Compulsion
Compulsion
or, GUNPOINT BLOWJOB
Holmes/Watson, R, 1700 words.
The Prompt, found here: Gun kink. Preferably Holmes angry at Watson for leaving and holding the gun to his temple while taking him violently from behind in the alley outside of their apartment (most likely in some alcohol or drug-induced state). Give me depraved, people! I can take anything you dish out! Give it to me, please! ;) ... gunpoint blowjob would be lovely as well, along with some dialogue about how pretty Watson looks on his knees with a cock in his mouth.
Warnings: Guns. Non-con oral sex. (Read: GUNPOINT BLOWJOB.)
Author’s Notes: Dammit, somehow plot got into my porn. The ending section turned into pain, angst, and reconciliatory fluff, so anyone who just wants the ridiculous gun porn should stop reading at the asterisks. (This is the recommended method of reading.) Title and assistance with the ending (and constant hand-holding through all of my bitching) by the incomparable featherfish.
“Glad to see you’re able to keep up your fine standards of decorum in my absence.” Holmes was splayed in his armchair, feet upon and shoving a stack of papers precariously close to the edge of a side table. He had not even bothered to roll down his left sleeve, and he noted Watson’s eyes drift to the bruised inside of his arm. “What is it, cocaine this time?”
“Excellent application of my methods, Watson.” Without seeming too obvious, Holmes attempted to locate the glass of brandy he was sure he’d set down on the rug beside his chair.
“You are without a doubt the foulest example of intellectual genius to ever grace the syringe.”
“My dear fellow, your backhanded compliments do nothing for my mood, if I may be so frank. May I enquire as to the purpose of your visit, if not to berate me for the personal habits whose negative effects surely cannot have stretched all the way to Kensington?”
“I was going to ask you to dinner.”
“But now?”
“I have serious doubts as to your ability to even stand without assistance, much less fasten a collar and cuffs onto that disgusting shirt. To hope that you have the capacity to bathe and don clean clothing is, if I may coin a phrase, an opium-dream.” Watson replaced his hat and took up his cane as he turned to leave. “I won’t be so optimistic as to hope that you’ve even attempted to understand human emotions by the next time I visit, but I suppose I shall see you soon regardless.”
The door closed behind Watson. Holmes growled. He swung his feet off of the table, sending the papers fluttering across the floor, and sprang out of his chair. Or rather, he tried to: he slid on the pile of unopened mail and promptly fell on his back, head cracking against the floor. “Bloody--” he muttered. He tried to grip the edge of the table to steady himself as he stood, but his fingers instead came down upon something lying on the table. Thin barrel, round thick cylinder, cold metal. Hardly thinking, he shoved the revolver into his pocket as he regained his balance and rushed after Watson.
Watson had paused a few doors away from 221B to light a cigarette in the shelter of a narrow alleyway. He was shaking out a match when Holmes found him.
“It’s absolutely incredible that a man of your intellect can remain so profoundly fucking ignorant on such issues.”
“Let go of me, Holmes, you’re hideously drunk.” Watson attempted to dislodge Holmes’s hands from his upper arms, but for a man who had ingested nothing but cocaine and whiskey for the past three days, Holmes was surprisingly steadfast.
“I will not let go of you until I’ve had my say. You accuse me of not suffering from human emotions, which besides being a fallacy is a deplorably obvious fallacy which if you had stopped to look at me at all these past weeks you would of course have instantly realized.”
“Oh yes, I am so terribly sorry that my marriage has gotten in the way of your egocentrism,” Watson sneered. “Now let go of me.”
“No. Watson--”
“God damn it, Holmes!” Watson shoved Holmes’s arms to the side, forgetting that he held his still-burning cigarette in one hand. It pressed into the pale skin of Holmes’s forearm, a bright red circle which rose just below the dark bruise at the joint of the elbow, linking the bruise with the lines of white pinpricks trailing down towards Holmes’s narrow wrist.
“Oh.” Holmes stared at the little wound, almost disbelieving.
“Good God, look what you’ve made me do,” Watson said with no little horror in his voice.
“I made you?!” Holmes shouted. “Goddamn it, own up to the fact that you always hurt me of your own accord.” Somehow the revolver had ended up in his hand; he cocked the hammer.
Watson went pale. “Holmes, please.” A sheen of sweat stood out on his brow.
Holmes’s upper lip curled. “Get down.”
Watson closed his eyes briefly, took in a shallow breath through his mouth, dropped to his knees. With almost-steady fingers he unbuttoned Holmes’s flies. Holmes flicked his wrist elegantly, using the muzzle of the gun to knock Watson’s hat to the ground. Watson looked up just before unfastening the last button, breathing quick and uneven. His knuckles rested against Holmes’s growing arousal and Holmes drew a stuttering breath. He rested the barrel of the gun against Watson’s temple and Watson drew him out of his trousers with sweat-damp hands.
He started by licking the head of Holmes’s cock, swirling the tip of his tongue in a little circle around the slit before taking the entire length in his mouth. He swallowed and Holmes said, “Oh,” again, though in the back of his throat this time. He twined his left hand in Watson’s hair, holding Watson close to him, keeping the revolver steady against the curls above Watson’s ear. “You never doubted that this is how it’s supposed to be. You look so exquisite,” his hips twitched forward, “so fucking pretty on your knees with my cock in your mouth.” He thrust his hips in earnest this time and Watson couldn’t draw back and almost coughed; Holmes could feel his throat spasm closed for a moment. He drew back and thrust forward again, holding Watson’s head steady in one hand, breath catching in his throat as Watson swallowed him again.
Watson’s hair was damp under Holmes’s hand, or maybe his palm was sweating against the short handful of curls he had twined between his fingers; the wooden grip of the revolver had warmed in his other palm and felt alive, obscenely smooth.
Holmes developed a rhythm, thrusting into Watson’s throat while Watson tried to swallow him each time, sometimes choking, unable to draw back. His hands gripped Holmes’s hips tightly, enough that light bruises would blossom tomorrow and dark half-circles would rise where his nails almost drew blood. Holmes’s pace increased and Watson made a little noise in his throat, a moan or a protestation, and the hot gunmetal pressed hard between Holmes’s palm and his skin and Holmes came, head thrown back, wracked with ecstasy.
Holmes pulled out of Watson’s mouth and let go of Watson’s head and Watson collapsed back on his heels, gasping for breath. His hand trembled as he reached for his hat. Holmes fastened his trousers with three fingers still tight on the grip of the revolver. Watson stood, one hand braced upon the grimy brick wall behind him, the other attempting to hide his own obvious arousal.
Holmes uncocked the revolver.
Watson coughed a few times and worked his jaw from side to side. “Good God.” His voice was rough.
“Good God,” Holmes echoed, softly. He let the revolver drop from his hand and it clattered to the ground.
He fled.
* * *
A knock sounded at the door to Holmes’s room. “Mr Holmes?” Mrs Hudson sighed. “The Doctor is here to see you.”
“You are clearly hallucinating,” Holmes mumbled, though it was unclear whether he addressed his landlady or himself. The doorknob, however, twisted, and the door was shoved past several boxes full of papers with a strength possessed of by neither a landlady nor a hallucination. Holmes blinked at the backlit figure in the doorway; ambient light from the adjoining room illuminated dust motes swirling in Holmes’s dark room. A swirl of bluish smoke escaped past the figure.
“What in God’s name is going on with you?” Watson asked without any preamble. His voice had an uncharacteristic edge in it, though nothing near to what Holmes expected (or deserved) after the absolutely ghastly events of the previous day. Not that Holmes had expected to see Watson at all, again, ever.
Holmes went to pass a hand over his face but it seemed to stay there, elegant fingertips hovering over his closed eyelids. His voice nearly cracked when he asked, “To which deplorable misdeed do you refer?”
“I had every intention of actually discussing with you yesterday’s… incident.” He began to pick his way around the stacks of books and papers which littered the floor. “Frankly I wish I were surprised that you did not seek me out to discuss it; this distaste for the emotions not only of others, but also of yourself, is appalling and has already caused you a good deal of harm. I had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that you would give some sort of reason for your disturbing behavior. Even you are not allowed to escape the consequences of…” Watson’s heel crunched something into the rug: the remains of a syringe glittered where his foot had been, next to an already-shattered glass vial whose former shape was so familiar to Watson. He paused. “Should I even ask what led you to leave with such haste?
“With what level of detail would you like me to describe my atrocious conduct? May I stop after mentioning the force with which I grabbed your arms, and my cruel words to you? Must I go so far as to bring up my threatening you with my revolver?” Holmes could barely continue. “Must I describe how I forced myself upon you…”
“Holmes.” Watson knelt next to Holmes’s chair but Holmes neither moved, nor removed the hand from in front of his face. The cigarette burn which stood starkly against his already-marred arm was surrounded by faint smudges of red, signs that Holmes had picked at the scab repeatedly in the short time since he had received the mark. Watson placed a hand on Holmes’s cool wrist.
“I do not have the right to even ask forgiveness of you, Watson.”
“Don’t you?”
Holmes peered at Watson from between splayed fingers. “It is outside the realm of human capacity to forgive such actions.”
“This will scar most awfully if you do not take care of it.” Watson ran his fingertips next to the burn. “Let me dress it.” He rose to his feet, extended a hand to Holmes, and led him out of the room.
That is the end. However, I could not post this without including this, what the ending really SHOULD have been, according to the Horatio Caine Rule*:
featherfish : Holmes could kind of come back to himself and be a little horrified, maybe, and just stumble off without saying anything
featherfish : and Watson could eventually come to him like BITCH HOW THE HELL COULD YOU JUST HIDE HERE AND NOT SAY ANYTHING TO ME AFTER THAT
featherfish : APPALLING THAT I HAD TO COME TO YOU AND YET I AM NOT SURPRISED etc
featherfish : and Holmes can be like THERE IS NOTHING I COULD SAY THAT WOULD FORGIVE WHAT I DID TO YOU
featherfish : and Watson could be like
featherfish : "Then don't say anything at all."
saintsalvage : oh my god
featherfish : YEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH
*The Horatio Caine Rule: saying any phrase after which the YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAHHHHHH would seem appropriate automatically makes you badass.
or, GUNPOINT BLOWJOB
Holmes/Watson, R, 1700 words.
The Prompt, found here: Gun kink. Preferably Holmes angry at Watson for leaving and holding the gun to his temple while taking him violently from behind in the alley outside of their apartment (most likely in some alcohol or drug-induced state). Give me depraved, people! I can take anything you dish out! Give it to me, please! ;) ... gunpoint blowjob would be lovely as well, along with some dialogue about how pretty Watson looks on his knees with a cock in his mouth.
Warnings: Guns. Non-con oral sex. (Read: GUNPOINT BLOWJOB.)
Author’s Notes: Dammit, somehow plot got into my porn. The ending section turned into pain, angst, and reconciliatory fluff, so anyone who just wants the ridiculous gun porn should stop reading at the asterisks. (This is the recommended method of reading.) Title and assistance with the ending (and constant hand-holding through all of my bitching) by the incomparable featherfish.
“Glad to see you’re able to keep up your fine standards of decorum in my absence.” Holmes was splayed in his armchair, feet upon and shoving a stack of papers precariously close to the edge of a side table. He had not even bothered to roll down his left sleeve, and he noted Watson’s eyes drift to the bruised inside of his arm. “What is it, cocaine this time?”
“Excellent application of my methods, Watson.” Without seeming too obvious, Holmes attempted to locate the glass of brandy he was sure he’d set down on the rug beside his chair.
“You are without a doubt the foulest example of intellectual genius to ever grace the syringe.”
“My dear fellow, your backhanded compliments do nothing for my mood, if I may be so frank. May I enquire as to the purpose of your visit, if not to berate me for the personal habits whose negative effects surely cannot have stretched all the way to Kensington?”
“I was going to ask you to dinner.”
“But now?”
“I have serious doubts as to your ability to even stand without assistance, much less fasten a collar and cuffs onto that disgusting shirt. To hope that you have the capacity to bathe and don clean clothing is, if I may coin a phrase, an opium-dream.” Watson replaced his hat and took up his cane as he turned to leave. “I won’t be so optimistic as to hope that you’ve even attempted to understand human emotions by the next time I visit, but I suppose I shall see you soon regardless.”
The door closed behind Watson. Holmes growled. He swung his feet off of the table, sending the papers fluttering across the floor, and sprang out of his chair. Or rather, he tried to: he slid on the pile of unopened mail and promptly fell on his back, head cracking against the floor. “Bloody--” he muttered. He tried to grip the edge of the table to steady himself as he stood, but his fingers instead came down upon something lying on the table. Thin barrel, round thick cylinder, cold metal. Hardly thinking, he shoved the revolver into his pocket as he regained his balance and rushed after Watson.
Watson had paused a few doors away from 221B to light a cigarette in the shelter of a narrow alleyway. He was shaking out a match when Holmes found him.
“It’s absolutely incredible that a man of your intellect can remain so profoundly fucking ignorant on such issues.”
“Let go of me, Holmes, you’re hideously drunk.” Watson attempted to dislodge Holmes’s hands from his upper arms, but for a man who had ingested nothing but cocaine and whiskey for the past three days, Holmes was surprisingly steadfast.
“I will not let go of you until I’ve had my say. You accuse me of not suffering from human emotions, which besides being a fallacy is a deplorably obvious fallacy which if you had stopped to look at me at all these past weeks you would of course have instantly realized.”
“Oh yes, I am so terribly sorry that my marriage has gotten in the way of your egocentrism,” Watson sneered. “Now let go of me.”
“No. Watson--”
“God damn it, Holmes!” Watson shoved Holmes’s arms to the side, forgetting that he held his still-burning cigarette in one hand. It pressed into the pale skin of Holmes’s forearm, a bright red circle which rose just below the dark bruise at the joint of the elbow, linking the bruise with the lines of white pinpricks trailing down towards Holmes’s narrow wrist.
“Oh.” Holmes stared at the little wound, almost disbelieving.
“Good God, look what you’ve made me do,” Watson said with no little horror in his voice.
“I made you?!” Holmes shouted. “Goddamn it, own up to the fact that you always hurt me of your own accord.” Somehow the revolver had ended up in his hand; he cocked the hammer.
Watson went pale. “Holmes, please.” A sheen of sweat stood out on his brow.
Holmes’s upper lip curled. “Get down.”
Watson closed his eyes briefly, took in a shallow breath through his mouth, dropped to his knees. With almost-steady fingers he unbuttoned Holmes’s flies. Holmes flicked his wrist elegantly, using the muzzle of the gun to knock Watson’s hat to the ground. Watson looked up just before unfastening the last button, breathing quick and uneven. His knuckles rested against Holmes’s growing arousal and Holmes drew a stuttering breath. He rested the barrel of the gun against Watson’s temple and Watson drew him out of his trousers with sweat-damp hands.
He started by licking the head of Holmes’s cock, swirling the tip of his tongue in a little circle around the slit before taking the entire length in his mouth. He swallowed and Holmes said, “Oh,” again, though in the back of his throat this time. He twined his left hand in Watson’s hair, holding Watson close to him, keeping the revolver steady against the curls above Watson’s ear. “You never doubted that this is how it’s supposed to be. You look so exquisite,” his hips twitched forward, “so fucking pretty on your knees with my cock in your mouth.” He thrust his hips in earnest this time and Watson couldn’t draw back and almost coughed; Holmes could feel his throat spasm closed for a moment. He drew back and thrust forward again, holding Watson’s head steady in one hand, breath catching in his throat as Watson swallowed him again.
Watson’s hair was damp under Holmes’s hand, or maybe his palm was sweating against the short handful of curls he had twined between his fingers; the wooden grip of the revolver had warmed in his other palm and felt alive, obscenely smooth.
Holmes developed a rhythm, thrusting into Watson’s throat while Watson tried to swallow him each time, sometimes choking, unable to draw back. His hands gripped Holmes’s hips tightly, enough that light bruises would blossom tomorrow and dark half-circles would rise where his nails almost drew blood. Holmes’s pace increased and Watson made a little noise in his throat, a moan or a protestation, and the hot gunmetal pressed hard between Holmes’s palm and his skin and Holmes came, head thrown back, wracked with ecstasy.
Holmes pulled out of Watson’s mouth and let go of Watson’s head and Watson collapsed back on his heels, gasping for breath. His hand trembled as he reached for his hat. Holmes fastened his trousers with three fingers still tight on the grip of the revolver. Watson stood, one hand braced upon the grimy brick wall behind him, the other attempting to hide his own obvious arousal.
Holmes uncocked the revolver.
Watson coughed a few times and worked his jaw from side to side. “Good God.” His voice was rough.
“Good God,” Holmes echoed, softly. He let the revolver drop from his hand and it clattered to the ground.
He fled.
* * *
A knock sounded at the door to Holmes’s room. “Mr Holmes?” Mrs Hudson sighed. “The Doctor is here to see you.”
“You are clearly hallucinating,” Holmes mumbled, though it was unclear whether he addressed his landlady or himself. The doorknob, however, twisted, and the door was shoved past several boxes full of papers with a strength possessed of by neither a landlady nor a hallucination. Holmes blinked at the backlit figure in the doorway; ambient light from the adjoining room illuminated dust motes swirling in Holmes’s dark room. A swirl of bluish smoke escaped past the figure.
“What in God’s name is going on with you?” Watson asked without any preamble. His voice had an uncharacteristic edge in it, though nothing near to what Holmes expected (or deserved) after the absolutely ghastly events of the previous day. Not that Holmes had expected to see Watson at all, again, ever.
Holmes went to pass a hand over his face but it seemed to stay there, elegant fingertips hovering over his closed eyelids. His voice nearly cracked when he asked, “To which deplorable misdeed do you refer?”
“I had every intention of actually discussing with you yesterday’s… incident.” He began to pick his way around the stacks of books and papers which littered the floor. “Frankly I wish I were surprised that you did not seek me out to discuss it; this distaste for the emotions not only of others, but also of yourself, is appalling and has already caused you a good deal of harm. I had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that you would give some sort of reason for your disturbing behavior. Even you are not allowed to escape the consequences of…” Watson’s heel crunched something into the rug: the remains of a syringe glittered where his foot had been, next to an already-shattered glass vial whose former shape was so familiar to Watson. He paused. “Should I even ask what led you to leave with such haste?
“With what level of detail would you like me to describe my atrocious conduct? May I stop after mentioning the force with which I grabbed your arms, and my cruel words to you? Must I go so far as to bring up my threatening you with my revolver?” Holmes could barely continue. “Must I describe how I forced myself upon you…”
“Holmes.” Watson knelt next to Holmes’s chair but Holmes neither moved, nor removed the hand from in front of his face. The cigarette burn which stood starkly against his already-marred arm was surrounded by faint smudges of red, signs that Holmes had picked at the scab repeatedly in the short time since he had received the mark. Watson placed a hand on Holmes’s cool wrist.
“I do not have the right to even ask forgiveness of you, Watson.”
“Don’t you?”
Holmes peered at Watson from between splayed fingers. “It is outside the realm of human capacity to forgive such actions.”
“This will scar most awfully if you do not take care of it.” Watson ran his fingertips next to the burn. “Let me dress it.” He rose to his feet, extended a hand to Holmes, and led him out of the room.
That is the end. However, I could not post this without including this, what the ending really SHOULD have been, according to the Horatio Caine Rule*:
featherfish : Holmes could kind of come back to himself and be a little horrified, maybe, and just stumble off without saying anything
featherfish : and Watson could eventually come to him like BITCH HOW THE HELL COULD YOU JUST HIDE HERE AND NOT SAY ANYTHING TO ME AFTER THAT
featherfish : APPALLING THAT I HAD TO COME TO YOU AND YET I AM NOT SURPRISED etc
featherfish : and Holmes can be like THERE IS NOTHING I COULD SAY THAT WOULD FORGIVE WHAT I DID TO YOU
featherfish : and Watson could be like
featherfish : "Then don't say anything at all."
saintsalvage : oh my god
featherfish : YEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH
*The Horatio Caine Rule: saying any phrase after which the YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAHHHHHH would seem appropriate automatically makes you badass.