30 Day OTP Challenge - Day 3: Watching A Movie
WC: 900~
Note: yeah i’m pretty sure the victorian equivalent of “let’s watch a movie!” is “handjob at the opera”
Sherlock Holmes has never been hard-pressed in convincing his friend to accompany him in any of his many outings, be they recreational or professional. Indeed it is more often true that John Watson must be convinced not to follow after him. Given as much it is only natural that tonight John Watson should find himself in an opera box overlooking an absolutely wearisome Italian drama. This is of course because he sits at the side of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It also happens that on this particular night he finds himself somewhat regretful of his blind enthusiasm where his friend is concerned of his characteristically blind enthusiasm towards his friend. Indeed as the female lead collapses across the stage with a drawn out wail (at which he cannot help but visibly cringe) he finds himself quite certain this is one adventure that Sherlock Holmes could surely have undertaken single-handedly.
It is in the space between two song- ahh the glorious, space- the the ever observant Holmes takes note of his friend’s marked disdain.
“You know you were under no obligation to accompany me tonight, Watson,” he says vexedly.
“Holmes, I-” and it’s lucky Holmes cuts him off with a harsh shhh as the next song is about to commence, because he’s not at all certain if he was about to lie- I’m enjoying it, really. I’m just a bit tired, old chap.- or concede to him- I always come with you, though it’s true I do find myself somewhat regretting this particular excursion. It doesn’t matter just now though, thanks to an argument being belted in Italian by the pair on stage. Oh. Wonderful.
Watson glances more than once or twice at his companion, throughout. Holmes never falls short being an absolute vision when utterly entranced by a melody, and he at least seems to be enjoying the spectacle unraveling before them. He does seem however, somewhat less engulfed and certainly less at ease, presently. Though his lips are set in a subtle smile, his brow is just as subtly knitted, and his half-lidded eyes flicker towards his companion with a sparkle in them that leaves the doctor shifting anxiously on his seat.
As the scene on the stage comes to an end- ah bliss, it ends again- Holmes turns to him in full.
“I offer my sincerest apologies for having dragged you into such an affair, dearest doctor,” he says, though he sounds only half sincere. He continues. “Surely I owe you recompense for your suffering.” And if now the last vestige of sincerity has dropped from his tone, then it’s replaced by something absolutely devilish.
Watson eyes him warily and only a second later he is being told “Put your hands on the balustrade, my dear man.”
Ever compliant, he does just as much, though he moves a touch stiffly and Holmes hisses at him to move naturally. He resolves then to rest his wrist in front of him, one crossed over the other. Holmes proceeds to edge a bit closer so that the angle of his own arm is more acute and the movements of his hand less obvious as it falls into his companions lap. Watson startles immediately, gasping, and Holmes is just as quickly shushing him as the music starts again.
“Ah, intermezzo,” the detective sighs, as his fingers trail across his companion’s growing hardness.
The sound of a violin swells in the air, wrapping itself like a sweet silver thread around Sherlock Holmes, pulling his features into a half-smiling, close-lidded mask of serenity. His movements are commanded by it, turned languid. Watson meanwhile sits tense, utterly rigid, eyes fixed on some spot far in front of him, as he feels his companion’s clever fingers unbutton his fly, push aside fabric, crawl across his skin. He gasps on feeling thin, careful fingers envelope him. At the sound, Holmes is momentarily transformed, fixing him with a glare, which Watson is nearly foolish enough to answer with a vocal apology. Instead he bites his lip, lets his eyelids flutter closed.
Holmes hand seems to take up the rhythm of the music, slow, firm, stronger on the upstroke. It sets the doctor shivering, mind spiraling. His hands are softer, warmer than they ought to be and he thinks as much every time he touches them, ever half surprised to feel human skin rather than cool porcelain.
Sweat breaks across his skin. He stutters a breathy moan even as his teeth worry at his lip.
It strikes him for not half a second how horribly perverse this is, how dangerous, but the shrill voice of a violin cries out, commanding Holmes to flick his wrist, just so and perverse? oh God this is utterly filthy, this is beautifully, perfectly debauched.
In only a few moments he is close, and let Sherlock Holmes glare all he pleases, he cannot help but gasp. The music swells, volume mounting, or maybe only seems to. His head falls forward, chin resting on his breast, and just as he hears the first traces of applause mix with the dying sound of the song, his ears fall deaf to everything.
Holmes’ hand is gone just before it can be spilled across and when Watson opens his eyes again, just coming clear of his release, he sees, of all things, Holmes looking pointedly to the orchestra pit and clapping.
All Watson can manage to say is “Well. That was well timed.”
“Oh, my dear fellow,” says Holmes, feigning a scandalized tone. “It is impolite not to applaud.”
***** **** *** ** * ** *** **** *****
More Notes: aaaaaaaaa this falls eight million miles outside of my actual idea of this pairing but whateeverrrrrr. it's really short but i had gretchen beta it anyway (btw, thanks!!) because writing porn was a jarring experience asljkgh
Note: yeah i’m pretty sure the victorian equivalent of “let’s watch a movie!” is “handjob at the opera”
Sherlock Holmes has never been hard-pressed in convincing his friend to accompany him in any of his many outings, be they recreational or professional. Indeed it is more often true that John Watson must be convinced not to follow after him. Given as much it is only natural that tonight John Watson should find himself in an opera box overlooking an absolutely wearisome Italian drama. This is of course because he sits at the side of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It also happens that on this particular night he finds himself somewhat regretful of his blind enthusiasm where his friend is concerned of his characteristically blind enthusiasm towards his friend. Indeed as the female lead collapses across the stage with a drawn out wail (at which he cannot help but visibly cringe) he finds himself quite certain this is one adventure that Sherlock Holmes could surely have undertaken single-handedly.
It is in the space between two song- ahh the glorious, space- the the ever observant Holmes takes note of his friend’s marked disdain.
“You know you were under no obligation to accompany me tonight, Watson,” he says vexedly.
“Holmes, I-” and it’s lucky Holmes cuts him off with a harsh shhh as the next song is about to commence, because he’s not at all certain if he was about to lie- I’m enjoying it, really. I’m just a bit tired, old chap.- or concede to him- I always come with you, though it’s true I do find myself somewhat regretting this particular excursion. It doesn’t matter just now though, thanks to an argument being belted in Italian by the pair on stage. Oh. Wonderful.
Watson glances more than once or twice at his companion, throughout. Holmes never falls short being an absolute vision when utterly entranced by a melody, and he at least seems to be enjoying the spectacle unraveling before them. He does seem however, somewhat less engulfed and certainly less at ease, presently. Though his lips are set in a subtle smile, his brow is just as subtly knitted, and his half-lidded eyes flicker towards his companion with a sparkle in them that leaves the doctor shifting anxiously on his seat.
As the scene on the stage comes to an end- ah bliss, it ends again- Holmes turns to him in full.
“I offer my sincerest apologies for having dragged you into such an affair, dearest doctor,” he says, though he sounds only half sincere. He continues. “Surely I owe you recompense for your suffering.” And if now the last vestige of sincerity has dropped from his tone, then it’s replaced by something absolutely devilish.
Watson eyes him warily and only a second later he is being told “Put your hands on the balustrade, my dear man.”
Ever compliant, he does just as much, though he moves a touch stiffly and Holmes hisses at him to move naturally. He resolves then to rest his wrist in front of him, one crossed over the other. Holmes proceeds to edge a bit closer so that the angle of his own arm is more acute and the movements of his hand less obvious as it falls into his companions lap. Watson startles immediately, gasping, and Holmes is just as quickly shushing him as the music starts again.
“Ah, intermezzo,” the detective sighs, as his fingers trail across his companion’s growing hardness.
The sound of a violin swells in the air, wrapping itself like a sweet silver thread around Sherlock Holmes, pulling his features into a half-smiling, close-lidded mask of serenity. His movements are commanded by it, turned languid. Watson meanwhile sits tense, utterly rigid, eyes fixed on some spot far in front of him, as he feels his companion’s clever fingers unbutton his fly, push aside fabric, crawl across his skin. He gasps on feeling thin, careful fingers envelope him. At the sound, Holmes is momentarily transformed, fixing him with a glare, which Watson is nearly foolish enough to answer with a vocal apology. Instead he bites his lip, lets his eyelids flutter closed.
Holmes hand seems to take up the rhythm of the music, slow, firm, stronger on the upstroke. It sets the doctor shivering, mind spiraling. His hands are softer, warmer than they ought to be and he thinks as much every time he touches them, ever half surprised to feel human skin rather than cool porcelain.
Sweat breaks across his skin. He stutters a breathy moan even as his teeth worry at his lip.
It strikes him for not half a second how horribly perverse this is, how dangerous, but the shrill voice of a violin cries out, commanding Holmes to flick his wrist, just so and perverse? oh God this is utterly filthy, this is beautifully, perfectly debauched.
In only a few moments he is close, and let Sherlock Holmes glare all he pleases, he cannot help but gasp. The music swells, volume mounting, or maybe only seems to. His head falls forward, chin resting on his breast, and just as he hears the first traces of applause mix with the dying sound of the song, his ears fall deaf to everything.
Holmes’ hand is gone just before it can be spilled across and when Watson opens his eyes again, just coming clear of his release, he sees, of all things, Holmes looking pointedly to the orchestra pit and clapping.
All Watson can manage to say is “Well. That was well timed.”
“Oh, my dear fellow,” says Holmes, feigning a scandalized tone. “It is impolite not to applaud.”
***** **** *** ** * ** *** **** *****
More Notes: aaaaaaaaa this falls eight million miles outside of my actual idea of this pairing but whateeverrrrrr. it's really short but i had gretchen beta it anyway (btw, thanks!!) because writing porn was a jarring experience asljkgh