[FANFIC] Smug Bastard -- Holmes/Watson PWP
Title: Smug Bastard
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (they're characterized pretty '09 as far as I can guess...)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: R (they is doing sex...I don't personally think it's NC-17, quite, but they are in the act. YAY.)
Summary: For a prompt on the meme (can't find it. oh well.) Holmes and Watson christen their new sette.
Warnings: Um. PWP. The abuse of upholstery? (don't get the wrong idea; the upholstery isn't really involved farther than being sat on.) This has the attributes of an un-betaed and not really touched up kink meme fill (because it is one).
Watson gasped and dug his fingers into the rough weave of the upholstery, vaguely registering that he was feeling none of the familiar lumps and worn spots, and as Holmes paused momentarily in response to his gasp, he just managed to scrape together enough brain function to remember why. And what they'd been arguing about before this had started. He would only be able to manage a last half-hearted protest in his current state (Watson douted his resolve was about to recover when he'd already given enough figurative ground for the man to entice and bully him this far), but; "Damn it, Holmes, I've said the settee will be ruined..."
"I feel-" And Holmes bit his lip and illustrated this point with a small rock of his hips. Watson moaned. "I feel that your mind is still-ah-lingering on unimportant facts, my dear Watson. And you already know my opinion on useless information."
Watson opened his mouth, acerbic retorts to Holmes prattling too much of a conditioned response to let go of, even now, but the detective interrupted him before he could actually come up with something to say.
Holmes tongue in his mouth, Watson decided, was a strong enought argument that he could back down at this point without losing any of his dignity.
At least, that dignity which hadn't already gone missing (along with his trousers) whilst he was being shoved into their new armchair, silenced with a strong hand over his mouth, and having his lap forcibly occupied by a rather determined and wiry Sherlock Holmes.
Watson snapped back to the present with another choked gasp as Holmes released his mouth, shifted his weight back, and lowered himself farther down. Watson stared in mesmerized fascination as the detective hissed and bit his lip, knees sliding against the outsides of Watson's thighs, hands scrabbling for purchase against the arms of the sette, against Watson's own shaking fingers.
They were both panting, hitched breaths and scraping fingernails against woven cloth, and Holmes eyes fluttering closed and legs trembling slightly against Watson's as he paused, held.
It took all of Watson's vanishing willpower not to buck upward into Holmes, but if there was anything he'd learned over their years together, it was that Holmes had a singular pace and rhythm to his actions that, when aided, brought good things. If you interrupted him forcibly, however...
"Holmes, please-" Watson finally prompted, desperately. The corner of Holmes' mouth twitched upward, and Watson only had time to think, smug bastard, before Holmes was sinking the rest of the way down into his lap, letting out a choked gasp that modulated into a moan that sounded like a name. Watsons flipped his hands over, releasing the settee arms and twining his own fingers with Holmes' desperately scrabbling ones, like a lifeline, like an anchor. Holmes let out a small whine and dropped his head forward to nuzzle into the crook of Watson's neck and shoulder, puffs of hot breath ghosting over tingling skin, and...
"I-hnn...I give, Holmes. To hell with the chair," He mumbled weakly into the sweat-beaded skin of Holmes' temple. Holmes purred satisfaction, and Watson wished, for a second, that he could have the presence of mind to be annoyed right now.
"I knew you'd come around."
Smug bastard.