#but i am really glad sherlock keeps the kitchen experiment free from now on | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

simplyclockwork · 3 years

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I love what you did with Sherlock stuck in the window frame. Sherlock trying to be arch and aloof still but a bit defeated and John caring and meeting Sherlock’s needs. I’d love to have a fic that is John shaving Sherlock (out of some sort of medical necessity) but it leads to intimacy or the promise of intimacy in the future. I know John shaving Sherlock has been done before, but I’m sure your take on it would add hugely to the greater good!

Hey anon! Thanks so much for your patience. I've finally filled this prompt. You can read it below the page break or on Ao3 here!

Please feel free to send future prompts anytime as long as you don't mind waiting a while for the fill.

Thank you :)

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“Stop fidgeting,” John snapped as Sherlock wriggled for the umpteenth time under his ministrations.

Sherlock stopped with a huff. “I need to check on my experiment,” he protested, though he remained perfectly still. “You’re taking too long, John. You shave like a man who has never handled a blade before.”

“I may have handled a gun far more than a blade, but that doesn’t mean I won’t accidentally lop off your ear if you don’t sit bloody well still!” John gripped Sherlock’s shoulder and pressed him more firmly into the kitchen chair. “Lord above, are there snakes in your pants?”

“Hurry up, John!” Sherlock snarled, squirming once more.

John, trying valiantly to keep Sherlock from slitting his own throat on the razor pressed against the vulnerable expanse of his skin, jerked the blade back. “Christ, Sherlock, stop moving! The sooner you shut up and sit still, the sooner this will be over with.” He shot a baleful glare at the cluttered surface of their kitchen table. “What kind of experiment are you doing with one working hand — non-dominant, might I add — anyway?”

“One surely beyond your simple mind,” Sherlock replied peevishly, making John roll his eyes.

“You and your miserable mood can both sod off,” John grumbled, biting back harsher words and making a concerted effort to soften his reprimand.

Sherlock had been absolutely horrid ever since he’d broken nearly every bone in his dominant hand in a brawl with a murder suspect. The man had slammed his foot down on Sherlock’s hand when Sherlock slipped on the rain-wet street during their tussle. Recovery had been a slow and painful process as the splinted hand turned alarming shades of black and blue while the bones and tendons healed. John couldn’t honestly blame Sherlock for his mood, but that didn’t make him easier to deal with. He struggled with even the most basic tasks, leaving John to support him in mundane functions. It had begun to wear on them both — Sherlock far more than John as he took repeated blows to his independence — bringing out Sherlock’s nastier side.

Which brought them to that morning, to John’s day off from the surgery. He'd been woken just shy of six am by a petulant Sherlock, who had insisted that his stubble had grown far too coarse to abide any longer. He’d stood — loomed, more like — over John as John blinked the sleep from his eyes and watched Sherlock scratch agitatedly at his stubbly jaw, chin and cheeks. Now, here they were, with John making a valiant effort to shave Sherlock’s face while Sherlock squirmed with the force of five hundred angry snakes.

“Do I really have to do this with a straight razor?” John asked for the fifth time, already knowing Sherlock’s answer before it was bit out through bared teeth.

“Disposable razors are a farce,” Sherlock said, muscles flexing under his damp skin as his jaw clenched. “I require a closer shave, which is only possible with a straight razor.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John sighed, just as he had the four times before. “I know. Well, if you want me to do this, then you need to bloody well sit fucking still so I don’t cut your throat. Not even you would enjoy that murder.”

Sherlock muttered something that John missed.

“What?”

“I said, it would be manslaughter, not murder,” Sherlock snapped. “It’s only murder when it is premeditated.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and index finger, struggling not to lose the tenuous hold he still retained on his temper. “Who says it wouldn’t be premeditated?” John prayed for patience and opened his eyes again. “Stop clenching your teeth,” he ordered, smoothing his fingertips over Sherlock’s tense jaw. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath and tensed more, making John sigh. “You’re impossible.”

“Just shave my face, John,” Sherlock muttered, some of the aggression mysteriously gone from his voice as he closed his eyes.

John shrugged and smoothed more shaving cream where his first application had dried. Sliding his fingers into Sherlock’s curls, John gently tilted his head back over the table and bent to set the razor against Sherlock’s skin. As he did, the sharp edge brushing Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock swallowed, making his throat bob beneath the blade. John paused warily, eyes fixed on the subtle motion. It seemed deeply vulnerable to him, inspiring an unexpected surge of protectiveness that caught him off guard.

He was still reeling with it when Sherlock cracked open one eye and squinted at him. “Something wrong?”

Did John imagine it, or did Sherlock’s voice sound strained? He studied the familiar face, searching for clues. But Sherlock had closed both eyes again, his expression perfectly blank.

“I haven’t got all day, John,” he reminded him sharply, though his voice lacked its earlier bite.

“Right,” John said, clearing his throat. He shook his head, banishing the strange feelings. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to keep you from your incredibly important tinkering.”

“Experiment, John,” Sherlock corrected him, the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite his admonishment.

“Mhm.” John refocused, his feelings of confusion somewhat settled by the familiar cant of their banter. He hesitated over Sherlock’s throat and decided to start somewhere else. Setting the blade at the top of Sherlock’s cheek, John carefully drew the razor’s edge through the shaving cream. It was much fancier than his own brand, which came in a can and looked more like whipping cream than shaving material. Predictably, Sherlock’s came from a bar, complete with a rounded brush to spread the lather. It smelled like pine and explained some of what John had come to think of as Sherlock’s natural scent.

Reigning in his wandering thoughts, his brow furrowed, John wiped the blade clean and set it back to Sherlock’s skin. He cleared a strip next to the first, pausing only when his left hand gave a slight twitch. John cursed his intermittent tremour silently, retracing the same area to erase the few spots he’d missed. A stubborn fleck of dried lather remained in his path, and John reached out to smooth it away with his thumb. Sherlock’s cheek twitched at the touch. John paused, thumb resting on Sherlock’s skin, when he saw that Sherlock’s eyes were open. Half-open, to be exact, with dark silver peeking out beneath his long, lowered lashes.

Something about that gaze froze John in place, the moment stretching out until he broke free with a quiet, awkward cough. Ducking his head to clean the blade again, John bought himself time, fussing with the flannel until he looked up again and saw that Sherlock’s eyes were closed once more. A relieved sigh escaped him before he could bite it back, and John was glad to see Sherlock didn’t react or comment on the sound.

He returned to his task with far more care, gritting his teeth at even the idea of his hand twitching. The rest of the foam disappeared gradually beneath John’s determined hand, revealing more and more of Sherlock’s damp, freshly-shaven face. Sherlock sat mostly still throughout, finally settled, his expression oddly peaceful. If not for the occasional shifting of his legs — crossing and uncrossing at the thigh whenever John paused to wipe the blade clean — he might have been a statue.

“Aright,” John finally said once Sherlock’s face was clear. “Just your throat left. Make sure not to move.”

“I’m not a toddler,” Sherlock grumbled, frowning at John’s incredulous laugh. He didn’t bother to reply, and John hoped that meant he would do as bid.

Taking a deep, calming breath, John braced a hand on the chair back, trying to find the right angle. It was awkward, and he reconsidered. After a moment of hesitation, he shook off his anxiety and cupped Sherlock’s jaw at the hinge. Sherlock’s eyes flew open at the contact, clearly startled, his lips parting around a small gasp. To John’s immense relief, he held still otherwise.

John chose to ignore the odd reaction, gently tilting Sherlock’s head back and to the side as he maneuvered the blade up the side of Sherlock’s throat. John did so with great care, tongue caught between his teeth, scared of slipping. All the while, he could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him, a burning point of scrutiny that John struggled not to squirm beneath. Instead, he wiped the blade and tilted Sherlock’s head again, repeating the movement.

Sherlock was silent as the grave throughout. The only sounds in the kitchen were his loud breathing and the slick, rasping scrape of the blade as it scored stubble from skin. The moment held a strange intimacy, like the two of them existed in a bubble, removed from the world with only each other for contact.

John was starting to think he might be going mad before he slid his hand to the nape of Sherlock’s neck and cupped the base of his skull to tilt his head back. As he did so, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut, and his throat jumped with an audible swallow. Startled, John’s grip tightened momentarily in the damp curls caught beneath his fingers, and Sherlock jolted with a quiet groan. The reaction was so visceral that John froze, staring down at Sherlock’s upturned face. His eyes were tightly shut, face screwed up in a grimace that looked strangely close to horrified.

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly, confused. Sherlock didn’t answer, just remained stiff and still. Under his hand, John thought he could feel a slight, constant tremour rippling through Sherlock. Brow furrowed, he studied Sherlock’s tightly wound body, gaze pausing on Sherlock’s legs, crossed together in a vice grip at the thigh. Was Sherlock…? No, that couldn’t be it. Surely John was misreading the situation. “Are you alright?” he prompted, and Sherlock sucked in a loud, shaky breath.

“I’m excellent, John,” he said in a strained voice, still with his eyes closed. “Are you nearly finished?”

“Just about,” John replied, trying and failing to shake off his growing suspicion. Clearly, Sherlock didn’t want to draw attention to whatever was happening to him. John could respect that. He’d had massages before. Some touches felt unexpectedly nice, and things happened with one’s body that one couldn’t always control. It was perfectly natural — though John had never thought of Sherlock as someone who felt ‘natural’ urges.

“Relax,” he said, waiting for Sherlock to stop clenching his jaw and facial muscles. It took a moment before everything slowly eased. However, Sherlock’s lower body remained steel-tense, and John could still feel those minute tremours beneath his hand. But Sherlock didn’t speak, keeping his eyes shut, so John didn’t comment on it.

Instead, he returned to the task at hand. Gently tugging at Sherlock’s curls to tilt his head back, John exposed the underside of Sherlock’s throat and jaw as he angled the blade at the edge of the lather. With the heel of his hand pressed against Sherlock’s skin to steady his grip, John felt the subtle twitch of muscle underneath as Sherlock swallowed again, his breath catching. Rather than let that strange, slight stutter catch him off guard again, John swiped the blade up, taking the last of the lather with it in one smooth, rasping stroke.

Then, following some instinct John couldn’t name, he set aside the blade and laid his hand over the freshly-shaved skin. Sherlock gasped at the contact, blood rushing into his face and darkening his pale cheeks. The touch was light, John’s fingers barely brushing the blade-reddened skin, but Sherlock’s response was like a man run through with an electric current, his body jolting from head to toe.

John held perfectly still, waiting to see what Sherlock might do, expecting him to pull away and rush off back to his experiment. But he did neither, sitting perfectly still — save for the tiny shivers twitching through his body — under John’s touch.

Emboldened by that silent faith, John swept his fingertips down the strip of skin he’d just shaved, feeling goosebumps rise in the wake of his caress. Sherlock’s shiver increased, the colour infusing his face darkening to a deeper, tantalizing flush. John watched, enchanted, as Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together, then upward and back down as a myriad of complex expressions flitted across his face. He turned his hand, cupping the side of Sherlock’s neck, tracing the rough line of Sherlock’s bobbing throat with the pad of his thumb, just to see what would happen.

Sherlock’s lips parted around a sigh that sounded both startled and strained, the tension in his face first intensifying, then easing slowly, as John repeated the motion. He stroked Sherlock’s throat in slow, smooth passes, his work-roughened skin catching briefly on the damp terrain. Under his fingertips, pressed below Sherlock’s jaw, John felt the soft vibration of Sherlock’s whimper, voiced from deep within his throat.

“Never realized you were so sensitive,” John murmured, awed and hardly noticing the blurred lines of their friendship passing them both by. Sherlock seemed even less cognizant of the change, head tilted back as he pressed into John’s touch, offering and baring his throat in a shocking display of trust.

It was that which nearly undid John entirely. But what erased the last of his hesitation was Sherlock’s eyelids fluttering open to reveal his darkened gaze. His pupils were blown wide, almost erasing the silvery shade of his irises.

“John,” he croaked in a voice as jagged as broken glass. His head was tilted back far enough that it nearly rested on the table behind him, the science equipment scattered over the surface seemingly forgotten for the moment.

The sound of his name, spoken with such desperation, cleared the last of John’s confusion. He let go of the last remnants of his denial, of his enforced blindness of how Sherlock was reacting to him. Because he was reacting to John, that much was clear, and there was no mistaking the meaning of that reaction.

Without speaking or wasting time on words, John cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands and bent down to brush their lips together. It was a bare ghost of contact, a tentative drifting of mouths, but Sherlock’s response was definite. He groaned and surged upward, his uninjured hand tangling in John’s hair and pulling him closer. Their noses bumped clumsily, Sherlock’s teeth scraping John’s bottom lip before their mouths slotted together in a fierce kiss. It was sloppy, turning even more so when Sherlock’s lips parted, and his tongue darted out.

John responded in kind, tasting Sherlock’s eager gasp as their tongues met. Sherlock panted against his mouth, the sound desperate and rushing in John’s ears. They kissed until their need for air grew too great, some uncounted seconds that broke as John turned his face to suck in a loud inhale, his lungs burning. Sherlock gasped in sympathy against his cheek before turning John’s face back to his to reclaim his mouth in another kiss. There was the sharp drag of teeth again, the sleek, hot press of tongue and lips, and Sherlock’s hand sliding out of John’s hair, down his nape to his broad shoulders. His splinted hand hovered, ineffective, just in front of John’s chest.

“Sherlock,” John murmured, forcing himself to think through the fog of arousal quickly obscuring his thoughts. “Sherlock, wait.”

They broke apart at once, Sherlock jerking his head back. His eyes were wide, pupils huge, his face twisting into an expression of watchful uncertainty. John — who realized he had, at some point, settled onto Sherlock’s spread thighs — blinked at that expression. Something very close to fear flickered in Sherlock’s blackened gaze, prompting a soft tsk from John.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, reaching out to smooth a tangled curl back from Sherlock’s forehead. “Everything is fine.”

Some of the tension in Sherlock’s rigid body — though not all — eased. “Is it?” he asked, his typically cultured voice turned rough. Less smooth velvet, more gravel. John thought he could get used to that change.

“Absolutely,” John murmured, offering a crooked smile. “Absolutely fine. But maybe we should, ah, slow down?”

Sherlock blinked up at him, hands settled on John’s waist, his forehead creased with a puzzled frown. “Why?”

John tilted his head and chuckled. “Well… I mean, we’ve only just had our first kiss. Are you sure you want to rush into things?”

A quiet scoff escaped Sherlock’s full lips. “We’ve lived together for several years, John. You’ve seen me naked a multitude of times—”

“Helping you shower and go to the loo when you’re injured isn’t really the same as an intimate relationship,” John interrupted, amused.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Semantics. Unimportant.” He sobered, his eyes darkening as his pupils widened again. “The facts are simple: I’ve wanted you for a very long time, John Watson. Now that you’ve realized it, I see no need to place restrictions on our feelings.” His eyes narrowed, eyebrows dropping into another frown. “Unless that’s not what you want?”

“Not what I said,” John said with an indulgent smile. Trust Sherlock to approach something like feelings with utter rationality, even as the apparent sign of his arousal pressed against the backs of John’s thighs. “I just never knew until now that you felt this way. It’s… well, it’s a bit of a surprise.”

Another scoff from Sherlock. “It’s not my fault that you’re a rather oblivious person, John. Now,” he said, voice clipped and to the point, “are you going to kiss me again? Or must we continue to talk all this out when I’d much rather show you how I feel?”

John stared at him, taken aback by the bluntness, before he tilted his head back and let out a loud, shocked laugh. “Oh, you’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?”

A gleam entered Sherlock’s pale eyes, lighting his face with mischievous promise. “I most certainly do plan for there to be handfuls of something, John. Rest assured.” He squeezed John’s backside with his un-splinted hand in a demonstration, prompting a startled but pleased wiggle from John.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” John said with a grin, then bent his head to meet Sherlock’s upturned mouth.

#sherlock #prompt #prompt fill #johnlock #first kiss #shaving #kind of adult rating for erections #simplyclockwork

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crowley-fe11 · 5 years

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Post-Honeymoon Surprise

You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

You both like mpreg, and johnlock.

Stranger: ((Established Johnlock, mpreg. Recently returned from their honeymoon to the Caribbean, John and Sherlock had been invited to spend the weekend at Sherlock’s parents’ manor.)) Late in the evening, everyone was seated around the fire. Mr Holmes and Mycroft were bickering about something, and John was cuddled up with Sherlock, chatting lazily as he nursed a stomach stuffed full of an enormous dinner, while Mrs Holmes was overseeing the maids washing up in the kitchen. As the evening progressed, John began to feel a bit unwell. At first it was just a mild case of nausea, and he put it down to the heavy meal, but then he came down with a slight dizzy spell. After a few minutes, John excused himself on the pretence of going to the bathroom, and headed into the kitchen, where he found Sherlock’s mother. “Mrs Holmes? Do you have a moment?”

You: "Oh, of course dear," Mrs. Holmes answered with a bit of concern on her face at John's expression. He certainly wasn't feeling quite well. "Are you feeling alright?" She asked softly as she looked him over.

Stranger: John gave her a warm smile, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "I'm afraid I've had a little too much for your fantastic cooking," John replied, giving his stomach a rub. "I think I've got an upset belly. I was hoping to get some tea - mint or chamomile, if possible."

You: "Oh, absolutely," she answered warmly as she went to put the kettle on, then she went to the cupboard to look get out some of their teas. "I even have some tea with ginger somewhere, if you think that might calm it down, but I do have a nice peppermint as well."

Stranger: "Either will be fine. Ginger sounds great, actually, especially with the cold weather. It was nice escaping it, for a bit, in the islands." He gave her hand a pat in thanks. "This is lovely of you, really. Thanks for doing all of this."

You: Mrs. Holmes hummed and smiled as she got a mug ready for John. "Oh, from the photos you shared, I'm certain you and Sherlock had a lovely time," she commented, though she did eye him a little bit, an inkling stewing. "Though it's no trouble at all, John. You're such a delight to have around," she assured him warmly.

Stranger: Blushing, John ran a hand through his hair. "Oh, it was a lovely time. Really lovely. Sherlock can be an awful romantic, when he wants to." John grinned widely at the floor, cheeks turning redder. "I'm a delight? I'm sure that's both of you. He won't admit it, but Sherlock enjoys your company too - he's been in a great mood here."

You: "Of course you are. And you two are so good for each other," Mrs. Holmes added going back to the kettle when it whistled. She poured out some tea for John before bringing it it over. He did seem to have a bit of a glow, though that could still be from their trip. Then again, who knows. "There you are. I'm sure that should help."

Stranger: "Thank you so much." He gave her a kiss on the cheek in thanks, then sat back to drink his tea. "It must have been quite a handful, raising Sherlock," John said. "What was he like as a kid? I almost wish I could have been there. I'd have married him when he turned eighteen!"

You: She chuckled a bit in response as she sat down at the table along with him. "He was certainly a busy one, though he wasn't terribly social. Far more absorbed into his hobbies, like his experiments, violin, and dancing. Though I think he gets that sort of focus from me," Mrs. Holmes answered thoughtfully as she reminisced. Though this did give her an opportunity to probe a little further. "I hate to be that in-law, but I am rather curious. Do you think you and Sherlock would consider starting a family? No pressure at all, I know you both get rather busy with cases. I just can't help but feel just a bit curious about it, that's all."

Stranger: "A family? I think Sherlock would make a fantastic parent, as many eyebrows it may raise, me saying that. He's never really discussed it with me, but for my part, I'd love a family. And it would an absolute joy to have his children." John grinned shyly into his tea. "Just imagine that. Tiny little consulting detectives all over the flat." He laughed again. "Besides, I've had practice, getting the husband to eat, sleep and put his toys away. Usually, that means no fingernails or beakers in the fridge." He took another sip of his tea. "Mmm, I must get that berry tart recipe from you, Mrs Holmes. I think I ate more slices than it takes to feed a country."

You: Mrs. Holmes beamed at that. Though it did raise the possibility her hunch was right. "I would be happy to get it for you. I'll make sure you have a copy before you leave," she assured him. "Though, if you don't mind me pointing this out, there's a chance it could be happening sooner rather than later," she suggested lightly with a small smile. "You do have a certain glow about you."

Stranger: "I...I do?" John turned a little pink, looking surprised. "You mean, you think we're expecting? Oh, that's...we should, er. Well...I think I'll take a test, first thing, when we're back in London." John turned pinker. "Oh wow. Could I really be pregnant? That would explain it."

You: "Well, it would explain your appetite at dinner, and the stomach upset you feel as well," she mentioned as well, a bright smile at how John seemed to agree with the possibility. "I would certainly suggest doing so. Though it really would be wonderful, wouldn't it?"

Stranger: John fondly caressed his stomach, chewing on his bottom lip. "Oh, it'd be the best. I'd be incredibly happy - well, happier than I am now." He ran a hand through his hair. "Do you think Sherlock will be pleased?"

You: "I think so. Before you two were together, he was under the impression that he was best off alone. You've certainly changed that for him," Mrs. Holmes answered as she reached over to squeeze John's shoulder gently. "Besides, I know for a fact once you tell him, if you are, he'll do everything to be the best father he can be. He's always one to do his research, and when he cares about something, he'll always do whatever he can to protect it."

Stranger: "I love him ridiculously, too, you know. I'll always look after him and remind him how treasured he is." John smiled, looking up at her with affection. "I'm terribly excited to talk about this with him. You're very perceptive, you know. I wonder if he's worked it out yet."

You: "If not, he'll likely notice eventually," she assured him, smiling at how her son-in-law reacted to her insights. "Is the tea helping at all, then? If not, I know it sounds counter-intuitive, but you may find grazing on crackers or something can take the edge off."

Stranger: "Oh - okay. I'll try it. The tea's good, but if the crackers help too - perhaps just one or two," he nodded, sitting back. "And who knows? Maybe I'm eating for two after all."

You: Mrs. Holmes hummed and smiled. "It's certainly possible. And I know every pregnancy is different, but the two of them had me sick for /ages/," she chuckled, nodding in the direction of the living room. "Though I hope that's not the case for you."

Stranger: "Oh, I do hope not!" John groaned. It would be just like their babies to be handfuls. Grinning a little, he got up to fetch crackers, offering some to Mrs Holmes first.

You: "Oh, thank you," She answered with a warm smile. "Though you take as many as you'd like. I hope you feel better."

Stranger: "Thank you so much." John took one of the cases from inside the box, giving her a sweet kiss and thanking her again for all her help. Then, he went back into the living room, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Bed?"

You: Sherlock hummed when he felt John's fingers running through his curls and he looked up to see the other, with a case of crackers. "I was wondering where you went off to," he chuckled before he got up and reached for John's free hand, kissing his husband's cheek before heading back to their room.

Stranger: "I was feeling a little queasy, so your mother made me tea and told me some crackers might help," John said, shrugging. "Just one or two." He followed him to their room, putting his arm around him. "She's the best cook, you know?"

You: "You did seem to enjoy dinner," Sherlock observed. "Let me guess, you're getting recipes from her?" He asked, smiling at the other fondly as he wrapped his arm around his shoulders.

Stranger: John kissed Sherlock's cheek again, and then his lips. "Mmm, you know me too well, husband." He teased, following him into the room as he helped himself to more crackers. "Especially for the tarts and pies."

You: "She does make excellent desserts, I must say," Sherlock hummed as he got settled on the bed, patting the space beside him for John to join him. "I'm assuming you'd like to resume our cuddle?"

Stranger: "Very much so." John snuggled up with Sherlock, offering him some crackers as he snacked on a few himself. "Mm, I am feeling better. Your mother definitely knows how to calm an upset stomach, too."

You: "Hmm I just never knew that one method was just to keep snacking," Sherlock chuckled as he kept the other close, nuzzling into him gently. "But that's good. I'm glad you are."

Stranger: "It works," John shrugged, popping another cracker in his mouth. He stretched lazily, undoing the button on his trousers.

You: Sherlock hummed, stroking John's waist gently. "Still feeling overly full? Or are you just getting comfortable?" He asked softly once John undid his trousers, a bit of a purr to his voice at his second question.

Stranger: "A bit of both, really," John shivered at that purr in his ear, wriggling out of his trousers and taking off his shirt. "There. Very comfortable." He moved closer to him, giving him a warm kiss. "I really am feeling /much/ better," he whispered, kissing up his jaw.

You: Sherlock let out a breathy chuckle at how John's mood shifted and he ran his hand's over his bare skin. "Mmm god, you're wonderful," he murmured as he cupped John's cheek and guided him back to kiss him softly, letting his other hand run down his back.

Stranger: John closed his eyes to kiss Sherlock properly. "It's ridiculous, how easily you turn me on," he licked his lower lip, giving it a nibble with his teeth. "I almost want another honeymoon, when you're like this."

You: Sherlock hummed, letting his nose brush against the other man's softly. "Perhaps we can plan another holiday then," he murmured. "You certainly seemed to enjoy the warmer weather."

Stranger: "And the food!" He said, patting his belly happily. "Ooh, those pineapple fritters on the beach were so nice! I'm going to make them for us at home." John turned to Sherlock. "I have a question for you, actually. Something your mother and I were talking about."

You: Sherlock sighed thoughtfully at that. John was certainly going to bring home recipes whenever he got the chance, though he perked up a bit at the other mentioning something he'd discussed with his mother. "What is it?" He asked softly as he looked up at the other.

#omegle rp #johnlock rp #mpreg #johnlock #johnlock roleplay #pregnant!john #so cute #gaaaaahhh

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