lightconductor | Dinner and a show.

Entry tags:

Dinner and a show.

Continued from here...

Watson was, at least, as good as his word as far as his promise to treat Holmes to dinner went, even if the offer had been made under slightly different circumstances with slightly different goals in mind, slightly different expectations.

Little had changed between them, too, except in an unspoken sense. When they sat together on the sofa they sat closer than they had been, and there were occassional kisses between them, as light and as hesitant as that first night. Whether the excuse was more Holmes's lip or Watson's inexperience was debatable. And if it was the latter, that hurt his pride. He was no blushing virgin, no untried youth. It was the gender of his partner that was new. Surely it could not be so different?

He didn't know the answer to that.

As the week stretched on he was beginning to be just a bit overeager; despite his own unease, his own fears, he was a man of action. He had to wonder if Holmes, being more experienced, was not impatient with him, too.

But he had held onto his riches successfully, and on what had seemed an ideal night he had paid for dinner for the two of them at one of the nicer of their favourite restaurants, and they had gone to a concert afterwards. Both had been splendid. It had been a well-spent evening, despite Watson's dual eagerness and anxiety for what might happen on their return.

Coming home in the hansom afterwards was certainly a far different experience than the ride home from the boxing match. Watson let their shoulders touch, their thighs, surely contact that would look perfectly innocent to an onlooker, although he could not entirely convince himself that they would not immediately be found out and arrested.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

For a moment, Watson merely stared, mute, trying to sort out his mind enough to make his mouth work. He was far, far too aware of Holmes's fingers on the back of his neck, the hard warmth of his body (so unlike that of a woman) against Watson's, the tingle of his lips. He had kissed, he thought, a not-inconsiderable number of people in his life, and he enjoyed the activity greatly, but few had ever kissed him with that sort of energy, that sort of raw desire. This was not the sort of awkward, perfunctory sexual experiences of two schoolboys in a darkened dormitory, either, which he realised now he'd expected on some level.

He nodded, briefly. "Yes," he said, breathlessly. "Yes, please." And then, because he hated to think that he might be a passive partner in this, he stepped in that direction, taking Holmes with him, his hands fisted in the fabric of Holmes's clothing.

Watson was too impatient to wait until they actually reached the sofa to continue, and he pressed forward with another enthusiastic kiss. It was as though some dam in him had been broken down; for all his previous unease, now that he was doing this he could hardly imagine not wanting it, and if he was destined for Hell because of it, so be it.

When Watson takes the lead here, Holmes realizes he's been nervous still, expecting that he'd mostly be walking Watson through this and treading carefully, and slowly. How wrong he'd been, and he'd probably been a good deal unfair. He returns the kiss openly, unreservedly, following after Watson toward the sofa with some urgency in his step.

The only time he allows for a break in his contact with Watson is when they sit, and he returns immediately to kissing, deep and slow not because he's being hesitant or careful but because he has reign to kiss Watson at his leisure. Only when he needs to breathe does he break the kiss, and then he can't stop smiling as he leans away from Watson, unbuttoning his jacket.

"I'm a bit too overdressed for the occasion. One moment," he murmurs, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it in the direction of his armchair. "Much better. Has anyone ever told you, my dear Watson, that you're an exhaustingly excellent kisser?"

"Not in so many words, no," Watson said, giving a small, faintly crooked smile. He found himself caught somewhere between breathless anticipation and pleased flattery. Exhaustingly excellent. He liked the sound of that. He also liked the idea of shedding a layer of clothing. Hardly believing what he was doing, he sat back to remove his own jacket before leaning forward to kiss Holmes again.

It was good to have a few less layers of cloth between them, a little more intense, a little more intimate. He was not, at that point, in the least sure where the evening would lead, and how far, but if nothing happened beyond kissing, he was determined that it would be very good and satisfying kissing.

The more they carry on this way, the more Holmes finally feels able to relax into the idea of this relationship. Every time Watson pulls him into a kiss, Holmes feels reassured that he isn't leading Watson into a den of sin and damnation; if they are going in that direction, then at least they are walking together.

Kissing in one's shirtsleeves produces an interesting experience; he can feel Watson's body warmth when he settles his hand on Watson's arm, but it's mediated through the cloth, and it's frustrating and intoxicating and wonderful. Holmes may be impatient and abrupt in other areas, but he enjoys every aspect of physical intimacy to the point that even touching Watson through his shirt is a pleasurable experience.

Watson is solid and warm against him, and the smell of him is wonderful. He's drinking in every aspect of Watson he possibly can, reveling in the wealth of new information. Lightly he rests his hand against Watson's shoulder so that he might caress the side of Watson's neck, seeking out a little skin-to-skin contact, at least.

"The only thing I regret," he murmurs in between kisses, "is that it took me this long to discover your skills."

Holmes's hand against his shoulder brought on an uncomfortable thought. What would he think of Watson's scars? Would he find them ugly, distasteful? Watson certainly did himself.

Later. He would think of that later, when it became necessary. Truthfully, he could hardly think now, and the fingers along the side of his neck felt very good indeed. He settled himself close against Holmes, comforted by the warmth and the feel of his body, and risked leaning in to explore Holmes's jawline with his mouth a little, something he had enjoyed with one or two young ladies of his past acquaintance. He was overwhelmingly curious, more than anything, and he wanted to know what the difference would be if he did this thing with a man, what Holmes's reaction to it would be. He had always rather guiltlessly enjoyed carnal pleasures of many sorts. What he found terrible, more than anything else, was that he had been denying himself an entire world of experience for several weak reasons but very possibly no adequate one. He was beginning to think of this as exploring, rather than giving in.

"I regret that I never let myself have the opportunity to share," Watson said, smiling crookedly. "But by God, Holmes. If I am going to do this... I am glad it's you."

Holmes smiles slowly, touched by the sentiment, as it indicates Watson's growing comfort along with whatever compliments toward Holmes himself. Now that they're losing their nervousness about all of this, more of their personalities are coming out, he realizes. That's why this feels right as opposed to this past week; neither of them was truly being himself. They aren't hesitant men; this boldness is more suited to their tastes.

"I am too." He cups Watson's cheek and kisses him softly before his smile turns playful. "Does that mean you don't think me too bad of an influence?" Taking his cues from Watson, he kisses along Watson's jaw and down onto his neck, happily exploring his skin.

Watson inhaled, somewhat shakily, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment under the kisses on his neck. "If you are a bad influence," he murmured, "then I welcome it. I absolve you of blame."

Morality be damned. This hurt no one, surely? It was between them and them alone, never mind that society made it a dangerous game to play. He had never taken this step into acting upon it, but now that he had, it seemed a very small thing to do, and certainly no great crime.

He liked the danger. He liked the risk. And, possibly, he liked Holmes more than he had realised, but this was so easy, once he had plunged in.

Watson caught Holmes by the chin, gently, to catch his mouth with his own, and kiss him deeply.

Now that they seem to have gotten past the tenuous beginning, Holmes is surprised at how comfortable this is. It isn't easy for Holmes to feel completely at ease -- that's why he has his music, and his cocaine -- but Watson generally has just seemed to... fit in Holmes's life. That's just as true here, he's happy to discover, and it feels very natural to kiss Watson just as deeply in return.

Their position on the sofa, however, could become problematic if the two of them plan on continuing their evening in this way, as Holmes suspects they do. He attempts to guide Watson down onto the sofa, positioning himself on top.

"You are very welcoming this evening," he murmurs suggestively against Watson's lips, returning his attentions to his neck, wanting to elicit another response like he just received with this action.

"It's easier to be welcoming of this than I feared," Watson murmured.

It was strange to find himself being guided back down like this, underneath Holmes, surrounded and enclosed by him. There was something rather intoxicating about it, a little overwhelming, a little frightening. He settled back into the sofa, marvelling at feeling Holmes stretched out along on top of him, all firm heat, distinctly not the soft warmth of a woman.

And then Holmes's lips were on his neck again, and it was an effort to remember to breathe for a moment. He closed his fist in the fabric of Holmes's shirtsleeve, craning his neck to give Holmes a better angle.

"I do try to be accommodating."

He loves the way Watson clings to him, loves being clung to, loves feeling Watson so solid and warm beneath him. He grips Watson's hip in one hand, occasionally letting it wander up to Watson's ribs. Tenderly he maps Watson's neck, though by nature Holmes isn't a wholly tender lover.

After some gentle attention, he tentatively administers a gentle bite, designed so as not to leave a mark -- an art at which Holmes has acquired some skill. It's really a test to see where Watson's boundaries lie, though he has a strong suspicion that he will like the results.

He hadn't been expecting teeth, not nearly, and while he didn't exactly flinch, there was certainly a jolt of surprise that ran through him even as a soft breath of a moan escaped his lips.

"Good God," Watson murmured, appreciatively. He was full of adrenaline and arousal, the rush of doing something new and illicit, and the touch of danger that Holmes's teeth brought to the mix was definitely appreciated. Without relinquishing his grasp on Holmes's sleeve, he shifted downwards, sliding underneath Holmes to bring their mouths more in line so he could kiss him properly.

He kisses back deeply, relishing in the opportunity to be bolder and more daring with Watson. That reaction had been precisely what he was hoping for and his body responds accordingly, his lust mounting. He's interested now in pushing Watson's boundaries, seeing how far they can go; he doesn't have expectations for the evening, so he has no agenda other than to make sure that they each enjoy each other. Thoroughly. In order to do that, he has to push and toy with Watson, at least a little.

He smiles when the kiss breaks, letting himself catch his breath for moment, his face very close to Watson's.

"Your moustache tickles," he says with a breathless laugh, his upper lip tingling not unpleasantly. "It's rather splendid."

Watson laughed too, also breathless. That Holmes would enjoy something so... so apparently frivolous was oddly perfect. "Good," he chuckled. "I'm not about to be rid of it. Not even for you."

He kissed him again, keenly aware now of the way his moustache brushed Holmes's lips; it was something he hadn't really seriously thought about before. He had never kissed anyone who had expressed any particular thoughts about it, one way or the other. Watson managed to release his grip on Holmes's sleeve, and moved one of his hands to Holmes's waist, the other to the side of his face, his fingers sliding down the edges of Holmes's collar.

"I could never ask something like that," he says with a grin, speaking lowly. "Dr. Watson without his moustache wouldn't be Dr. Watson."

Yes, their collars do seem to be rather in the way of things. He's somewhat nervous as he slips a hand between them to undo Watson's collar, if only because he's removing an item of clothing, and it seems the first step to more significant items, like shirts. Once Watson's collar is gone, Holmes dips his mouth down to kiss the newly exposed skin, interrupting his kisses with soft bites.

He was being undressed. He didn't know what to think about that. Watson felt a flash of worry, a flash of apprehension. How far did Holmes intend on taking them that night? How far was Watson himself prepared to go? They hadn't discussed that, and Watson wasn't sure in any case how comfortable he was going to be, as this progressed.

He would protest if he felt it necessary, he supposed, but for now, he was happy enough to go along with where Holmes led them. He slid his fingers around to do the same for Holmes's collar, an interesting exercise; he'd never taken off a collar from this angle before, let alone while anyone paid such wonderful uattention to his throat.

"I had no idea," he said, with an effort, his eyes closed, "you felt that strongly about it. Very well, we are in agreement. My moustache stays."

Holmes isn't sure himself what he wants to get out of this evening; if this is all they manage to do, then he will be more than satisfied, but he would like to take off at least one more article of clothing. For now he's content with exploring Watson's neck, trailing his kisses up to his ear; he runs his tongue along the shell and scrapes his teeth against the lobe.

"I didn't until I had the distinct pleasure of kissing you," he murmurs quietly. "Now I'm quite enamored."

All those typical romantic feelings are coming back to him in a rush, and his mind is filling with images of lounging in bed with Watson (eventually) and reveling in the particular kind of intimacy that lovers share. His desire to share those things with Watson is amplifying intensely the more they are together like this, and it's quite breathtaking.

Watson shivered, again unable to keep from clutching at Holmes by his shirt, possibly out of fear he might at this point suddenly leave, as unlikely as that seemed. He had the fleeting thought that if he was going to be so ambitious as to get into bed -- or the sofa, whichever -- with a noted genius, then he had to expect him to be highly competent in this area, as well. How had he never noticed that Holmes had such wanton tendencies as this?

He turned his head to kiss him again, drawing him close by the front of his shirt, and then shifted to press his mouth to Holmes's neck from underneath, kissing and tasting the skin there almost hungrily.

He inhales sharply, closing his eyes and tilting his neck to give Watson more access. Holmes's neck has always been something of a weak point for him, and he makes a soft noise of encouragement. His body is responding to Watson's touches and kisses, to the point where it's no longer deniable that his cock is hard, and he's certain that Watson is able to tell. He'd love to know what Watson thinks about that.

Watson's hesitant eagerness is certainly alluring. Holmes's thoughts are turning from such innocent, romantic thoughts to significantly less wholesome ones.

Watson was pleased with the reaction he'd received, the sounds he'd managed to elicit from Holmes, but he could also no longer ignore the other result of his success. Namely, what he was feeling pressing into him, lower down.

That seemed to serve very well to remind him just what the situation was. What did he think he was doing? What did he think he was playing at? Was he really going to do this, really going to be considering a sexual interlude with a man, with Holmes of all people? If they were going to stop it would have to be soon, and truthfully he was nearly as hard as Holmes was.

He was uncertain, and uneasy, and intrigued, and very aroused. It was a strange combination, both eager to press on and terrified of what they might actually find themselves doing. It was all new territory, after all, and he wanted it, even as his mind worked to invent reasons why he should not have started down this path in the first place.

Watson let his mouth linger over Holmes's throat. "What is it that you'd want of me," he asked, in a low murmur, "if we continued?"

Ah, there. This may be where the evening stops, and if so, Holmes is okay with that. He may need a moment to calm himself down, but he's thoroughly enjoyed himself this far. He feels almost guilty, as if he's compelling Watson into an action that he wants no part of, or wouldn't if it weren't for Holmes, and he draws back enough so that he might be able to look Watson in the eye.

"Whatever you would like to give me," he murmurs, reaching up to touch Watson's jaw lightly. "Whatever you're comfortable with. We could carry on like this, or go a little further... Or a lot further." He settles his hand against Watson's chest. "I would like to go at least a little further. Beyond that... it's your decision, my dear Watson."

Watson hesitated, sliding his hand over Holmes's while he tried to think. What did he want? Did he want to retreat to safety, while that was possible? Did he want to postpone where this might lead, and if so, for how long?

No, he wanted this, and he wanted it now. He just wasn't sure he knew what he was doing.

"Further might very well be good," he said slowly, squeezing Holmes's hand. "In fact, I'd definitely like to go farther. I just... I haven't any idea what I'm doing."

He exhales in relief, glad to see that Watson isn't running away, that he's come so far from the scared reaction after their first kiss. Smiling, he kisses Watson softly, brushing his thumb against his chest.

"From what I understand, some of the basic principles aren't entirely different from relations with women," he says playfully. "The rest is essentially pleasuring yourself, but enacted upon another person. Why don't we limit ourselves to that, for this evening, if that isn't too much?"

That didn't sound too far off from dormitory experiments, honestly. The context, though, was quite different; rather than hasty and awkward, a poor substitution for what they could not have, it was for its own sake, with someone who was already a good deal more than a mere classmate and schoolfriend. Never mind what he might yet become.

Watson gave a nod, and a small smile. He was... at least somewhat reassurred, if not confident of what he was doing, either. But he did want this. He knew that much.

"That doesn't sound like too much," he agreed, and leaned up a little to kiss Holmes again.

That smile is everything, and Holmes kisses back enthusiastically, reassured that Watson is into this without guilt. Holmes wouldn't be able to feel okay about any of this without Watson's complete acceptance, and now that he has it, he intends to make use of it.

He undoes the top button of Watson's shirt, and the next, pausing there for signs of disapproval or nervousness, though it's difficult not to simply keep going. He's eager to keep going, to get Watson out of his shirt, to give him his first taste of this type of carnal pleasure.

Watson shut his eyes again, marvelling a little. In some ways, this was not so different from being with a woman, but in others, it was quite different, and the difference -- the sense of sheer masculinity he was faced with, attractive in all its own ways -- was exciting, to say the least.

But as his buttons came undone, the question of his scarring came to him again. What if Holmes found them distasteful? They were rather ugly. It would not be long until they were perfectly visible. And yet to protest, to draw attention to them now, ahead of time, was unthinkable.

Watson couldn't think of it, tried desperately to stay in the moment instead, and truthfully, he was greatly enjoying the moment. He fisted his hands in Holmes's shirt, and kissed him, hard.

Dinner and a show.

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

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)