Word Count: ~3,000
Disclaimer: Don’t own, just having fun with them.
Warning: French dirty talk
Summary: Written for this prompt in shkinkmeme : So, any!Sherlock is sure his respective Watson doesn't know a word of French, so he starts saying the dirtiest things on Earth to the good doctor just to release some of the sexual tension between them. The problem (or solution) is that Watson knows French and decides to show it off in the most hot, dirty and porny possible way.
It was, most definitely, becoming more and more difficult for me to be in the presence of a certain good doctor. When we would sit by the fire at the end of a case my thoughts would drift, my attention would wane, and I would find the details of our recent escapades leaving my thoughts. He would sit there, in close proximity to me, and I would speak about how I had come to my conclusions, about how I had picked up on the little things that no one else had noticed. It would take a certain amount of effort for me to speak in complete sentences, for me to make myself understood. Of course he would not notice any of this, for on the outside my words would be strung together adequately. It was in my mind that they lay all a jumble, that they fell apart scattered, that they mixed together with profanities. It was altogether rather distracting.
No one knew of what effect my companion was having on me, of what distress lay beneath my calm and collected façade. And although it would have been best to bury these ideas and to never speak of them, the desires that invaded my mind were beginning to become unbearable. I found that it was increasingly difficult to keep such thoughts to myself. I wanted Watson to know about the nature of my fantasies, to be aware of how he was driving me wild. It was not honest to keep on a semblance of platonic friendship on my end, and perhaps if I was to bring up the topic I would be better able to deal with the feelings that were distracting me so. I tried not to think of the possible negative repercussions.
We are sitting by the fire, one night, minding our own affairs, when I feel myself crack.
“Watson, old boy.” It is a sort of statement, and I merely mean to catch his attention, to have him look up from his book and shift his focus to my words. The phrase has its desired effect. I feel myself fidget under his gaze with some degree of unease, some degree of thrill, what with my plans to speak of matters that should usually be kept quiet. He looks at me warmly, expecting one of our usual friendly exchanges. What Watson does not anticipate is that I will not be speaking in our usual tongue.
“Tu sais, cela fait longtemps que mes sentiments pour toi…se compliquent[i].” I start off easily, speaking of feelings. My usage of the French language comforts me, for although Watson has no idea what I am saying, I will be able to get things off of my chest. My cheeks are not blushing and my expression is fairly neutral, as if I am merely commenting on the nature of the weather and not on the sentiments that have been slowly driving me mad. Watson looks at me quizzically, caught off guard. I take the arching of his eyebrow as a cue to continue speaking.
“Ces temps ci, j’ai de la difficulté à me concentrer[ii].” Here my expression becomes somewhat annoyed, and perhaps he can understand that there is something distressing about the matter at hand. Maybe he can see that part of my frustration is directed at him. Maybe he can read nothing at all.
“Is something the matter?” He asks, nonchalant, as if my discontentment is because I stubbed my toe upon the leg of my desk this morning, as if my problem is some trivial matter that is of no particular significance. My face goes grave.
“Oui[iii].” This he clearly understands, and his head tilts as he realizes the more serious nature of my problem. He puts down his book and for a moment I merely look at him, thinking about the years that we have spent together.
“Je veux resentir ta bouche sur la mienne. Ton corps contre moi.[iv]” It is fairly innocent, to desire a kiss, to want to feel him against me, close. The statement is far more chaste than the images that flash through my mind, the images that have invaded my dreams.
“Ah bon,[v]” he replies, utilizing the bit of the French language that he is familiar with, seemingly nonplussed. He glances back at his book for a moment, then shifts a little in his seat and looks back up at me. His expression belies nothing, which is not surprising since I am speaking nonsense to him.
“What exactly do you want, Holmes?” Clearly he desires an explanation, a translation. But I am not about to break this language barrier, and am rather enjoying the freedom of expressing myself in a tongue that is foreign to Watson. In fact, I am finding it rather exciting. I answer truthfully.
“Je veux que tu me déshabilles, que tu te place entre mes jambes et que tu me touches.[vi]” My words are turning into images in my mind. I have lost my shirt, my trousers, and I can see Watson approaching me and leaning over me. The Watson in my imagination is already there, between my legs, reaching for me. I bite my lower lip slightly.
In reality Watson is but a few feet away, looking up at me and smirking slightly. He knows that something is wrong, and his irritation must have to do with my unwillingness to speak openly.
“That’s nice, Holmes. But I’m afraid you’re going to have to express yourself more clearly if you hope to have a conversation with me.” His tone is mildly sarcastic.
Very well then. I shall be blunt.
“Je veux que tu me prennes dans tes mains, que tu me branle.[vii]” I do not know what comes over me, what kind of twisted courage fills my body, but I find myself saying the most inappropriate things. I cannot stop the images from flooding my mind. He is flicking his thumb over me and then gripping me, sliding his hand up and down. But it is not enough.
“Je veux ressentir tes doigts à l’intérieur de moi, me préparant.[viii]” His fingers are pushing inside, but it’s not enough; he is preparing me for something better. I clench my hands, trying to appear calm, but I need him. The thought of him inside of me is too much, and I begin to regret having mentioned it at all. This is clearly only making me more uncomfortable and I am shifting about in my seat. I hope that he will not notice my current state. But I cannot help myself. I want…I want…
“Je veux que tu t’enfonce en moi.[ix]” The words slip from my mouth despite my trying to keep them in, and the phrase seems to get Watson’s attention, for whatever reason. Maybe he understood a word or two and is confused about why I am talking about such matters. For a moment, I am nervous about having brought such things out into the open, even though I am sure that he could not have understood the exact nature of my sentences. I hope that he does not see the blood drain from my face.
He puts his paper down and looks at me silently, almost staring me down. He then laughs lightly under his breath and rises from his seat, crossing the distance between us. I feel cornered, and my hands grip at the chair that I am seated upon.
I do not expect him to grab me by my collar, look into my eyes and then crush his mouth down upon mine. Soon his tongue is against my own and his hands are on my waist, on my back. I gasp as he slips a leg between mine and I feel his hardness brush up against me.
“What?” The stuttered word falls from my mouth. I am hot and bewildered, wondering how come this is happening, wondering how come he is in such a state. There’s no way…there’s no way…Watson barely speaks a word of my mother’s language. I almost try to push him away out of mere shock.
But when we break apart I can see the brightness in his eyes. He is holding in a laugh and a moan. He must have understood something; he must have grasped the eroticism of the words if he has been aroused in such a manner. And now he can see what effect he is having on me. Oh. Oh God.
The next thing I know, I am out of my seat and he is pushing against me and we back peddle, fumbling through the doorway to my room. I find my knees against the bed, buckling. I am falling, and Watson is pinning me down as we tumble back onto the sheets together. I cannot believe that I am lying in the same bed as Watson and that we are not lying here as mere friends. We look at each other for a moment, almost innocently, and I run my hand across the side of his face
“You underestimate my knowledge of the French language.” He smirks, and years of pent up tension erupt as the whole situation becomes anything but innocent. He cups me through my pants and the delightful friction makes me moan. “Regarde comme je suis déjà durci,[x]” he says. And he rubs against me, proving his point, his hardened length pressing against my own through the fabric. Although his English accent is prominent, the words fall from his mouth with remarkable fluency.
He kisses my neck, nips at my skin, and we are losing our shirts fast. Soon his chest is against mine and he licks at the revealed skin, making me buck in response, making me grab at his back
“Let’s see what we can do about your demands,” he says, and I feel the heat shoot through me. He kisses me again before pulling back, looking pensive. The bed shifts as he rises and leaves me lying there. I moan at the loss and wonder where he could be going at such a moment. Although these matters are proceeding at a rather fast pace, there is no way that I could object.
He shuffles about the room for a short while before noticing the jar of Vaseline on my night table. I inhale quickly as I realize what his intent is, as I imagine what he plans on doing with me. Part of my mind seems unable to compute, unable to believe that Watson is planning on sleeping with me.
He grabs the jar, making some mention of it being in a rather practical place before returning to his place between my thighs. He kisses me again, slowly, and I find myself feeling incredibly comforted by his presence. Although I have been thrown off guard by the suddenness of it all, I find my confidence returning. The affection in Watson’s eyes and the tenderness of his touches make me anxious for what will come next.
“Now tell me, what will you do first, old boy?” I ask daringly, wanting to hear him say it, hoping that his response will not be in his mother tongue. I find that his French words electrify me.
“That’s simple," he replies, loosening my trousers and freeing me from my restraints. I feel slightly worried and almost stop him as he goes to free me from my undergarments, for my length is already erect. In the end I allow him to proceed, and soon I am exposed. I feel my face blush slightly as he leans in. “Je vais te prendre entre me lèvres et te sucer.[xi]”
I moan, and the next thing I know I feel the heat of his mouth upon me.
He is holding down my hips because I cannot prevent myself from bucking. I feel him lick at the head for a while before taking me in completely. His fingers run down my legs and across my thighs as his mouth drives me wild, taking in every thrust of my cock.
“Écarte tes jambes.[xii]” he says, and I can only obey, spreading my legs and opening myself up to him, losing myself in his words. He continues to pleasure me and I can see him opening the jar, dipping his fingers in. Before long I feel his fingers near my opening, brushing at it teasingly, holding back from entering me. I push my hips against him but he pulls back, denying me of what I desire.
He smirks, enjoying me writhing beneath him, but soon I feel a finger push inside. It is not long before his fingers are easing in and out of me and my body is moving in synch with them. I feel the pleasure building in me and it is far too soon, but luckily he pulls back before I reach completion. He runs a hand across my chest affectionately.
“Déshabille-moi, s’il te plait.[xiii]” It is a soft command and I lean up, reaching for his trousers, obliging him. Soon we are lying completely bare, on top of one another. We brush against each other, grinding for a while before he leans back. I watch, lust filling my senses. He dips his fingers into the pot once against and slicks himself up in preparation, running his hands along his length, slowly. I reach for him and brush a hand through his hair, leaning up and kissing him. It is soft at first, but soon his tongue is pushing in and I am meeting it with my own. When we break apart I lean back down, spreading myself and making it quite clear that I am ready for him. After all, I have been experimenting with myself for some time.
I feel a brush of his fingers at my thighs. It is not long before his hands are grabbing onto my hips and sliding down my legs. He lifts my legs over his shoulders gently, and I can see him begin to angle himself. Oh god. All I can think of is that Watson is going to penetrate me, Watson is going to be inside of me…Watson…
His name drops from my lips and he leans forward in response. Soon I feel his cock press at my rear, just near my opening. He plays with me again, pressing his cock at my entrance, sliding it up and down but not moving in to take me.
“Que’est-ce que tu desires, Holmes? Tell me what you want.”
My muscles tense as the head of his cock presses in, filling me ever so slightly. It is so far from being enough. “Prends-moi, baise-moi.[xiv]” And he does, pushing into me completely. I gasp as I feel his entire length begin to fill me.
“Holmes,” he moans, and he begins to move slowly. I feel very little pain and am soon using my legs to pull him closer. He begins to thrust in response, slowly gaining speed, and incomprehensible babble is incessantly falling from our mouths. Once he presses against me just so, and I see sparks. He notices my response, can see what he is doing to me, and soon he is hitting the right spot almost every time.
The pleasure is building in my spine, and I reach a hand towards my own cock, wanting to guide myself to completion. Watson bats it aside, quickly replacing it with his own.
“Laisse-moi te branler…[xv]” And of course I let him, because his hand feels so much better than my own. I do not know how he can keep the rhythm, how he manages to thrust into my body and touch me simultaneously, but I am grateful for him having been blessed with such a degree of coordination.
Soon I can see his expressions change. His movements are getting more desperate and he is pushing deeper inside me. I find myself wanting nothing more than for him to finish off inside me. I need to see what Watson looks like as he climaxes; the thought itself almost pushes me over the edge.
“S’il te plait… jouît en moi, Watson.[xvi]” He moans, looking me in the eyes, increasing his speed, and soon I can feel him comply. I shudder at the sensation of his cock pulsating within me. I cannot believe that Watson is finishing off within me, that his back is arching as he pushes into me, that it is my name falling from his lips.
He slackens, and I lay there for a short moment before he pulls out of me. The feeling of him leaving my body is wonderful, but it fills me with disappointment. I have yet to achieve my own completion and was quite enjoying the feeling of him within me.
He smiles, noting my dissatisfaction and looking me in the eye before lowering himself over me. He knows that he is driving me insane. I feel his fingers on my thighs, brushing against my skin, reaching back towards my entrance and dipping in slightly
“Peut-tu ressentir mon foutre à l’intérieur de toi?[xvii]” he asks, and they are such dirty, dirty words that I cannot believe that they are coming from Watson’s mouth. My whole body clenches in response, finding the situation intensely erotic because I can, oh gosh I can feel his come inside of me, because it has been dripping out slightly ever since he pulled out.
“I want to finish you like this…” he states, suddenly delicate, and I can read his feelings from the way that he looks at me. He lowers his mouth over me again and I am already so close, so bloody close. His fingers thrust inside of me, finding the perfect spot, hitting it over and over again as his mouth bobs up and down. I try to push him away as I feel my climax building, not wanting to finish off in his mouth, but he pulls me back close.
“Je vais tout avaler[xviii]” he states, gripping onto me and continuing to work me with his mouth. The words drive me over the edge. He does swallow; he swallows it all, catching most of it in his mouth and licking up any of the remaining liquid as I shudder and convulse, bucking and gripping at the sheets, looking into his eyes, holding him there with my knees.
I find myself to be quite a useless person in the moments after I have experienced an orgasm. I feel Watson climb up the bed and collapse next to me and we lean into one another, sharing a kiss. He pulls the sheets over us and turns to face me. I see him hesitate to speak, for a moment, his eyes darting about as he internally debates about some matter or another. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. Eventually the words come.
“This probably goes without saying, but…je t’aime.[xix]”
I smile and rest my hand on the back of his neck. Of course it goes without saying.
[i] You know, my feelings for you have been complicated for quite some time now.
[ii] These days, I am having trouble concentrating.
[iv] I want to feel your mouth on mine. Your body against me.
[v] Oh really.
[vi] I want you to undress me, place yourself between my legs, and touch me.
[vii] I want you to take me in your hand and jack me off.
[viii] I want to feel your fingers inside of me, preparing me.
[ix] I want you to thrust into me.
[x] Look at how I’m already hard.
[xi] I will take you in between my lips and suck you.
[xii] Spread your legs.
[xiii] Undress me, please.
[xiv] Take me, fuck me.
[xv] Don’t worry, I’ll jack you off.
[xvi] Please, come inside of me, Watson.
[xvii] Can you feel my come inside of you?
[xviii] I’m going to swallow it all.
[xix] I love you.