Holmes/Watson. NC-17. ~2700 words. Premature ejaculation. Rimming.
Once Watson regains the power of speech he isn’t at all certain he wishes to utilise it.
Once Watson regains the power of speech, he isn’t at all certain he wishes to utilise it. The shameful flush creeping up the back of his neck burns as hot as the very fires of hell, and though he was certain that one day he would meet them, he hadn’t honestly expected it to be under these circumstances.
Cheek rested against his bare chest, Holmes’s eyes are closed, a light and dreamy smile upon his face. His weight still pins Watson’s good leg to the mattress, and as slight as it seems some days it keeps him exactly where he is as effectively as a belted strap.
The fire crackles in a pleasant counterpoint to the torrent of rain upon the glass. Watson awkwardly clears his throat. When he finally speaks, his voice is a disgraceful rasp. “I’m so sorry, Holmes.”
At first only Holmes’s brow furrows, and then one after the other his eyes open. “I assure you, there is absolutely no need to apologise.”
Now that Holmes has opened his eyes, Watson finds he is compelled to close his own. The damning evidence is still soaking into the sheets near Holmes’s hip.
“Watson,” Holmes says, rising slightly, “pray believe me when I say I am actually rather flattered. I am no stranger to your exploits on the continent, after all. To bring about your ruin so quickly, well, I must say, I am terribly pleased with myself.”
“But I am not,” Watson snaps, and the barest flash of consternation in Holmes’s dark gaze brings him up short. “With myself, Holmes. I am not so terribly pleased with myself.”
With a quiet snort, Holmes settles back down. “Your ego is surely not so delicate a thing, my friend.” Less than a fraction of a second later, he’s up again, hands braced on either side of Watson’s chest as he crawls up the bed. “And yet here is evidence to counter my belief. What shall I say to reforge your fractured pride?”
“Please put it from your mind,” Watson says, soundly regretting his decision to not hold his tongue. If he’d waited only a few minutes more, Holmes would have fallen firmly into sleep and he could have immediately shuffled this night off into a memory to be hopefully soon forgotten. “Go to sleep.”
The intensity in Holmes’s gaze does nothing to suggest he is ready to let the matter drop for a second time. “Let me see,” he says softly, bending his head as if for a kiss. Almost there, he veers off to the left, pressing his mouth to Watson’s shoulder briefly. “Perhaps if I were to tell you how very often the simple act of watching you work with your hands has given rise to a certain affliction. I find you most distracting when you help me with my experiments, Watson. There are times when you are in fact of absolutely no help at all.”
Appreciating the sentiment if not exactly its delivery, Watson says, “I haven’t helped you for years, Holmes.”
“Exactly so! You were a terrible hindrance. Any observer would presume I had possessed an untoward appreciation for arsenic instead of your extraordinarily fine assets.” The brush of fingers down the centre of Watson’s chest solicits a small shiver, and as they travel further downward, it becomes something more. It’s far too soon for his body to respond to such a caress and yet there is a sparking in his nerves, a speeding of his heartbeat. “But I see such praise is not the balm you require.”
“I need no balm, Holmes, if you would please just-”
Holmes moves quickly to hiss, “Hush, Watson,” against his mouth. Only after he quiets does Holmes continue, both with words and with hands. “Perhaps then I should enlighten you as to exactly how pleased I am to hold such sway over you. Despite those wounds you curse, your body remains yet a soldier’s, Watson, finely honed and well controlled. Your will–a soldier’s as well as a doctor’s–is ironclad, unshakeable.”
He pauses there for one moment, two, but Watson is once again beyond speech. Holmes’s fingers, warm and a little sticky, trace so lightly over the softness of his cock it borders on ticklish. His stomach quivers at Holmes’s smile. “That I can bend both your body and your will to my own whimsical desires is a thrilling discovery. One I shall take every opportunity presented to test.”
“Should you attempt to do so now, you will be sorely disappointed,” Watson says, but the tremor he can’t keep from his voice when Holmes takes proper hold of his cock suggests otherwise.
Holmes says as much with the smug lowering of his eyelashes and the smart twist of his mouth. “Challenge accepted,” he says, and quicker than a thought he slips down to nuzzle at the inside of Watson’s thigh. His breaths are searingly hot against delicate skin but it is not a kiss he means to give; the tip of his tongue touches to Watson’s sac, presses there warm and wet for the briefest of moments before sliding upward.
A shudder chases a low sound up from the pit of Watson’s stomach. He holds out a hand, says, “A moment, Holmes,” but the plea goes unheeded as Holmes takes him into his mouth. He curses softly, able to practically feel the rush of his blood southward, and while he rests certainly not softly against Holmes’s tongue neither has he reached his full potential.
A gentle suck jolts his entire body and Holmes draws away with a smile fit to be seen only in the most disreputable of houses. “I will have you harden again for me,” he promises, a whispering threat threaded through his voice, “and the second time you spend tonight will not be upon my sheets.”
Holmes lowers his head again and Watson reaches for him, not at all certain what such sharp sensation will do to his beleaguered systems so soon after release. As skilfully as a street urchin, Holmes intercepts him, laces their fingers together and pulls both of their hands down to the rumpled bedding. Air hisses between his clenched teeth when Holmes licks him sinfully and without a drop of shame, and he’s left battling the urge to draw his knee up, to push firmly into that retreating warmth.
“Yes, Watson, please,” Holmes says, releasing his hand to push at the back of his thigh. “Part your legs for me, as widely as you can bear.”
A sound escapes him, something wretched and disgraceful. He can hardly bear the thought of doing so, let alone the physical act. Though in a way he has before, it was never with Holmes’s face was so very close to where skilled and slender musician’s fingers mean to push inside him, never so close a scrutiny. A feverish rush of heat sweeps through him as swift and vicious as a brushfire.
With a hand cupping his sac, Holmes leans down to kiss him again, lips parted and soft. “I’ll ask you only once more, and then I’m afraid you will have lost your chance at the considerable pleasure I wish to give you.”
Fixing his gaze firmly on the bed’s dark canopy, Watson grits out, “You are a horrible human being to so blithely ask me such a thing.” But the words lack any true bite, breathless as they are, and whatever pathetic measure of venom he’d managed to inject is wasted as he bends to Holmes’s wishes in bending both legs at the knee, his feet planted firmly on the stained bedding.
“Wonderful,” Holmes tells him, and his reward is another long lick against his length that feels of nothing but the most wicked pleasure. “But not quite. A little higher, if you please.”
Pure shock forces Watson into the mistake of looking down to meet Holmes’s gaze. There is no more decadent a sight in the world than the one of another man, one he has called friend and confidant for years, between the spread of his legs. His eyes jump to Holmes’s hand on his injured thigh, the steady pressure that becomes an insistent push. Even with gravity on his side he lacks sufficient strength to deny Holmes at this angle, and though Holmes is careful he is not lacking in persistence.
Groaning aloud, Watson drapes an arm across his eyes and gives in, thinking the over-bright picture of how he must look that his imagination paints on the back of his eyelids is far worse than the reality, but he can’t bring himself to uncover his eyes and find out. The sound Holmes makes is one of undeniable pleasure, one that accompanies the unravelling of a particularly knotty case or the solution to an especially complicated experiment. The thought that he is both of those to Holmes’s eye gratifies him in a way he would perish before admitting.
But it isn’t Holmes’s fingers that touch him so intimately. He’s frozen for a moment, his brain struggling to make sense of what his nerves transmit, and when he finally does realise what’s happened Holmes is as always one step ahead of him. Strong hands clamp behind his knees to keep them in the air, his position suddenly all the more awkward as he pushes up on his elbows to demand an explanation.
“Come now, you hardly need to ask,” Holmes says, stripping the wind from his sails as completely as severing the ropes that hold them. “You bathed before retiring, as is your habit–I can still smell the soap upon your skin, so there is no harm in my wanting to put my mouth on you before I put my fingers in you. And you, Watson, you are going to let me because now that your surprise has faded, you’ve realised how very good that fleeting touch was. I’m convinced you can extrapolate how much more satisfying sustained contact will be.”
The nervous, shameful quiver of Watson’s insides is absolutely wretched, tinged as it is with an excitement he most certainly should not feel. Surely the things they’ve already done with their hands and mouths and bodies can be no worse than this, but it certainly seems so. What a mistake he had been to think there were no further depths of depravity to sink to.
The slow crocodile spread of Holmes’s smile speaks volumes. In the quirk at the corner, it says, See this here, your crumbling resolve; in the slight part that shows the whiteness of his teeth sits, You can’t say no, you never could.
Holmes brushes a kiss along his calf. “Say yes to me.”
His answer is more of a croak than a word but it’s exactly what Holmes wanted. The pillow Holmes pushes beneath his hips seems to come out of nowhere. He tries vainly to shake off the strange daze clinging to him like a burr made of muslin when he feels the mattress shift, Holmes dropping from elbows to belly and nosing between his legs as if they’re little more than rutting animals.
His body clenches involuntarily when Holmes’s breath spreads warm over his asshole. He swallows tightly, wishing he could claim he can’t believe the act Holmes readies to commit. He’s no stranger to the penny sheets Holmes keeps carelessly spread throughout the rest of his papers, but he clearly hadn’t considered being party to the reenactment of one.
When the rhythm of Holmes’s breathing changes, Watson sucks in a quick gasp of his own and blurts, “Say nothing. Please don’t torture me with telling me of what you mean to do, simply do it.”
He loses every single sliver of air left in his lungs as Holmes takes him at his word. The press of Holmes’s mouth to his flesh, of Holmes’s tongue, is indescribable. The act itself is laced with such taboo that he can barely form thoughts; he isn’t sure if it tickles or teases, only that it’s happening, that Holmes is doing this to him, and as the queer sensation flashes out along his nerves to push at the base of his cock, he realises with a sudden lurch that he enjoys it.
Wants more of it, in fact, and his embarrassment fights a losing battle with the need to bare himself to the slick filthy wriggle of Holmes’s tongue. He catches the tail end of one of Holmes’s darkly pleased laughs and bites out a curse, the most cutting remark he can muster, but Holmes only chuckles again, pushes the ripple of it straight into his flesh.
“I’ve thought of this many times before,” Holmes says, and in some misguided attempt to drown him out Watson lets loose with the moan he’d been holding back. Its strength peters to nothing when the drag of Holmes’s finger reveals the slippery wetness of so much saliva spread on his skin, more than enough to ease the way for one of Holmes’s fingers to press up and in. “There’s so very much I want to watch you let me do to you.”
“Anything I agree to under such duress is null,” Watson replies, irrationally proud for managing even that considering the circumstances. At least he isn’t staring blankly at the underside of the canopy any longer, or hiding behind his arm; it’s perfectly reasonable for a man to have his eyes shut tight in the midst of the basest of pleasures.
The press of Holmes’s fingers easily find his prostate, stroke with a precision that comes as close to convincing Watson that Holmes can see directly into him as much as Holmes reading his thoughts ever has. He resists the shaking that tries to overtake his limbs, even manages to fool himself into believing he’s fully suppressed it until the surge of orgasm rises up to claim him as surely as Holmes has laid claim to his body. Even through the blinding perfection of it he can feel Holmes’s mouth against him, Holmes’s fingers curled inside him, and he chokes out a sound of pure ruin when Holmes presses his cock to his belly, forcing the spill of his pleasure to stain his skin.
He drops his legs a moment later, a brief jolt of discomfort shooting through the right before settling into a dull ache that will be all the worse for wear come morning. One of Holmes’s hands goes immediately to the hurt, digging in far past the point of pain to press stubborn knots from abused muscle, and the fingers of the other are no longer in him but certainly retain a measure of his attention as they rest snugly between his legs.
The prickle of Holmes’s scruffy face settling against his thigh brings forth another shiver, and with the easing of the soreness in his leg shortly thereafter comes a soft sigh. “There are days when I have absolutely no idea what to think of you,” Watson says, his eyes still closed as lethargy replaces the energy Holmes had buzzing beneath his skin. “Fetch me a cloth. I know you’ve made a mess of me.”
“Quite deliberately so, and I’ll not have you ruin my efforts along with ruining one of my shirts.”
Holmes shifts again precisely as Watson lifts his head, sure there is no way in the world at all that he just heard what he thinks he did. With the flash of a smile, a truly wicked, devilish smile, Holmes licks his stomach, simply drags his tongue straight through the mess of come. It vanishes back into his mouth completely covered with it, and when it reappears clean, he coats it white again.
Watson covers his mouth so tightly with one hand that his teeth cut into his lips and still he can’t hold back a bark of disbelieving laughter. If it were at all possible, Holmes would have him up yet again.
“I think perhaps we should move to your bed for the remainder of the night,” Holmes says, wiping his lip with his thumb. “While you may not have dirtied my sheets for a second time, I have been markedly less successful.”
“Really?” Watson says, with perhaps only a little sarcasm. “Well, I should say that does a remarkable job of soothing my sore ego.”
Holmes smiles beatifically. “I rather thought it might.”