Fic: The Effects of Hallucinogenic Aphrodisiacs on the Untrained Mind
Title The Effects of Hallucinogenic Aphrodisiacs on the Untrained Mind
Rating R
Fandom Sherlock Holmes
Characters -
Pairing Holmes/Watson
Summery Holmes secretly slips Watson an aphrodisiac. A hallucinogenic one. Watson trips balls.
“Watson, judging by the way your fingers are twitching and the rapid widening of your pupils, I'd say you are in a state of helpless sexual arousal.” He states with only mild fascination and I instantly want to kill him, if not ravish him first, “Seems that my aphrodisiac is taking effect, yes?”
God help me, I can’t even think straight right now. The room is spinning with colours I’d only fancy seeing before in the dull, drab landscape of London’s muddy streets, but at the center of the ruddy room is grey, quiet Holmes. He’s staring at me with ice hawk’s eyes and a pen poised within his agile hands, but all I can think of is how disastrously good those hands would be all over my body.
My hand shakes as I pick fitfully at my collar. Bleary, sweat-heated thoughts tell me that the room must be some gaudy take on Hell itself and Holmes-Sherlock-is the dark prince himself. My breath is heavy and moist within the dust-caked study of my friend and I foolishly lick my lips too long. Sherlock’s eyes flash and something is written upon his notepad. I hate him, I love him, and I need to be inside him. It’s all spinning through my lighter-than-air head and I gasp when I realize how awfully tight and warm my trousers have become. Still, nothing stops the image of Holmes beneath me, alive and warm and blissfully naked and slick with sweat as I suck the air right from his lungs and he can’t stop panting my name as I push so deep, deep inside-
“How’s your temperature?” As if he can’t plainly tell by my glowing cheeks and dampening chest.
“Off the charts,” I manage to gasp and shift, but only slightly. I promised to stay calm, calm as I can, because it was either me or Gladstone and God help me if I let Holmes lay one more finger on that dog. But right now, I am beginning to reconsider the idea. This drug, whatever Holmes conjured up, is as potent as any aphrodisiac and hallucinogen as anything I’d ever heard of. And every time I take a breath it feels like icy stars are climbing inside my lungs and crackers are going off behind my eyes. The only constant in all of this chaos is Holmes. He remains in focus and unchanged and drop-dead gorgeous if that could ever be said about this beastly man. Small things happen to him; shifting lines lending to the surrealism of his design and his eyes lighting up like cold fire when they look at me. It’s all I can do to dig my nails into the cherry wood of my chair and try, try not to pounce upon this devilishly clever little man. I want him so badly.
I begin to babble.
“Holmes, I want to be inside of you,” I gasp and lose control-finally. Holmes’ breath has caught in his throat and for once, for once, I retain the element of surprise. Something has gone wrong in my veins because the heat is all wrong and I can’t help but float as I walk over to Holmes and lift him-he was always so light-straight from his chair and pull him as close as I can before trapping his mouth in a kiss. I’ve never kissed a face with stubble before, but Holmes’ is delicious and rough, especially as our teeth clack together and I pull him to the floor. His trousers come down before mine do and I take a moment to stop, breathe against his ear and run my hands over his buttocks. Warm, soft, firm, perfect, perfect, perfect. I groan against his ear and pull his hips to my groin and grind hard against him.
Holmes’ moans look like shuttering, shaking butterflies gliding to the ceiling. Each one smells sweet as toffee. Holmes’ mouth tastes like crisp apples and bark, but he smells like coal and wood rot. I don’t care. I just pull my trousers open by the fly, buttons scattering and leaving sparkling trails behind them, ripples on the wooden floor, golden notes sinking deep into the foundation. I pull medical lubricant from the chemical desk and pour it over my hands and fingers before pushing them inside Holmes. He watches me, silent in metallic stoicism. I can’t help but kiss him again while my hands leave sappy, slippery marks over his bottom and I haphazardly push inside.
A rainbow erupts inside me and I shake hard, gasping, gripping, moving without another thought. Holmes explodes with colour now, sparks flaring from his eyes and his hair turning into an artist’s canvas of burnt Sahara grass. And even as he moves like waves beneath my thrusts, legs thrown over my shoulders, I pull his shirt open and lay a sucking kiss to his nipple. His gasp is a snowflake dropping from his mouth and I lick to capture it. More gasps, more snowflakes, and I have to bite Holmes’ mouth to keep them inside of him. His hips shake and buck with mine, and even as my hands leave greasy prints over his body and clothes, Holmes keeps telling me to go, go, go. The sound is bewitching. I bite his mouth and his neck to swallow it for myself, but more snowflakes, more butterflies, more dazzling sparks behind my eyes until we shake and move with the earthquaking world. My heart is pounding in my ears, flooding my mind to the point of drowning, suffocation, losing myself and watching only Holmes through a silent world until his eyes go back, his hand clenches my hair, crickets jump over me, and he climaxes with an arching, cracking back.
I cannot stop, shaking and pounding deep inside of him like an animal, but I cannot stop. Holmes is positively shivering, whimpering like some beaten thing. My hands, slick, grab his thighs, wrap them around my hips instead, and then hold me up. On hands and knees above the disheveled, beautiful Sherlock Holmes, I groan his name and thrust hard until I convulse and climax so deep I might get lost inside him. Ecstasy tastes like Holmes. Like crisp apples and wood bark. It’s too long before I can talk again; lazy, tired hips trying to nudge deeper inside Holmes. I suck on the toffee-candy neck of his until I can think, with his arms around my shoulders and nails scratching my back lightly.
I can finally think when we are glued together by sweat and semen. Taking a huffy breath of musk and sex, I clear my throat and clamber up from the floor. It is grey. Holmes is pink, sweaty and heated from the frantic lovemaking forced upon him. Averting my eyes, I grab up my trousers from my knees and climb away to my chair again. Holmes sits up, content to have his naked waist displayed proudly in contrast to the dreary floor and flat about us.
He looks at me, smile tugging at his mouth.
“Thank you, Watson, you’ve proven my theory.”
My fist clenches on the chair, “What theory, Holmes?”
“That the mind has more power over the physicality of the body than we realize.”
I throw him a puzzled look.
“That powder you huffed was little more than sugar and cinnamon spices.”
My eyes widen.
“Yes, Watson, you tricked yourself into delirious arousal,” He stands, as do I. I ready myself to punch him before his thumb glides over my lower lip and he pulls me by the chin into a slow, wet kiss.
Bloody mad scientists.
End.
Rating R
Fandom Sherlock Holmes
Characters -
Pairing Holmes/Watson
Summery Holmes secretly slips Watson an aphrodisiac. A hallucinogenic one. Watson trips balls.
“Watson, judging by the way your fingers are twitching and the rapid widening of your pupils, I'd say you are in a state of helpless sexual arousal.” He states with only mild fascination and I instantly want to kill him, if not ravish him first, “Seems that my aphrodisiac is taking effect, yes?”
God help me, I can’t even think straight right now. The room is spinning with colours I’d only fancy seeing before in the dull, drab landscape of London’s muddy streets, but at the center of the ruddy room is grey, quiet Holmes. He’s staring at me with ice hawk’s eyes and a pen poised within his agile hands, but all I can think of is how disastrously good those hands would be all over my body.
My hand shakes as I pick fitfully at my collar. Bleary, sweat-heated thoughts tell me that the room must be some gaudy take on Hell itself and Holmes-Sherlock-is the dark prince himself. My breath is heavy and moist within the dust-caked study of my friend and I foolishly lick my lips too long. Sherlock’s eyes flash and something is written upon his notepad. I hate him, I love him, and I need to be inside him. It’s all spinning through my lighter-than-air head and I gasp when I realize how awfully tight and warm my trousers have become. Still, nothing stops the image of Holmes beneath me, alive and warm and blissfully naked and slick with sweat as I suck the air right from his lungs and he can’t stop panting my name as I push so deep, deep inside-
“How’s your temperature?” As if he can’t plainly tell by my glowing cheeks and dampening chest.
“Off the charts,” I manage to gasp and shift, but only slightly. I promised to stay calm, calm as I can, because it was either me or Gladstone and God help me if I let Holmes lay one more finger on that dog. But right now, I am beginning to reconsider the idea. This drug, whatever Holmes conjured up, is as potent as any aphrodisiac and hallucinogen as anything I’d ever heard of. And every time I take a breath it feels like icy stars are climbing inside my lungs and crackers are going off behind my eyes. The only constant in all of this chaos is Holmes. He remains in focus and unchanged and drop-dead gorgeous if that could ever be said about this beastly man. Small things happen to him; shifting lines lending to the surrealism of his design and his eyes lighting up like cold fire when they look at me. It’s all I can do to dig my nails into the cherry wood of my chair and try, try not to pounce upon this devilishly clever little man. I want him so badly.
I begin to babble.
“Holmes, I want to be inside of you,” I gasp and lose control-finally. Holmes’ breath has caught in his throat and for once, for once, I retain the element of surprise. Something has gone wrong in my veins because the heat is all wrong and I can’t help but float as I walk over to Holmes and lift him-he was always so light-straight from his chair and pull him as close as I can before trapping his mouth in a kiss. I’ve never kissed a face with stubble before, but Holmes’ is delicious and rough, especially as our teeth clack together and I pull him to the floor. His trousers come down before mine do and I take a moment to stop, breathe against his ear and run my hands over his buttocks. Warm, soft, firm, perfect, perfect, perfect. I groan against his ear and pull his hips to my groin and grind hard against him.
Holmes’ moans look like shuttering, shaking butterflies gliding to the ceiling. Each one smells sweet as toffee. Holmes’ mouth tastes like crisp apples and bark, but he smells like coal and wood rot. I don’t care. I just pull my trousers open by the fly, buttons scattering and leaving sparkling trails behind them, ripples on the wooden floor, golden notes sinking deep into the foundation. I pull medical lubricant from the chemical desk and pour it over my hands and fingers before pushing them inside Holmes. He watches me, silent in metallic stoicism. I can’t help but kiss him again while my hands leave sappy, slippery marks over his bottom and I haphazardly push inside.
A rainbow erupts inside me and I shake hard, gasping, gripping, moving without another thought. Holmes explodes with colour now, sparks flaring from his eyes and his hair turning into an artist’s canvas of burnt Sahara grass. And even as he moves like waves beneath my thrusts, legs thrown over my shoulders, I pull his shirt open and lay a sucking kiss to his nipple. His gasp is a snowflake dropping from his mouth and I lick to capture it. More gasps, more snowflakes, and I have to bite Holmes’ mouth to keep them inside of him. His hips shake and buck with mine, and even as my hands leave greasy prints over his body and clothes, Holmes keeps telling me to go, go, go. The sound is bewitching. I bite his mouth and his neck to swallow it for myself, but more snowflakes, more butterflies, more dazzling sparks behind my eyes until we shake and move with the earthquaking world. My heart is pounding in my ears, flooding my mind to the point of drowning, suffocation, losing myself and watching only Holmes through a silent world until his eyes go back, his hand clenches my hair, crickets jump over me, and he climaxes with an arching, cracking back.
I cannot stop, shaking and pounding deep inside of him like an animal, but I cannot stop. Holmes is positively shivering, whimpering like some beaten thing. My hands, slick, grab his thighs, wrap them around my hips instead, and then hold me up. On hands and knees above the disheveled, beautiful Sherlock Holmes, I groan his name and thrust hard until I convulse and climax so deep I might get lost inside him. Ecstasy tastes like Holmes. Like crisp apples and wood bark. It’s too long before I can talk again; lazy, tired hips trying to nudge deeper inside Holmes. I suck on the toffee-candy neck of his until I can think, with his arms around my shoulders and nails scratching my back lightly.
I can finally think when we are glued together by sweat and semen. Taking a huffy breath of musk and sex, I clear my throat and clamber up from the floor. It is grey. Holmes is pink, sweaty and heated from the frantic lovemaking forced upon him. Averting my eyes, I grab up my trousers from my knees and climb away to my chair again. Holmes sits up, content to have his naked waist displayed proudly in contrast to the dreary floor and flat about us.
He looks at me, smile tugging at his mouth.
“Thank you, Watson, you’ve proven my theory.”
My fist clenches on the chair, “What theory, Holmes?”
“That the mind has more power over the physicality of the body than we realize.”
I throw him a puzzled look.
“That powder you huffed was little more than sugar and cinnamon spices.”
My eyes widen.
“Yes, Watson, you tricked yourself into delirious arousal,” He stands, as do I. I ready myself to punch him before his thumb glides over my lower lip and he pulls me by the chin into a slow, wet kiss.
Bloody mad scientists.
End.