Holmes is seriously trying to behave

[mustbethetruth]

Continued from here.

He bites back another sigh. His mental image of a diagram of the female sex flickers as Watson shifts against him, further confirming that Holmes is rather trapped against Watson. God, but he smells good. With Watson's head against him, his nose is practically in Watson's hair. He catches himself inhaling Watson's scent and abruptly stops, exhaling instead. Giving Watson's hand a squeeze, he directs his gaze to the floor of the bathroom.

"I think after too long I would start to feel like a cucumber in a stew," he says, realizing belatedly that he'd chosen a rather phallic image for himself. He bites the inside of his cheek and starts remembering the various smells, colors, and densities of the mud in London.

Comments

[mustbethetruth]

He feels Watson's moan as much as he hears it and repays the favor, moaning around Watson's cock as he moves his hand to draw him in deep. Holmes would be reluctant to admit it, but his inventiveness is wearing thin; his mind is diverting more attention to the mouth on his own cock, and it's rather unwilling to change that.

He begins moving his mouth on Watson in earnest, finding a steady rhythm that's certainly not intended to be very teasing. He does, at least, cup Watson's bollocks, teasing them with his fingers because he isn't about to give up this inventiveness game so easily.

[lightconductor]

It was difficult not to thrust into Holmes's mouth impatiently; instead Watson focused on trying to match Holmes in intensity, with his fingers stroking skin that he couldn't quite take into his mouth. He started to slip into a rhythm to match the one Holmes was using, steady and eager. It was natural to do so, and all too easy.

Not to mention thoroughly enjoyable.

Watson pressed the pace faster, eager and groaning a little.

[mustbethetruth]

The upside of remaining focused on a task such as sucking Watson's cock, while Watson returns the favor, is that Holmes is sufficiently distracted to be able to prolong is his own stamina. That's important when coming out of a dry spell, which usually leaves Holmes feeling ready to come apart under Watson's touch. He holds himself together as long as he can until finally Watson's mouth is simply too much.

He regrets it, but he releases Watson to press his face against Watson's thigh, hissing out a warning before his muscles start to tense. He gives a small, quiet cry when his orgasm hits him, and remains still while it reverberates through him.

When he recovers enough, he lifts his head and resumes his attention to Watson, eager to help him to his end, knowing that he can soon collapse into Watson's arms.

[lightconductor]

With the taste of Holmes's semen in his mouth, and somewhere under his own distraction ridiculously gratified at hearing that little cry of Holmes's, Watson clutched at Holmes's thigh, gasping in small, short breaths. His muscles were all taut with tension, and for the moment at least there was no room in his brain for pain; his nerve endings were far too busy communicating deep, sensual pleasure.

With a long grunt, half a groan, he tipped over into his orgasm, and he clutched at Holmes's leg, his eyes squeezed shut through it.

At last, he opened his eyes, and slid his fingers lazily down Holmes's thigh in a wordless caress that spoke of vast tenderness; speech had not quite returned to him.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes rests his face again against Watson's thigh, enjoying the kind of intimacy that lets his head rest there so comfortably, but this position isn't the most comfortable he could be in. Soon enough, he picks himself up and repositions, settling down against Watson's side and burrowing close.

"You're a very good husband indeed," he murmurs against Watson's neck, his fingers splayed across Watson's ribs. Holmes very much hopes he'd achieved his goal of bringing some pleasant relief to Watson, but he doesn't want to ask how Watson feels. The spell would only break.

[lightconductor]

Watson covered Holmes's hand with his own, aware of the pace of his breathing, of the pound of his heart. He was, indeed, feeling just as boneless as Holmes had promised to make him. He inclined his head towards Holmes slightly, his eyes closed, but otherwise moving as little as possible.

"The same applies to you," he murmured. He stroked his fingertips lightly over Holmes's hand, and smiled to himself. "And to think, you thought I wouldn't be interested in that right now." He gave a small puff of laughter, his hand closing around Holmes's.