Sherlock shaped joy
Yes, Sherlock Explosions was very slashy, and yet I wrote het. It's okay to be confused.
Title: Our old room
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Rating: Mature and Explicit
Warning: Bondage
Pairing: Adler/Holmes
Notes: Thanks to dessert_first and sisterofdream for the dialogue assist -- I hope the rest lives up to expectations. Porn without plot, but with pegging. A missing scene -- you know the one.
Sherlock awoke groggily, in a state similar to fading drunkenness, but despite the taste of wine still coating his tongue, drink alone didn't quite fit the symptoms. Watson had insisted he give up his stimulants, but...
A hand had been carding through his hair, and now a pair of lips pressed against his temple. "'atson?"
The hand paused briefly. "Watson?" The hand resumed its motion. "No, darling, it's Irene."
He jerked to wakefulness -- only to be drawn up physically short. His arms were outspread and shackled to either side of the headboard he leaned against, his legs stretched out before him on the bed and every inch of him was unclothed. He took the rest of the room in at a glance. The Grand Hotel, the very room where Irene had bested him once before, and Irene herself, changed back in her dressing gown. Yes, of course, he remembered now, and the haze retreated further. Whatever she'd used, it wore off nearly as quickly as it struck. Sherlock forced the tension from his body and relaxed back against the headboard in studious nonchalance. Irene's lips quirked in that maddening curve.
"Now that you have me, what do you intend to do with me?"
"I suppose I could do anything I liked," she answered airily.
"I could hardly stop you," he agreed.
"But if you could..." she prodded, with her expression turned nearly serious.
Something in him balked at voicing his assent, the part that kept careful score of their encounters and found him nearly always wanting. To say anything would be to acknowledge that she had, once again, won. But the fact remained that she had won this round, regardless of whether he admitted it aloud. And he knew she could be magnanimous in victory.
"Do your worst." He smiled, and Irene returned it.
"Oh, no, darling. Only the best for you." She leaned towards him, and he stretched to meet her. Her soft lips tasted faintly of the petals with which she rouged them, and her Parisian perfume -- no staid and proper lavender for Miss Adler -- surrounded them. She pressed close, fitting her curves against him, and it was a true testament to her skills as an actress that he had ever, even for a moment, mistaken her for a youth.
She nipped his lip and drew back slightly. He opened his eyes to find her own hazel eyes laughing at him from a short distance. "I can hear you thinking."
"A professional hazard," he replied with mock solemnity. "My apologies."
"I would hate to think I'm not holding your attention." Her slim but strong fingers trailed down his torso and took his attention firmly in hand.
He lunged forward to seize her mouth with his own, swallowing her delighted laugh. Her mouth tasted of the same blend of tea she'd had in his rooms. Though he could hardly prevent himself from cataloging, he strove not to become distracted by his observations. She stroked him briefly, then slid her hand back up his torso, exploring the lines of musculature and bone with admirable thoroughness.
He pulled his head slowly back to the headboard to relieve the slight strain of his position, encouraging her to follow with lips and tongue. Irene did, straddling his thighs, more of her weight coming to rest against his side rather than the arm she kept propped against the head board.
Her free hand pressed against one of the bruises on his abdomen, and he hissed in a sharp breath. She murmured apologetically into his mouth, tracing the edge of his rib cage around to his back. Her breasts rested soft against him, the nipples hard points through the silk of the gown. He reached to cup them, forgetting for the briefest moment that he couldn't, and was caught short with an embarrassing jangle. He bent his knees instead, trying to draw her closer. Irene obliged, rubbing against him distractingly. Her hand traced down his vertebrae one by one, down the lumbars, then struggling against the mattress to grasp his buttock and pull them closer together. The effect was minimal. She made a small, frustrated noise, and pulled her lips free from his.
"Let's get your legs under you."
He could imagine several ways in which leverage would be useful. Sherlock nodded immediate agreement, and Irene moved away and off the bed. The position of his arms made the shift to kneeling awkward, but he managed, noting as he did the sound of a drawer sliding and clothing rustling. Irene returned, adjusting the dressing gown at the belt before placing a jar upon the mattress, its lid askew and odorless from even this slight distance. Then she gathered up her gown to knee-walk back to the center of the bed. She straddled his lap, dropping the handfuls of silk to drape her arms around his neck. She smiled dazzlingly before allowing him to recapture her mouth. The battle for dominance of the kiss was as satisfying in its way as their usual battle of wits, and, considering the handicap of his position, he felt he was acquitting himself quite well.
Then she pressed closer still, and he groaned into the kiss as he rubbed against her.
"Mm," she hummed, pulling her lips away. "Hello, Mr. Holmes."
"So formal, Miss Adler." The even tone required more than he would ever admit. He leaned forward seeking her lips again, but she eluded him, maintaining the slightest, maddening gap between them. Her breath tickled his lips, as she teased him with the possibility that he could reach her if he stretched the slightest bit more, just a little further, until finally he was at the end of his rope -- well, handcuffs -- and flopped back against the headboard.
Irene shook her head. "Is that the extent your famous determination?"
"I believe I know when a pursuit is lost."
"You shouldn't give up so easily."
"Would you come here," he replied exasperatedly. For a moment, it seemed she would, but instead of merely sitting upright once more, she rose up onto her knees to bring the deep V of her dressing gown to eye level. Sherlock sensed a clue. He turned his head to nuzzle the dressing gown out of his way and capture the tip of one lovely breast, feeling the nipple harden further under his tongue.
"Ah!" she gasped, and cupped the side of his head with her free hand, tracing the curve of his ear as his mouth moved against her. Her hand dropped, slipping between them. He could feel the movements of her fingers transmitted through the back of the hand pressed between them. He worked his way across to her other nipple, laving it with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth. Her gasping cries repeated and grew louder. He groaned against her, hands pulling futilely against their bonds again. The motion of her hand increased. With a final "ah!" she stilled, then slumped down to reclaim his mouth in a messy, uncoordinated kiss.
Both her small hands roved freely across his chest and his own, less sensitive nipples, up into his hair, and down to skirt his erection. As she recovered, she began stroking up his sides then tracing not-quite random patterns across his back with a discernible downward trajectory. The tips of her fingers brushed against his fundament, and he jerked. She did it again, then drew the hand hand away. Irene freed her lips from his and kissed a meandering line to his ear. "Don't worry, darling. I do know my way around backstage."
He meant to retort -- he certainly wasn't worried -- but lost it on a sudden intake of air, as Irene's finger returned, brushing cold with salve from the jar. She bit down just under his jaw and pushed the finger in, a pair of shocks like an electric jolt.
Her mouth fitted against his once more, and he kissed her desperately, their tongues engaging in increasingly lewd acts as her finger, then fingers, penetrated him more deeply. Her actions were absolutely shocking, but despite initial discomfort, increasingly arousing. She was a most remarkable woman.
He began rubbing up against her, rubbing against her maddeningly frictionless dressing gown. The edges of the gown slipped further apart. He could feel the silken skin of her thighs on either side of his, the straps of an undergarment that did nothing to cover the soft thatch of her hair or the wetness of her cunny as she rocked against him. That was odd, and he frowned just as Irene pushed a third finger into him, effectively driving thought from his head.
The quiet was wonderful.
All too soon, she pulled her hand free. He groaned. Irene absently murmured some words of comfort, as she searched among the pillows. She ignored his somewhat involuntary attempt at regaining her attention when she leaned against him. The dressing gown was more enticement than cover now; he could feel her bare breast pressing against him above the hard knot of the belt. "Ah, here it is."
She scooted back onto her heels and affixed the rubber phallus -- for there was no better word for it -- within the crisscrossing straps of her unusual undergarment. She pulled his hips away from the headboard, until he half-sat, half-inclined with his shoulders resting against the headboard. Then she settled between his knees and scooped more salve from the jar, which she applied to it with seeming relish. He found it difficult to draw his eyes away from where it jutted between her curving hips, but when he did, she grinned that impish smile and gave him another kiss, the phallus pressing hard and slick against him. Naturally, she sensed his trepidation.
"It's not so large," she said, rolling her hips so it slid against his erection. He shivered, not unpleasantly. Irene lifted an eyebrow, and he nodded. Curiosity had always been his watchword; he could hardly turn back at this point. She shifted close and set her hands at his hips to lift them from his heels, set the phallus against him. They paused like that, Irene staring into his eyes for a searching moment. Then she pushed up, and the tip breached him.
His mouth fell open on a gasp. Irene stroked her hands up his sides and back down, a gentling motion, as she slowly impaled him further, pushing upwards, inwards, letting gravity pull him down. His head tipped back to rest against the headboard, his breath came in pants, and sweat sprang out across his skin, allowing Irene's hands to glide more smoothly. He felt impossibly stretched wide around Irene's blunt tool, incredibly full. The sound that escaped him was something between a whine and a moan.
"I know, darling, I know. Almost there," she murmured, pressing closed-mouth kisses against his jaw. Almost? He couldn't possibly take more -- except he was, Irene inexorably pulling him down against her hips, the phallus fully seated within him.
"Open your eyes," she said. He did, uncertain of when they'd closed.
Her hair was disheveled, curls clung to the sweat on her cheeks and neck, and her eyes held still the impish gleam that was purely "Irene."
Irene smiled and leaned in to capture his mouth. The accompanying internal shift felt odd, though not unpleasant. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she kissed him languidly. Slow, wet kisses that seemed to have all the time in the world behind them, until he began to shift impatiently, because surely she'd had something more planned. He felt her smile again before she pulled her lips away to sit upright. He squirmed. She ran her hands up and down his torso, murmured something that should not have been the 'lovely' he'd have sworn he heard. They settled at his hips, holding him steady as she began to rock her hips minutely. Every slow movement pushed his shoulders against the headboard at her furthest forward thrust. It felt strange. Irene's look of concentration -- slightly furrowed brow, bottom lip caught between her teeth -- though, was familiar, however rarely it had been turned upon him and not an interesting new lock.
She watched the place where she penetrated him, and he watched her, as the thrust and drag of the phallus became easier. She began to move in earnest, pulling further from him between each thrust, rocking him harder against the headboard as she pushed up into him. The angle shifted slightly, and she struck something -- some bundle of nerves, perhaps, Watson would know -- and blinding white, thought-obliterating pleasure spasmed through him. His wrists yanked involuntarily against the cuffs, and a shout roughened his throat.
"Oh, yes," Irene gasped and repeated the motion. He cried out again, and she began to pump into him faster. More strokes glanced against that spot. He twisted his hands around the chains, pulling himself up slightly the better to move into her thrusts. She moaned, her hips not faltering for a second, giving him what he needed, filling him over and over until he finally, finally came. Her small, strong hands remained anchored to his hips as he spilled over; afterwards, she slipped slender fingers between them to bring herself to her own completion with another soft cry, the phallus still sunk within him shifting with her movements.
She pressed a kiss to his breastbone -- he suspected it was the first skin to hand -- and sat back up. She disentangled them, an uncomfortable sensation, and then stood, stretching magnificently. Irene let her dressing gown drop, and this time he didn't even pretend not to look. The harness framed her derriere nicely before she removed that, too. She wet a flannel at the basin and cleaned off first Sherlock himself, then her toy, tucking it away in a drawer, before disappearing behind the changing screen.
"Irene," he began in the quelling voice he'd learned from Watson.
"Now, now," she replied. "I would hate to have to gag you."
Apparently, the voice worked as well on her as it did on him. He subsided and straightened his legs before they could cramp.
In less time than he would have imagined without a maid, she reappeared looking, if not entirely respectable, then at least like the sort of woman one might expect to see leaving a hotel of the Grand's caliber. She walked to the bedside, pulling on her gloves, and smiled down at him.
"I had a lovely time. Thank you."
"My pleasure," he replied, honestly, then rattled his chains. "The keys?"
"Ah, yes, the key." She reached into the top of her dress and pulled the key free. Then she placed it on the bed directly before him, where no amount of contortion would bring it into reach. She placed a pillow over the key and his assets both. "For your modesty. Do tell Dr. Watson I said hello?"
The door closed on his shout. He rested his head back against the headboard. If no one had interupted them earlier, shouting seemed unlikely to help now. And he'd already tested the strength of the cuffs and the headboard to which they were attached. There was nothing to do but wait for rescue. He frowned. Tell Watson she said hello? He didn't even think they liked each other.
Title: Our old room
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Rating: Mature and Explicit
Warning: Bondage
Pairing: Adler/Holmes
Notes: Thanks to dessert_first and sisterofdream for the dialogue assist -- I hope the rest lives up to expectations. Porn without plot, but with pegging. A missing scene -- you know the one.
Sherlock awoke groggily, in a state similar to fading drunkenness, but despite the taste of wine still coating his tongue, drink alone didn't quite fit the symptoms. Watson had insisted he give up his stimulants, but...
A hand had been carding through his hair, and now a pair of lips pressed against his temple. "'atson?"
The hand paused briefly. "Watson?" The hand resumed its motion. "No, darling, it's Irene."
He jerked to wakefulness -- only to be drawn up physically short. His arms were outspread and shackled to either side of the headboard he leaned against, his legs stretched out before him on the bed and every inch of him was unclothed. He took the rest of the room in at a glance. The Grand Hotel, the very room where Irene had bested him once before, and Irene herself, changed back in her dressing gown. Yes, of course, he remembered now, and the haze retreated further. Whatever she'd used, it wore off nearly as quickly as it struck. Sherlock forced the tension from his body and relaxed back against the headboard in studious nonchalance. Irene's lips quirked in that maddening curve.
"Now that you have me, what do you intend to do with me?"
"I suppose I could do anything I liked," she answered airily.
"I could hardly stop you," he agreed.
"But if you could..." she prodded, with her expression turned nearly serious.
Something in him balked at voicing his assent, the part that kept careful score of their encounters and found him nearly always wanting. To say anything would be to acknowledge that she had, once again, won. But the fact remained that she had won this round, regardless of whether he admitted it aloud. And he knew she could be magnanimous in victory.
"Do your worst." He smiled, and Irene returned it.
"Oh, no, darling. Only the best for you." She leaned towards him, and he stretched to meet her. Her soft lips tasted faintly of the petals with which she rouged them, and her Parisian perfume -- no staid and proper lavender for Miss Adler -- surrounded them. She pressed close, fitting her curves against him, and it was a true testament to her skills as an actress that he had ever, even for a moment, mistaken her for a youth.
She nipped his lip and drew back slightly. He opened his eyes to find her own hazel eyes laughing at him from a short distance. "I can hear you thinking."
"A professional hazard," he replied with mock solemnity. "My apologies."
"I would hate to think I'm not holding your attention." Her slim but strong fingers trailed down his torso and took his attention firmly in hand.
He lunged forward to seize her mouth with his own, swallowing her delighted laugh. Her mouth tasted of the same blend of tea she'd had in his rooms. Though he could hardly prevent himself from cataloging, he strove not to become distracted by his observations. She stroked him briefly, then slid her hand back up his torso, exploring the lines of musculature and bone with admirable thoroughness.
He pulled his head slowly back to the headboard to relieve the slight strain of his position, encouraging her to follow with lips and tongue. Irene did, straddling his thighs, more of her weight coming to rest against his side rather than the arm she kept propped against the head board.
Her free hand pressed against one of the bruises on his abdomen, and he hissed in a sharp breath. She murmured apologetically into his mouth, tracing the edge of his rib cage around to his back. Her breasts rested soft against him, the nipples hard points through the silk of the gown. He reached to cup them, forgetting for the briefest moment that he couldn't, and was caught short with an embarrassing jangle. He bent his knees instead, trying to draw her closer. Irene obliged, rubbing against him distractingly. Her hand traced down his vertebrae one by one, down the lumbars, then struggling against the mattress to grasp his buttock and pull them closer together. The effect was minimal. She made a small, frustrated noise, and pulled her lips free from his.
"Let's get your legs under you."
He could imagine several ways in which leverage would be useful. Sherlock nodded immediate agreement, and Irene moved away and off the bed. The position of his arms made the shift to kneeling awkward, but he managed, noting as he did the sound of a drawer sliding and clothing rustling. Irene returned, adjusting the dressing gown at the belt before placing a jar upon the mattress, its lid askew and odorless from even this slight distance. Then she gathered up her gown to knee-walk back to the center of the bed. She straddled his lap, dropping the handfuls of silk to drape her arms around his neck. She smiled dazzlingly before allowing him to recapture her mouth. The battle for dominance of the kiss was as satisfying in its way as their usual battle of wits, and, considering the handicap of his position, he felt he was acquitting himself quite well.
Then she pressed closer still, and he groaned into the kiss as he rubbed against her.
"Mm," she hummed, pulling her lips away. "Hello, Mr. Holmes."
"So formal, Miss Adler." The even tone required more than he would ever admit. He leaned forward seeking her lips again, but she eluded him, maintaining the slightest, maddening gap between them. Her breath tickled his lips, as she teased him with the possibility that he could reach her if he stretched the slightest bit more, just a little further, until finally he was at the end of his rope -- well, handcuffs -- and flopped back against the headboard.
Irene shook her head. "Is that the extent your famous determination?"
"I believe I know when a pursuit is lost."
"You shouldn't give up so easily."
"Would you come here," he replied exasperatedly. For a moment, it seemed she would, but instead of merely sitting upright once more, she rose up onto her knees to bring the deep V of her dressing gown to eye level. Sherlock sensed a clue. He turned his head to nuzzle the dressing gown out of his way and capture the tip of one lovely breast, feeling the nipple harden further under his tongue.
"Ah!" she gasped, and cupped the side of his head with her free hand, tracing the curve of his ear as his mouth moved against her. Her hand dropped, slipping between them. He could feel the movements of her fingers transmitted through the back of the hand pressed between them. He worked his way across to her other nipple, laving it with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth. Her gasping cries repeated and grew louder. He groaned against her, hands pulling futilely against their bonds again. The motion of her hand increased. With a final "ah!" she stilled, then slumped down to reclaim his mouth in a messy, uncoordinated kiss.
Both her small hands roved freely across his chest and his own, less sensitive nipples, up into his hair, and down to skirt his erection. As she recovered, she began stroking up his sides then tracing not-quite random patterns across his back with a discernible downward trajectory. The tips of her fingers brushed against his fundament, and he jerked. She did it again, then drew the hand hand away. Irene freed her lips from his and kissed a meandering line to his ear. "Don't worry, darling. I do know my way around backstage."
He meant to retort -- he certainly wasn't worried -- but lost it on a sudden intake of air, as Irene's finger returned, brushing cold with salve from the jar. She bit down just under his jaw and pushed the finger in, a pair of shocks like an electric jolt.
Her mouth fitted against his once more, and he kissed her desperately, their tongues engaging in increasingly lewd acts as her finger, then fingers, penetrated him more deeply. Her actions were absolutely shocking, but despite initial discomfort, increasingly arousing. She was a most remarkable woman.
He began rubbing up against her, rubbing against her maddeningly frictionless dressing gown. The edges of the gown slipped further apart. He could feel the silken skin of her thighs on either side of his, the straps of an undergarment that did nothing to cover the soft thatch of her hair or the wetness of her cunny as she rocked against him. That was odd, and he frowned just as Irene pushed a third finger into him, effectively driving thought from his head.
The quiet was wonderful.
All too soon, she pulled her hand free. He groaned. Irene absently murmured some words of comfort, as she searched among the pillows. She ignored his somewhat involuntary attempt at regaining her attention when she leaned against him. The dressing gown was more enticement than cover now; he could feel her bare breast pressing against him above the hard knot of the belt. "Ah, here it is."
She scooted back onto her heels and affixed the rubber phallus -- for there was no better word for it -- within the crisscrossing straps of her unusual undergarment. She pulled his hips away from the headboard, until he half-sat, half-inclined with his shoulders resting against the headboard. Then she settled between his knees and scooped more salve from the jar, which she applied to it with seeming relish. He found it difficult to draw his eyes away from where it jutted between her curving hips, but when he did, she grinned that impish smile and gave him another kiss, the phallus pressing hard and slick against him. Naturally, she sensed his trepidation.
"It's not so large," she said, rolling her hips so it slid against his erection. He shivered, not unpleasantly. Irene lifted an eyebrow, and he nodded. Curiosity had always been his watchword; he could hardly turn back at this point. She shifted close and set her hands at his hips to lift them from his heels, set the phallus against him. They paused like that, Irene staring into his eyes for a searching moment. Then she pushed up, and the tip breached him.
His mouth fell open on a gasp. Irene stroked her hands up his sides and back down, a gentling motion, as she slowly impaled him further, pushing upwards, inwards, letting gravity pull him down. His head tipped back to rest against the headboard, his breath came in pants, and sweat sprang out across his skin, allowing Irene's hands to glide more smoothly. He felt impossibly stretched wide around Irene's blunt tool, incredibly full. The sound that escaped him was something between a whine and a moan.
"I know, darling, I know. Almost there," she murmured, pressing closed-mouth kisses against his jaw. Almost? He couldn't possibly take more -- except he was, Irene inexorably pulling him down against her hips, the phallus fully seated within him.
"Open your eyes," she said. He did, uncertain of when they'd closed.
Her hair was disheveled, curls clung to the sweat on her cheeks and neck, and her eyes held still the impish gleam that was purely "Irene."
Irene smiled and leaned in to capture his mouth. The accompanying internal shift felt odd, though not unpleasant. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she kissed him languidly. Slow, wet kisses that seemed to have all the time in the world behind them, until he began to shift impatiently, because surely she'd had something more planned. He felt her smile again before she pulled her lips away to sit upright. He squirmed. She ran her hands up and down his torso, murmured something that should not have been the 'lovely' he'd have sworn he heard. They settled at his hips, holding him steady as she began to rock her hips minutely. Every slow movement pushed his shoulders against the headboard at her furthest forward thrust. It felt strange. Irene's look of concentration -- slightly furrowed brow, bottom lip caught between her teeth -- though, was familiar, however rarely it had been turned upon him and not an interesting new lock.
She watched the place where she penetrated him, and he watched her, as the thrust and drag of the phallus became easier. She began to move in earnest, pulling further from him between each thrust, rocking him harder against the headboard as she pushed up into him. The angle shifted slightly, and she struck something -- some bundle of nerves, perhaps, Watson would know -- and blinding white, thought-obliterating pleasure spasmed through him. His wrists yanked involuntarily against the cuffs, and a shout roughened his throat.
"Oh, yes," Irene gasped and repeated the motion. He cried out again, and she began to pump into him faster. More strokes glanced against that spot. He twisted his hands around the chains, pulling himself up slightly the better to move into her thrusts. She moaned, her hips not faltering for a second, giving him what he needed, filling him over and over until he finally, finally came. Her small, strong hands remained anchored to his hips as he spilled over; afterwards, she slipped slender fingers between them to bring herself to her own completion with another soft cry, the phallus still sunk within him shifting with her movements.
She pressed a kiss to his breastbone -- he suspected it was the first skin to hand -- and sat back up. She disentangled them, an uncomfortable sensation, and then stood, stretching magnificently. Irene let her dressing gown drop, and this time he didn't even pretend not to look. The harness framed her derriere nicely before she removed that, too. She wet a flannel at the basin and cleaned off first Sherlock himself, then her toy, tucking it away in a drawer, before disappearing behind the changing screen.
"Irene," he began in the quelling voice he'd learned from Watson.
"Now, now," she replied. "I would hate to have to gag you."
Apparently, the voice worked as well on her as it did on him. He subsided and straightened his legs before they could cramp.
In less time than he would have imagined without a maid, she reappeared looking, if not entirely respectable, then at least like the sort of woman one might expect to see leaving a hotel of the Grand's caliber. She walked to the bedside, pulling on her gloves, and smiled down at him.
"I had a lovely time. Thank you."
"My pleasure," he replied, honestly, then rattled his chains. "The keys?"
"Ah, yes, the key." She reached into the top of her dress and pulled the key free. Then she placed it on the bed directly before him, where no amount of contortion would bring it into reach. She placed a pillow over the key and his assets both. "For your modesty. Do tell Dr. Watson I said hello?"
The door closed on his shout. He rested his head back against the headboard. If no one had interupted them earlier, shouting seemed unlikely to help now. And he'd already tested the strength of the cuffs and the headboard to which they were attached. There was nothing to do but wait for rescue. He frowned. Tell Watson she said hello? He didn't even think they liked each other.