Sherlock Holmes: Impelling Force
Title: Impelling Force
Characters/Pairing: Moriarty/Holmes (A Game Of Shadows) (yes, again)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: spoilers? (I guess, if you're waiting for basic cable...)
Word Count: ~4000
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not for profit.
Summary: Filling my own prompt for: When he goes to meet Moriarty in his university office, Holmes plans out and executes all the moves/dialogue/what-have-you that will lead Moriarty into fucking him against the wall blackboard. ... Yeah, don't look for much of a plot.
Author's note: Almost directly follows the canon scene. Setting is only altered in that I'm putting a key in the lock (how can Holmes lock the door for sexings, otherwise?) and I'm assuming there's a mirror in there somewhere (could only see a mirror-like brass object in the scene). Movement & dialogue mostly unchanged up to where Moriarty offers Holmes something stronger [to drink]. After that, some of the dialogue order is changed and then... Unless there're some extremely naughty deleted scenes on the Blu-ray release, it differs quite a bit. =P
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“Momentum.”
Out of all the chiming, singing, and susurration that filled the air in the university courtyard, that one word, spoken by a passing student, sounded distinctly in Holmes’ ear. Its clarity had nothing to do with the volume of the speaker’s voice. That same word - or rather, the idea of it - had been hovering on the edge of his consciousness all the time he had been making his way to this meeting. Momentum… There was no denying the impulse that brought him and Moriarty together, like opposing magnetic poles.
“Hmph,” he blew out his last breath of tobacco in a disgusted snort at his own trite simile, which drew narrowed glances from a few of the robed figures about him. He ignored them as he moved on, absently fiddling with, emptying, and then putting away his pipe. As if mere polarity could explain this… His mind failed to come up with a single word that could precisely describe the dynamic of their relationship. “Fate” was far too romantic. “Compulsion” was entirely one-sided…
Magnetism. He came back to that word as he entered the building that housed the academic offices of Professor James Moriarty. His steps slowed as he moved down the corridor - not because he was unsure of the way (naturally, he had made prior visits, in disguise), but rather to give his thoughts (and the unwelcome if not unpleasant disquiet of his stomach) a few more moments to order themselves. Our first official meeting… That was the core of his thoughts, and of the excitement that accompanied them. This would be the first time he and his adversary exchanged words as themselves. What will he say? Such speculation should have been purely analytical, entertained merely to test his own knowledge of his opponent. The answer ought to have been of interest only in what it, as well as Moriarty’s office, told him about the other man.
“Yes, that one,” he heard the husky-smooth tones of the professor’s voice coming from the open door to his chambers. That voice… Holmes paused on the threshold, listening. He heard a slightly tinny soprano singing in German (Schubert, from Vier Lieder), a muted patter of footsteps (light and hurried; a student), and, after a moment, the sound for which he was straining his ears.
“No, I will not be taking that one with me.” One part of Holmes’ brain automatically catalogued the words and their implicit meaning (packing for an extended tour, no doubt) while the greater part of it worked to quell the increased… agitation Moriarty’s voice inspired. That voice… His mind skipped and repeated like a damaged phonograph record before jumping back to the first time he had heard his nemesis’ undisguised voice.
“In the vast yet finite cosmos, there are…” Moriarty’s words were every bit as dull as Holmes had anticipated, if not more so. What he had not expected, however, was the rich timbre of the voice which spoke them. Nor had he been able to predict the nearly hypnotic power of the man’s presence. Was this the secret to the popularity of his lectures?
Holmes cast furtive glances, mostly masked by the bushiness of his disguise, at the other audience members. Most of them were listening with focused, though not rapt, attention - as if the dynamics of an asteroid were something worth knowing. None of them, however, seemed as entranced as Holmes was becoming. Can they not see it? Feel it? Underneath the polished, scholarly façade and the cool English reserve there burned raw, violent passions. Their embers cast an inviting smoke into his voice and, every once in a while, when some challenge or possibility stoked them, they flamed up and smoldered in his gaze with mesmerizing heat.
“Fascinating…” The word slipped from Holmes’ lips, drawn from him against his will. The man to his right nodded in agreement, but the detective scarcely noticed. He listened intently to the tone of every word, ignoring their meaning, while his gaze moved here and there over the criminal mastermind’s form, from eyes to immaculate appearance to the movement of his lips and back to his compelling gaze once more. All the while, the excitement he had felt ever since he had become aware of Moriarty and the challenge he presented changed within him, intensified.
Ah! He closed his eyes swiftly, feigning drowsiness, as their gazes nearly met. Behind his closed lids, though, his mind projected the professor’s image as his ears continued absorbing the entrancing melody of his voice. Moriarty’s lecture moved on to descriptions of some dangerous, destructive phenomenon and the hint of a seductive, animal growl entered his voice. Holmes’ mental image of the man moved closer… closer still… His words were spoken intimately… to Holmes alone… Warm… Hot fires burned in his steady gaze as one graceful hand moved toward Holmes…
Now, as he had then, pretending to wake from a doze, the detective jerked himself back to reality. The task at hand, he reminded himself with a vigorous physical and mental shake before entering the open door with as casual an air as he could muster.
“Fischerweise. Schubert, 1826,” he observed, drawing the attention of the two occupants of the room. Moriarty was naturally not surprised by his unceremonious entrance, though he did seem at an uncharacteristic loss for words as his direct gaze took in Holmes’ form. Marveling distantly at their curious aptness, the detective quoted some of the song’s German lyrics. He maintained steady, challenging eye contact - their first - with his adversary as he spoke the translation. “Give up your foolish trickery-”
“-This fish you cannot cheat,” the room’s master finished for him, features softening as they curved into a pleased, welcoming smile.
“I hope I’m not intruding.” Holmes usually found trivial civilities bothersome, but, at the moment, they assisted him well in masking the… distraction which that smile inspired.
“Ah, excuse me.” A certain degree of perturbation was reflected in Moriarty as he stumbled minutely over his slightly delayed response. With a hint of effort, he turned away and began giving soft instructions to his student.
Freed from that compelling stare, Holmes also turned, taking quick, perfunctory stock of the volumes ranged against the wall as his thoughts raced. Mutual, his mind circled round and round, coming back to that one point: the attraction existed on both sides. With the same frenetic rapidity with which he had drawn that conclusion, he made, as the pupil took leave of the professor, a decision on a course of action.
“I do apologize. I’m off on a blasted lecture tour,” Moriarty recalled him from his swift, heated calculations. Unable at the moment to meet the other man’s renewed regard, though he felt its intensity along every nerve ending, the detective followed the departing student to the door. “Would you care for some tea or coffee?”
“Neither,” he answered abstractedly as he closed the door and turned the meticulously polished key that remained in the well-oiled lock. Then, he turned back to the other man.
“Something stronger, perhaps?” Layers of suggestion (knowing, mocking, inviting) underlay the words and the infinitesimally raised eyebrow that accompanied them.
“Yes, I believe I will.” Judging by the more pronounced curve of that brow, he had surprised Moriarty with his reply. Still, the other man moved to his small yet well-stocked side bar and began pouring two measures of whisky and soda. “And, if I might also trouble you for an inscription?” Holmes pulled out and held up a copy of The Dynamics of an Asteroid.
The professor glanced up from his drink mixing and regarded his work. “With pleasure,” he answered with another smile.
Mm… With the combination of that smile and that voice, Moriarty’s last word became its meaning, dancing up Holmes’ spine in a delightful shiver. He was unable, at that moment, to articulate his gratitude, so he settled for a polite inclination of his head - admirably suited to masking his disquiet - before moving to set the book on the desk. Not allowing purpose to be subsumed by enjoyment, he ran his eyes over its tidy surface, but found nothing of interest. On pretext of politely waiting for his refreshment, he turned to the part of the room Moriarty currently occupied, completing the most cursory of examinations before the other man turned and approached with their drinks. The detective accepted his with another nod of thanks. "Your health," he toasted, finally returning his companion's smile with an ironic twist of his lips behind his raised glass. He widened it, adding an inquiring, challenging curve of his brow, as the salutation was returned... And watched, sipping his drink, as Moriarty involuntarily swallowed his own mouthful hard and audibly.
Belatedly masking that reaction, the other man sat down to autograph the book while Holmes turned to face the blackboard. A rustle of pages being turned and then the scratch of pen on paper sounded behind him as he examined the numerous equations and diagrams (mere teaching exercises) that were tidily, efficiently chalked all over the dark surface.
"Have you actually read the book?" After a moment, Moriarty's question recalled his attention. Holmes glanced over his shoulder, but the seated man had simply raised his eyes, not turned around, with the query.
He turned back to the board, took another sip of his drink, and answered, “I found it… compelling.” His questing gaze found an odd volume resting on the chalk tray (horticulture…?) and he looked deeper into the room to where a desiccated plant languished in a flowerbox (so that’s the key). “Though I’m primarily interested in your… more recent… endeavors.” He turned around fully, leaned back, and rested first his drink, then his hands on the tray.
“I take that as a compliment,” the professor replied, setting down his pen, blowing the ink dry on the page, and shutting the book. “I have the utmost regard for your talents.” He turned his chair and his keen, compelling gaze locked on Holmes’. A flush of respect (and something more) warmed both that look and that silken voice. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Almost of its own volition, Holmes’ right hand proffered itself and was taken in an equally warm, firm grip. “Officially,” Moriarty added, the same tantalizing, titillating layers coloring the word as had tinted his earlier offer of alcohol.
The atmosphere of the office charged statically with the electric potential building between them. Time seemed to slow almost to the point of stopping as Holmes’ mind rapidly played the next few moments.
First, pique interest... That had already been achieved. Next, ignite anger and elicit physical contact. The image of Moriarty, usually repressed passion simmering in his eyes, laying hands on him in a warning grip threatened to derail the detective's train of thought. Then, further stimulate... Resistance of hold and small bite into kiss, inciting dominating response... Assert control, gripping shoulder, jutting hips to grind growing arousal...
Yes. He cut off the heated flow of simulation before it reached its climax, not wanting to spoil the spontaneous thrill of what would follow. Now. He turned to half-face the blackboard once more, withdrawing his hand from Moriarty’s in a manner that subtly drew the professor with him. “I’m afraid I must blunt the… delectation of our… encounter,” he chose and inflected his words with care, “by pointing out a minor… miscalculation on your part.” Continuing the sinuous motion of his hand, he indicated some figures to his right, near the top of the blackboard.
“I assure you, I do not make miscalculations.” A hint of irritation pleasingly roughened Moriarty’s voice and his body heat radiated across the narrow space between them to warm Holmes’ back.
“It is but a small error: something I might easily amend…” The detective picked up a piece of chalk and moved it toward the slate as if to correct the supposed mistake.
“There is no error.” A solid grip to his wrist stilled his hand and the heat at his back increased as the action brought the other man’s body into contact with his own.
He pulled against that hold, his hip brushing against his captor’s groin, as he continued in his most flippant tone, “…and nothing to fret overmuch about as it is neither your last nor your least.”
A soft, wordless, exhilarating growl sounded against his ear as the grip on his wrist tightened and he was roughly spun around and shoved back against the chalkboard. The chalk he held fell from his captured hand as it was pinned above his head. Momentarily winded by impact, he struggled for breath as he met Moriarty’s glittering gaze with a half-mocking, challenging stare. The professor’s breathing was also a touch uneven as he whispered, “I’m afraid, Holmes, that it is you who has miscalculated.”
Not in the least. The detective swiftly raised his free hand to push against the form trapping him, but, as he planned, that limb too was caught. He gasped slightly in pain and his body undulated once in seemingly involuntary struggle. For one, white-hot moment the two rivals stared at one another, respiration equally ragged, locked gazes striking sparks off one another until…
With another spine-tingling growl, Moriarty pressed their lips together in a bruising kiss. Holmes feigned turning his face away and his left hand was released as the other man instead grasped the nape of his neck. Strong fingers tangled in his overlong hair with a delicious hint of pain as his mouth was more fully claimed. His left hand grasped Moriarty’s torso and he fought for a more favorable position as he parted his lips. With a little maneuvering - that had the wonderful side effect of rubbing their bodies together with exquisite friction - he was able to deliver a firm nip to the professor’s lower lip.
“I think not, Holmes.” The words were barely articulate - his name a near animal noise. The sound vibrated down his spine to shiver in his groin, stirring up latent embers. He could feel the compelling force and heat of the other man’s passion flaming against him. A fork of it seared his mouth as Moriarty exploited his open lips, tongue moving in and twining itself forcefully with Holmes’. Deeper, more dominatingly it moved as his grip on the detective’s neck tightened, thumb sliding around to push warningly against his throat.
I think so. Holmes’ left hand shifted around and up, clutching the back of the professor’s shoulder. He alternately pushed away and pulled his companion closer, as he willed, while his tongue wrestled with the other man’s in a bid for control of the kiss. His hold moved higher still to grasp hair as his tongue snaked around and stroked Moriarty’s. He thrust his hips forward once in a quick, hard rolling motion, bringing their groins - and the growing solidity their - into firm, grinding contact. And again.
The low, rumbling sound Moriarty made then was pure animal - and it went straight to Holmes’ cock. He made a noise of his own - a muted, gasping moan of pleasure - as the other man pushed back against him, lips and teeth moving against the curve of his jaw in a biting kiss… beard grating delightfully against his skin. In the most uncontrolled moves he had ever exhibited, Moriarty loosed his hold on Holmes only to grab his lapels. He used that grip to almost slam the detective back into the blackboard once more. One hand shifted its hold to a thrusting hip as a knee moved in hard to part Holmes’ legs. Hands free, the detective reached for the fastenings of the other man’s trousers, deftly opening them and then sliding teasing fingers in to just brush his arousal. With another bestial sound, the professor pulled away Holmes’ cravat, exposing his throat to the same wonderful treatment his jaw had been receiving, before mimicking the darker man’s motions, if with less finesse. He then pushed Holmes’ trousers down off his hips to pool around his ankles and took hold of his buttocks to lift him until he half-sat on the chalk tray.
“Mmm…” The detective purred as he freed his companion’s erection from its confines and pulled it into direct, super-heated contact with his own. An answering rumble sounded as he stroked them once, together. Then he kicked off his right shoe, freeing that leg from his trousers so he could lift it and bring it up behind Moriarty’s… pushing their mutual arousal more firmly together. While Holmes stroked once more, harder, the professor undid the top buttons of the detective’s shirt and pulled it and his jacket off his shoulders, exposing more flesh to the biting suction and sweet friction of lips, teeth, and beard.
Head spinning from both the breathtaking assault and his own ministrations, Holmes’ eyes fluttered closed. Fighting that lovely intoxication, he pulled a hand back and moved it along the narrow shelf on which he perched until he found his abandoned drink. Maintaining the slow, strong caresses of his left hand, he placed his right over the glass, holding it then flipping it to cover his palm with whisky and soda. He let go of the glass then and took hold of Moriarty again with his wet hand.
“Hsss!” The fairer man loosed a short, sharp hiss against Holmes’ collarbone at the painful-pleasant tingling of the alcohol on his heated, sensitized flesh. The detective opened his eyes once more, picked up the glass, and poured a measure over the other man’s throbbing cock.
“Ah!” It was Holmes’ turn to give a little cry of pain - and drop the glass with a small crash of broken glass - as Moriarty, in response to his action, bit hard into his shoulder at the base of his neck. In retaliation, the detective pulled sharply on the man’s erection before more gently working in the liquid he had poured.
Now, he decided. “Moriarty.” Every ounce of seduction, challenge, invitation, and surrender he had in him, he poured into his rival’s name. It was enough.
“Holmes,” was the deep, husky reply. Moriarty swiftly turned Holmes around, grabbing a hip with one hand and using the other to position himself.
This is depraved, a voice that sounded a lot like Watson’s said in the detective’s mind as his face pressed into blackboard, the smooth wood of the chalk tray pushed against his cock, and the heat of his greatest enemy’s erection seared his opening. Truly depraved, the Watson-voice repeated… but Watson had gone and had forfeited his say in the matter.
“Ah!” Their muted cries sounded in breathy harmony as Moriarty at last pushed into Holmes. His first thrust just pushed him past the outer ring of muscle. Holmes reached behind him and grabbed hold of the other man’s hip, drawing him closer, deeper as he pressed back against him, wanting to swiftly push past the initial pain and into the imminent pleasure. He thrust his hips forward then, letting his rival savor the sweet friction as he relished the renewed animal sounds that the man made. Moriarty was but half-withdrawn when Holmes tugged on his hip again. They moved together, one forward, one back, until the professor was fully encased.
Yes… The detective’s nails dug into the other man’s hip and his own hips rocked minutely, shifting both the cock inside him and rubbing his own against the chalk tray. His free hand reached over his shoulder to clutch at Moriarty’s hair. Yes… There it was, deep inside him: the heat… the rage… the passion… the pleasure… “Move,” he said, both a plea and a command.
It was answered. Hard, fast, and fluid, Moriarty pulled back and thrust in again, and again. Holmes allowed him to set the pace for a moment - feeling the man’s rhythm, his violent grace - before matching it, then taking it over with his own thrusts back and his continued hold on that straining hip. With short, rolling, backward motions, he guided the professor’s cock to stroke, to rub repeatedly against that one spot within him, sending electric currents of pure exhilaration coursing through his body, shocking his brain with bliss. At the same time, those movements ground his own erection into hard wood in rough, satisfying counterpoint.
“Hmm…” He bit his lower lip to hold back a moan as he lightly pulled Moriarty’s hair again. The other man complied with his unspoken request and - as their joined rhythm started to become erratic - applied his mouth to the back of Holmes’ neck. The piston of Moriarty’s hips sped and stuttered, sped and stuttered as he ran tongue, teeth, and facial hair against one of the detective’s more sensitive spots… while his cock caressed the most sensitive. The exquisite heat and pressure with Holmes built to near the breaking point and everything he felt inside and out told him that Moriarty was even closer to the edge. “Professor…” he breathed in a heated whisper, pulling the other man over the edge.
“Mmm!” As he climaxed, Moriarty stifled whatever cry he might have made in a possessive, biting kiss to Holmes’ neck. Hearing that, feeling that… feeling all his rival’s hidden fires pouring, pulsing into him - drawn out by him - brought Holmes almost to the brink. With one last grind back against the professor then forward into solid wood, Holmes reached his own completion, mind exploding in spark-filled white and spent desire exploding onto the blackboard.
For a minute or so, all either of them could do was breath and lean; Holmes against the blackboard, his hands now pressed against it, and Moriarty against him, hands covering his rival’s. The detective could feel the other man’s satiation in his breath on Holmes’ skin and his waning lust in the gradually softening member within him. All he needed at that moment was to hear that voice - saying anything - in this afterglow.
“I read that the good doctor was to be married today,” Moriarty said, pulling back slightly.
Not that. The afterglow dissipated rapidly at the professor’s softly mocking tone - his implication that Watson’s nuptials were a direct cause of this part of their encounter. A contributing factor, perhaps, Holmes admitted ruefully as he pulled away from the other man, stifling a gasp at his withdrawal. Hovering in his subconscious, the thought of them had likely heightened his emotions as it lowered his inhibitions. He said nothing, though, as yet in response. He simply began correcting his appearance as Moriarty did the same.
“How was the service?” the professor asked as he wiped himself with a handkerchief before tucking himself away.
“Definitive,” Holmes replied, using the cloth from the chalk tray to clean himself as best he could. He was unable to be as thorough as he would like, but… undoubtedly the lofty halls of the university were accustomed to the smells of chalk dust and semen. He dropped the ejaculate-stained fabric to the floor when he was done. “He will no longer be a party to my investigations - he’s out of the equation.” He spoke rapidly while he righted his clothes and shoes. Moriarty had moved to his looking glass to refine his appearance. “I… trust you’ll take this into consideration.” He paused in his request, unsure for once in this encounter; uncertain if he should express the sincerity behind those words. He avoided the professor’s reflected gaze and instead focused on brushing chalk dust from his hair and clothing.
“And what considerations will you grant me?” Moriarty asked in a tone of quiet, dangerous inquiry.
None, the detective promised silently as he gave a last firm brush to the back of his jacket. His eyes darted briefly to the small green book by the blackboard as he stooped to retrieve his cravat. None whatsoever. He rose and moved to the desk, picking up the other volume that lay there before resuming his confident pacing about the room.
“Are you familiar with the study of graphology?”
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I'll settle for "remotely plausible" on this story. And "rather warm."
...And I just realized that I have only ever used Holmes' high-speed simulation/planning train of thought thingie for smut... Oh well.
Characters/Pairing: Moriarty/Holmes (A Game Of Shadows) (yes, again)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: spoilers? (I guess, if you're waiting for basic cable...)
Word Count: ~4000
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not for profit.
Summary: Filling my own prompt for: When he goes to meet Moriarty in his university office, Holmes plans out and executes all the moves/dialogue/what-have-you that will lead Moriarty into fucking him against the wall blackboard. ... Yeah, don't look for much of a plot.
Author's note: Almost directly follows the canon scene. Setting is only altered in that I'm putting a key in the lock (how can Holmes lock the door for sexings, otherwise?) and I'm assuming there's a mirror in there somewhere (could only see a mirror-like brass object in the scene). Movement & dialogue mostly unchanged up to where Moriarty offers Holmes something stronger [to drink]. After that, some of the dialogue order is changed and then... Unless there're some extremely naughty deleted scenes on the Blu-ray release, it differs quite a bit. =P
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“Momentum.”
Out of all the chiming, singing, and susurration that filled the air in the university courtyard, that one word, spoken by a passing student, sounded distinctly in Holmes’ ear. Its clarity had nothing to do with the volume of the speaker’s voice. That same word - or rather, the idea of it - had been hovering on the edge of his consciousness all the time he had been making his way to this meeting. Momentum… There was no denying the impulse that brought him and Moriarty together, like opposing magnetic poles.
“Hmph,” he blew out his last breath of tobacco in a disgusted snort at his own trite simile, which drew narrowed glances from a few of the robed figures about him. He ignored them as he moved on, absently fiddling with, emptying, and then putting away his pipe. As if mere polarity could explain this… His mind failed to come up with a single word that could precisely describe the dynamic of their relationship. “Fate” was far too romantic. “Compulsion” was entirely one-sided…
Magnetism. He came back to that word as he entered the building that housed the academic offices of Professor James Moriarty. His steps slowed as he moved down the corridor - not because he was unsure of the way (naturally, he had made prior visits, in disguise), but rather to give his thoughts (and the unwelcome if not unpleasant disquiet of his stomach) a few more moments to order themselves. Our first official meeting… That was the core of his thoughts, and of the excitement that accompanied them. This would be the first time he and his adversary exchanged words as themselves. What will he say? Such speculation should have been purely analytical, entertained merely to test his own knowledge of his opponent. The answer ought to have been of interest only in what it, as well as Moriarty’s office, told him about the other man.
“Yes, that one,” he heard the husky-smooth tones of the professor’s voice coming from the open door to his chambers. That voice… Holmes paused on the threshold, listening. He heard a slightly tinny soprano singing in German (Schubert, from Vier Lieder), a muted patter of footsteps (light and hurried; a student), and, after a moment, the sound for which he was straining his ears.
“No, I will not be taking that one with me.” One part of Holmes’ brain automatically catalogued the words and their implicit meaning (packing for an extended tour, no doubt) while the greater part of it worked to quell the increased… agitation Moriarty’s voice inspired. That voice… His mind skipped and repeated like a damaged phonograph record before jumping back to the first time he had heard his nemesis’ undisguised voice.
“In the vast yet finite cosmos, there are…” Moriarty’s words were every bit as dull as Holmes had anticipated, if not more so. What he had not expected, however, was the rich timbre of the voice which spoke them. Nor had he been able to predict the nearly hypnotic power of the man’s presence. Was this the secret to the popularity of his lectures?
Holmes cast furtive glances, mostly masked by the bushiness of his disguise, at the other audience members. Most of them were listening with focused, though not rapt, attention - as if the dynamics of an asteroid were something worth knowing. None of them, however, seemed as entranced as Holmes was becoming. Can they not see it? Feel it? Underneath the polished, scholarly façade and the cool English reserve there burned raw, violent passions. Their embers cast an inviting smoke into his voice and, every once in a while, when some challenge or possibility stoked them, they flamed up and smoldered in his gaze with mesmerizing heat.
“Fascinating…” The word slipped from Holmes’ lips, drawn from him against his will. The man to his right nodded in agreement, but the detective scarcely noticed. He listened intently to the tone of every word, ignoring their meaning, while his gaze moved here and there over the criminal mastermind’s form, from eyes to immaculate appearance to the movement of his lips and back to his compelling gaze once more. All the while, the excitement he had felt ever since he had become aware of Moriarty and the challenge he presented changed within him, intensified.
Ah! He closed his eyes swiftly, feigning drowsiness, as their gazes nearly met. Behind his closed lids, though, his mind projected the professor’s image as his ears continued absorbing the entrancing melody of his voice. Moriarty’s lecture moved on to descriptions of some dangerous, destructive phenomenon and the hint of a seductive, animal growl entered his voice. Holmes’ mental image of the man moved closer… closer still… His words were spoken intimately… to Holmes alone… Warm… Hot fires burned in his steady gaze as one graceful hand moved toward Holmes…
Now, as he had then, pretending to wake from a doze, the detective jerked himself back to reality. The task at hand, he reminded himself with a vigorous physical and mental shake before entering the open door with as casual an air as he could muster.
“Fischerweise. Schubert, 1826,” he observed, drawing the attention of the two occupants of the room. Moriarty was naturally not surprised by his unceremonious entrance, though he did seem at an uncharacteristic loss for words as his direct gaze took in Holmes’ form. Marveling distantly at their curious aptness, the detective quoted some of the song’s German lyrics. He maintained steady, challenging eye contact - their first - with his adversary as he spoke the translation. “Give up your foolish trickery-”
“-This fish you cannot cheat,” the room’s master finished for him, features softening as they curved into a pleased, welcoming smile.
“I hope I’m not intruding.” Holmes usually found trivial civilities bothersome, but, at the moment, they assisted him well in masking the… distraction which that smile inspired.
“Ah, excuse me.” A certain degree of perturbation was reflected in Moriarty as he stumbled minutely over his slightly delayed response. With a hint of effort, he turned away and began giving soft instructions to his student.
Freed from that compelling stare, Holmes also turned, taking quick, perfunctory stock of the volumes ranged against the wall as his thoughts raced. Mutual, his mind circled round and round, coming back to that one point: the attraction existed on both sides. With the same frenetic rapidity with which he had drawn that conclusion, he made, as the pupil took leave of the professor, a decision on a course of action.
“I do apologize. I’m off on a blasted lecture tour,” Moriarty recalled him from his swift, heated calculations. Unable at the moment to meet the other man’s renewed regard, though he felt its intensity along every nerve ending, the detective followed the departing student to the door. “Would you care for some tea or coffee?”
“Neither,” he answered abstractedly as he closed the door and turned the meticulously polished key that remained in the well-oiled lock. Then, he turned back to the other man.
“Something stronger, perhaps?” Layers of suggestion (knowing, mocking, inviting) underlay the words and the infinitesimally raised eyebrow that accompanied them.
“Yes, I believe I will.” Judging by the more pronounced curve of that brow, he had surprised Moriarty with his reply. Still, the other man moved to his small yet well-stocked side bar and began pouring two measures of whisky and soda. “And, if I might also trouble you for an inscription?” Holmes pulled out and held up a copy of The Dynamics of an Asteroid.
The professor glanced up from his drink mixing and regarded his work. “With pleasure,” he answered with another smile.
Mm… With the combination of that smile and that voice, Moriarty’s last word became its meaning, dancing up Holmes’ spine in a delightful shiver. He was unable, at that moment, to articulate his gratitude, so he settled for a polite inclination of his head - admirably suited to masking his disquiet - before moving to set the book on the desk. Not allowing purpose to be subsumed by enjoyment, he ran his eyes over its tidy surface, but found nothing of interest. On pretext of politely waiting for his refreshment, he turned to the part of the room Moriarty currently occupied, completing the most cursory of examinations before the other man turned and approached with their drinks. The detective accepted his with another nod of thanks. "Your health," he toasted, finally returning his companion's smile with an ironic twist of his lips behind his raised glass. He widened it, adding an inquiring, challenging curve of his brow, as the salutation was returned... And watched, sipping his drink, as Moriarty involuntarily swallowed his own mouthful hard and audibly.
Belatedly masking that reaction, the other man sat down to autograph the book while Holmes turned to face the blackboard. A rustle of pages being turned and then the scratch of pen on paper sounded behind him as he examined the numerous equations and diagrams (mere teaching exercises) that were tidily, efficiently chalked all over the dark surface.
"Have you actually read the book?" After a moment, Moriarty's question recalled his attention. Holmes glanced over his shoulder, but the seated man had simply raised his eyes, not turned around, with the query.
He turned back to the board, took another sip of his drink, and answered, “I found it… compelling.” His questing gaze found an odd volume resting on the chalk tray (horticulture…?) and he looked deeper into the room to where a desiccated plant languished in a flowerbox (so that’s the key). “Though I’m primarily interested in your… more recent… endeavors.” He turned around fully, leaned back, and rested first his drink, then his hands on the tray.
“I take that as a compliment,” the professor replied, setting down his pen, blowing the ink dry on the page, and shutting the book. “I have the utmost regard for your talents.” He turned his chair and his keen, compelling gaze locked on Holmes’. A flush of respect (and something more) warmed both that look and that silken voice. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Almost of its own volition, Holmes’ right hand proffered itself and was taken in an equally warm, firm grip. “Officially,” Moriarty added, the same tantalizing, titillating layers coloring the word as had tinted his earlier offer of alcohol.
The atmosphere of the office charged statically with the electric potential building between them. Time seemed to slow almost to the point of stopping as Holmes’ mind rapidly played the next few moments.
First, pique interest... That had already been achieved. Next, ignite anger and elicit physical contact. The image of Moriarty, usually repressed passion simmering in his eyes, laying hands on him in a warning grip threatened to derail the detective's train of thought. Then, further stimulate... Resistance of hold and small bite into kiss, inciting dominating response... Assert control, gripping shoulder, jutting hips to grind growing arousal...
Yes. He cut off the heated flow of simulation before it reached its climax, not wanting to spoil the spontaneous thrill of what would follow. Now. He turned to half-face the blackboard once more, withdrawing his hand from Moriarty’s in a manner that subtly drew the professor with him. “I’m afraid I must blunt the… delectation of our… encounter,” he chose and inflected his words with care, “by pointing out a minor… miscalculation on your part.” Continuing the sinuous motion of his hand, he indicated some figures to his right, near the top of the blackboard.
“I assure you, I do not make miscalculations.” A hint of irritation pleasingly roughened Moriarty’s voice and his body heat radiated across the narrow space between them to warm Holmes’ back.
“It is but a small error: something I might easily amend…” The detective picked up a piece of chalk and moved it toward the slate as if to correct the supposed mistake.
“There is no error.” A solid grip to his wrist stilled his hand and the heat at his back increased as the action brought the other man’s body into contact with his own.
He pulled against that hold, his hip brushing against his captor’s groin, as he continued in his most flippant tone, “…and nothing to fret overmuch about as it is neither your last nor your least.”
A soft, wordless, exhilarating growl sounded against his ear as the grip on his wrist tightened and he was roughly spun around and shoved back against the chalkboard. The chalk he held fell from his captured hand as it was pinned above his head. Momentarily winded by impact, he struggled for breath as he met Moriarty’s glittering gaze with a half-mocking, challenging stare. The professor’s breathing was also a touch uneven as he whispered, “I’m afraid, Holmes, that it is you who has miscalculated.”
Not in the least. The detective swiftly raised his free hand to push against the form trapping him, but, as he planned, that limb too was caught. He gasped slightly in pain and his body undulated once in seemingly involuntary struggle. For one, white-hot moment the two rivals stared at one another, respiration equally ragged, locked gazes striking sparks off one another until…
With another spine-tingling growl, Moriarty pressed their lips together in a bruising kiss. Holmes feigned turning his face away and his left hand was released as the other man instead grasped the nape of his neck. Strong fingers tangled in his overlong hair with a delicious hint of pain as his mouth was more fully claimed. His left hand grasped Moriarty’s torso and he fought for a more favorable position as he parted his lips. With a little maneuvering - that had the wonderful side effect of rubbing their bodies together with exquisite friction - he was able to deliver a firm nip to the professor’s lower lip.
“I think not, Holmes.” The words were barely articulate - his name a near animal noise. The sound vibrated down his spine to shiver in his groin, stirring up latent embers. He could feel the compelling force and heat of the other man’s passion flaming against him. A fork of it seared his mouth as Moriarty exploited his open lips, tongue moving in and twining itself forcefully with Holmes’. Deeper, more dominatingly it moved as his grip on the detective’s neck tightened, thumb sliding around to push warningly against his throat.
I think so. Holmes’ left hand shifted around and up, clutching the back of the professor’s shoulder. He alternately pushed away and pulled his companion closer, as he willed, while his tongue wrestled with the other man’s in a bid for control of the kiss. His hold moved higher still to grasp hair as his tongue snaked around and stroked Moriarty’s. He thrust his hips forward once in a quick, hard rolling motion, bringing their groins - and the growing solidity their - into firm, grinding contact. And again.
The low, rumbling sound Moriarty made then was pure animal - and it went straight to Holmes’ cock. He made a noise of his own - a muted, gasping moan of pleasure - as the other man pushed back against him, lips and teeth moving against the curve of his jaw in a biting kiss… beard grating delightfully against his skin. In the most uncontrolled moves he had ever exhibited, Moriarty loosed his hold on Holmes only to grab his lapels. He used that grip to almost slam the detective back into the blackboard once more. One hand shifted its hold to a thrusting hip as a knee moved in hard to part Holmes’ legs. Hands free, the detective reached for the fastenings of the other man’s trousers, deftly opening them and then sliding teasing fingers in to just brush his arousal. With another bestial sound, the professor pulled away Holmes’ cravat, exposing his throat to the same wonderful treatment his jaw had been receiving, before mimicking the darker man’s motions, if with less finesse. He then pushed Holmes’ trousers down off his hips to pool around his ankles and took hold of his buttocks to lift him until he half-sat on the chalk tray.
“Mmm…” The detective purred as he freed his companion’s erection from its confines and pulled it into direct, super-heated contact with his own. An answering rumble sounded as he stroked them once, together. Then he kicked off his right shoe, freeing that leg from his trousers so he could lift it and bring it up behind Moriarty’s… pushing their mutual arousal more firmly together. While Holmes stroked once more, harder, the professor undid the top buttons of the detective’s shirt and pulled it and his jacket off his shoulders, exposing more flesh to the biting suction and sweet friction of lips, teeth, and beard.
Head spinning from both the breathtaking assault and his own ministrations, Holmes’ eyes fluttered closed. Fighting that lovely intoxication, he pulled a hand back and moved it along the narrow shelf on which he perched until he found his abandoned drink. Maintaining the slow, strong caresses of his left hand, he placed his right over the glass, holding it then flipping it to cover his palm with whisky and soda. He let go of the glass then and took hold of Moriarty again with his wet hand.
“Hsss!” The fairer man loosed a short, sharp hiss against Holmes’ collarbone at the painful-pleasant tingling of the alcohol on his heated, sensitized flesh. The detective opened his eyes once more, picked up the glass, and poured a measure over the other man’s throbbing cock.
“Ah!” It was Holmes’ turn to give a little cry of pain - and drop the glass with a small crash of broken glass - as Moriarty, in response to his action, bit hard into his shoulder at the base of his neck. In retaliation, the detective pulled sharply on the man’s erection before more gently working in the liquid he had poured.
Now, he decided. “Moriarty.” Every ounce of seduction, challenge, invitation, and surrender he had in him, he poured into his rival’s name. It was enough.
“Holmes,” was the deep, husky reply. Moriarty swiftly turned Holmes around, grabbing a hip with one hand and using the other to position himself.
This is depraved, a voice that sounded a lot like Watson’s said in the detective’s mind as his face pressed into blackboard, the smooth wood of the chalk tray pushed against his cock, and the heat of his greatest enemy’s erection seared his opening. Truly depraved, the Watson-voice repeated… but Watson had gone and had forfeited his say in the matter.
“Ah!” Their muted cries sounded in breathy harmony as Moriarty at last pushed into Holmes. His first thrust just pushed him past the outer ring of muscle. Holmes reached behind him and grabbed hold of the other man’s hip, drawing him closer, deeper as he pressed back against him, wanting to swiftly push past the initial pain and into the imminent pleasure. He thrust his hips forward then, letting his rival savor the sweet friction as he relished the renewed animal sounds that the man made. Moriarty was but half-withdrawn when Holmes tugged on his hip again. They moved together, one forward, one back, until the professor was fully encased.
Yes… The detective’s nails dug into the other man’s hip and his own hips rocked minutely, shifting both the cock inside him and rubbing his own against the chalk tray. His free hand reached over his shoulder to clutch at Moriarty’s hair. Yes… There it was, deep inside him: the heat… the rage… the passion… the pleasure… “Move,” he said, both a plea and a command.
It was answered. Hard, fast, and fluid, Moriarty pulled back and thrust in again, and again. Holmes allowed him to set the pace for a moment - feeling the man’s rhythm, his violent grace - before matching it, then taking it over with his own thrusts back and his continued hold on that straining hip. With short, rolling, backward motions, he guided the professor’s cock to stroke, to rub repeatedly against that one spot within him, sending electric currents of pure exhilaration coursing through his body, shocking his brain with bliss. At the same time, those movements ground his own erection into hard wood in rough, satisfying counterpoint.
“Hmm…” He bit his lower lip to hold back a moan as he lightly pulled Moriarty’s hair again. The other man complied with his unspoken request and - as their joined rhythm started to become erratic - applied his mouth to the back of Holmes’ neck. The piston of Moriarty’s hips sped and stuttered, sped and stuttered as he ran tongue, teeth, and facial hair against one of the detective’s more sensitive spots… while his cock caressed the most sensitive. The exquisite heat and pressure with Holmes built to near the breaking point and everything he felt inside and out told him that Moriarty was even closer to the edge. “Professor…” he breathed in a heated whisper, pulling the other man over the edge.
“Mmm!” As he climaxed, Moriarty stifled whatever cry he might have made in a possessive, biting kiss to Holmes’ neck. Hearing that, feeling that… feeling all his rival’s hidden fires pouring, pulsing into him - drawn out by him - brought Holmes almost to the brink. With one last grind back against the professor then forward into solid wood, Holmes reached his own completion, mind exploding in spark-filled white and spent desire exploding onto the blackboard.
For a minute or so, all either of them could do was breath and lean; Holmes against the blackboard, his hands now pressed against it, and Moriarty against him, hands covering his rival’s. The detective could feel the other man’s satiation in his breath on Holmes’ skin and his waning lust in the gradually softening member within him. All he needed at that moment was to hear that voice - saying anything - in this afterglow.
“I read that the good doctor was to be married today,” Moriarty said, pulling back slightly.
Not that. The afterglow dissipated rapidly at the professor’s softly mocking tone - his implication that Watson’s nuptials were a direct cause of this part of their encounter. A contributing factor, perhaps, Holmes admitted ruefully as he pulled away from the other man, stifling a gasp at his withdrawal. Hovering in his subconscious, the thought of them had likely heightened his emotions as it lowered his inhibitions. He said nothing, though, as yet in response. He simply began correcting his appearance as Moriarty did the same.
“How was the service?” the professor asked as he wiped himself with a handkerchief before tucking himself away.
“Definitive,” Holmes replied, using the cloth from the chalk tray to clean himself as best he could. He was unable to be as thorough as he would like, but… undoubtedly the lofty halls of the university were accustomed to the smells of chalk dust and semen. He dropped the ejaculate-stained fabric to the floor when he was done. “He will no longer be a party to my investigations - he’s out of the equation.” He spoke rapidly while he righted his clothes and shoes. Moriarty had moved to his looking glass to refine his appearance. “I… trust you’ll take this into consideration.” He paused in his request, unsure for once in this encounter; uncertain if he should express the sincerity behind those words. He avoided the professor’s reflected gaze and instead focused on brushing chalk dust from his hair and clothing.
“And what considerations will you grant me?” Moriarty asked in a tone of quiet, dangerous inquiry.
None, the detective promised silently as he gave a last firm brush to the back of his jacket. His eyes darted briefly to the small green book by the blackboard as he stooped to retrieve his cravat. None whatsoever. He rose and moved to the desk, picking up the other volume that lay there before resuming his confident pacing about the room.
“Are you familiar with the study of graphology?”
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I'll settle for "remotely plausible" on this story. And "rather warm."
...And I just realized that I have only ever used Holmes' high-speed simulation/planning train of thought thingie for smut... Oh well.