mustbethetruth | awww yeah

That gave Watson slight pause; he hadn't expected that answer. Was he willing to subject himself to that sort of treatment? It was not something he had spent a lot of time considering, although it was hardly so outlandish as all that.

"Do you think I require that sort of correction?" he asked, idly running his hands along Holmes's side. "I am incredibly trusting, I suppose, but if you feel I need to be disciplined in that manner, who am I to argue with you?" He smiled wryly. "On the other hand, if you have other plans for me, I'd like to hear them just as well."

"You would let me correct you like that?" he asks, somewhat incredulous, and unsurprisingly now that it's a possibility he has to picture the event unfolding. It's slightly silly; perhaps he'd need to approach it in the heat of the moment because right now it just seems slightly odd.

"Well, I'll have to remember that for when it is necessary to discipline you. For now... I was planning on a thorough buggering."

The thrill of arousal that ran through Watson was undeniable; he inhaled sharply, in an attempt to regain enough equilibrium in order to be able to answer. Perhaps most strange of all was that he meant it when he said he would allow Holmes that freedom, and saying so aloud was a surprise to him as well. That declaration of submissive intent may have been a shock, but it also seemed to intensify the moment all the more.

He leaned very close, letting their foreheads touch, his touch almost possessive. "I think that's a very good plan," Watson murmured. "I suspect we should waste no time in enacting it." He kissed him, the gesture strangely hungry.

Holmes returns the kiss, certainly hungry himself, but also a fair bit intrigued by whatever has possessed Watson this evening. Whatever it is, it seems to be leading them to some interesting possibilities, and maybe he shouldn't be so quick to discount them.

"How right you are." He kisses Watson again, his touch more heated now, just as possessive of Watson as Watson is of him. "I'm not certain I could wait much longer, besides."

He wraps his arms around Watson, kissing him deeply as he tries to pin Watson back to the bed.

Ah, now, this was going to be the perfect way to christen their new bedroom, their new bed, their new home. Doubtlessly, to make it complete, Watson was at some point in the future going to have to try for the upper hand and take the dominant role, but for now, he was more than content with this. Bending Holmes over the arm of a chair and taking him, relentlessly, had all sorts of promise to it. Possibly he could be indulgent and involve his uniform. Holmes might enjoy that. Watson suspected he certainly would.

But for now, he slipped down gladly under Holmes's guidance, clutching at him, refusing to break the kiss for as long as he could go without breath, as though attempting to breathe in Holmes himself. When he did have to break away, gasping, he buried his hands in Holmes's hair and held his face close. "You have your challenge, then," he managed, breathless. "Make me incoherent and loud."

He loves their sex, he truly does; it is possibly some of the best he's ever had, because with Gideon they were both too young to truly grasp the nuances of what they were doing, and Victor was never as fully committed as Watson is. And to be honest, Holmes's heart wasn't as in it then, after everything that had just happened.

But the two of them together now is glorious because they are both adventurous and unafraid, enthusiastic and confident; they push each other's boundaries and the other always pushes back. Here, even as Watson submits to him, instead of begging Holmes to do something, he's challenging Holmes. And Holmes loves rising to a challenge.

"Challenge accepted," he breathes against Watson's ear, his voice low and promisingly dangerous. He leaves a trail of none-too-delicate kisses down Watson's neck and onto his chest, safer territory for what he's about to do. He bites Watson roughly, his hands possessively moving down Watson's body until he can grab Watson's arse.

With such a challenge given, the last thing Watson could have done was make it easy for Holmes. Still, it was an effort to choke down on the cry that threatened to break from him at that bite on his chest. It would leave a mark, it would have to leave a mark, he couldn't imagine it somehow not leaving a mark, but somehow that was perfect, too. They were owning this bed, this cottage, and each other, and if Watson had to wear physical evidence of that, then that was just a little bit perfect.

His back was arched, his body full of tension -- a wonderful sort of tension, too -- and he reached down to take Holmes by the hair. He had to take hold of something, just then.

He looks up at Watson, amused at his stifled cry. So that's how it's going to go. He leaves tender kisses across Watson's chest, paying some attention to one of his nipples, before he finds another place to leave a bite, somewhat gentler than the other. He doesn't want to mark Watson up entirely; he is at least that considerate.

"Hand me the lotion," he orders, glancing up at Watson again to ensure compliance. He resumes his attentions to Watson's chest, moving steadily lower.

It was easy to be thankful that they'd had the sense to put such things within quick and easy reach; it was less easy, just then, to remember where that had been. Watson stretched towards the bedside table, rooting around blindly in the drawer until his fingers closed upon what felt like a likely sort of tube.

"Here," he managed, after a brief glance to make sure that he did, indeed, have the right thing out of the drawer before thrusting it in Holmes's direction. Buggery was not the sort of pastime that allowed for foolish risks, after all. There was a wildness to his actions all the same, but he could hardly be blamed for that. A lot of it was mere anticipation, knowing what was to come, unable to hurry the process along any.

"How obedient of you," he murmurs, though it somehow manages to sound like a threat. The look in his eyes is dark and dangerously playful, and he travels lower, kissing the insides of Watson's thighs as he slicks up his fingers. While he's down there, he may as well kiss up the shaft of Watson's cock as he starts with one finger, pushing it past Watson's entrance.

He watches Watson's reactions carefully, trying not to grin too widely. Watson is so wonderfully sexy when he's so definitely given himself over to his animal urges.

Holmes's dangerous tone, preceding that first intimate breach which he had been waiting for, desperate for -- it was almost too much. Watson bit down on his lip, hard, but he groaned despite that. He was rapidly losing his own challenge, but as far as he had been concerned, it was more advantageous that way. He certainly had no desire to win.

"Oh, God, yes," he gasped, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands momentarily fisting convulsively in the bed linens. With an effort, he opened his eyes again to be able to see, to watch Holmes at work.

He hadn't been expecting that Watson would be able to resist making noise for too long -- that simply isn't how Watson operates -- but to see him cave is certainly a satisfying experience. His hand settles into a steady rhythm, familiar as he is with Watson's body; it's nearly second nature now.

"What was that?" he teases, a dark glint in his eye. "I didn't quite hear you."

He entertains himself with more light, teasing attention to Watson's cock, more interested in working him up than giving him any relief at all, and after a few moments he switches his attentions. He moves his kisses to Watson's inner thighs, biting as hard as he dares to without seriously harming Watson.

Watson gasped, shutting his eyes again. "I swear," he said, with a great effort, "that you are the very Devil himself." Half the reason he said anything at all was because he was struggling to prove that he was not yet entirely incoherent, and therefore Holmes had not yet won the challenge. At the same time, he had to wonder about the wisdom of provoking Holmes too much, because he was already very hard, and admittedly quite entirely at Holmes's mercy. It was have anticipation of what was still to come, he was sure, or he might have been sure had he the mental faculties to spare on it.

Despite the near torture, there was nothing in his body language that was not complete surrender, besides the lingering effort at remaining coherent enough to form words and not merely insensible sounds. He spread his legs, grateful for every little violent touch of teeth on the delicate skin of his thighs, craving more of it and also tempted to demand Holmes simply get the business over with and fuck him already.

Truthfully, he isn't interested in prolonging this, himself. They already had a long preamble in the kitchen, his appetite is certainly whetted, and he's eager to fuck Watson into incoherence. He adds another finger, increasing the rhythm of his hand purely to torment Watson a little more, and at the offering of more thigh, well, he leaves another set of rough bites against his skin. Satisfying himself, he lifts his head, a smirk twisting his lips.

"If you take issue with my devilish nature, then may I point out that the door is open," he says silkily, as he begins to scissor his fingers.

"Did that sound like a complaint?" Watson grunted. He was, in fact, rapidly losing the ability to form complete sentences, but also determined to hold out for as long as he could.

Despite his battle for silence, out of pride more than anything else, he let out a long moan, caught between exquisite sensation and the agony of drawing out the moment, teeth and fingers in dangerous places, and dear God he was going to repay Holmes for this next time he had him at his mercy. It was part revenge and part repaid debt, but he would have the man babbling and insensible before they were through.

"Bloody hell," he gasped, coarsely. "Would you get it over with and fuck me, for the love of God."

His smirk slides into a grin and he kisses Watson's thigh before he sits back on his heels. He's mastered the art of continuing to prepare Watson while opening the bottle of lotion in order to prepare himself. It's a useful skill, and one he's enjoyed practicing. He works his hand own hand over his cock, fully intending on giving Watson a brief show.

"So you eagerly get into bed with the Devil?" he asks, semi-playful, though there's far too much lust in his voice now to fully succeed at sounding light. He slides his hand free from Watson so that he can instead position himself properly over Watson.

"My, my. You are a slave to your desires." His desire has taken over his voice completely as he brushes a teasing kiss against Watson's lips, and he pushes his hips forward. Now he has to bite back his own moan, and he buries his face against Watson's neck, one hand keeping a firm hold on Watson's hip.

Watson did eagerly get into bed with the Devil, that was true enough, but his only answer -- the only one he was capable of, to be certain -- was a long and satisfied sound, low in his throat, halfway between a moan and a cry. Words were not his allies, right then, because there were no words to describe the intensity of finally having Holmes's cock inside him after being tortured by the waiting for it. He had lost this challenge, lost it utterly, only really needed more volume to make it official, but he had been playing to lose in the first place.

One hand was gripping the bedcloths with white knuckles, but he brought the other to Holmes's side, needing to hold him, seeking some symmetry for that hand on his hip. His eyes were half-lidded; as tempting as it was to let his eyes close and revel in pure physical sensation, he wanted to see Holmes's face, if and when he pulled away from Watson's neck. He wanted to see the expressions that passed over Holmes's face as he fucked Watson.

Distantly he realizes he's half won the challenge. It was never going to be a challenge, truly, and he knows that, but regardless it's worth noting that next he needs to make Watson be loud. This shallow, preliminary rhythm he's slipped into for the moment is hardly going to do anything at all to move Holmes toward his goal.

He moves his hand from Watson's hip to the back of his knee, hitching his leg up and giving Holmes a better angle from which to fuck Watson with a faster, hungrier pace. He can't help groaning then, tilting his head back for a moment with his eyes shut tight. His breath is coming in ragged bursts as he catches Watson's half-lidded eyes, and he leans in to give him a brief kiss.

Giving an enthusiastic groan, Watson threw his head back, bucking up into Holmes's thrusts, trying to match his rhythm. His breath came in short, desperate grunts which were already completely out of his control. Everything in the world was Holmes, scent and sensation and sight; he could even still taste him from that brief kiss.

He was as aroused as he had ever been in his life, in posession of an achingly hard and mostly untouched erection, and he was in no mind to let it be ignored a moment longer. Watson couldn't quite bring himself to release his white-knuckled grip on the sheets, but he brought his other hand in close and wrapped his fingers roughtly around his own cock. Even that was a relief, but he stroked himself with an almost violent desperation, trying to fit it into the wildness. The grunts of his breathing were rapidly becoming definite cries, sharply rhythmic moans that he could not have stopped if he'd wanted to.

Watson is beautiful. He's handsome all of the time, but when he's in the throes of ecstasy like this, wild and reckless and uncaring, he's indescribably beautiful, certainly the sexiest person he's ever encountered, and certainly that he's ever bedded. He's so confident and demanding, even in the submissive position, and that attitude is far sexier to Holmes than a wholly obedient one.

Even though this challenge was about driving Watson to incoherent noise, Holmes finds a side effect is that he's falling to it himself. His grunts are rapidly turning to short, sharp groans as he clings to Watson's knee and drives into him forcefully. He tries to keep his eyes open, wanting to watch Watson writhe beneath him, to watch him pleasuring himself, but his eyes keep falling shut of their own accord.

He was too far gone for any noise that came from him to have even the faintest similarity to real words, and it wasn't long before Watson was honestly shouting, desperate under every thrust, every muscle in his body taut and humming. Holmes had won, just as he'd known, hoped he would, and he had, by way of ceaselessly rough rhythm, driven almost every conscious thought out of Watson's head.

It was only because of their earlier activities that Watson was able to last like he did. He was sweaty, growing quickly exhausted, but he rose to meet Holmes with every thrust as much as he was able. He held out as long as he could, but it could only last so long. With his back arching, he gave a sudden yell that was more than halfway a moan, and came, hard, tension quickly evaporating, his cry softening at the end to almost a whimper, if a pleased and deeply satiated one.

Without question Holmes has won his challenge, but he himself is pretty incoherent, and his groans have turned into small cries of his own (though not quite as loud as Watson's, he is eager to point out). Somehow that seems to diminish the win, though it doesn't go against the rules -- and regardless, he's enjoying himself immensely.

Generally when Holmes is in the dominant position he prefers to wait until his partner has reached their end before he allows himself to reach his own; it seems the most polite thing to do. This evening is no exception, though he begins to wonder if it will be, as his restraint cracks and the tension tightening in his muscles threatens to break.

After Watson's cry, it's only few thrusts before Holmes finishes with a cry, rocking forward into Watson one last time. He drops his head onto Watson's shoulder to catch his breath, his hair quite matted to his forehead, which he will have to fix in a moment. For now he wants the liquid exhaustion in his body to settle enough so that he can find the strength to roll over.

"I won," he mumbles, breathing heavily.

"I was rather hoping you would," Watson confessed, still quite breathless. He put his hand to the back of Holmes's neck, cupping gently, and moved just enough to seek out Holmes's mouth with his own. The kiss was very loving, very tender, and also utterly exhausted. He could think of any number of things to say along the lines of whether they had successfully disturbed the neighbours, but he had absolutely energy to actually voice any of them, or to say anything else at all for the time being. He'd managed a whole eight syllables; he didn't think he had anything else left in him.

He put his arms around Holmes, and drew him very close.

The kiss is perfect for the moment and Holmes lets himself be embraced, not that he's particularly eager to do anything that doesn't involve being near Watson. He closes his eyes, enjoying being still and tucked safely against Watson's chest.

"I thought you knew better than to play to lose," he murmurs when he manages to get his breath back and speaking seems possible.

It was another long moment before Watson found the breath to answer. He was wonderfully exhausted, perfectly so, and answering seemed a good deal less urgent than simply continuing the moment.

"Typically," he said at last, "yes. When it's horses or dice or cards, certainly. But sometimes there's more benefit in losing. Now, for example." This was almost an immpossibly long speech, in his current state, and it was more than a little slurred. He rubbed his thumb gently against the nape of Holmes's neck.

awww yeah

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)