mustbethetruth | awww yeah

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.

Holmes has no trouble seeing Watson through to the end of his orgasm, but once his job is complete, he feels strongly the need for his own release. When Watson pulls him up, he follows all too easily, returning the kiss rather desperately himself. When Watson's hand finds his cock, he groans in satisfaction and rocks his hips forward, tangling a hand in Watson's hair and gripping it just tightly enough.

As hard as he is, as desperate and needy and eager he is, it doesn't take very long at all for the tension to build hot and tight in his thighs. When he can't focus on kissing any longer, he buries his face in Watson's neck, clinging to him until the tension coiling in him finally snaps and he climaxes with a groan, breathing in Watson's scent.

Kissing Watson's neck softly a few times, he sits up again, breathing heavily, and he gives Watson a very satisfied smile.

"Did you enjoy dessert?"

"Oh, very much," Watson murmured. He dropped a few lazy kisses along Holmes's neck, while he ran his hand soothingly over his stomach. "I admit that wasn't quite what I had in mind," he laughed, breathlessly, "but I have no complaints. Oh, not nearly any complains."

He leaned his head on Holmes's shoulder, making himself quite comfortable, aware that they should get up and clean themselves. Looking over the room, though, was slightly disheartening.

"Good heavens, what a mess we've made," Watson laughed. Clothing, and dishes, and probably a stray smear of honey or two. "What a way to start ourselves off in housekeeping."

He chuckles, leisurely kissing patches of Watson's skin, though he knows it won't be long before he has a strong desire to bathe himself. He feels uncomfortably sticky.

"How else are we to feel properly moved-in?" he teases, kissing Watson's neck and giving it a small, gentle bite. "And we couldn't have had ordinary sex on our first official night here." He kisses up Watson's neck to his jaw before leaving off, pressing close to Watson.

"For tonight we shall only concern ourselves with cleaning ourselves up. The housekeeping can start tomorrow." And Watson will do it.

"Agreed," Watson said, emphatically. He was feeling very sticky, himself, and while the process in which he had become such had been entirely worth it, he was not going to bed in such a state.

He arched his neck under Holmes's teeth, forcing a long-suffering sigh. He really did love the sensation of being bitten, had had few partners in the past who had seemed to so enjoy biting him, but it did carry with it some unfortunate side-effects. "Look at this, look at me. I must look like the chewtoy for a whole litter of puppies," he lamented, although not very seriously. "But up you get, off my lap," he urged. "Let's the both of us share a bath and get the last of this honey off of us."

He stands without complaint, taking a deep breath and stretching his arms over his head. "You don't look like a chewtoy," he says as he relaxes, giving Watson a sidelong glance. "Much. At least no one should see them. Unless you parade yourself around shirtless." He shoots Watson a grin.

"Also, please note that I have planned our dessert so that we might wind up in a bath together afterward. That is not coincidental." With another warm smile, he gives Watson's arm an affectionate squeeze. "Get the bath started, and I will retrieve our cigarettes."

"Oh, is that why you went for the honey," Watson smiled indulgently. "Once again, your immoral tendencies surface."

He rose, though, stretching, and headed off to the bathroom to obediently run a bath for the two of them. "By the way," he called conversationally over his shoulder, through the open door and over the rush of water, "I have no plan of parading around shirtless for anyone but yourself. What would it do to give people the idea that I make myself available for such activities, when they're reserved for you and you alone?"

It never hurt, he thought, to appeal to Holmes's vanity, though he meant what he said.

Holmes is smiling despite himself as he makes his way back to the bathroom and Watson. If Watson's words are a deliberate attempt to appeal to Holmes, either he doesn't notice through his flattery or he'd rather not notice at all.

"That is a very good point. Why advertise when the product is not for sale?" he says as he enters the bathroom. Walking around naked produces such a charming sensation of intimacy and companionship, and when he enters a room to discover Watson's naked form, it's difficult to hold back. He gives Watson's arse a light smack, grinning at him, and he lights himself a cigarette.

Watson jumped a little, turning to give Holmes a not-very-serious glare. "You are an incorrigible devil," he remarked, attempting to glare and failing utterly at it.

"At any rate, I am certainly not for sale." he asked, turning back to the bathtub to attend to the faucet. "The very idea. Nor do I make myself available for charity, if it comes to that. It's very selfish of me. Light me a cigarette, would you, love?"

"Funny. I thought I was the selfish one, not wanting to share you." He lights Watson's cigarette and holds it out to him; even this familiar act is charming for some reason this evening, and he kisses Watson's cheek. Once the tub is full, he eases himself into it, reclining back and drawing from his cigarette.

"And I'm not the only incorrigible devil around here, you should remember. Or was it that you're fierce." He smiles teasingly, resting his elbow against the edge of the tub.

"I still like that," Watson remarked, puffing on his cigarette. "Not nearly enough people tell me that I'm fierce. What a novelty it is."

Gingerly, he stepped into the bath, grateful for the water and the warmth and the sense of cleanliness that was already imparted by it. While hardly a small tub by any means, it was still a bit cramped for two fully-grown men, and the easiest position seemed to be to settle in with his back against Holmes's front. There was something comfortably intimate about that position, too.

With the hand holding his cigarette draped lazily over the edge of the tub, he reached for the sponge with his free hand and soaked it thoroughly in the hot water.

He isn't at all upset about how they must position themselves, and he dips his mouth to kiss the back and side of Watson's neck, tenderly. Snaking his arm around Watson, he plucks the sponge out of his hands.

"Allow me," he murmurs, then more lightly, "it is my fault, after all." He runs the sponge over Watson's chest, able to tell what he's doing without needing to see Watson's front at all. To have him so well memorized gives Holmes a sense of accomplishment.

awww yeah

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