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A Travesty
By : Kimmy
Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash
Views: 2655 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0Disclaimer: This is fanfiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Arthur Conan Doyle - Chapter List
- 1
It was a travesty, really. Watson couldn’t help thinking.
That this was Holmes, his cold and calculating.
His wonder.
On his knees, legs spread and panting. Sweaty, wanting it. This Holmes.
This side of him.
He had started with his fingers. His tongue, alternating, opening him up, licking him loose. Kneeling behind Holmes, teasing him open until this – this side of him – this was all he was. A hole, an offering, Watson’s.
They were both naked, so unlike themselves when naked on the floor. Holmes’ face was hidden, but Watson could feel the tension in the line of his back, the willingness. He pushed four fingers into Holmes, stretching him with a slow, cruel twist, a dark and heavy lust in his stomach. Like his body wasn’t his, like his fingers inside Holmes were too daring for words.
A sob, and Holmes’ head sank lower, his cheek against the floor. An offering. Oh, and yes it was a travesty, a beautiful heartbreaking travesty. Watson was hot – dripping – this moment, moved beyond time, his breath hot on his lips, his member swollen and full and tight.
He was beyond time.
“Give it to me.”
And he knew he would, anything, and though it was too soon, had to be, he pulled his fingers halfway out and added his thumb. A hitched breath – Holmes’ – and Watson slowly pressed his fingers forward, slow and slick and strong. Holmes always did value
his strength
One of his hands was around Holmes’ lean hip, the other forced its way inside. He had to be slow, but he also had to be brutal. He paused when it became unbearable, and he waited until he felt something loosen, relax, before he continued, and he watched Holmes’ hole stretch to accommodate his knuckles, watched his hand sink deeper, all the way to his wrist, sealed inside.
And Holmes wasn’t hard, it wasn’t like that. It was this, him, inside Holmes.
Holmes almost never
looked him in the eyes.
But Holmes wanted him and let him and spread himself on the floor and gasped and sighed when Watson flexed his hand, sealed inside. What did it do to Holmes? Watson wasn’t sure, but he moved his hand, slow and gentle, back and forth, a continuous movement. They fit like that, somehow, and it became easy and full and tight and oh, the moment, that moment, the endless vastness of it, slower than the sea, and it went on
forever
And Watson couldn’t remember doing it, but he withdraw his hand, and he moved forward and he was fucking, holding Holmes around his hips and fucking him with deep hard strokes, slamming them together and together and together, and he had been on the precipice for so long, it was only a matter of degree when he fell
over
And it was only a matter of degree when he came back to himself.
To him and Holmes on the floor, sweaty and panting and wet. It was his Holmes again, with disheveled strands of dark hair across his forehead and a crooked smile that spoke of an inward, private amusement. He looked at Watson, a familiar gaze as if to say, well, old fellow… here we are.
Watson reached out, drew a slow line from Holmes’ hip, to his side, to the middle of his chest. He nodded.
Here they were.
- 1
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