It's still a mystery to him, and one he never hopes he solves, how his desire works. He's had Watson countless times, has run his hands over the swell of his hips and traced each of his ribs and followed the lines of his scars so much that he can now do it all without even consciously thinking about it. He knows Watson's body, knows the feel and taste of it, and yet there are still times, like right now, where he feels that if he doesn't possess Watson again, he'll go mad (or madder). It doesn't make sense, any of it; sexual desire is a confusing jumble of emotion and physical responses, but he doesn't care that he doesn't understand it because he knows that Watson is the solution. Nothing else matters.

He reaches into Watson's trousers and closes his hand around the length of his cock, wanting very much suddenly to feel the heat of him against his hand. He abandons this only to push his own trousers down, freeing his own cock, and then he's back, grinding their hips together so their cocks slide together. He gives a muffled groan and nuzzles into the crook of Watson's neck, breathing him in.