherlock stares at him for a few seconds, his brain fighting to keep up. He's allowed. He can - oh. Oh. ]

Yes, sir.

[ His voice is full of air as he gets to his knees in one, fluent motion, the heavy boots and gravity helping him along quite nicely. He manages not to bump down onto the tiles, muscles working in his thighs and buttocks to maintain his posture all throughout; straight-backed, shoulders activated, chin held high. Looking up, he takes in the view from this angle - John's crotch, hidden behind the fabric of his khakis, his cock an obvious bulge. He can smell his arousal from here, salty and dark.

With a groan, he leans in and pushes the side of his face lightly against his trousers near his upper thigh, feeling the outline of his cock underneath, the hardness. He can feel his stupid hat (beret!) slide to the side at the movement and reaches up quickly to correct it. This time, he remembers the exact weight distribution. ]

[ Only after having blushed like a virgin and Christ, John loves when he does that, across the bridge of his nose and then, in the rest of his face, does Sherlock obey the command, easing down on his knees in a perfectly gradual shift, his thighs obviously working as well as his buttocks. John can imagine them, clenching to maintain that position, the ramrod military back, shoulders back, chin held high, at a suitable angle to just fuck the man's throat, yes. Hmm. John clears his throat, loosens his arms a little around the shoulders by habit, about to roll one shoulder in response, yet he refrains last second, the tension caught in his upper arm for a moment, because it would ruin his appearance, wouldn't it. The role -- it would clash with what he's portraying here.

Then, Sherlock shifts closer, down there on the ground, leaning his head against his trousers where they cover John's upper thigh, the side of his face pressing against John's hard cock underneath. John looks down at him, observing how his beret slips down his curls, though Sherlock catches it before it can fall and tugs it back into place (correctly, even). Nice. Very good. He deserves a treat, it seems and John, although quite unforgiving as a commander, still believes in more carrot than stick with these types, right? The asses.

Although a little bit of stick never hurt. ]

Tell me -- [ A hard intake of breath and he reaches down, closing his fingers around the back of Sherlock's neck, pretty much dislodging him from his crotch by the force of his fingers alone, pulling him backwards. Releasing him harshly, he reaches down with both hands and undoes his belt, zips down and pushes his trouser down his thighs, the heavy fabric sliding down to his knees by itself. Another hard intake of breath and he spreads his legs as much as possible when still in uniform, looking down to meet Sherlock's eyes.

He isn't wearing any pants. It's his lucky day as well, after all. ] -- why you've earned this now, Lieutenant Holmes.

[ John grabs onto his neck and pulls him backwards, leaving him gasping and almost aching for more. Then, he pulls his trousers down his thighs and Sherlock's brain comes to a fast, grinding halt. The way he stands, maintaining his posture, legs spread and his cock standing tall and hard without the fabric to hide it away (no underwear, no - of course not, he should have realised before, it was obvious)... he swallows. Licks his lips, twice, because his mouth seems to be watering. Clearing his throat, he looks up at the other man. He has to focus hard to string together a coherent sentence here, John's cock is bobbing right in front of his nose!

Christ, he wants it. ]

Well, I've undressed like you told me, showered and put on my uniform according to - [ Swallow. ] - to regulations. And I've learned how to say - [ He has to clear his throat now. Again. ] - beret. Said it twenty times without messing it up.

[ There's an actual hint of self-satisfaction in that last sentence, though it's positively ridiculous. It's a two-syllables word, for God's sake, it's not like it's hard but all the same... He looks up at John, gaze straying every half-second to his cock. It always looks enormous up close when it's hard; he can almost taste it on the back of his tongue already. John. The uniqueness of him, along with all the expected variables. His own cock is hard as rock between his thighs and he has to fight not to shift, the kneeling-posture making his balls feel uncomfortably tight already. ]

[ Sherlock is constantly attentive to his cock, even as he starts listing -- a rather short list, but getting Sherlock Holmes to do anything he doesn't want to is pretty much impossible as it is, so even a short list is an achievement in this case, the things he's done correctly until now and John listens, to the breathiness of his voice, the shaky quality of it, the way he sounds nothing like himself. John can reduce him to this, even if it isn't actually a reduction as much as it's a strip, all the way to the core, to the bone. This is Sherlock at his innermost and it's beautiful, he's beautiful. John swallows hard, breathes through his nose and reaches out with his right hand, palming the back of Sherlock's head, careful about not messing up the beret in the process.

He urges him closer just like that, holding on to him one-handedly and seeing him crawl on his stupid knees. ]

Yeah, you've been cooperative, Lieutenant. Very good. [ His hand slips down the back of Sherlock's head to his neck, thumb following the trail of hot, beating blood along his jugular, fingers spread out wide as he drops his hand to the other man's shoulder, broad and firm beneath the khaki camouflage. ] I suppose you can smell it a little.

[ And with that he pulls Sherlock forward again by his shoulder this time, pretty much squashing his face in against the underside of his cock. Sniff it, it says, let's see how long you can keep your mouth shut. John isn't expecting miracles here, but he is expecting a good tease. His cock jerks slightly at the idea. ]

[ John's hand at the back of his head, urging him close, is warm and broad. Sherlock leans into his touch just a fraction before complying with the underlying command, shifting closer on his knees until he's inches away from pressing his face fully against the other man's crotch. Then, John says - John says - and he pulls him closer again, all the way in. Sherlock gasps, audibly. Parts his lips almost by instinct, lips sliding over the underside of John's cock, the taste of skin and sweat shooting into his bloodstream. Chemistry, pure and simple. He looks up at John, reaching out with one hand to steady himself against his knee. Then, he presses his nose into his groin and draws backwards, dragging his face along the length of the other man's cock. Inhales, deeply. John smells musky, of sex and arousal, and his cock feels hard and damp against his face.

With a groan, he draws back just enough to look at it, at the tip, wide and pinkish, soft-looking, unlike the rest of it. Lips still parted, he leans forward, looks up at John one more time, then holds his gaze as he sucks it into his mouth, onto his tongue. He doesn't go any further than that, simply sucks around the tip of it, pushing his tongue along the slit lightly. He keeps his lips nicely folded over his teeth and his jaw relaxed, leaving his commander with the choice to either push inside or pull out. Or just stay like this, he'd be fine in any case, would Sherlock. He's got John's taste in his mouth now, his body as well, and while his own cock is crying for release, he's quite sated.

He realises distantly that he should've probably waited for John's permission to actually suck him but on the other hand, he did say he'd been cooperative, didn't he? Very good, even. Surely, he's allowed a little bit of leverage in return. ]

[ Against his cock, so hard it's aching, basically, Sherlock's face feels like friction and heat and promise and John's staring down at him while he sniffs him, really -- sniffs him, animalistic and raw and John wants to fuck his face so bad, it's almost eating him up. Sherlock groans, then, and it goes straight to John's cock as a slight jerk, before he releases the other man to let him move, drawing back and, what, looking at the head of it, wide and pinkish, moist, before he simply leans in and sucks the whole head into his mouth, heavy on his tongue and the wetness it overwhelming, shit. John blinks stupidly, too late in registering that Sherlock didn't ask for permission. He just did it. Fuck, he just -- Fuck.

He moans. A low shudder at the back of his throat. Oh. Sherlock's lips feel tight around him, even if he hasn't taken him in all the way. He's waiting for permission, because he didn't ask. Still knows the game, always knows the game, yeah. Does Sherlock. John keeps his eyes open and reaches down, folding his fingers over the slope of Sherlock's right shoulder, hand brushing up the side of his neck to the back of his head. Stays there, stays still, presses inward slightly. Come here. ]

If you want it so bad -- [ It's not a question, it's a clarification. Obviously Sherlock can't follow the normal rules, normally, so they'll have to think up an unusual way of doing rewards here, when he does. Pushing at the back of the other man's head, he is pretty much forcing his cock into his mouth inch by inch, a slow penetration. ] -- take it.

[ The slide of tongue up against the underside and the suction, the tightness of Sherlock's mouth is making him see stars. John exhales sharply and keeps pushing, until he feels the head of his cock bump against the back of Sherlock's throat.

And then he gives an extra shove of his hips, working his cock further inside, all the bloody way. ]

[ John, happily, goes for in, canting his hips slightly and pushing his cock along the width of Sherlock's tongue. He stays still, keeps his mouth wide open and the stretch feels impossible, his jaw fighting the stretch. He takes it, though, of course he does. He's been gearing up to this for weeks, knowing quite well that John's been purposefully holding back on him, taking care when sometimes, once in a while, he ought to just push it deep. This is the perfect occasion, obviously, with Sherlock on his knees in front of him, his back still as straight as he can manage at this angle, his cock heavy between his thighs and the uniform clinging to his shoulders and back.

So Sherlock swallows and relaxes, breathes through his nose for as long as he can while John works his cock slowly into his mouth, further, further, until the head - thick, broad - pushes into his throat. He keeps his eyes open, looking up at the other man as he shifts just a fraction, enough to make the passage easier on them both. One second later, he swallows the other man to the base, his nose pressing into his pubic hair.

He feels filled up in a way that can't, won't, doesn't, compare to anything else. Throat working around John's cock, stretched tight around it, he tightens his lips very slightly around his shaft. Holds onto John's knees with both hands because he'll topple over otherwise or crumble to the ground, his brain overwhelmed by stimuli. The taste of cock, the thickness of it, his locked-off airway, the shadows stretching around them in gritty patterns. The silence. ]

[ Almost as if he's been expecting it and perhaps he has, sometimes you ought to think Sherlock Holmes is a bloody mindreader, Sherlock adjusts to the inward pressure, opening wide and angling his throat for easier passage. John's grabbing him quite convulsively by the back of his head now with one hand while the other lands on his shoulder, broad and firm and steady in that uniform, for God's sake, and trying to keep the movement of his pelvis and his hips under control. Mostly he just wants to jam it all inside, quite simply just fuck his face in, but there's still a degree of restraint left in him, as he works his cock further and further in. Then, from one moment to the next, Sherlock's swallowing and relaxing and working, taking him all the way to the base, nose buried in his pubic hair. John stops breathing momentarily. The tightness is incredible, absolutely incredible. It's wet and warm, but most of all it's so tight that his eyes fall shut automatically, although Sherlock's looking at him and he wants to look back, he wants to see...

With a groan, he pulls back rather too violently, except it fits, of course, all of this, the uniforms and the gritty backdrop. It fits how he pretty much yanks his cock out of Sherlock's throat, loudly, the wet, slick sound really quite -- obscene and keeps the man's head still with his fingers digging into his skull as he pulls all the way back, panting harshly. A brief second, just enough to give Sherlock time to, what, breathe? Not really, catch his breath, perhaps, adjust, he shoves it down his throat again, a lot less slowly this time. Sherlock's leaning against him with both hands pressed to his knees, staying balanced and ramrod straight, the beret on its way to topple off, but who cares, who cares -- ]

You -- [ Pushing his hand up along the curve of Sherlock's skull, he does manage to catch the beret before it falls off completely, shoving it back into a half-arsed position that only just keeps it on. All the while, he's lodging himself in Sherlock' throat once more, the tightness, the squeeze of his inner walls, the wetness and the fucking heat making sweat gather on John's brow as he looks down again. He's in him, he's as deep in him as he'll go. ] -- make such a good hole, Lieutenant. Open up wider.

[ His voice sounds positively hoarse and he's fighting just to get that bunch of words out, really. One hand still gripping Sherlock's shoulder, bending in over him slightly to do so, he pushes at the man's head with his other, fingers going into the mess of curls, scraping over his scalp. Slowly, he draws back again. All the way. In. Out again. It's a rhythm.

You better follow, Sherlock. ]

[ When John pulls back, Sherlock stays in place, helped along by the man's firm grip on the back of his neck. The taste of cock intensifies as the head passes over the back of his tongue, the taste of salt registering heavily along with the smell of musk and sweat. He shudders, his cock growing even harder between his thighs and he's afraid, for a moment, that he might come without ever touching it. Then, John pulls out nearly all the way and Sherlock inhales, lightly, because tightening up is a bad idea (breathing, breathing is boring). Instead, he holds onto John's knees, fingers digging in. He's drooling down his own chin, onto the floor and his army boots.

You make such a good hole, says John, and somehow, the words sound extra dirty when it's him because John holds himself back a lot in his daily life. He holds himself back and then, calmly and with deadly precision, he steps into the firing range when the moment's right. When it's necessary. This side of him isn't new or surprising, it's simply raw in its sheer authenticity and Sherlock can't get enough of it, of him, like this.

Trembling, he takes it once more, trying to open wider in response and failing. Can't go any wider than this, John, sorry. But John goes deep all the same, goes all the way inside of him and it's incredible, like he takes up all excess space in Sherlock's body and by extension, in his mind. As the other man sets a slow but very distinctive rhythm of in and out, down, down, down and out, he follows along, making himself receptive, loose, unguarded. He can, like this. Because this is a borderless place within the world, locked off from the rest, and John can go as deep as he like, can go all the way to his very core if he wants. It's on offer. It's all on offer. He blinks, heavily, water rising in his eyes from the strain of holding his mouth open and when he blinks, it slips down his cheeks like tears, mixing with the saliva from his lips and the damp trails from John's cock. ]

[ The rhythm grows increasingly desperate and thus increasingly violent very fast. He can't even control it, he's grunting and groaning and grabbing onto Sherlock like a drowning man while he fucks his mouth, his throat completely without holding back anything, anything at all. And Sherlock takes it, he takes it willingly and patiently and he's crying over it (he's crying), his face dissolved in tears and saliva and fluids from John's cock, precum, mostly. There's a lot of precum now, because it's building and it's going to be indescribable, the way Sherlock is.

Thrusts gaining pace and force, he finally releases Sherlock's shoulder, reaching up with one hand blindly to palm the side of the man's face, running a thumb shakily across one cheekbone, holding him in place there as he gives it a final go, then another and comes, so hard his vision blackens for a second and he's seeing nothing, only feeling Sherlock beneath his fingers, against his hand, curls and skin and he's all around him, wet and slick and receptive. His cock feels overstimulated on all sides as it pulses, shooting what feels like cascades of cum down the other man's throat, balls drawing up so tightly it hurts. He's all but sobbing out his release, managing to hold back only by way of clenching his eyes shut, pushing his lips tightly together. Huffing out his breaths, one, two, three -- Oh, oh, oh God.

Finally, the last orgasmic spasms stop raging through him and he sort of slumps, visibly, fingers loosening against Sherlock's face and in his hair. His cock's still jerking, although weaker now, the last spurts of jizz forced down the other man's throat. John breathes more easily, starts pulling back rather carefully, compared to how he fucked him seconds earlier. His cock leaves the other man's mouth with a wet popping sound, shining from saliva in the overhead lights.

Then, John just sort of -- stands there. Looming over him, watching him with a very familiar wonder. ]

[ He swallows and swallows, seemingly without end, John's cock pulsing in his throat and on his tongue. With his hands on the back of John's legs, he can feel the other man tensing up, spending himself, using himself and it's quite nice, it's great. When John finally pulls back out, the motion feels almost painful, his throat sorely abused at this point. He can taste blood when he swallows, raggedly, though the copper-scent disappears quickly amidst the heavier taste of cum and cock. For a long moment, he just sits on his knees and breathes, slowly, evenly, his mind slowly but surely re-aligning itself with now. John more or less fucked him out of his brain, apparently. Quite well-done.

Looking up, he meets the other man's eyes. Wipes his face with the back of his hand and waits for his next order, shifting from one knee to the other slightly and holding back a wince. The tiles aren't made for cock-sucking (though right now, they seem as perfect as the rest of the setting, as if John's managed everything down to the very last... inch). He releases John's legs and lets his arms sink to his sides, straightening up a bit and trying to re-establish the posture. Shoulders back. Chin up. Cock still hard, the bulge in his trousers very visible. Oh, and.

Fingers trembling only minutely, he fixes his beret again, pulling it slightly sideways over his hair. He stays silent, simply indulging in the taste of the other man, the remaining ache in his throat and on his tongue. His gaze is slightly dazed. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only