mustbethetruth | awww yeah

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.

Don't move, he said. As though that were an easy thing to accomplish anyway, at a time like this, with tongue and teeth over his stomach. Watson was already shifting under the attentions of a very clever tongue, not to mention tensing in anticipation of the next potential bite, not knowing what or when it might be, relishing the inherent violence and the intense possessiveness of the gesture. To be told on top of that not to move... it was devilish.

Damn the man.

With his fingers tightening convulsively in Holmes's hair, Watson made a game effort at keeping still, but it was a lost cause before he ever had the order to stay still. To fail an order given hurt his pride, but surely this was an impossible order in the first place. Despite his best efforts he was squirming in his chair, his back arching, the muscles in his legs tensing with suppressed adrenaline and arousal.

This wouldn't be as much fun if Watson did succeed at following Holmes's orders, but it is fascinating to consider just how much a difference two words can make in a situation. Watson has not ceased moving, Holmes doesn't really want him to, but to know that he's now moving against his own wishes, that he is struggling not to move, it's all the more enjoyable.

Holmes's attitude contrasts Watson's; he's purposeful in his attention to Watson's stomach, now. He isn't rushed, but he isn't drawing out the moment ridiculously; his pace is steady and in control. There isn't necessarily much honey on Watson's hip, but he stops there anyway to leave a harder bite than he'd been able to give.

And now he comes to Watson's thighs. He looks up, briefly, to get a picture of Watson in his mind, and the sight nearly causes him to lapse in his calculated attitude. With somewhat renewed vigor, he is a little rougher, scraping teeth, biting gently, thoroughly cleaning Watson up.

His eyes are very dark indeed when he finishes and looks back up at Watson, and he realizes that there's nothing more he'd want to do now than pay some attention to the very area he instructed Watson to let alone before. He's almost had enough of the taste of honey by now, if he's honest, so some honey-free skin in the shape of Watson's cock seems to be just what his palette calls for.

"I've had my fill of honey, I think," he says throatily, his fingers walking up Watson's thighs to grip his hips. "I have another craving, however, that I wish to satisfy. If you would hold still a moment longer..."

It's a halfhearted order; his mind is already on lowering his mouth to Watson's cock, brushing his lips against the head; while he has been in control, now this gesture is permission-seeking.

The breath that escaped Watson's mouth was more than half a moan, and desperately longing. His grip in Holmes's hair relaxed somewhat at the promise of release, finally and at last and, so he hoped, well-deserved. He might never be able to look at honey on the breakfast table without smirking again, but it had been a well-deserved, if sticky, sacrifice.

"Please," he begged, hardly more than a whisper, but his answer came more in body language, in the involuntary buck of his hips, the curl of his fingers against Holmes's neck, the complete surrender in his posture and manner. "Oh, God, please."

If he'd been in a more patient mood maybe he'd have come up with a quip here, but it's Holmes's turn to respond to a request without hesitation. He runs his tongue firmly along Watson's cock from base to head and traces along the ridge, savoring Watson before he sets to work. This isn't a time to drag anything out longer than is strictly necessary, so he doesn't spend time on a long preamble. He takes Watson's cock into his mouth and gives a couple test strokes of his mouth before he finds a steady rhythm.

While he isn't looking to draw out Watson's agony any longer, it doesn't mean he lacks finesse; occasionally he pauses at the head, sucking harder for a few moments as he slowly makes his way back down the shaft and then finds his rhythm again.

After so much preamble, it couldn't have taken long even if Holmes had tried to draw it out; as it was, it was not overly long before Watson was gasping out his climax, his cock deep in the familiar, irresistable heat of Holmes's mouth as he released all the wonderful tension of their "dessert" with an extended, gutteral sort of moan.

As he withdrew, he was seized with an overpowering urge which he could see no reason to deny; he dragged Holmes up from the floor and into his lap and kissed him, deeply, gratefully, tasting honey and Holmes and himself. Whether he would shortly find himself on his own knees -- a position he would not have minded in the least -- or in some other situation, before antyhing else he desperately felt the need to kiss him. He also saw no point in wasting time; he returned his hand to Holmes's cock, his grip perhaps far too urgent against his palm.

awww yeah

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