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

"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.

Holmes rises to Watson's challenge, kissing him hard in return, all too happy to do so, to know that Watson is an equal partner in this and that -- well, to be crass, that they'll be enjoying each other tonight more than he thought they would. That is always a pleasant surprise.

Eagerly he finishes unbuttoning Watson's shirt; he knows of Watson's injuries from the war, of course, but they're the farthest thing from his mind now, distracted as he is by Watson's lips and the feel of his skin. He pushes the fabric aside so that he might hungrily and possessively run his hands over him, exploring the landscape of new information available to him.

The only thing that could lure him away from Watson's mouth is the promise of discovering Watson's chest, so he frees himself from the kiss, intending to lavish some attention a little lower.

And then he sees the map of scars on Watson's shoulder. It's almost akin to a punch to his gut -- not because they're disgusting, or repulsive, but because they are the remains of what must have been an excruciatingly painful experience.

Closing his eyes, he leans down, beginning to kiss tenderly at the skin.

Seeing Holmes discover his ruined shoulder, to actually see the result of a well-aimed jezail bullet with his own eyes, brought a terrible sinking feeling to Watson's stomach. To be laid out like this, to be undressed, by so handsome an individual and then have them discover your disfiguring injuries in full, the ones that all but crippled you when the weather was cold and damp... it was a special variety of sharp, agonizing dual emotions.

Suddenly tense, Watson made a small sound of what was not exactly protest, but a sort of confused gratitude, of deeply humbled awe that Holmes should pay attention to this most ugly part of him like this. He had been with no one since he'd been wounded, too ill or too ashamed, too secretly interested in his fellow-lodger and trying to deny it. No one had ever kissed it, no one had ever treated it so tenderly. There was a good deal he wanted to express in that moment, and no words at all for it, so he had to settle for that one small, confused sound.

Watson ran his fingers over the back of Holmes's neck, very tenderly, very grateful.

Holmes is, first off, immensely glad that he hasn't overstepped in this, but this collection of scars suggests so much pain that it's hard to resist the urge to fix that, not that kisses are able to do that, but nonetheless. He traces the lines with his lips, lightly stroking his fingers up Watson's side, but he doesn't want to linger here for too long, doesn't want to force Watson to think of his pain too much.

Once he's spent enough time there, he kisses Watson's lips fiercely and begins to unbutton his own shirt, more than ready to be rid of it. Holmes has a number scars of himself, though significantly smaller, and the story of their acquisition is much less painful. Boxing, tree climbing, falling off a stage once, fighting -- Holmes has had a colorful past, one not without its missteps.

Without thinking about it, in a glorious instinctual way completely without self-doubt or second-guessing, Watson reached to run his fingers over Holmes's newly bared chest, finding a certain joy in exploring this new territory so closely. It was almost a relief to find the occassional scar himself, under his curious fingers. He had a slight tendency to deify Holmes, to worship him as some perfect logical being, to follow him as much as a disciple as a friend. This made him human, these visible marks of the flawed and mortal being that Watson knew Holmes was.

Good God, but he was handsome.

It was strange to allow himself to think such a thing about a man, to not immediately censor the thought or attempt to justify it as somewhow acceptable. He couldn't help thinking it now, and in the wake of all of what he had done already, such an observation seemed a very small sin indeed, if sin it were. Watson kissed him, rather desperately, while his fingers roamed over Holmes's torso, exploring ribs and flesh and newly-exposed skin.

Oh, but this is wonderful. The mutual self-exploration itself gives Holmes a kind of high, and then knowing that Watson is giving himself over to this for the first time and Holmes is here to help him through it is a whole other high. He'd always admired Watson's good looks -- and found him handsomer by the day, even -- and to have him at Holmes's disposal, to have his hands desperately roaming Holmes's skin, is invigorating.

Hungrily, he kisses away from Watson's mouth, down his neck to explore his chest more completely. Here, too, it's safer to bite harder, though he's careful, considerate.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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