mustbethetruth | awww yeah

He follows Watson's direction, not needing much persuading to press their bodies together, though he does have to somehow fit his hand between them and start to undo Watson's pants, sometime. For now he concentrates on eliminating the space between them as he grips Watson's back, his other hand still tangled in Watson's hair.

When he draws away finally, it's so that he can take several ragged breaths, rapidly attempting to regain that composure he'd been holding onto so well before.

"Are you an enthusiast of Greek desserts?" he murmurs breathlessly, attempting to still his hands by running them down Watson's side.

"Typically, yes." Watson's voice came out roughly, halfway between a purr and a growl. There was nothing intentional in it; that was simply the way his words emerged. "I am certainly fond of honey."

For a moment, a very brief moment which was very quickly forgotten, he considered just how much the table could take, would they use it in that way -- but indeed, the thought was very fleeting. He slid his hands around to Holmes's front to work deftly at unbuttoning his flies.

"I have rather a sweet tooth in general," he said in a murmur, speaking against the side of Holmes's neck.

As he reaches to undo Watson's flies, he has a very brief moment of clarity in which he can see their situation very clearly as if from an outside perspective. The freedom of living in their own home is nearly intoxicating; there is nothing stopping them from engaging in less than moral activities in their kitchen aided by honey. No matter what may have happened in their pasts, the fact that they are together now is undeniably incredible.

This moment of insight is, however, very brief; it lasts precisely long enough for Holmes to undo Watson's trousers and begin to push them away. Then he returns rather forcefully to his own mind.

"As do I, in certain circumstances," he says heavily, his voice still rough from their kiss. "This is most certainly one of those circumstances. Shall we get started?"

"Oh, dear God, yes," Watson said, emphatically. He was all to eager to help Holmes get him out of his clothes, wriggling helpfully out of them, kicking off his shoes to make the process a little smoother. One of them, he thought vaguely, skittered off below the sofa, and would have to be retrieved later; he did not care, very much, just then. Look at them, look at the two of them, hardly having finished eating before they had been diverted by their own conversation, barely managing to undress before indulging in... in ridiculous games, involving honey, of all the unlikely things.

He could hardly wait to start, in all honesty. If Holmes decided that now was a good time to toy with him, then Watson would have to... well, he was in no state to think of consequences. They would be dire, to be sure.

He reached for Holmes's hand and moved it to his hip, while he moved to kiss him, hard, impatient, hungry.

It's slightly more difficult to free himself of his trousers and shoes while he's busy returning Watson's kiss with equal passion and huger; he manages it however, and kicks aside the unnecessary articles and returns his full focus to kissing Watson thoroughly.

While sex has its moments, the first time two naked bodies touch is perhaps one of the most thrilling, and Holmes revels in it, gripping Watson's hips tightly. He nudges Watson back, encouraging him to sit on the table, before he finally breaks free of the kiss.

"Tsk, tsk," he says, almost too breathless for it to have its appropriate effect, "you are distracting a chef at work. How am I to start dessert with you behaving in such a way?" He recovers the honey and opens it, considering for just a moment on where to place it, and then opts for Watson's shoulder to start out with, squeezing out a small amount onto his skin. Leaning over, he slowly makes work at licking it up, his fingers playing over Watson's hip.

Oh, good. Oh, good. Now was past the time for games, for teasing, for anticipation. Perhaps this was another sort of teasing, but... an irresistable one, a desirable one.

The honey itself made for a strange sensation on his skin, sticky and heavy, and when Holmes's tongue added to it, hot and wet, it was entirely beyond his power to choke back the moan that built up in his throat. The table was an awkward place to sit, and he was suddenly not so steady, nor sure of his ability to keep his balance; Watson braced himself against the edge of the table with one tense hand, his back arching. Watson's other hand slipped from Holmes's hip, slowly moving up to rest at the back of his neck. His fingers buried themselves in Holmes's hair, taking a tighter grip than was strictly necessary, one to match the white-knuckled grasp he had on the table beneath him. Even just to watch Holmes at work was somewhat overwhelming.

"Far be it from me," he gasped, his gaze unfocused and fixed firmly on Holmes's mouth, "to interfere... with your enjoyment of dessert." Even if, especially if Watson was the dessert in question.

The taste of the honey mingled with the salty, distinct taste of Watson's skin is making for possibly the richest dessert he's had in recent memory, though the taste is secondary in this whole project. What is of primary concern is Watson's reaction that he's currently experiencing, which rounds out the sensory input.

"How obliging," he murmurs, a hint of a smile touching his lips, before he grazes his teeth against Watson's skin in a gentle but distinct bite. He can't help it; the way Watson pulls at his hair is stirring something aggressive in Holmes. "If you don't mind, I'll take a second helping," he nearly purrs, leaving honey along Watson's neck so that he can follow the trail once again, more roughly than before.

At the touch of teeth, Watson inhaled sharply, his body stiffening. His fingers tightened, briefly, before he managed to regain some small amount of control over himself. He bent his head, burying his face into the top of Holmes's hair, breathing in his scent with a long, shaky, savouring breath. He truly did have the sense of being consumed, and it was overwhelmingly electrifying.

"Take as much as you want, then," he whispered hoarsely. He adjusted his grip on the table, shifting with suppressed tension, his bare leg pressing against Holmes's thigh.

"I will," he says silkily into Watson's ear, though it takes a severe amount of concentration to keep from sounding as hoarse as Watson just now. Were it not for Holmes's extreme sense of self control, he would have pushed Watson down and begun to bring the dessert course to its grand finale, but that would be regrettable as they have barely gotten started.

He allows himself one concession; as he slides a hand into Watson's hair to unceremoniously pull him in for a kiss, he rocks their hips together, an act that forces him to muffle his groan against Watson's mouth. He's gasping when he pulls away; the control that had wrought an even tone of voice is gone, for the moment.

"But far be it from me to keep you from your share." He takes one of Watson's hands and presses the honey bottle into it. "I believe it's your turn."

Watson looked at the honey in his hand for a moment, still tasting it from Holmes's mouth during their recent kiss. His turn? He considered this a moment, the opportunities this might provide, the options that were now in front of him, and quickly spying a nearby chair, came to a conclusion.

He rose, his hands about Holmes's waist and the the bottle of honey momentarily held against his back as he pressed him back and into one of the dining chair. He settled himself astride Holmes's lap, kissing him again with one hand in his hair while he spread honey, down from the side of Holmes's neck, over his shoulder, a few stray drips inevitably oozing down his chest. There was no harm in that; Watson could take care of that easily, later.

"There is something you say," he murmured roughly, "from time to time, about my appetite." He pressed his mouth near Holmes's collarbone, and began to lick, slow and forceful, up his throat and neck.

Watson has risen to Holmes's half-challenge, half-request beautifully; he's already stifling a moan when Watson straddles his lap, and by the time Watson sets to his throat, he is much less successful at keeping quiet. It occurs to him that there's no reason to worry about that anymore; not that noise was of primary concern in their rooms lately, but there was at least a thought given to not disturbing their neighbors. They have neighbors here but if they are disturbed then they are standing too near to their home and thus deserve it.

"I have," he manages finally, one hand clinging to Watson's thigh. "I observed that it is relentless. Your sweet tooth is doubly so, is it?" His other hand snakes around to Watson's back, gripping him there as well.

Oh, that noise. Oh, that was exquisite. It all was, the failure at stifling moans, the hand on his thigh, the taste of honey, the inevitable stickiness. There was honey in his moustache, for goodness sake. He hadn't considered that consequence, although it bothered him very little indeed. It was a lucky thing honey cleaned up easily, sticky as it could be.

"Sometimes," he said, licking behind Holmes's ear; there wasn't really any honey there to lick, but he was enjoying the excuse to explore that spot with his tongue for a moment. "When I am in the mood for sweets, I do like to induldge."

He shifted backwards a little, bringing his head down to Holmes's collarbone again, working on cleaning up the honey that had dripped over his chest.

Holmes arches his back toward Watson, feeling delightfully depraved and at Watson's mercy, which is a sensation he can never quite get enough of. For all of Holmes's general tendency toward dominance, he can't deny a penchant for men in uniform that extends beyond the uniform itself and to what it suggests: a certain strength, confidence, and dominance that is particularly appealing in the bedroom. (And doubly so when Holmes can make those men writhe against him in desire.)

"By all means." His eyes are very dark now, and he watches Watson at his progress, devouring the sight before him. "Indulge your every whim." He has to release Watson's thigh; he needs to let loose some of the tension in his grip, so he busies his hand with stroking Watson's thigh, straying more inward occasionally.

Watson's eyes closed for a moment under the feel of that hand on his thigh, where that hand was starting to lead, for a moment needing to consciously remember to breathe. Even like this, even when he appeared to have the upper hand, it seemed that he was still to a certain degree under the man's power; he wouldn't have had it any other way.

"Oh, I intend to," he murmured in a low voice. He seemed to be running out of honey, to his great disappointment. Watson spread a little more, concentrating on Holmes's chest, and set the bottle aside before resettling himself. Both his hands were at the back of Holmes's neck, his grip firm and possessive as he let his teeth touch Holmes's collarbone, biting very gently. From there he began to lick as low as he could reach, savouring Holmes more than the taste of the honey. That he knew every inch of Holmes's flesh made no difference in how eager he was to explore it again.

He makes a small noise when he feels Watson's teeth against him; coupled with the hands at the back of his neck and Watson's weight against his lap, Holmes feels positively consumed by Watson, which is the idea, and generally his ultimate goal in sex.

The smell of the honey is mixing with the scent of their combined bodies, creating a sweetly heady aroma that fills the kitchen. When he breathes, it seems as if he's breathing in Watson, so perhaps the devouring is going both ways.

He slides a hand into Watson's hair, gripping it perhaps too tightly, but that is entirely the point.

"Relentless and fierce," he says throatily, licking his lips. "I forgot to mention. Your appetite can be very fierce."

Watson smiled up at Holmes, somewhat crookedly, almost a smirk. "Fierce. I like that. Certainly when it comes to you, it is." With Holmes's hand in his hair so tightly, there was a wonderful sense of being owned, too, being Holmes's own special property, of his own special duty being to ensure that Holmes continued to make those little sounds.

He returned his mouth to Holmes's chest, so low it was on the border to his stomach, to remove some trace of honey, and then lifted himself slowly up again, rocking his hips against Holmes's as he did so. He kissed Holmes, deeply, honeyed moustache and all, and there was as much giving of himself in the kiss as there was consuming.

His appetite was certainly relentless, to be sure. "I've had enough honey, I think," Watson growled. "Give the word," he was sliding a hand down between them, his fingers grazing Holmes's cock gently to make his point, "and I'll be on my knees, savouring other things. Unless you had other plans for the evening?"

Oh, but it is tempting to give in, particularly after such a kiss, but he has had some time to get himself used to Watson's particularly ravenous moments, and he has to use all his resolve to turn down this offer. But if they dissolve into that now, their festivities would be cut far too short -- well, their current festivities.

"You forget," he says, roughly, taking Watson's hand and holding him tightly by the wrist, drawing it away from his cock, "that I must finish my dessert. Your moustache full of honey is only so fulfilling," he adds with a smirk.

"Get up," he orders, firming up his voice again; orders are so much better when they sound as if they are full of intent.

Watson had meant his offer wholeheartedly, and certainly he had not been offering anything he would have found unpleasant -- to the contrary, in fact. But he could hardly have argued with a tone like that, and indeed, something in his military training made him respond to orders like that with an eagerness that nearly made him ache, the moreso when they came from Holmes, and the moreso when they were such good orders.

He didn't even mind the remark about his moustache; it was certainly true enough.

He rose, although he was admittedly reluctant to part for any length of time; he contented himself with first dipping his head to kiss Holmes hotly, in one small act of rebellion before he stood, his posture distinctly military, his expression eager and aching and hungry.

"Where shall you have me, then?"

Watson is exquisite when he slips into his military actions; no, exquisite isn't the right word, it is not nearly masculine enough, but he can't be bothered to find the precise word for it just yet. It's something to consider later, when he is replaying this evening in his mind to savor it another time.

He loves Watson's rebellious kiss; he loves the rigidity in his posture, combined with his sheer nakedness, and it's worthwhile to sit for a moment and take in the sight before him: Watson nearly at attention and his cock, too. In another context it may seem ridiculous, but right now it's one of the most erotic sights, in Holmes's opinion.

Enough of that; he stands, infusing as much authority into his own expression and posture, and he steps aside, gazing intently at Watson.

"Sit," he says, indicating the chair he just left, and not embellishing his command with anything else.

Watson sat, at once. It would have been far too much effort to resist just then, although he raised an eyebrow briefly as he waited to see what further actions Holmes would take, or have him take, for that matter. This state of anticipation was intoxicating.

It went without saying that he was very, very aroused.

Holmes kneels between Watson's legs, sliding his hands along Watson's thighs as he gets himself into position. He enjoys the feeling of having the control at the moment while simultaneously being in a position of submission, though he is feeling anything but submissive. Reaching for the honey, he holds it up to Watson.

"I will give you the choice of deciding where I will find the rest of my dessert, but you mustn't get too greedy. This is an exercise in taming your appetite," he says silkily, and he is wondering if Watson would be able to resist the temptation of putting honey on his cock, however silly that notion sounds in his mind. As it is, if he does, it would be an act of rebellion. Which is far more erotic.

Not too greedy? Watson took the honey, looking at it almost thoughtfully. There was a part of him that was tempted to be as greedy as possible, to see what Holmes would do when faced with a cock covered in honey. But no, he would play along, for now.

"Not too greedy," he agreed, although with undertones that might suggest that his conforming with this plan may or may not be temporary, as the mood suited him.

It felt just slightly ridiculous to spread honey over himself, from his chest and stomach to his upper thighs, just shy of his groin itself. Not too greedy. But just greedy enough.

Is it wrong of him to set a task and have a small hope that Watson rebels? He isn't too troubled, if it is wrong, and at any rate Watson's behaving himself now, so Holmes's Plan A is still intact. Watching Watson honey himself is surprisingly arousing, and he grins rather wolfishly before he sets to his task, licking Watson's chest firmly.

"Well done," he murmurs between passes of his tongue (and occasionally his teeth) over Watson's skin. "You are very good at taking orders. It makes me want to give you more."

God help him, he had somehow managed to entangle himself with a man who could be on his knees in front of him, worshipping him with his mouth, and still maintain every semblance of control and power from that position, sitll have him so completely at his mercy. Watson exhaled shakily, pressing his fingers tightly into Holmes's hair with a distinct and definite desperation.

"Give me orders, then," he gasped. Disobedience was suddenly a very distant thought; he could only crave the heat of Holmes's mouth, and certainly the scrape of his teeth. Watson thought himself a strong man, certainly as strong as a man who'd been through what he had been through could be. He was therefore not a man to be humiliated and demeaned, but let Holmes, of all people, have all the dominance over him he wished to exert at the moment. Holmes broke all the rules, after all, and if there was anyone he would let order him around in the bedroom -- or at the dining table, as the case currently was -- it was he, and only he. "Give me all the orders you want. I am yours, I am yours, do you understand that?"

His voice was desperate, and hoarse, and intensely fierce.

Even when they are clothed, he enjoys seeing Watson feel everything so completely, so unashamedly, and now when they are not clothed, to reduce Watson to this kind of desperation is an art Holmes is very interesting in crafting. Fortunately it is not a very difficult art to master.

Watson's reward for his declarations is a sharp bite on his chest, and Holmes's voice when he speaks is smooth, but dangerously so.

"What an eager soldier you are," he murmurs appreciatively, following the trail of honey across Watson's chest and down onto his stomach. "But it is not your time for action yet. For now your orders are to remain still." He is at least somewhat hopeful that telling Watson to remain still will now implant the desire to squirm or move, which would really be quite enjoyable.

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