Fic: Pugilism & An Acceptable Form of Sentimentality
Here are the two shamelessly porny fics I wrote for sherlockkink. They've both been moderately edited, mostly for typos and awkward wording, but they are largely the same as they were over there. I apologize for the faintly silly titles. My indulgent little Catullus story will go up later, with it's own post, as I am inordinately fond of it. And ladies, I must say this again: I love my new fandom.
Pugilism, Holmes/Watson, NC-17, 1200 words, It was a sincere pleasure to watch Holmes fight.
Every Friday, for pretty much the entirety of their acquaintance, Holmes would strip to his skin and trousers, enter the arena, and annihilate some poor bruiser. And after the first few times, when Holmes came back bloodied and bruised and grinning like a corpse to an uncomprehending Watson, Watson would come with him and watch. Watson remembered patching Holmes up and glaring at him, radiating disapproval as he stitched a large cut over Holmes's eyebrow a bit more roughly than it perhaps warranted. Holmes had caught his hand between two of Holmes's own, and smiled up. "You should come next time, Watson. It might ease this fretting."
And Watson knew this was largely a gambit to keep the annoyance of his disapproval at bay, but it worked. Because Holmes was brilliant, and having Watson come -- having Watson watch and bet -- made him complicit, made him a participant. And Watson's heart would pound and he would get swept up in the jeers of the swirling crowd and watch Holmes pummel another London thug, and when the room deflated, and Holmes was left standing, he felt as sore and as tired as if it had been him.
It was a sincere pleasure to watch Holmes fight. His skin was golden in the light, stretched over rough muscles that had only the barest anatomical similarity to Watson's models and Greek statues. Muscles honed and formed and strengthened in the process of boxing felt different, somehow, than an artist's rendering of perfection. Holmes would sweat, and Watson was close enough to the ring to see a droplet of it run down his spine, to see more dislodged as he took a punch, and he could almost taste the salt of it. When Holmes fought, Watson would watch him whole and entire, conflicted between studying his eyes (dark, smiling, watching), the pull of skin, the dripping of blood mingled with sweat. The roar in his ears was not only the crowd.
When Holmes won, Watson would collect his winnings and then collect the victor, Holmes leaning heavily (unnecessarily) on Watson, leaving traces of himself on Watson's clothes. And Watson would dump him into the bath, allow him to luxuriate while he stitched wounds and poured alcohol over cuts. Watson's hands would run over Holmes's wet skin, enjoying the roughness and the flickering of expressions as Holmes cycled so quickly between pleasure and pain that the two were indistinguishable. And often, not always but often, Watson's hands would slip downward, curl around the stiffness of Holmes's cock, and he would get the pleasure of watching Holmes's eyes flutter closed.
This was a different sort of joy, but not distant from the thrill of boxing. He enjoyed making Holmes's muscles clench, enjoyed the splay of Holmes's elegant fingers around his arm, enjoyed the peculiar vulnerability of a man naked in the bath, gasping his name, while Watson remained almost fully dressed, his jacket and waistcoat aside, but his shirtsleeves only rolled up above his elbow. Holmes didn't perfectly fit in the small copper bath, and his arms would be sticking out, hands inevitably going to touch Watson's face, a disarming tenderness when the water was murky with blood and moving with the easy strokes of Watson's hand.
The silken slip of skin and water would be intoxicating underneath Watson's hand, his other pressed between his own legs, a damp spot growing on his trousers, and he would watch Holmes shudder and shake himself apart. And when Holmes came to glory, it was as if all the nervous energy fled him as his seed did, and Watson would help him out of the bath and pour him in bed. And then, Watson would go just outside the door, lean his forehead against the wood and fumble with his pants. It never took more than a stroke or two before he was belatedly joining Holmes in bliss.
But Holmes couldn't always win. That would be uneconomical, as the odds would be far too terrible to be even worth the bother. Holmes would never tell Watson what he was planning until right before the betting ended, when he would lean in and murmur something in his ear, breath hot and voice already strained. They dressed Watson up sometimes, in disguises and accents that never fit exactly right, so that the crowd wouldn't learn to always bet as the doctor did.
On the nights Holmes lost, the routine was different. His injuries were typically no worse than usual, but they left Holmes with a jittery sort of energy that Watson associated most strongly with the cocaine. Sometimes, watching Holmes's feverbright eyes and feeling the heat that seemed to radiate off of him, he wondered if Holmes didn't prefer these nights.
There was a desperation to them, and sometimes they wouldn't even be home before Holmes would be pressing Watson into a wall of an alley, the cool stone countered by Holmes's hardness, from both body and cock, a rough patch of masonry hurting his arse, rubbing his back. Those nights, Holmes would bite down Watson's neck, making him shudder and moan, marking him. He seemed to love leaving gaudy red signs of his presence and would smile a secret grin at whatever small evidence peeked out from under Watson's collar.
(Sometimes he would lean forward and press his thumb against the bruise, sunnily insisting that Watson looked a little flushed and he was only checking his pulse. Such activity tended to raise Watson's pulse, and he would always bite off a little gasp that made Holmes look as pleased as a child.)
One memorable night Holmes had drawn blood, and he had brought his head quickly up, their blood mingling on Holmes's split lips, his pupils blown so much he looked unseeing and distant, and then they had kissed. Their teeth had clacked together and it was more a battle than an element of lovemaking, blood and sweat and the faint taste of fine tobacco making Watson moan.
But every one of these nights, Holmes would eventually lose interest in Watson's neck, and fall to his knees, tugging Watson's shirt out of his trousers and slipping them down just far enough that Holmes could get to Watson's cock. Watson would stick his boot out, press it against Holmes's erection, and he would swallow Watson whole.
Holmes would never open his eyes when he was doing this, and he had no finesse about it at all. He was messy and slobbery, choking sometimes in eagerness, and his face would flush. But he would also rock against the smooth leather of Watson's boot, sucking like he meant it, and Watson never lasted long. Watson's hands would tangle in his hair, feeling the griminess of it, as if it was an adequate support for knees under such attack. Once, he had thrown his head hard enough against stone that he had drawn blood, and his own hair had been stiff with gore by the time they had returned home.
When they were both finished (Holmes pulsing against Watson's boot, face resting against Watson's thigh), Holmes would stand up, using Watson's body as a ladder, and they would lean against each other, breathing for long moments, before sneaking home like they were much younger men than they were.
The next morning, Holmes's voice would be hoarse and heat would sink into Watson's belly at every word, causing Holmes's lips to curl up like he had the most perfect secret in the world.
An Acceptable Form of Sentimentality, Holmes/Watson, NC-17, 800 words, It was an entirely personal bliss, but Watson did not begrudge him this. .
Watson was used to following Holmes. It wasn't a position he resented; indeed, he deeply admired his old friend and had an unshakeable faith in his deductive abilities. He was willing to listen to commands he did not fully understand the reasoning for, trusting that it would be revealed in the end. The response was almost instinctive, at this point, with Holmes's tone of voice tapping into some latent military training and making his body respond before his mind fully engaged.
This made it essential that Holmes be gagged as well as tied up, at least in the beginning, at least when he wasn't far enough gone and still had the ability to speak. Watson relished his ability to do this, to be allowed such liberties with a man he had once mistaken as cold.
No one would think the man in front of him was restrained at this moment, except in the most literal sense. His arms were stretched, tied to the headboard, and the strong muscles in his legs were visibly trembling. Holmes's pale skin was flushed down to his navel, and Watson could see sweat beading up. The handkerchief that was in his mouth was damp and his hair was curling slightly. He was all wetness and heat, and Watson leaned down and tasted him, running his tongue up the center of his chest, on the bone, and feeling a shudder follow the movement.
"Will you stay silent for me, if I remove it?" he asked, his lips moving against Holmes's nipple, his hand reaching up to rest against the other man's face, feeling the movement of the nod. He undid the knot in the cloth and threw it to the side, moving up to kiss him. Watson could almost taste Holmes biting back gasps and cries and the thought made him moan, as if taking pride in something that he was allowed to do while Holmes was not. He moved downward, to bite at Holmes's neck, sucking blood to the surface and leaving a glaring mark.
"With the collars you wear, everyone will be able to see these," Watson said, his hand slipping down to touch Holmes's cock. He didn't stroke it nearly enough, just ghostly touches and exploratory movements, Holmes jerking reflexively.
Watson glanced up and he was pleased to see that Holmes's eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, unfocused and unseeing. It was always a special pleasure to get Holmes's furious sensory barrage to stop, to allow him to focus on the next touch, the next kiss -- it made Holmes's face relax, the ever present lines of tension fade away and slip into this beautiful slackness. Watson slipped lower, releasing Holmes's cock and slipping his fingers into Holmes, checking to make sure he was still sufficiently slick. He was loose and wet with him, and Watson scissored his fingers slowly, just to see him squirm. It felt dirty and good to do this again, so soon after the last time, with Holmes's body still hard from the first time. Watson shifted position, his hand gripping hard around the base of Holmes's cock to prevent from coming. He entered, and his eyes slipped closed -- it was perfect, beyond beautiful, and any pretense he had at writing fled, for there were no words for the panting sounds of Holmes's breath, for the way his entire body undulated at the entrance.
And then Watson released Holmes's cock and started to move. Slowly, at first, and Holmes usually would be telling him to go faster, usually would be curling a hand around his own cock and throwing his head back. Today, though, Holmes wasn't even capable of speech anymore, his face red and wet and staring right at Watson, uncomprehending. It was an entirely personal bliss, but Watson did not begrudge him this.
It wasn't long, just a few more steady strokes, and Holmes came untouched. His back arched, and the smallest hint of a sound escaped his lips, which Watson leaned down and caught between his own. The warmth of Holmes's release rubbed against his belly, and he felt Holmes soften underneath him, as he kissed largely unresponsive lips. Watson moved faster, hips jerking involuntarily as he placed kisses anywhere he could reach, Holmes's eyes fluttering. When Watson came, he did his best not to collapse, his body feeling like it was going to shake apart under all these sensations. He pulled out, doing his best to be careful, and only allowed himself a few moments of rest before undoing Holmes's restraints.
Holmes was boneless, collapsed, and he curled easily up against Watson. Watson could trace full awareness seeping back into his skin, and it was almost sad to see such relaxation fall away. But Holmes was smiling, his lips curled up in a secret grin, and he didn't scold Watson for sentimentality when Watson kissed the reddened lines around his wrists.
Pugilism, Holmes/Watson, NC-17, 1200 words, It was a sincere pleasure to watch Holmes fight.
Every Friday, for pretty much the entirety of their acquaintance, Holmes would strip to his skin and trousers, enter the arena, and annihilate some poor bruiser. And after the first few times, when Holmes came back bloodied and bruised and grinning like a corpse to an uncomprehending Watson, Watson would come with him and watch. Watson remembered patching Holmes up and glaring at him, radiating disapproval as he stitched a large cut over Holmes's eyebrow a bit more roughly than it perhaps warranted. Holmes had caught his hand between two of Holmes's own, and smiled up. "You should come next time, Watson. It might ease this fretting."
And Watson knew this was largely a gambit to keep the annoyance of his disapproval at bay, but it worked. Because Holmes was brilliant, and having Watson come -- having Watson watch and bet -- made him complicit, made him a participant. And Watson's heart would pound and he would get swept up in the jeers of the swirling crowd and watch Holmes pummel another London thug, and when the room deflated, and Holmes was left standing, he felt as sore and as tired as if it had been him.
It was a sincere pleasure to watch Holmes fight. His skin was golden in the light, stretched over rough muscles that had only the barest anatomical similarity to Watson's models and Greek statues. Muscles honed and formed and strengthened in the process of boxing felt different, somehow, than an artist's rendering of perfection. Holmes would sweat, and Watson was close enough to the ring to see a droplet of it run down his spine, to see more dislodged as he took a punch, and he could almost taste the salt of it. When Holmes fought, Watson would watch him whole and entire, conflicted between studying his eyes (dark, smiling, watching), the pull of skin, the dripping of blood mingled with sweat. The roar in his ears was not only the crowd.
When Holmes won, Watson would collect his winnings and then collect the victor, Holmes leaning heavily (unnecessarily) on Watson, leaving traces of himself on Watson's clothes. And Watson would dump him into the bath, allow him to luxuriate while he stitched wounds and poured alcohol over cuts. Watson's hands would run over Holmes's wet skin, enjoying the roughness and the flickering of expressions as Holmes cycled so quickly between pleasure and pain that the two were indistinguishable. And often, not always but often, Watson's hands would slip downward, curl around the stiffness of Holmes's cock, and he would get the pleasure of watching Holmes's eyes flutter closed.
This was a different sort of joy, but not distant from the thrill of boxing. He enjoyed making Holmes's muscles clench, enjoyed the splay of Holmes's elegant fingers around his arm, enjoyed the peculiar vulnerability of a man naked in the bath, gasping his name, while Watson remained almost fully dressed, his jacket and waistcoat aside, but his shirtsleeves only rolled up above his elbow. Holmes didn't perfectly fit in the small copper bath, and his arms would be sticking out, hands inevitably going to touch Watson's face, a disarming tenderness when the water was murky with blood and moving with the easy strokes of Watson's hand.
The silken slip of skin and water would be intoxicating underneath Watson's hand, his other pressed between his own legs, a damp spot growing on his trousers, and he would watch Holmes shudder and shake himself apart. And when Holmes came to glory, it was as if all the nervous energy fled him as his seed did, and Watson would help him out of the bath and pour him in bed. And then, Watson would go just outside the door, lean his forehead against the wood and fumble with his pants. It never took more than a stroke or two before he was belatedly joining Holmes in bliss.
But Holmes couldn't always win. That would be uneconomical, as the odds would be far too terrible to be even worth the bother. Holmes would never tell Watson what he was planning until right before the betting ended, when he would lean in and murmur something in his ear, breath hot and voice already strained. They dressed Watson up sometimes, in disguises and accents that never fit exactly right, so that the crowd wouldn't learn to always bet as the doctor did.
On the nights Holmes lost, the routine was different. His injuries were typically no worse than usual, but they left Holmes with a jittery sort of energy that Watson associated most strongly with the cocaine. Sometimes, watching Holmes's feverbright eyes and feeling the heat that seemed to radiate off of him, he wondered if Holmes didn't prefer these nights.
There was a desperation to them, and sometimes they wouldn't even be home before Holmes would be pressing Watson into a wall of an alley, the cool stone countered by Holmes's hardness, from both body and cock, a rough patch of masonry hurting his arse, rubbing his back. Those nights, Holmes would bite down Watson's neck, making him shudder and moan, marking him. He seemed to love leaving gaudy red signs of his presence and would smile a secret grin at whatever small evidence peeked out from under Watson's collar.
(Sometimes he would lean forward and press his thumb against the bruise, sunnily insisting that Watson looked a little flushed and he was only checking his pulse. Such activity tended to raise Watson's pulse, and he would always bite off a little gasp that made Holmes look as pleased as a child.)
One memorable night Holmes had drawn blood, and he had brought his head quickly up, their blood mingling on Holmes's split lips, his pupils blown so much he looked unseeing and distant, and then they had kissed. Their teeth had clacked together and it was more a battle than an element of lovemaking, blood and sweat and the faint taste of fine tobacco making Watson moan.
But every one of these nights, Holmes would eventually lose interest in Watson's neck, and fall to his knees, tugging Watson's shirt out of his trousers and slipping them down just far enough that Holmes could get to Watson's cock. Watson would stick his boot out, press it against Holmes's erection, and he would swallow Watson whole.
Holmes would never open his eyes when he was doing this, and he had no finesse about it at all. He was messy and slobbery, choking sometimes in eagerness, and his face would flush. But he would also rock against the smooth leather of Watson's boot, sucking like he meant it, and Watson never lasted long. Watson's hands would tangle in his hair, feeling the griminess of it, as if it was an adequate support for knees under such attack. Once, he had thrown his head hard enough against stone that he had drawn blood, and his own hair had been stiff with gore by the time they had returned home.
When they were both finished (Holmes pulsing against Watson's boot, face resting against Watson's thigh), Holmes would stand up, using Watson's body as a ladder, and they would lean against each other, breathing for long moments, before sneaking home like they were much younger men than they were.
The next morning, Holmes's voice would be hoarse and heat would sink into Watson's belly at every word, causing Holmes's lips to curl up like he had the most perfect secret in the world.
An Acceptable Form of Sentimentality, Holmes/Watson, NC-17, 800 words, It was an entirely personal bliss, but Watson did not begrudge him this. .
Watson was used to following Holmes. It wasn't a position he resented; indeed, he deeply admired his old friend and had an unshakeable faith in his deductive abilities. He was willing to listen to commands he did not fully understand the reasoning for, trusting that it would be revealed in the end. The response was almost instinctive, at this point, with Holmes's tone of voice tapping into some latent military training and making his body respond before his mind fully engaged.
This made it essential that Holmes be gagged as well as tied up, at least in the beginning, at least when he wasn't far enough gone and still had the ability to speak. Watson relished his ability to do this, to be allowed such liberties with a man he had once mistaken as cold.
No one would think the man in front of him was restrained at this moment, except in the most literal sense. His arms were stretched, tied to the headboard, and the strong muscles in his legs were visibly trembling. Holmes's pale skin was flushed down to his navel, and Watson could see sweat beading up. The handkerchief that was in his mouth was damp and his hair was curling slightly. He was all wetness and heat, and Watson leaned down and tasted him, running his tongue up the center of his chest, on the bone, and feeling a shudder follow the movement.
"Will you stay silent for me, if I remove it?" he asked, his lips moving against Holmes's nipple, his hand reaching up to rest against the other man's face, feeling the movement of the nod. He undid the knot in the cloth and threw it to the side, moving up to kiss him. Watson could almost taste Holmes biting back gasps and cries and the thought made him moan, as if taking pride in something that he was allowed to do while Holmes was not. He moved downward, to bite at Holmes's neck, sucking blood to the surface and leaving a glaring mark.
"With the collars you wear, everyone will be able to see these," Watson said, his hand slipping down to touch Holmes's cock. He didn't stroke it nearly enough, just ghostly touches and exploratory movements, Holmes jerking reflexively.
Watson glanced up and he was pleased to see that Holmes's eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, unfocused and unseeing. It was always a special pleasure to get Holmes's furious sensory barrage to stop, to allow him to focus on the next touch, the next kiss -- it made Holmes's face relax, the ever present lines of tension fade away and slip into this beautiful slackness. Watson slipped lower, releasing Holmes's cock and slipping his fingers into Holmes, checking to make sure he was still sufficiently slick. He was loose and wet with him, and Watson scissored his fingers slowly, just to see him squirm. It felt dirty and good to do this again, so soon after the last time, with Holmes's body still hard from the first time. Watson shifted position, his hand gripping hard around the base of Holmes's cock to prevent from coming. He entered, and his eyes slipped closed -- it was perfect, beyond beautiful, and any pretense he had at writing fled, for there were no words for the panting sounds of Holmes's breath, for the way his entire body undulated at the entrance.
And then Watson released Holmes's cock and started to move. Slowly, at first, and Holmes usually would be telling him to go faster, usually would be curling a hand around his own cock and throwing his head back. Today, though, Holmes wasn't even capable of speech anymore, his face red and wet and staring right at Watson, uncomprehending. It was an entirely personal bliss, but Watson did not begrudge him this.
It wasn't long, just a few more steady strokes, and Holmes came untouched. His back arched, and the smallest hint of a sound escaped his lips, which Watson leaned down and caught between his own. The warmth of Holmes's release rubbed against his belly, and he felt Holmes soften underneath him, as he kissed largely unresponsive lips. Watson moved faster, hips jerking involuntarily as he placed kisses anywhere he could reach, Holmes's eyes fluttering. When Watson came, he did his best not to collapse, his body feeling like it was going to shake apart under all these sensations. He pulled out, doing his best to be careful, and only allowed himself a few moments of rest before undoing Holmes's restraints.
Holmes was boneless, collapsed, and he curled easily up against Watson. Watson could trace full awareness seeping back into his skin, and it was almost sad to see such relaxation fall away. But Holmes was smiling, his lips curled up in a secret grin, and he didn't scold Watson for sentimentality when Watson kissed the reddened lines around his wrists.