Fic: Sherlock Holmes: Between the Bookshelves
Title: Between the Bookshelves
Characters: Holmes/Watson
Words: 2,385
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Sexytimes! Another fill for kinkmeme. Prompt was:
Holmes/Watson in a library/study/somewhere with extensive book shelves. Some cute sexytimes up against said bookshelves would pretty much make my day/week/life. Especially if Watson frets over damaging the books. ♥
Yo, be gentle with me, I'm not used to writing sexytimes. This is, pretty much, PWP.
Watson made his way from bookshelf to bookshelf, lingering with the enthusiasm of a man who truly appreciated literature. He ran fingers across spines reverently, disturbing the thin layer of dust, and picked intriguing titles off the shelves to tenderly turn the pages inside. The room was large, and entirely devoted to books.
So involved was he that when Holmes marched loudly into the room, he jumped visibly.
‘There’s nothing here,’ Holmes said. ‘Just as I said. Now I have satisfied both yours and Lestrade’s curiosity - though do not for a moment think I shall make a habit of doing so.’
Watson ignored him. He’d turned his back to the other man, continuing to pour over the four or five texts he cradled in his hands.
‘The objects of evidence which I listed to you earlier will all be long removed by now. Redham would have taken them with him when he fled and disposed of them and - with his intelligence and cunning - he will do so properly. He will not simply dump them in the River. Watson, are you listening to me?’
‘Holmes,’ said Watson, with awe in his voice. ‘This is incredible! These books - all these books - !’
Holmes looked around the library, raising his eyebrows. ‘Yes? They are just books.’
‘No, you don’t understand - he’s got books on everything. Remarkable topics! This whole place is remarkable! I mean, look at this: a first edition of Geoffrey Mint’s theories on the sensitivity of the human mind! I cannot believe that a man like Redham collected these.’
Holmes pulled a face and wandered to the nearest shelf. ‘He didn’t. His uncle did, I’d say.’
‘Oh. Nevertheless, it does not detract from the incredibility of this collection.’
Holmes crossed his arms over his chest and leant against the old desk, watching Watson with affection.
Watson continued to chatter about the sheer joy of the library, until he became aware of the weight of Holmes’ eyes on his back. Turning, he saw a curious expression on the detective’s face.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, my dear man.’
Watson cocked an eyebrow, his fingers held poised over an especially interesting paragraph in his latest find. ‘Am I amusing you, Holmes?’
‘Absolument, Watson. I find myself quite entranced by your unexpected passion.’
‘How can you not find this place fascinating, Holmes? Look at it - there must surely be a title on every topic within these walls. There must be something to spark even your unusual interests - see here, there is a quaint little volume on poisons - ’
‘Ah, Watson.’
Watson froze. A faint, distant alarm bell sounded in his head. ‘Ah Watson, nothing,’ he said curtly.
‘The case, in my mind, is completed,’ sighed Holmes. ‘I knew as much when I saw that footprint in the clay. You, my dear Watson, did very well: I am proud of how much you have learnt from me, though you still have far to go.’
Watson rolled his eyes at the bookshelf. Holmes was about to launch into one of his egotistical prattles. ‘Tell me, have you ever seen such neat diagrams of the human skeleton before? I must write the title of this volume down - ’
He could hear Holmes moving behind him - and then suddenly the man was there at his back, a warm solid presence. Fingers brushed gently over Watson’s upper arm and he looked over his shoulder in surprise.
‘Holmes, what the - ’
The other man turned him and leant up to press a kiss to his lips.
Watson laughed, pulling himself away. ‘Dear God, old chap, do you really mean to do that here?’
‘Of course,’ said Holmes, plucking the books out of Watson’s hands and tossing them aside.
‘Holmes! The books!’ he cried in despair. Holmes took hold of Watson’s wrists, fingers and thumbs latching tight and commanding Watson’s full attention.
‘We’ll be caught,’ the doctor protested.
‘Really, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘We are the only two people in this house that has, by my estimation, been abandoned for approximately five weeks and three days. We left no obvious sign of our entry, and we are not near a window. Nobody will see us. The only person who has any possible idea that we could be here is Inspector Lestrade, and he will not be coming to check up on us. Now tell me if you please how, and by whom, we are going to be caught?’
Watson opened his mouth, but the words did not come. There should have been arguments, there should easily have been protests he could have made, but somewhere between his mind and his mouth they had got lost.
‘Holmes…’ he whispered.
‘It’s entirely your own fault anyway,’ said Holmes, and kissed him firmly on the lips. He still held Watson’s wrists, but when he felt the man surrender beneath him, he let go to clasp his hands around Watson’s neck instead.
Their kisses quickly turned hot and feverish, and despite his reservations Watson could feel his loins responding almost instantly.
Then Holmes pushed him heavily - and his back crashed into the bookshelves. Watson cried out in pain.
‘Holmes! You blithering, thick-skulled, dim-’
He was prevented from insulting Holmes any further by Holmes’ mouth pressed sweetly over his own. It was a soft - almost chaste - kiss this time, warm lips sliding slowly over Watson’s and Watson instinctively brought his hand to the back of Holmes’ head.
Holmes slipped back for air, his breath ruffling Watson’s moustache. Watson curled his fingers in Holmes’ unkempt hair and a moment later Holmes’ kisses returned. This one, though, was to the corner of Watson’s mouth, a reverent, teasing press; the second caught the edge of Watson’s moustache; the third, the side of his nose.
‘Holmes…’
‘Wat-son,’ drawled Holmes half-inarticulately, his mouth flush against Watson’s cheek. The name left a wet trail across Watson’s skin and Watson’s eyes fluttered shut.
Which was definitely a mistake. Holmes’ lips were suddenly there, warm and ever so tenderly alighting on the thin veil of Watson’s eyelids. The breath caught in Watson’s throat; his free hand found purchase in a tangled mix of Holmes’ jacket and waistcoat and curled into a fist.
Holmes kissed first one closed eye, then the second, and his lips moved back to Watson’s mouth, brushing against his nose on route. Watson returned the kiss with fierce passion - but Holmes seemed determined to make this slow and tender, and teasingly pulled his head backwards by degrees until Watson calmed.
‘Slowly, John, slowly,’ he murmured, in a quiet, mocking voice.
‘Holmes.’ Watson’s tone was firm, and he twisted his head upwards and sideways to prevent Holmes silencing him. ‘We should get back to Baker Street. We can get a cab back - there’s bound to be a hansom nearby, or even a hackney - this isn’t the place for this.’
Holmes was undeterred by Watson’s evasion techniques. Instead, he brushed his mouth against the sharp line of Watson’s jaw.
‘Watson,’ he said, nuzzling in that dip just where Watson’s jaw met his neck. ‘Would you, in all truth -’ a slightly rougher, grazing kiss to Watson’s throat - ‘prefer it if I was pleasuring you in a cab?’ A skim of lips over Watson’s Adam’s apple. ‘Even a hackney, to my mind -’ another caress of lips to skin, approaching the bottom of Watson’s neck; a small noise from Watson - ‘is a little too… public.’
Holmes finished with a sharp nip of teeth above Watson’s collar. Watson groaned.
‘Blast it, Holmes, why do you never give me a choice in these matters?’
Holmes chuckled and returned his lips to Watson’s neck, pressing as low as Watson’s shirt collar would allow him.
‘I told you: you brought it on yourself.’ He casually bucked his hips upwards, catching Watson unawares. Watson gasped and threw his hand out for support. He caught a book - with enough force to send it flying off the shelf and onto the floor.
‘Holmes - the books -’
‘Just books, my dear Watson.’ Holmes’ fingers were digging into Watson’s hips now, thumbs rubbing tiny, teasing oscillations. Watson’s hand grasped the edge of the shelf waist-height behind him. There were shelves digging into his back and shoulders; he could see five or six volumes scattered without care on the floor; and he thought of how proper, how decent this room must have always been until now, until Holmes had decided to violate it.
Watson groaned deep in his throat, and the vibrations trembled through Holmes’ lips. ‘The books, Holmes.’
Holmes pressed his hand deliberately to the bulge in Watson’s trousers. ‘Forget the books, Watson.’
Watson groaned again, his hips rocking against Holmes’ hand of their own volition, but he said, ‘If those books are damaged, Holmes - if there is as much as a crease in a page, then I swear you’ll suffer for it.’
‘Punishment, my dear?’ Watson felt the quirk of Holmes’ eyebrow against his throat and tightened the fingers that were still curled in Holmes’ hair. ‘How primitive of you.’
Watson clenched further and Holmes hissed. ‘You’re being spiteful, John. Play nice.’
He put both his hands on Watson’s thighs, spreading his fingers wide, and smoothed his palms up over the soft wool of the trousers. Just before reaching Watson’s groin, he stopped, his thumbs framing Watson’s cock. Once again he began to circle those infuriating, tantalizing thumbs, just at the top of Watson’s inner thighs.
Watson groaned. He let his head fall back and it hit against a shelf. A book shifted behind him. ‘Holmes.’
Holmes skimmed his hands back down Watson’s thighs - away from his groin, and almost to his knees, before starting the slow, tortuous trip back upwards. Watson thrust his hips in encouragement - and Holmes skated his hands backwards and started again.
‘Slow-ly,’ Holmes sung, grinning. He lent forwards and caught Watson’s chin delicately between his teeth. The bite was gentle, but he ran his tongue over the spot afterwards.
‘Dammit, Holmes, stop being such a whore and kiss me.’
‘Mmm, gladly,’ Holmes replied. Taking Watson’s face between his hands, he began to leisurely and thoroughly plunder Watson’s mouth with his tongue.
The distress Watson felt at Holmes’ hands leaving his thighs was soon forgotten. Holmes’ lips melded perfectly to his own; warm and wet, they slipped and slid over his mouth and brushed against his moustache. Holmes’s hands were strong on his cheeks - then Holmes’ tongue was inside his mouth, wrapping around his own with all the determined nature that was innately Holmes, and Watson moaned and felt the sound vibrated back to him.
Then Holmes’ hands had left Watson’s face and were dipping down to his trousers, rubbing and stroking at his thighs, at his hips, at the waistband of his trousers. His kisses grew slower again, withdrawing until they were fervent, quick pecks against Watson’s desperate lips.
Watson was about to get demanding, when Holmes’ fingers finally found the button of his trousers.
‘About time,’ he muttered against Holmes’ forehead, but then he couldn’t speak because Holmes’ hands had dipped inside and all his teasing had worked and Watson could not breathe.
Watson groaned something that could have been his lover’s name, his eyes closing. One slick hand grappled for support on the shelf; the other remained twined in Holmes’ hair. His breath came in short, shallow pulls, and as Holmes dropped to his knees, Watson’s head sunk backwards. He was trembling with sheer anticipation.
As Holmes’ hot, slick mouth curled around the tip of Watson’s cock, Watson forgot all of his protests. He groaned, and bucked, and Holmes pulled his mouth back with a pop.
‘Slowly, slowly,’ he muttered, pressing his face into Watson’s groin and peppering the place with wet kisses. His hand rolled around Waton’s prick and lazily moved up the length, up and down, up and down -
Watson was panting now, his trousers caught around his knees.
Holmes meandered his kisses back to Watson’s cock and kissed all the way up it, opening his fingers to make way for his lips. Reaching the tip, he swirled his tongue around it, and clasped a warning hand to Watson’s hip.
Perhaps he felt the trembling in Watson’s weak leg, because the next thing Watson knew, Holmes was taking his cock deep into the warmth of his mouth and sucking hard. He hollowed his cheeks and moved slowly along Watson’s length, giving his tongue time to swirl and stroke deviously.
Watson was breathing fast, his knuckles white as he gripped for support. He heard Holmes fumbling with his own clothes, felt the other man’s knees bump against his ankles. A moment later Holmes’ fingers pinched into Watson’s bare hip with enough pressure to bruise. Watson opened his eyes to see Holmes, with his mouth tight around Watson, his bent legs spread, and his free hand coiled around his own cock.
It was enough to undo the last of Watson’s control. Damn slow, damn Holmes’ teasing. He dug his fingers tight into Holmes’ hair, groaning so deep in his throat it was almost a growl, and bucked his hips.
Holmes, thankfully, got the idea. Finally he picked up speed, matching his hand on his self to his mouth on Watson. Watson couldn’t help but watch him, concentrating on the hot, tight wetness of Holmes -
Holmes’ hand fell from Watson’s hip to his balls, one brief squeeze and that was it. The world went white as Watson released in to Holmes’ mouth. Holmes kept pumping him, increasing the speed of his own wrist until he too had peaked.
With a husky groan, Holmes let Watson’s cock fall from his mouth, burrowing his face into Watson’s thigh as his body twitched.
Watson breathed deeply, leaning more heavily on the bookcases now, needing their support just to keep upright. He cleared his throat and chuckled a little. Holmes sat panting and shaking into his thigh, and Watson lazily stroked his fingers through Holmes’ tangled hair.
After a moment, he said croakily, ‘Move, Holmes, I’ve got to sit down.’
Holmes shifted enough so that Watson could slide down to the floor. As he settled, his heel kicked against one of the discarded books.
‘Well,’ said Holmes, slithering up against Watson’s side and dropping his head on Watson’s shoulder. ‘I think I took your mind off those books.’
Watson had to grudgingly admit that he had.
---
Feedback is love. ♥
Characters: Holmes/Watson
Words: 2,385
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Sexytimes! Another fill for kinkmeme. Prompt was:
Holmes/Watson in a library/study/somewhere with extensive book shelves. Some cute sexytimes up against said bookshelves would pretty much make my day/week/life. Especially if Watson frets over damaging the books. ♥
Yo, be gentle with me, I'm not used to writing sexytimes. This is, pretty much, PWP.
Watson made his way from bookshelf to bookshelf, lingering with the enthusiasm of a man who truly appreciated literature. He ran fingers across spines reverently, disturbing the thin layer of dust, and picked intriguing titles off the shelves to tenderly turn the pages inside. The room was large, and entirely devoted to books.
So involved was he that when Holmes marched loudly into the room, he jumped visibly.
‘There’s nothing here,’ Holmes said. ‘Just as I said. Now I have satisfied both yours and Lestrade’s curiosity - though do not for a moment think I shall make a habit of doing so.’
Watson ignored him. He’d turned his back to the other man, continuing to pour over the four or five texts he cradled in his hands.
‘The objects of evidence which I listed to you earlier will all be long removed by now. Redham would have taken them with him when he fled and disposed of them and - with his intelligence and cunning - he will do so properly. He will not simply dump them in the River. Watson, are you listening to me?’
‘Holmes,’ said Watson, with awe in his voice. ‘This is incredible! These books - all these books - !’
Holmes looked around the library, raising his eyebrows. ‘Yes? They are just books.’
‘No, you don’t understand - he’s got books on everything. Remarkable topics! This whole place is remarkable! I mean, look at this: a first edition of Geoffrey Mint’s theories on the sensitivity of the human mind! I cannot believe that a man like Redham collected these.’
Holmes pulled a face and wandered to the nearest shelf. ‘He didn’t. His uncle did, I’d say.’
‘Oh. Nevertheless, it does not detract from the incredibility of this collection.’
Holmes crossed his arms over his chest and leant against the old desk, watching Watson with affection.
Watson continued to chatter about the sheer joy of the library, until he became aware of the weight of Holmes’ eyes on his back. Turning, he saw a curious expression on the detective’s face.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, my dear man.’
Watson cocked an eyebrow, his fingers held poised over an especially interesting paragraph in his latest find. ‘Am I amusing you, Holmes?’
‘Absolument, Watson. I find myself quite entranced by your unexpected passion.’
‘How can you not find this place fascinating, Holmes? Look at it - there must surely be a title on every topic within these walls. There must be something to spark even your unusual interests - see here, there is a quaint little volume on poisons - ’
‘Ah, Watson.’
Watson froze. A faint, distant alarm bell sounded in his head. ‘Ah Watson, nothing,’ he said curtly.
‘The case, in my mind, is completed,’ sighed Holmes. ‘I knew as much when I saw that footprint in the clay. You, my dear Watson, did very well: I am proud of how much you have learnt from me, though you still have far to go.’
Watson rolled his eyes at the bookshelf. Holmes was about to launch into one of his egotistical prattles. ‘Tell me, have you ever seen such neat diagrams of the human skeleton before? I must write the title of this volume down - ’
He could hear Holmes moving behind him - and then suddenly the man was there at his back, a warm solid presence. Fingers brushed gently over Watson’s upper arm and he looked over his shoulder in surprise.
‘Holmes, what the - ’
The other man turned him and leant up to press a kiss to his lips.
Watson laughed, pulling himself away. ‘Dear God, old chap, do you really mean to do that here?’
‘Of course,’ said Holmes, plucking the books out of Watson’s hands and tossing them aside.
‘Holmes! The books!’ he cried in despair. Holmes took hold of Watson’s wrists, fingers and thumbs latching tight and commanding Watson’s full attention.
‘We’ll be caught,’ the doctor protested.
‘Really, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘We are the only two people in this house that has, by my estimation, been abandoned for approximately five weeks and three days. We left no obvious sign of our entry, and we are not near a window. Nobody will see us. The only person who has any possible idea that we could be here is Inspector Lestrade, and he will not be coming to check up on us. Now tell me if you please how, and by whom, we are going to be caught?’
Watson opened his mouth, but the words did not come. There should have been arguments, there should easily have been protests he could have made, but somewhere between his mind and his mouth they had got lost.
‘Holmes…’ he whispered.
‘It’s entirely your own fault anyway,’ said Holmes, and kissed him firmly on the lips. He still held Watson’s wrists, but when he felt the man surrender beneath him, he let go to clasp his hands around Watson’s neck instead.
Their kisses quickly turned hot and feverish, and despite his reservations Watson could feel his loins responding almost instantly.
Then Holmes pushed him heavily - and his back crashed into the bookshelves. Watson cried out in pain.
‘Holmes! You blithering, thick-skulled, dim-’
He was prevented from insulting Holmes any further by Holmes’ mouth pressed sweetly over his own. It was a soft - almost chaste - kiss this time, warm lips sliding slowly over Watson’s and Watson instinctively brought his hand to the back of Holmes’ head.
Holmes slipped back for air, his breath ruffling Watson’s moustache. Watson curled his fingers in Holmes’ unkempt hair and a moment later Holmes’ kisses returned. This one, though, was to the corner of Watson’s mouth, a reverent, teasing press; the second caught the edge of Watson’s moustache; the third, the side of his nose.
‘Holmes…’
‘Wat-son,’ drawled Holmes half-inarticulately, his mouth flush against Watson’s cheek. The name left a wet trail across Watson’s skin and Watson’s eyes fluttered shut.
Which was definitely a mistake. Holmes’ lips were suddenly there, warm and ever so tenderly alighting on the thin veil of Watson’s eyelids. The breath caught in Watson’s throat; his free hand found purchase in a tangled mix of Holmes’ jacket and waistcoat and curled into a fist.
Holmes kissed first one closed eye, then the second, and his lips moved back to Watson’s mouth, brushing against his nose on route. Watson returned the kiss with fierce passion - but Holmes seemed determined to make this slow and tender, and teasingly pulled his head backwards by degrees until Watson calmed.
‘Slowly, John, slowly,’ he murmured, in a quiet, mocking voice.
‘Holmes.’ Watson’s tone was firm, and he twisted his head upwards and sideways to prevent Holmes silencing him. ‘We should get back to Baker Street. We can get a cab back - there’s bound to be a hansom nearby, or even a hackney - this isn’t the place for this.’
Holmes was undeterred by Watson’s evasion techniques. Instead, he brushed his mouth against the sharp line of Watson’s jaw.
‘Watson,’ he said, nuzzling in that dip just where Watson’s jaw met his neck. ‘Would you, in all truth -’ a slightly rougher, grazing kiss to Watson’s throat - ‘prefer it if I was pleasuring you in a cab?’ A skim of lips over Watson’s Adam’s apple. ‘Even a hackney, to my mind -’ another caress of lips to skin, approaching the bottom of Watson’s neck; a small noise from Watson - ‘is a little too… public.’
Holmes finished with a sharp nip of teeth above Watson’s collar. Watson groaned.
‘Blast it, Holmes, why do you never give me a choice in these matters?’
Holmes chuckled and returned his lips to Watson’s neck, pressing as low as Watson’s shirt collar would allow him.
‘I told you: you brought it on yourself.’ He casually bucked his hips upwards, catching Watson unawares. Watson gasped and threw his hand out for support. He caught a book - with enough force to send it flying off the shelf and onto the floor.
‘Holmes - the books -’
‘Just books, my dear Watson.’ Holmes’ fingers were digging into Watson’s hips now, thumbs rubbing tiny, teasing oscillations. Watson’s hand grasped the edge of the shelf waist-height behind him. There were shelves digging into his back and shoulders; he could see five or six volumes scattered without care on the floor; and he thought of how proper, how decent this room must have always been until now, until Holmes had decided to violate it.
Watson groaned deep in his throat, and the vibrations trembled through Holmes’ lips. ‘The books, Holmes.’
Holmes pressed his hand deliberately to the bulge in Watson’s trousers. ‘Forget the books, Watson.’
Watson groaned again, his hips rocking against Holmes’ hand of their own volition, but he said, ‘If those books are damaged, Holmes - if there is as much as a crease in a page, then I swear you’ll suffer for it.’
‘Punishment, my dear?’ Watson felt the quirk of Holmes’ eyebrow against his throat and tightened the fingers that were still curled in Holmes’ hair. ‘How primitive of you.’
Watson clenched further and Holmes hissed. ‘You’re being spiteful, John. Play nice.’
He put both his hands on Watson’s thighs, spreading his fingers wide, and smoothed his palms up over the soft wool of the trousers. Just before reaching Watson’s groin, he stopped, his thumbs framing Watson’s cock. Once again he began to circle those infuriating, tantalizing thumbs, just at the top of Watson’s inner thighs.
Watson groaned. He let his head fall back and it hit against a shelf. A book shifted behind him. ‘Holmes.’
Holmes skimmed his hands back down Watson’s thighs - away from his groin, and almost to his knees, before starting the slow, tortuous trip back upwards. Watson thrust his hips in encouragement - and Holmes skated his hands backwards and started again.
‘Slow-ly,’ Holmes sung, grinning. He lent forwards and caught Watson’s chin delicately between his teeth. The bite was gentle, but he ran his tongue over the spot afterwards.
‘Dammit, Holmes, stop being such a whore and kiss me.’
‘Mmm, gladly,’ Holmes replied. Taking Watson’s face between his hands, he began to leisurely and thoroughly plunder Watson’s mouth with his tongue.
The distress Watson felt at Holmes’ hands leaving his thighs was soon forgotten. Holmes’ lips melded perfectly to his own; warm and wet, they slipped and slid over his mouth and brushed against his moustache. Holmes’s hands were strong on his cheeks - then Holmes’ tongue was inside his mouth, wrapping around his own with all the determined nature that was innately Holmes, and Watson moaned and felt the sound vibrated back to him.
Then Holmes’ hands had left Watson’s face and were dipping down to his trousers, rubbing and stroking at his thighs, at his hips, at the waistband of his trousers. His kisses grew slower again, withdrawing until they were fervent, quick pecks against Watson’s desperate lips.
Watson was about to get demanding, when Holmes’ fingers finally found the button of his trousers.
‘About time,’ he muttered against Holmes’ forehead, but then he couldn’t speak because Holmes’ hands had dipped inside and all his teasing had worked and Watson could not breathe.
Watson groaned something that could have been his lover’s name, his eyes closing. One slick hand grappled for support on the shelf; the other remained twined in Holmes’ hair. His breath came in short, shallow pulls, and as Holmes dropped to his knees, Watson’s head sunk backwards. He was trembling with sheer anticipation.
As Holmes’ hot, slick mouth curled around the tip of Watson’s cock, Watson forgot all of his protests. He groaned, and bucked, and Holmes pulled his mouth back with a pop.
‘Slowly, slowly,’ he muttered, pressing his face into Watson’s groin and peppering the place with wet kisses. His hand rolled around Waton’s prick and lazily moved up the length, up and down, up and down -
Watson was panting now, his trousers caught around his knees.
Holmes meandered his kisses back to Watson’s cock and kissed all the way up it, opening his fingers to make way for his lips. Reaching the tip, he swirled his tongue around it, and clasped a warning hand to Watson’s hip.
Perhaps he felt the trembling in Watson’s weak leg, because the next thing Watson knew, Holmes was taking his cock deep into the warmth of his mouth and sucking hard. He hollowed his cheeks and moved slowly along Watson’s length, giving his tongue time to swirl and stroke deviously.
Watson was breathing fast, his knuckles white as he gripped for support. He heard Holmes fumbling with his own clothes, felt the other man’s knees bump against his ankles. A moment later Holmes’ fingers pinched into Watson’s bare hip with enough pressure to bruise. Watson opened his eyes to see Holmes, with his mouth tight around Watson, his bent legs spread, and his free hand coiled around his own cock.
It was enough to undo the last of Watson’s control. Damn slow, damn Holmes’ teasing. He dug his fingers tight into Holmes’ hair, groaning so deep in his throat it was almost a growl, and bucked his hips.
Holmes, thankfully, got the idea. Finally he picked up speed, matching his hand on his self to his mouth on Watson. Watson couldn’t help but watch him, concentrating on the hot, tight wetness of Holmes -
Holmes’ hand fell from Watson’s hip to his balls, one brief squeeze and that was it. The world went white as Watson released in to Holmes’ mouth. Holmes kept pumping him, increasing the speed of his own wrist until he too had peaked.
With a husky groan, Holmes let Watson’s cock fall from his mouth, burrowing his face into Watson’s thigh as his body twitched.
Watson breathed deeply, leaning more heavily on the bookcases now, needing their support just to keep upright. He cleared his throat and chuckled a little. Holmes sat panting and shaking into his thigh, and Watson lazily stroked his fingers through Holmes’ tangled hair.
After a moment, he said croakily, ‘Move, Holmes, I’ve got to sit down.’
Holmes shifted enough so that Watson could slide down to the floor. As he settled, his heel kicked against one of the discarded books.
‘Well,’ said Holmes, slithering up against Watson’s side and dropping his head on Watson’s shoulder. ‘I think I took your mind off those books.’
Watson had to grudgingly admit that he had.
---
Feedback is love. ♥