Re: Fill - Royal (4/4) - please read warnings
anonymous
June 7 2011, 05:28:39 UTC
Stage Four: Consummation
John is reading headlines aloud, as he sometimes does, but Sherlock can't hear a word over the frantic buzz of his own thoughts.
John glances up at Sherlock with a gleam in his eye, sharing a joke of some sort. Sherlock returns his small, warm smile.
John's posture is relaxed, or as relaxed as it ever gets. His jumper is apianly striped. His hair is damp from the shower. The butter knife in his left hand, spreading a generous whitish glob over the toast, trembles in a way that indicates nothing except a recent lack of excitement. (Sherlock will have to find a new case soon, something dangerous.)
Sherlock's own hands are trembling on the edge of the stove. He bought their new tea kettle primarily for its highly reflective surface, but he can't bear to look away from John now. John's left hand is raising the slice of toast on which that marvellous globule quivers - quivers like it's alive, like it's writhing in anticipation of John's mouth - and something in Sherlock's lower abdomen is quivering as well.
John takes a bite.
His head jerks a little. "H'm!" he says, mouth full. He frowns at the toast in his hand.
"You don't like it?" Sherlock asks and instantly hates himself for sounding so small, so weak. John must have noticed by now how Sherlock is staring, how he's almost leaning on the stove for support. And yet no, he hasn't noticed.
"'S not bad," John mumbles, chewing. "Bit odd is all." And he swallows.
Sherlock swallows reflexively too, watching John's throat move. He feels a tiny damp spot in his underwear. His penis must have leaked a drop of preseminal fluid.
"Sort of reminds me of that durian fruit that one client of yours gave you, remember?" John remarks, inspecting the remaining glob, which now holds the scallop of John's bite and traces of his saliva. "Much sharper, though - a harsh sort of flavour. Not Mrs Hudson's usual fare. Try it."
"Possibly later."
"Don't know why I bother," says John good-naturedly. "One of these days I'm going to get a proper breakfast into you, I swear."
John finishes his slice of toast, jam and all. Sherlock feels tears pricking his eyes. He can't remember ever being so happy. He pictures his body's secretions being broken down inside John's digestive system, added to John's muscle and fat and short clipped fingernails. He has an absurd, childish image of a larval John, fed on nothing but sweet pallid jam, imprinted on Sherlock's scent, growing up into a perfect dangerous fuzzy yellow queen/colleague/helpmate/friend.
Which he already is, of course. That's why it's so absurd.
Could Sherlock's fluids really have such an imprinting effect, like pheromones? Or could his hormones have a perceptible influence, bringing John's biochemistry into synch with his? Unlikely, but not implausible. Worth testing over an extended period of time. Possibly with fresher samples, though the jam will always be Sherlock's favourite. He's put everything he is into that jam.
"I think this stuff is growing on me," John remarks, nibbling the last crust. "Wouldn't hurt to have some milk for the tea, though. Since you don't seem to have anything on at the moment -"
"Milk," says Sherlock. He only realises how low and deep his voice is when John looks up in surprise. "I'll get some."
John is reading headlines aloud, as he sometimes does, but Sherlock can't hear a word over the frantic buzz of his own thoughts.
John glances up at Sherlock with a gleam in his eye, sharing a joke of some sort. Sherlock returns his small, warm smile.
John's posture is relaxed, or as relaxed as it ever gets. His jumper is apianly striped. His hair is damp from the shower. The butter knife in his left hand, spreading a generous whitish glob over the toast, trembles in a way that indicates nothing except a recent lack of excitement. (Sherlock will have to find a new case soon, something dangerous.)
Sherlock's own hands are trembling on the edge of the stove. He bought their new tea kettle primarily for its highly reflective surface, but he can't bear to look away from John now. John's left hand is raising the slice of toast on which that marvellous globule quivers - quivers like it's alive, like it's writhing in anticipation of John's mouth - and something in Sherlock's lower abdomen is quivering as well.
John takes a bite.
His head jerks a little. "H'm!" he says, mouth full. He frowns at the toast in his hand.
"You don't like it?" Sherlock asks and instantly hates himself for sounding so small, so weak. John must have noticed by now how Sherlock is staring, how he's almost leaning on the stove for support. And yet no, he hasn't noticed.
"'S not bad," John mumbles, chewing. "Bit odd is all." And he swallows.
Sherlock swallows reflexively too, watching John's throat move. He feels a tiny damp spot in his underwear. His penis must have leaked a drop of preseminal fluid.
"Sort of reminds me of that durian fruit that one client of yours gave you, remember?" John remarks, inspecting the remaining glob, which now holds the scallop of John's bite and traces of his saliva. "Much sharper, though - a harsh sort of flavour. Not Mrs Hudson's usual fare. Try it."
"Possibly later."
"Don't know why I bother," says John good-naturedly. "One of these days I'm going to get a proper breakfast into you, I swear."
John finishes his slice of toast, jam and all. Sherlock feels tears pricking his eyes. He can't remember ever being so happy. He pictures his body's secretions being broken down inside John's digestive system, added to John's muscle and fat and short clipped fingernails. He has an absurd, childish image of a larval John, fed on nothing but sweet pallid jam, imprinted on Sherlock's scent, growing up into a perfect dangerous fuzzy yellow queen/colleague/helpmate/friend.
Which he already is, of course. That's why it's so absurd.
Could Sherlock's fluids really have such an imprinting effect, like pheromones? Or could his hormones have a perceptible influence, bringing John's biochemistry into synch with his? Unlikely, but not implausible. Worth testing over an extended period of time. Possibly with fresher samples, though the jam will always be Sherlock's favourite. He's put everything he is into that jam.
"I think this stuff is growing on me," John remarks, nibbling the last crust. "Wouldn't hurt to have some milk for the tea, though. Since you don't seem to have anything on at the moment -"
"Milk," says Sherlock. He only realises how low and deep his voice is when John looks up in surprise. "I'll get some."
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And it's a good thing that's the last sentence, because right there? Right there is where my eyes went "o.o" and my brain imploded.
The imagery here is lovely. (Aww, little larval John. XD) Sherlock is loveably freaky here. Wonderful job! =D
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This is at once creepy, gross and funny. You did a great job. It's a very engaging story.
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BRB, LOLing forever.
This is pure genius, anon!
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Uncertain applause
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