It’s 6PM, and unless my screenwriting professor believes the lie-filled email I just sent him about viruses, this is what he is reading instead of my final screenplay:
Hands kneading into the bed, Sherlock’s cock twitches obscenely, already leaking pre-come. John gives the tip a filthy, open-mouthed kiss before skipping past it and licking a long, wet stripe up Sherlock’s stomach.
“That’s an order, Sherlock.”
I’m going to throw up why am I rereading this.