docwithablog | storyline one.

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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

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[ 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. ]

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