Kinkmeme Fill: Tempted into Temptation
Title: Tempted into Temptation
Author: florfina
Pairing/Characters: Holmes, flying solo.
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 998
Spoilers: Politics will spoil any good conversation. Good thing we're not having one!
Summary: For the prompt: Wanking. Just-- desperate, urgent, messy wanking. Preferably form Holmes' POV, but Watson works as well. I just want to see one of the boys being madly and frustratingly in love with the other and having to take care of their need on their own. Burying face in stolen shirts, biting knuckles to keep quiet, having an elaborate fantasy -- anything. The only thing I ask is that the UST remains unresolved.
Notes/Warnings: It's this prompt, minus the messy wanking (sorry, I wouldn't even know what to write!)
Disclaimer: I wonder if A.C.D. is laughing at my computer right now?
I am not a creature run by the impulses and baser urges of man. Lust does not drive me nor does the want of flesh tempt my stilted morals. So far as my life has come, I am a man of habits and regularity (once you can see thorough the chaos) and was only too happy to welcome a flatmate into my life. Little did I know what was to transpire between ourselves, but I won't be impulsive and say I regret meeting him. I don't even know where to begin in describing my dear Watson; all I can say for certain is that I love him and would ultimately do anything for him. It is with that in mind that you must now ask yourself why I'm alone in his room, his shirt beneath my body as I run the same, painful scenario through my mind.
It starts, when I tell him how I feel.
You can't be serious, Holmes! You're not like that; I know you're not.
My hand runs laboriously down my stomach as these words flit through my mind; forcibly pushing across my hip and towards my groin. Trembling, I press my palm heavily to the front of my trousers, gripping myself in a way to make it hurt. If I must, if I am so weak that I cannot even resist the disgusting compulsion which could ultimately throw away my life, then I must make it painful.
Why did you tell me this!
The anger heard in his voice is a good companion to the burning I feel in this instant.
Stop looking at me like that and tell me you're joking!
"I'm not, Watson. I'm sorry." I'm sure it'd sound just as feeble as it does now.
Oh God, Holmes I-- I need to leave. I need to think about this.
His eyes are fresh in my mind. They are wonderfully new in the moment; I've seen them alight in many an instant, but never before have I seen such betrayal and hurt. His lashes, like feathers, seem to grow darker and clumped together as I bring tears to his face.
At this point, I usually stop caring. I don't think pleasure was ever in my grasp, never would it be nor could I ever hope it would. I see Watson's face so clearly, as though he were right in the room with me. I wonder what he'd say as he watched my hand fly to my trousers, pressing, gripping and squeezing. I wonder if he'd laughed when I fumbled with the button before stuffing my entire hand where it ought never go.
I couldn't blame him, if this is what he'd think of me. What a fool I'd be to think Watson would be any different. Watson...
Would you really ask me to stay, Holmes? You know I'm not... Holmes, you know I love you...
"...love you. He loves you..."
You know I will do whatever you ask. So please, Holmes, do not ask me to stay.
"And you ruin it. My God, why have I lost you?" I murmur against the bed sheets.
His scent courses through my body as I clutch his shirt to me. I rub my nose in it, I bite it, my tongue flicks out so I can taste it. The hand which I'm not currently deprecating myself with is so tightly wrapped round the soft cotton that it hurts to hold on. But I need to. Watson's bed isn't enough for me to wallow in pity and sin. I must disgrace him further by taking a lost shirt and choking myself with it because my mind is to clouded with lust- of all things! I try not to picture him in it. I want to keep it a constant reminder of my situation. I need to remember that I am touching myself and desperately making love to nothing more than an empty shirt.
My hand hurts, my eyes are rolling to the back of my head as moans are regurgitated into the sad cloth.
It's not enough for me. I try to keep myself grounded as I push the images of Watson and his voice out of my head. It is sad, because I know he loves me. I know I'm special to him and I know I'd ruin his life as much as I'd ruined mine by telling him my true feelings. I always wonder what would happen if ever I was brave enough to tell him? I'm not going to be modest when I'd say I wished I didn't do it. Honest to God, I'd wish I hadn't done it. Perhaps then I would step out of this room, though for more innocent reasons, and I'd find him downstairs where he'd greet me with the smile I'm so pining for.
I can feel the approaching deliverance. My heart pumps blood which pounds angrily in my ears, my eyes burning with tears as I choke out broken sobs. In weak attempts which I don't understand, I still find my jaw and tongue moving against the shirt as though it would ever kiss me back. My hand moves faster, I can hardly see anymore. Mentally, I've traded everything for this. Watson, my respect, my mental state of mind, the only shred of love I hold dear. All of it tainted for the sensation of warmth spreading over my hand.
I collapse, not caring that I'm wallowing in my own mess. My hand is stilled beneath my body as the only movement is my chest shuddering with the tears and sobs of my dignity. Over a bare mattress and utterly alone, I am comforted only by the lifeless shirt to which I've made love, and equally haunted by the dreadful knowledge that Watson will come home in a few hours and smile as he readily accepts my innocent invitation to dinner.
That's how long the stain usually takes to fade away. And to dry.
Author: florfina
Pairing/Characters: Holmes, flying solo.
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 998
Spoilers: Politics will spoil any good conversation. Good thing we're not having one!
Summary: For the prompt: Wanking. Just-- desperate, urgent, messy wanking. Preferably form Holmes' POV, but Watson works as well. I just want to see one of the boys being madly and frustratingly in love with the other and having to take care of their need on their own. Burying face in stolen shirts, biting knuckles to keep quiet, having an elaborate fantasy -- anything. The only thing I ask is that the UST remains unresolved.
Notes/Warnings: It's this prompt, minus the messy wanking (sorry, I wouldn't even know what to write!)
Disclaimer: I wonder if A.C.D. is laughing at my computer right now?
I am not a creature run by the impulses and baser urges of man. Lust does not drive me nor does the want of flesh tempt my stilted morals. So far as my life has come, I am a man of habits and regularity (once you can see thorough the chaos) and was only too happy to welcome a flatmate into my life. Little did I know what was to transpire between ourselves, but I won't be impulsive and say I regret meeting him. I don't even know where to begin in describing my dear Watson; all I can say for certain is that I love him and would ultimately do anything for him. It is with that in mind that you must now ask yourself why I'm alone in his room, his shirt beneath my body as I run the same, painful scenario through my mind.
It starts, when I tell him how I feel.
You can't be serious, Holmes! You're not like that; I know you're not.
My hand runs laboriously down my stomach as these words flit through my mind; forcibly pushing across my hip and towards my groin. Trembling, I press my palm heavily to the front of my trousers, gripping myself in a way to make it hurt. If I must, if I am so weak that I cannot even resist the disgusting compulsion which could ultimately throw away my life, then I must make it painful.
Why did you tell me this!
The anger heard in his voice is a good companion to the burning I feel in this instant.
Stop looking at me like that and tell me you're joking!
"I'm not, Watson. I'm sorry." I'm sure it'd sound just as feeble as it does now.
Oh God, Holmes I-- I need to leave. I need to think about this.
His eyes are fresh in my mind. They are wonderfully new in the moment; I've seen them alight in many an instant, but never before have I seen such betrayal and hurt. His lashes, like feathers, seem to grow darker and clumped together as I bring tears to his face.
At this point, I usually stop caring. I don't think pleasure was ever in my grasp, never would it be nor could I ever hope it would. I see Watson's face so clearly, as though he were right in the room with me. I wonder what he'd say as he watched my hand fly to my trousers, pressing, gripping and squeezing. I wonder if he'd laughed when I fumbled with the button before stuffing my entire hand where it ought never go.
I couldn't blame him, if this is what he'd think of me. What a fool I'd be to think Watson would be any different. Watson...
Would you really ask me to stay, Holmes? You know I'm not... Holmes, you know I love you...
"...love you. He loves you..."
You know I will do whatever you ask. So please, Holmes, do not ask me to stay.
"And you ruin it. My God, why have I lost you?" I murmur against the bed sheets.
His scent courses through my body as I clutch his shirt to me. I rub my nose in it, I bite it, my tongue flicks out so I can taste it. The hand which I'm not currently deprecating myself with is so tightly wrapped round the soft cotton that it hurts to hold on. But I need to. Watson's bed isn't enough for me to wallow in pity and sin. I must disgrace him further by taking a lost shirt and choking myself with it because my mind is to clouded with lust- of all things! I try not to picture him in it. I want to keep it a constant reminder of my situation. I need to remember that I am touching myself and desperately making love to nothing more than an empty shirt.
My hand hurts, my eyes are rolling to the back of my head as moans are regurgitated into the sad cloth.
It's not enough for me. I try to keep myself grounded as I push the images of Watson and his voice out of my head. It is sad, because I know he loves me. I know I'm special to him and I know I'd ruin his life as much as I'd ruined mine by telling him my true feelings. I always wonder what would happen if ever I was brave enough to tell him? I'm not going to be modest when I'd say I wished I didn't do it. Honest to God, I'd wish I hadn't done it. Perhaps then I would step out of this room, though for more innocent reasons, and I'd find him downstairs where he'd greet me with the smile I'm so pining for.
I can feel the approaching deliverance. My heart pumps blood which pounds angrily in my ears, my eyes burning with tears as I choke out broken sobs. In weak attempts which I don't understand, I still find my jaw and tongue moving against the shirt as though it would ever kiss me back. My hand moves faster, I can hardly see anymore. Mentally, I've traded everything for this. Watson, my respect, my mental state of mind, the only shred of love I hold dear. All of it tainted for the sensation of warmth spreading over my hand.
I collapse, not caring that I'm wallowing in my own mess. My hand is stilled beneath my body as the only movement is my chest shuddering with the tears and sobs of my dignity. Over a bare mattress and utterly alone, I am comforted only by the lifeless shirt to which I've made love, and equally haunted by the dreadful knowledge that Watson will come home in a few hours and smile as he readily accepts my innocent invitation to dinner.
That's how long the stain usually takes to fade away. And to dry.