"Really John, you're such a pig sometimes," Sherlock says looking down.
John sits before him, a sprawling figure in half an awful tracksuit. He has officially taken over the sofa. Telltale plates, cups and wrappers litter the surrounding area. There are crumbs on his distended stomach. He is unfazed by the comment and continues to eat his way through the entire box of muesli before Sherlock's eyes.
"It's your fault," He munches, "you did this to me." John gives Sherlock the beginning of a sly, naughty look.
Sherlock feels his face flush. It's too easy for John to get him riled up when he's in this state. Biology dictates his alpha nature emerge more and more as John's pregnancy progresses; this combined with his kink makes for too powerful a force for him to overcome.
To some degree his brain shuts off, or at least switches modes. His loss of control delivers a blow to his intellect and ego that introduces yet another level of forbidden pleasure to the dynamic.
In these months John is in control; the one doing the manipulating, the inspiring, the directing. John loves every minute of it. A part of Sherlock knows he does too; but he can't quite resolve the fact either.
His blushing has been enough to encourage, and Sherlock is suddenly looking at John sans horrible trackpants; instead Sherlock finds himself looking at the silly red pants John sometimes wears when he's feeling flirty.
Except they don't quite fit the same way given the swell of John's lower abdomen. A line of soft yellow hair snakes up the centerline of John's belly from under them. The line disappears under the slightly undersized white t shirt that emphasizes the continuing curve of John's stomach. Sherlock wants to touch John immediately, but refrains. He has a point to make. At least he thinks he does.
"Unless it's an emergency, calling me home from a case is unacceptable." Sherlock says, crossing his arms.
"This is an emergency." John says kicking the track bottoms off his ankles. John spreads his legs, just slightly. Sherlock swallows reflexively.
"A... a kebab craving is not an emergency. A text saying you are in premature labor is." He insists.
"I'm just feeding your babies... even you can appreciate that, eating disorder or not."
"I do not have..."
"It's because of you I'm like this and you want me to starve." John rolls the white top up, to emphasize his point via the vast expanse of his middle. He runs his hands along it and sighs with pleasure.
"Look what you've done..." John says softly. His tone is tinged with a strange desperation. "Look what you've done to me with your big, nasty alpha thing."
Slowly, cruelly, John peels his legs back, bends his knees, holds his shins. He pulls his legs towards himself on either side of his enormous pregnant belly.
"Just look what you've done to me," John says again. His swollen middle bulges out from between his legs. His erection struggles to be free from under red cotton.
“I’m practically having a litter. Yours. I won’t be able to move soon. Soon I’ll be so big I’ll only be able to lie here, with my legs open, growing. Waiting. Fucked. It’s your fault.”
Sherlock feels his already half vacationing intellect begin to check out. He wonders if this is how normal, dull people feel all the time.
“John...” he breathes helplessly.
John shifts forward, looks up at Sherlock with large eyes and submissive demeanor. His passive body language and swollen body are almost too much for Sherlock. He allows John to pull him closer by the hips.
"I'm all yours now, aren't I?" Says John, trembling, "now that you've fucked me into this state; now that you've put your babies in me."
John arches his back as he presses his face into Sherlock's crotch, nuzzling the engorged flesh there. Somehow the tailored trousers are already open.
"Now everyone knows, everyone can see" says John, "...how you can't stop yourself. Can’t keep it in your pants. Can't stop breeding me like an animal..."
“Uhnnnnnnnnnn...” Sherlock finds his hands are in John's hair, guiding the angle of his head as John tugs Sherlock's pants down and slides his lips around the head of his cock.
John sucks Sherlock off slowly, whimpering submissively. Sherlock hears himself making low, complimentary noises as his cock slides towards the back of John's throat. His back arches as his fingers dig into John’s shoulders.
He has a sudden realization that those shoulders feel rock solid; despite John’s silly omega overtures he harbors genuine strength. The idea of this strength being all of Sherlock’s for the taking - that John has submitted to him and is burdened with his offspring, vulnerable and swollen - makes Sherlock come hard; collapsing forwards, shaking, moaning, growling like an animal.
John coughs, half choking, half laughing from the sudden burst of semen in his throat. He falls back into the couch, sputtering in surprise. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at Sherlock solemnly.
“Now will you get me a kebab?” he asks sweetly.
“Chips or rice?” comes the detective’s shaky reply.