Kink Meme Snippet
The prompt was for necrophilia (with resurrection, or else I don't think I would have tackled it). That should be a sufficent warning, but in case it isn't:
WARNING: This contains material that a good number of people will find offensive including homosexual intercourse, violence and blood.
Watson’s eyes are wide open, cool blue and trusting without a touch of fear and he watches intently as Holmes unsheathes the knife. The steel shimmers wickedly in the firelight, and just for a moment Watson fancies that perhaps it has gone to liquid and will flow harmlessly over his skin. A helpless laugh bubbles up and he thinks inanely that Holmes will be most put out if he must stop to search for another weapon.
The flash of panic in Holmes’s darkened eyes is enough to quell his inappropriate levity. Truthfully, this should be no laughing matter.
With a steady hand he grasps Holmes’s wrist and guides the knife to his ribs. Holmes groans and his rhythm stutters a little as his eyes slip shut but his hand is steady when he slips the knife in. Watson watches, fascinated by the sudden spring of blood that flows from him; heart blood, dark and thick and hot on his cooling skin.
Holmes presses one palm to Watson’s chest. His heartbeat is slowing and there won’t be long to wait.
When Watson’s lungs swell for the final time and his body goes limp and heavy on Holmes’s thighs, Holmes begins to move in earnest; desperate hard thrusts that jolt Watson’s body in a grotesque semblance of life. His right hand still grips the sticky hilt of the knife and he slashes the blade carelessly across Watson’s inner thigh just to watch the pouting bloodless edges of the cut shift and change.
His orgasm is breathtaking; every nerve is alive and tingling and before he can slide down from his peak, Watson takes his first shuddering heaving breath and he is struck anew by the rushing energy from his lover’s body.
Holmes doesn’t hear the clang of the knife when it falls from his numb fingers, or feel the damp press of the sodden rug against his knees. His awareness is fixed upon Watson’s lips and the faint taste of blood and ozone that clings to them when they swallow his hoarse scream.
***
Later, in Holmes’s bedroom, they sit together by the fire in their dressing gown and feed the ruined rug piece by piece to the flames in the grate.
“We need to be a little bit practical about this, Holmes,” Watson says as he passes another over another strip of blood soaked wool “we can’t be buying a new rug every time you wish to indulge your theatrical desires.”
Holmes chuckles, wiping his fingers clean on a handkerchief and reaching for his brandy.
“There is really no need for such pedestrian concerns, my darling. After all, we still have the rug in your room.”
WARNING: This contains material that a good number of people will find offensive including homosexual intercourse, violence and blood.
Watson’s eyes are wide open, cool blue and trusting without a touch of fear and he watches intently as Holmes unsheathes the knife. The steel shimmers wickedly in the firelight, and just for a moment Watson fancies that perhaps it has gone to liquid and will flow harmlessly over his skin. A helpless laugh bubbles up and he thinks inanely that Holmes will be most put out if he must stop to search for another weapon.
The flash of panic in Holmes’s darkened eyes is enough to quell his inappropriate levity. Truthfully, this should be no laughing matter.
With a steady hand he grasps Holmes’s wrist and guides the knife to his ribs. Holmes groans and his rhythm stutters a little as his eyes slip shut but his hand is steady when he slips the knife in. Watson watches, fascinated by the sudden spring of blood that flows from him; heart blood, dark and thick and hot on his cooling skin.
Holmes presses one palm to Watson’s chest. His heartbeat is slowing and there won’t be long to wait.
When Watson’s lungs swell for the final time and his body goes limp and heavy on Holmes’s thighs, Holmes begins to move in earnest; desperate hard thrusts that jolt Watson’s body in a grotesque semblance of life. His right hand still grips the sticky hilt of the knife and he slashes the blade carelessly across Watson’s inner thigh just to watch the pouting bloodless edges of the cut shift and change.
His orgasm is breathtaking; every nerve is alive and tingling and before he can slide down from his peak, Watson takes his first shuddering heaving breath and he is struck anew by the rushing energy from his lover’s body.
Holmes doesn’t hear the clang of the knife when it falls from his numb fingers, or feel the damp press of the sodden rug against his knees. His awareness is fixed upon Watson’s lips and the faint taste of blood and ozone that clings to them when they swallow his hoarse scream.
***
Later, in Holmes’s bedroom, they sit together by the fire in their dressing gown and feed the ruined rug piece by piece to the flames in the grate.
“We need to be a little bit practical about this, Holmes,” Watson says as he passes another over another strip of blood soaked wool “we can’t be buying a new rug every time you wish to indulge your theatrical desires.”
Holmes chuckles, wiping his fingers clean on a handkerchief and reaching for his brandy.
“There is really no need for such pedestrian concerns, my darling. After all, we still have the rug in your room.”