A Sure Thing [H/W, NC17]
Title: A Sure Thing
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 809
Summary: Inspired by this amazing work of art by lizardspots.
Warnings: Bondage. More un-beta’d bondage.
Disclaimer: I didn't make them up, but I don’t think I’ve been any crueller to them than any ‘reputable’ pastiche writer.
A match strikes and the scent of his tobacco surrounds me. I breathe deeply, tasting shag and sulphur and under it the sharp note of his skin; sweat and lime water. My world is warm darkness; the uneven press of the boards at my knees and the pressure of Holmes’s taught calf against my thigh. He shifts, coming tantalisingly close to where my swollen member presses into the crease of my body and my heart skips. My lips fall open, hoping to gather some further hint of him in the air.
A stinging drop of sweat slips down my side and despite my best efforts my aching abdominal muscles flutter. A sudden painful reminder comes on the toe of Holmes’s shoe, digging into my hip just above the waistband of my trousers. A sigh and the soft pop of a burning tobacco seed signal his disapproval. Pain flares in my cramping latissimus and in the twisted tendons of my bound wrists but I remain determinedly upright and I know when he puts the pipe to my lips that he is pleased.
The pipe is not merely a reward, it is an opportunity. I wrap my lips around the stem and hollow my cheeks, inhaling for a long moment before releasing it with an obscene swipe of my tongue across the mouthpiece. I pout lasciviously on the exhale, licking my top lip and dropping my head a little to expose the fragile ridge of my cervical vertebrae. Holmes likes to rest his fingers astride the rise of bone when I pleasure him and he reaches for me now, tracing atlas and axis and the textureless expanse of flesh under my left shoulder. His hand lifts abruptly, only to replaced a moment later with the scorching heat of the pipe bowl. He circles it around my left nipple and bright burning agony falls down my spine like a shooting star and my aching cock tightens against my trousers.
The pipe withdraws and after the unbearable liquid heat of Holmes’s tongue comes a cool breath that traces the only-moments-before scalding path across my breast.
There is a rustle of wool and another brilliant burst of cuspate pain when Holmes invites me closer with the heel of his shoe driven ruthlessly into my kidney. I swallow my cry and shuffle awkwardly toward him; stretching my arms, still wrapped tight in the tattered remains of my shirt, behind me for balance. I topple gracelessly into his lap, senses full of his heat, the brush of wool and the sour-sweet tang of his desire. He is swollen, ripe enough to burst and already slick with that thick tell-tale precursor of passion. It smears my chin and my cheeks, catching in my moustache and dripping finally onto my lips when I toss my head in a futile attempt to shake a damp lock of hair from my forehead.
Holmes draws on the pipe when I take him between my lips and it crackles as I slide down his length. He blows the smoke out on the back of a deep groan and his free hand comes once again to cradle my skull, his fine musician’s fingers slipping under my jaw to feel the work of the muscles as I suck him. When I work him down into my throat, the fingers move further around, prodding gently at my lips. I moan, licking the calloused pad of each digit as it brushes my mouth.
There is a clatter as he drops his pipe onto a saucer and he comes to glory with a guttural shout.
“Wait,” he commands breathlessly, “don’t swallow.”
I keep utterly still, my mouth filled with his seed and my face wet with it. The salty scent rises to burn my eyes and the flavour scalds my palette but I wait for him. With meticulous slowness he slides from the armchair and takes my chin between damp fingers. The kiss is slow, messy; he drinks voluptuously from me all that he gave with a desperate gratitude out of keeping with his mastery of me.
The spell of Holmes’s command is released with that kiss and I press my strained, feverish body into his; rutting artlessly into his embrace. He takes me in hand with no preliminaries, coaxing my pleasure from me with only a few firm strokes and I come to it silently; breathing fast hot breath into his lapel. As I die he pulls the blindfold from me and he is outlined briefly, brilliantly, in the dazzling amber light of the lamp; an angel with glittering wet lips who whispers my name like a prayer and unwinds the shirt from my tingling hands with damp, sticky fingers.
“I think, dear Watson,” he says as he washes our sins from my skin with a warm towel, “that you will not bet against me again.”
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 809
Summary: Inspired by this amazing work of art by lizardspots.
Warnings: Bondage. More un-beta’d bondage.
Disclaimer: I didn't make them up, but I don’t think I’ve been any crueller to them than any ‘reputable’ pastiche writer.
A match strikes and the scent of his tobacco surrounds me. I breathe deeply, tasting shag and sulphur and under it the sharp note of his skin; sweat and lime water. My world is warm darkness; the uneven press of the boards at my knees and the pressure of Holmes’s taught calf against my thigh. He shifts, coming tantalisingly close to where my swollen member presses into the crease of my body and my heart skips. My lips fall open, hoping to gather some further hint of him in the air.
A stinging drop of sweat slips down my side and despite my best efforts my aching abdominal muscles flutter. A sudden painful reminder comes on the toe of Holmes’s shoe, digging into my hip just above the waistband of my trousers. A sigh and the soft pop of a burning tobacco seed signal his disapproval. Pain flares in my cramping latissimus and in the twisted tendons of my bound wrists but I remain determinedly upright and I know when he puts the pipe to my lips that he is pleased.
The pipe is not merely a reward, it is an opportunity. I wrap my lips around the stem and hollow my cheeks, inhaling for a long moment before releasing it with an obscene swipe of my tongue across the mouthpiece. I pout lasciviously on the exhale, licking my top lip and dropping my head a little to expose the fragile ridge of my cervical vertebrae. Holmes likes to rest his fingers astride the rise of bone when I pleasure him and he reaches for me now, tracing atlas and axis and the textureless expanse of flesh under my left shoulder. His hand lifts abruptly, only to replaced a moment later with the scorching heat of the pipe bowl. He circles it around my left nipple and bright burning agony falls down my spine like a shooting star and my aching cock tightens against my trousers.
The pipe withdraws and after the unbearable liquid heat of Holmes’s tongue comes a cool breath that traces the only-moments-before scalding path across my breast.
There is a rustle of wool and another brilliant burst of cuspate pain when Holmes invites me closer with the heel of his shoe driven ruthlessly into my kidney. I swallow my cry and shuffle awkwardly toward him; stretching my arms, still wrapped tight in the tattered remains of my shirt, behind me for balance. I topple gracelessly into his lap, senses full of his heat, the brush of wool and the sour-sweet tang of his desire. He is swollen, ripe enough to burst and already slick with that thick tell-tale precursor of passion. It smears my chin and my cheeks, catching in my moustache and dripping finally onto my lips when I toss my head in a futile attempt to shake a damp lock of hair from my forehead.
Holmes draws on the pipe when I take him between my lips and it crackles as I slide down his length. He blows the smoke out on the back of a deep groan and his free hand comes once again to cradle my skull, his fine musician’s fingers slipping under my jaw to feel the work of the muscles as I suck him. When I work him down into my throat, the fingers move further around, prodding gently at my lips. I moan, licking the calloused pad of each digit as it brushes my mouth.
There is a clatter as he drops his pipe onto a saucer and he comes to glory with a guttural shout.
“Wait,” he commands breathlessly, “don’t swallow.”
I keep utterly still, my mouth filled with his seed and my face wet with it. The salty scent rises to burn my eyes and the flavour scalds my palette but I wait for him. With meticulous slowness he slides from the armchair and takes my chin between damp fingers. The kiss is slow, messy; he drinks voluptuously from me all that he gave with a desperate gratitude out of keeping with his mastery of me.
The spell of Holmes’s command is released with that kiss and I press my strained, feverish body into his; rutting artlessly into his embrace. He takes me in hand with no preliminaries, coaxing my pleasure from me with only a few firm strokes and I come to it silently; breathing fast hot breath into his lapel. As I die he pulls the blindfold from me and he is outlined briefly, brilliantly, in the dazzling amber light of the lamp; an angel with glittering wet lips who whispers my name like a prayer and unwinds the shirt from my tingling hands with damp, sticky fingers.
“I think, dear Watson,” he says as he washes our sins from my skin with a warm towel, “that you will not bet against me again.”