mustbethetruth | awww yeah

Entry tags:

awww yeah

continued from here

To be honest, he isn't sure what he'd been waiting for; perhaps he was trying to see how long he could last without kissing, or clinging, or betraying his desire in any overly forward way; or maybe he was waiting for the both of them to be bared to the waist, so that when he finally gave in, they could begin right away with the honey aspect of this.

Regardless of what he'd been waiting for, it appears as if the moment has arrived. Certainly he can't negotiate himself into waiting longer. He reaches for Watson, sliding his hand into his hair, and pulls him in for an unapologetically passionate kiss.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

Holmes is rapidly feeling the pull of sleep get tighter, which means he ought to situate himself on the bed, which means summoning up some effort. He takes a deep breath and lifts his head enough to brush a kiss across Watson's lips, and thus strengthened, he shifts sideways. Stretching out beside Watson, he wraps his arm across Watson's chest and presses close.

"That was a mutually beneficial competition," he murmurs contentedly, lightly kissing Watson's shoulder. "Mm, darling, you have worn me out. Shall we say good night?"

"You'll forgive me if I'm not up to a third round," Watson murmured.

He shifted, stretching, settling automatically into a position that would not cause undue strain on his bad leg and one that allowed him to lie close to Holmes, an arm draped lazily over him. He reached for the blankets, and pulled them around both of them.

Watson pressed a kiss to Holmes's throat, a very gentle one. "Good night," he said.

"Forgive you, indeed. Good night, my dear."

It isn't long until he falls into a comfortable sleep, content and safe in the arms of his husband, nestled in their marital bed. Sometime once the sun's come up he stirs awake, but it feels early and he's far too warm and comfortable to think about getting up yet, so he throws his arm around Watson again and huddles close, managing to doze off for another couple of hours.

By the time he wakes again, he knows it must be time to get up, but the thought is far from desirable. Making a soft noise of complaint, he shifts closer again and softly kisses Watson's shoulder, shutting his eyes once again.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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