A Little Vanilla is Good for the Soul - Sherlock Holmes - Holmes/Watson
Title: A Little Vanilla is Good for the Soul
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 1580
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written with a prompt from citrus_taste, because I left the cinema with the feeling that smut needed to be written.
Summary: With anyone other than Watson, Holmes would have long since grown bored of such conventional activities.
With any other person Holmes would no doubt have grown bored by this point.
It is a significant indication that your life is filled with far too many sins and vices when simple sex can be a bore. He has done everything that his exceptional mind can dream of with the various women of his acquaintance. He has sampled every single one of life's rude pleasures until he has become accustomed to them all, left chasing a blind high that gets further and further from him every time. If any woman he knew insisted on having sex only in the most basic position, on a bed, with the curtains drawn and the lights dimmed, she would soon find herself looking for another bed to warm.
Yet Watson is stubbornly different in a way that Holmes does not care to examine with cold logic, worried that he would find it crumbling beneath the weight of his mind's gaze. When he sticks to soft, vanilla sex, Holmes finds it endearing, not frustrating. He is happy to slide between Watson's parted legs and take what is on offer. Watson's skin is pale and his leg is scarred. The skin of his thigh is rough when Holmes's fingertips glide over it, and it always makes Watson lean down to reposition his hand, moving it up to his hip instead.
Watson's mustache prickles against Holmes's upper lip as they kiss, slow and steady. His waiting mouth is warm and his tongue is experienced in the art of distracting him thoroughly. It is only great concentration and fantastic multitasking skills that enables Holmes to kiss him while simultaneously positioning himself to slide into Watson's already prepared hole. There's something special and familiar about the soft hitch in Watson's breath when he first breaches him, and Holmes knows that he won't release that breath until he has entered deep and pushed in as far as he can. This shouldn't enchant him any more. He knows Watson too well.
It doesn't bore him. He doesn't bore him. Watson is one of the few mysteries he has never unravelled and one of the few men that he has never been able to fully understand.
His eyes close as he pushes into the welcoming clasp of Watson's body. Watson's hands hold onto his biceps, his short, neat nails digging into his skin. "I'm in," he breathes against Watson's skin. Perhaps it is a statement that does not require voicing; while Watson's skills in deduction are not quite comparable to Holmes's own, he is far from an unfeeling imbecile. He can feel the way that Watson's lips turn in a smirk and knows that Watson's thoughts are following that particular line of reasoning.
One significant reason why he does not cast Watson from his bed is the opportunity to wipe such a smirk away. He pulls out with slow devotion, relishing the friction against his cock, but the best sensation is when Watson's breath catches again when he slams brutally back inside. He opens his eyes once more to see the expression on his companion's face, open and vulnerable and completely smirk-free.
"Not so rough," Watson insists behind clenched teeth, although his prick is hard and red between them.
"I could show you so much about the world of pleasure, Watson," Holmes murmurs as his hand explores the skin of Watson's thigh once more. Watson doesn't move to stop him now, distracted no doubt by the blunt stretch of Holmes embedded inside him. Holmes doesn't move yet. He is in no rush if he is to play by Watson's rules. "The list of things I'd like to do to you would no doubt fill a good book or two."
"A dirty book or two," Watson specifies.
Holmes crooks a wicked smirk of his own. "I would have thought that goes without saying."
After a moment's restraint, a smile twitches its way onto Watson's lips. It's enough to chip away at Holmes's limited self-restraint and cause him to give in for a few moments, to kiss away that smile with a greedy mouth while he moves his hips in short, desperate thrusts that make Watson pant wildly. The bed shakes and the headboard bangs a rhythm against the nearby wall, such a perfect cliche. His breath is hot against Holmes's mouth and Watson makes a sound that Holmes has never heard before, something rumbling and animalistic that is drawn from his chest. Holmes files that noise away in the endless recesses of his brain for future reference.
It takes a great deal of effort and stamina to force himself to stop: it isn't only Watson that he is torturing here, it is also himself. He isn't fond of anything at all that prevents him from gaining immediate satisfaction, but he can persuade himself that it is for the benefit of the greater good.
"I like to think about fucking you hard," he confides in a tone of voice that is as low and filthy as he can manage. "You see your desk in the corner of the room? It is the perfect height for you to grasp hold of while I take you from behind. I could make you cry so prettily, Watson, if only you'd let me."
Watson's answer is a frustrated grunt - which, at the very least, is not a complete rejection of the idea. Progress. Watson glides his hands down from Holmes's arms and finds his arse instead, gripping hold and pulling in order to encourage Holmes to move again. He consents and fucks him slowly, still thinking away. He always has had a terrible time trying to lose himself in the moment. His thoughts will never shut up.
"I used to pick up men and bring them back here," he pants. Although their pace is slow and far from energetic, the tight clasp of Watson around his dick would wind even the fittest of men.
"I know," Watson complains. "I could hear you."
"I used to do the most extraordinary things to them," Holmes continues as if Watson had not interrupted. Sometimes, he thinks, it is better for both of them if he doesn't pay attention to Watson when he whines. It is certainly better for his ear drums. "Things that, as a doctor, you might argue were medically inadvisable. I'd like to do them with you. I like to think about doing them with you, in any case, but putting thought into action would be far more satisfactory."
"You can do that with anyone," Watson points out. He is quite correct. "You do do that with anyone."
On that count, however, he is growing less and less correct by the day. Holmes no longer samples strangers in quite the way that he used to. He isn't sure of exactly the reason why, as he doubts that it is the case that Watson's stunning originality and variety of sexual acts keeps him intrigued. Watson refuses to even have sex with him more than two, maybe three times a day. We have other activities that require our attention, Holmes, he always scolds whenever Holmes tries to push too far. Need I remind you of the consequences should we be discovered?
Holmes has never cared greatly for consequences, but he does care for Watson - and so he will back off when he is told to.
His breathing stutters when Watson's mouth unexpectedly finds the shell of his ear. His teeth graze it. "Anyone can offer base pleasures and sweet sin," Watson whispers. His hands still cup the flesh of Holmes's arse, guiding his slow, shallow thrusts into his waiting body. Watson pulls back from Holmes's ear and rests his head against the pillow. "Yet this is what I have for you. This."
He looks straight into Holmes's eyes as he speaks, and Holmes feels as if there is something physical and weighing between them. A gaze should not feel so corporeal. It should not be so real. There is nothing spectacular about the eyes themselves, other than a slightly unusual colour. They ought to have no physical effect.
Yet when Watson moves a hand to the back of his head and pulls him down, Holmes is powerless to resist. They kiss as slowly and as thoroughly as they fuck, and Holmes reaches between them to touch the hard, firm flesh of Watson's cock and stroke him confidently. Both of them whimper with weakness from their joined lips and both of them sweat against the white sheets. His hips slide with well-aimed intentions and Holmes delights in the way that Watson's back arches. Radiant, absolutely radiant.
He pulls back from their love-drenched kiss as he hears the choked sound that means that Watson is about to come. He watches his face with concentration as he pushes deep into his body, his hand tightening its grip on Watson's cock.
Watson's face has flushed a beautiful shade of pink by the time he spills hot, white liquid against Holmes's stomach. His eyes have screwed shut and his hand grips onto the hair at the back of Holmes's head. It's really rather painful.
"Holmes," Watson pants. "Sherlock..."
The use of his Christian name sounds oddly obscene from Watson's red lips, and Holmes kisses it away, resuming his gentle driving into Watson's welcoming body with the pursuit of his own sweet pleasure in mind now. Slow, soft and careful are the words to describe their coupling. It ought to be boring; he ought to be so bored by now.
His hand skims up Watson's side, over sweat-slick skin and panting ribs. Watson moans, spent and exhausted, and Holmes smiles in contentment at the sight of the sated man beneath him.
No, he thinks as he chases his own high, I am unlikely to ever grow tired of this.
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 1580
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written with a prompt from citrus_taste, because I left the cinema with the feeling that smut needed to be written.
Summary: With anyone other than Watson, Holmes would have long since grown bored of such conventional activities.
With any other person Holmes would no doubt have grown bored by this point.
It is a significant indication that your life is filled with far too many sins and vices when simple sex can be a bore. He has done everything that his exceptional mind can dream of with the various women of his acquaintance. He has sampled every single one of life's rude pleasures until he has become accustomed to them all, left chasing a blind high that gets further and further from him every time. If any woman he knew insisted on having sex only in the most basic position, on a bed, with the curtains drawn and the lights dimmed, she would soon find herself looking for another bed to warm.
Yet Watson is stubbornly different in a way that Holmes does not care to examine with cold logic, worried that he would find it crumbling beneath the weight of his mind's gaze. When he sticks to soft, vanilla sex, Holmes finds it endearing, not frustrating. He is happy to slide between Watson's parted legs and take what is on offer. Watson's skin is pale and his leg is scarred. The skin of his thigh is rough when Holmes's fingertips glide over it, and it always makes Watson lean down to reposition his hand, moving it up to his hip instead.
Watson's mustache prickles against Holmes's upper lip as they kiss, slow and steady. His waiting mouth is warm and his tongue is experienced in the art of distracting him thoroughly. It is only great concentration and fantastic multitasking skills that enables Holmes to kiss him while simultaneously positioning himself to slide into Watson's already prepared hole. There's something special and familiar about the soft hitch in Watson's breath when he first breaches him, and Holmes knows that he won't release that breath until he has entered deep and pushed in as far as he can. This shouldn't enchant him any more. He knows Watson too well.
It doesn't bore him. He doesn't bore him. Watson is one of the few mysteries he has never unravelled and one of the few men that he has never been able to fully understand.
His eyes close as he pushes into the welcoming clasp of Watson's body. Watson's hands hold onto his biceps, his short, neat nails digging into his skin. "I'm in," he breathes against Watson's skin. Perhaps it is a statement that does not require voicing; while Watson's skills in deduction are not quite comparable to Holmes's own, he is far from an unfeeling imbecile. He can feel the way that Watson's lips turn in a smirk and knows that Watson's thoughts are following that particular line of reasoning.
One significant reason why he does not cast Watson from his bed is the opportunity to wipe such a smirk away. He pulls out with slow devotion, relishing the friction against his cock, but the best sensation is when Watson's breath catches again when he slams brutally back inside. He opens his eyes once more to see the expression on his companion's face, open and vulnerable and completely smirk-free.
"Not so rough," Watson insists behind clenched teeth, although his prick is hard and red between them.
"I could show you so much about the world of pleasure, Watson," Holmes murmurs as his hand explores the skin of Watson's thigh once more. Watson doesn't move to stop him now, distracted no doubt by the blunt stretch of Holmes embedded inside him. Holmes doesn't move yet. He is in no rush if he is to play by Watson's rules. "The list of things I'd like to do to you would no doubt fill a good book or two."
"A dirty book or two," Watson specifies.
Holmes crooks a wicked smirk of his own. "I would have thought that goes without saying."
After a moment's restraint, a smile twitches its way onto Watson's lips. It's enough to chip away at Holmes's limited self-restraint and cause him to give in for a few moments, to kiss away that smile with a greedy mouth while he moves his hips in short, desperate thrusts that make Watson pant wildly. The bed shakes and the headboard bangs a rhythm against the nearby wall, such a perfect cliche. His breath is hot against Holmes's mouth and Watson makes a sound that Holmes has never heard before, something rumbling and animalistic that is drawn from his chest. Holmes files that noise away in the endless recesses of his brain for future reference.
It takes a great deal of effort and stamina to force himself to stop: it isn't only Watson that he is torturing here, it is also himself. He isn't fond of anything at all that prevents him from gaining immediate satisfaction, but he can persuade himself that it is for the benefit of the greater good.
"I like to think about fucking you hard," he confides in a tone of voice that is as low and filthy as he can manage. "You see your desk in the corner of the room? It is the perfect height for you to grasp hold of while I take you from behind. I could make you cry so prettily, Watson, if only you'd let me."
Watson's answer is a frustrated grunt - which, at the very least, is not a complete rejection of the idea. Progress. Watson glides his hands down from Holmes's arms and finds his arse instead, gripping hold and pulling in order to encourage Holmes to move again. He consents and fucks him slowly, still thinking away. He always has had a terrible time trying to lose himself in the moment. His thoughts will never shut up.
"I used to pick up men and bring them back here," he pants. Although their pace is slow and far from energetic, the tight clasp of Watson around his dick would wind even the fittest of men.
"I know," Watson complains. "I could hear you."
"I used to do the most extraordinary things to them," Holmes continues as if Watson had not interrupted. Sometimes, he thinks, it is better for both of them if he doesn't pay attention to Watson when he whines. It is certainly better for his ear drums. "Things that, as a doctor, you might argue were medically inadvisable. I'd like to do them with you. I like to think about doing them with you, in any case, but putting thought into action would be far more satisfactory."
"You can do that with anyone," Watson points out. He is quite correct. "You do do that with anyone."
On that count, however, he is growing less and less correct by the day. Holmes no longer samples strangers in quite the way that he used to. He isn't sure of exactly the reason why, as he doubts that it is the case that Watson's stunning originality and variety of sexual acts keeps him intrigued. Watson refuses to even have sex with him more than two, maybe three times a day. We have other activities that require our attention, Holmes, he always scolds whenever Holmes tries to push too far. Need I remind you of the consequences should we be discovered?
Holmes has never cared greatly for consequences, but he does care for Watson - and so he will back off when he is told to.
His breathing stutters when Watson's mouth unexpectedly finds the shell of his ear. His teeth graze it. "Anyone can offer base pleasures and sweet sin," Watson whispers. His hands still cup the flesh of Holmes's arse, guiding his slow, shallow thrusts into his waiting body. Watson pulls back from Holmes's ear and rests his head against the pillow. "Yet this is what I have for you. This."
He looks straight into Holmes's eyes as he speaks, and Holmes feels as if there is something physical and weighing between them. A gaze should not feel so corporeal. It should not be so real. There is nothing spectacular about the eyes themselves, other than a slightly unusual colour. They ought to have no physical effect.
Yet when Watson moves a hand to the back of his head and pulls him down, Holmes is powerless to resist. They kiss as slowly and as thoroughly as they fuck, and Holmes reaches between them to touch the hard, firm flesh of Watson's cock and stroke him confidently. Both of them whimper with weakness from their joined lips and both of them sweat against the white sheets. His hips slide with well-aimed intentions and Holmes delights in the way that Watson's back arches. Radiant, absolutely radiant.
He pulls back from their love-drenched kiss as he hears the choked sound that means that Watson is about to come. He watches his face with concentration as he pushes deep into his body, his hand tightening its grip on Watson's cock.
Watson's face has flushed a beautiful shade of pink by the time he spills hot, white liquid against Holmes's stomach. His eyes have screwed shut and his hand grips onto the hair at the back of Holmes's head. It's really rather painful.
"Holmes," Watson pants. "Sherlock..."
The use of his Christian name sounds oddly obscene from Watson's red lips, and Holmes kisses it away, resuming his gentle driving into Watson's welcoming body with the pursuit of his own sweet pleasure in mind now. Slow, soft and careful are the words to describe their coupling. It ought to be boring; he ought to be so bored by now.
His hand skims up Watson's side, over sweat-slick skin and panting ribs. Watson moans, spent and exhausted, and Holmes smiles in contentment at the sight of the sated man beneath him.
No, he thinks as he chases his own high, I am unlikely to ever grow tired of this.