The Indecent Dangers of This Earthly Life [H/W NC-17]
Title: The Indecent Dangers of This Earthly Life
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,174
Summary: “Lovely female shapes are terrible complicators of the difficulties and dangers of this earthly life, especially for their owners” - George du Maurier - Watson is in difficulty, and Holmes is a danger to decency.
Warnings: Cross dressing, and one very naked man.
Disclaimer: I didn't make them up, but I don’t think I’ve been any crueller to them than any ‘reputable’ pastiche writer.
“Madam, I beg you. Be still.”
My hand tightens on your shoulder and with a rather unladylike snort you sit back and cross your legs. You force your gloved hands to lie still in your lap but I can feel the thundering rush of your pulse against the side of my thumb and the impatient ripple of your trapezius under my fingertips. The rhythm of your satin slipper tapping against the floor is so comfortingly you that I have to smile and it is at that moment that we are blinded by the blue white heat of the flash.
The photographer hands me a numbered docket and a calling card, but I know that I will never call for the print.
***
It’s getting late, Doctor Watson, you say softly with your hand on my arm and your lips to my ear, past time decent folk were home in bed.
Indeed, I murmur, while the rich, inviting tone of your voice brings a blush to my cheeks, although I no longer harbour any illusion about us being decent folk.
You laugh huskily and the blush spreads down my neck. To cover my discomfort I take a hurried gulp from my glass but the champagne only serves to heat me further. You take the glass from my hand, draining it swiftly and handing it off to a maid. When you turn back to me, your painted lips are slick and shining and it is suddenly very urgent that we should be alone.
Decent is such a subjective term, you muse quietly while we wait for a cab. For example, you continue, placing a hand on my shirt just below my collar, it is decent for me to touch you, here, like this, and my heart jumps under your hand. The butterfly movement of your hands against the edge of my collar is a vivid reminder of a dozen other breathless moments that have come and gone just before you reach for my shirt buttons. My breath catches in my throat.
But the effect that it has on you is certainly indecent, you whisper, proving your words with a discreet brush of one satin clad thumb against the front of my trousers. I swallow a groan.
The clatter of hooves announces the arrival of our cab and by the time the driver leaps to the stones in front of us my coat is closed and buttoned and you are once more standing quietly by my side. Dutifully, I hold out my hand to help you into the cab but with a raised eyebrow and an appraising look at my wounded leg you shake your head and fold yourself gracefully through the door. My own passage is less than graceful and I am thankful for your steadying hand as I tumble onto the bench beside you.
You put a hand on my thigh and lean across me to pull the shade. As you pull back your fingers skate the seam along my inner thigh and in retaliation I unbutton your jacket, tracing the rigid lines of your corset through the soft silk of your gown. I bring my lips to the pale smooth flesh above your neckline and the wet drag of my tongue over your collarbones causes you to shift awkwardly on the narrow seat, heavy skirts rustling. The swollen evidence of your desire makes an obscene bulge in the flowing fabric and when I grasp it the cloth slides against your skin and your hips thrust helplessly up into my touch.
The hand on my thigh has reached my flies and is stroking gently, thumb and forefinger holding the wool tight against the thick outline of my cock. Undo those buttons, I hiss softly, or there will be no exiting this cab decently.
The satin of your gloves is warm when you draw me out, and the subtle nap is cool on the upstroke; brushing gently under the rim of my head. Your twisting downstroke is scorching friction and when I feel the firm press of your other hand against my sac I bite my lip to keep from crying out. Your breath is hot on my face and it tickles my ear a moment before you bite neatly down on the lobe, sending shivers down my spine.
Sweat gathers between my scapulae, soaking my shirt beneath my coat. My hips rock gently into your sliding fist and the curving fingers that have slipped beneath me, pressing and pushing. The blunted burn of the wool as it slides against by bare skin is only a teasing precursor to what awaits me and a frustrated whimper escapes my lips.
I am certain, you murmur against my ear, that we are both of us bound for Hell no matter how decently we exit this carriage. If you have no objections to causing a little scandal, Doctor, I believe I can offer an expedient solution to your… problem, you purr, sucking my earlobe between your lips to punctuate your meaning.
If I objected to scandal, I gasp, then I would have soon chosen another flatmate. Not to mention another-
My words are lost in a deep groan when you slip to the floor in a sleek rustle of silk and take me in your mouth. I close my eyes against the intensity of the sensation and when I open them I am greeted with the singular sight of my flushed cock disappearing between your scarlet lips.
Your tongue is wet and slick and velvety pressure against my sensitive flesh but the paint is sticky and when you pull back to circle the head your lips peel away slowly. It’s too much.
With a panted warning my climax is on me and with a quick bob of your dark head you are swallowing, your throat working over my tip.
The cab slows to a halt just as you return to the bench, but by the time the door swings no evidence remains of our tryst except for my high colour and your smudged lip paint. The driver gives me a knowing wink when I pass him the coin for our fair and tips his hat to you as he leaps back into his seat.
Our ascent to the sitting room is marked by the delicate click of your heels on the boards and the swish of your skirts. It only occurs to me as we reach the landing to consider what sort of impression we are making on those sleeping below stairs, but then you are pressing me into the door and I don’t care about anything other than your weight on my wrists and the smell of you; perfume, sweat, and desire.
Your kiss is a mere brush of lips; a whisper of hot breath and the taste of tobacco and paint before you are gone again, dropping suddenly to your knees to unlace my boots. When I am standing barefoot on the boards you rise again and this time the kiss is real; slow and voluptuous and tender. Your cock presses against my hip and when I roll my body against yours you moan and your kiss becomes a clumsy battle of tongue and teeth, licking sucking biting along the line of my jaw while your fingers fumble with the buttons of my waistcoat.
I pull impatiently at the front of your jacket and the tiny buttons scatter with a sound like breaking glass. Your bemused expression disappears when I lower my head to the soft curving juncture of neck and shoulder, framed invitingly by green silk.
My jaded body has already begun to stir again by the time my trousers and drawers drop to the floor and the weeping head of my cock leaves a dark trail of moisture across your skirt. I am blushing when I look up, but the naked hunger in your eyes and the pink curl of your tongue wetting your bottom lip is enough to burn away the last of my shame and I pull you tight against me, rutting roughly into the soft folds of fabric. With a twist of your hips our bodies are aligned, our shafts sliding together and every catch of the damp weave between us is breathtaking.
Your head falls heavily onto my shoulder, the loose ends of your wig tickling my skin as your breath comes fast and hitching in my ear. The hard edge of your stays rubs against my hip with each thrust and your fingers where they grip my thighs are trembling. Your words, when they come, are broken and almost inaudible.
I can’t… I want… and the rest is lost in a ragged gasp but I know your need because it is mine as well - it has been since you touched me outside the ballroom.
I take your hand and lead you to your own bedroom. When we reach the edge of the narrow bedstead you turn and drop your head, offering me access to the row of sparkling buttons that follow the bow of your spine. Reflexively, I bring my hands to the first fastening but then a fit of mischief takes me; I push you onto the bed as you are, slippers and gown and all.
You settle back against the pillows, pull your skirts up take hold of your ruddy cock; stroking slowly as you watch me prepare myself quickly and roughly with one foot on the edge of the mattress and my fingers working frantically between my own legs. Your other hand grasps my calf and I can feel your fingers flex and tighten with each stroke.
You draw in a deep shuddering breath when I straddle you and my knees slip against your spread out skirts as I lower myself down too fast, biting my tongue against the burn of stretched muscle. Your eyes are closed tight and your head thrown back and the light sneaking around the curtain shows me only your long white throat and the blue glimmer of your hair, distant in the dimness. I lean down to taste that pale skin and all of a sudden you are slipping against the swollen spot inside me and I am crying out, teeth bared against your Adam’s apple as my hips grind down.
Your mouth falls open; a perfectly round ‘o’ outlined in smeared ruby. I feel the stuttering throb of your climax and a moment later I follow when your hand tightens convulsively upon my over sensitised shaft. This second moment of glory rips me in two; leaves me spent and gasping and boneless for long moments, unable to move or speak. You gather me against the unfamiliar contours of your chest and let the familiar pattern of your slowing heartbeat restore me to reality.
Later, when the gown lies discarded on the floor and you are sitting cross legged beside me, smoking a cigarette with your own naked lips you ask me
Is it so important, Watson, that other people think you decent? Can it not be enough that those who know you well know you to be a good man, and a kind and honest one? I confess, you say thoughtfully, blowing a lazy smoke ring to the ceiling, to knowing little of decency myself, but it seems to me only another type of charade, and not a terribly interesting one at that.
Perhaps, I remark slowly, it is well that you should then play your own role, and I mine. And occasionally we shall meet on the same stage.
I would fain rather meet you in your dressing room, old friend, you growl, stubbing out your cigarette and pulling me in for another kiss.
***
“What’s that one, love?” She leans over his shoulder to get a better look at the faded print.
“I dunno. Probably another boring git and his missus.” He says dismissively, his eyes flicking over the stiffly posed couple “want another look before I pack it up?”
She looks at the photograph thoughtfully. The woman’s nose is too long and her jaw too broad and masculine to be beautiful but her eyes are wide and clear, with a mischievous tilt completely unlike the serene vacuousness of typical Victorian portraits. She is slouched against the chair and her long legs are crossed from the hip, slim pale ankles showing above her shoes.
The man has one of those ridiculous square moustaches and his shoulders are painfully straight but he is smiling down at the woman fondly and his eyes are soft and kind. His hand rests on her shoulder, a fraction too close to her neck for decency and she thinks perhaps a man would need to be bold to love a woman like that one.
She turns the image over, searching for an inscription - the auction house won’t take it without a date. “Here we are, love,” she says, handing it back to him “they’ve got names; they can go to the sale.”
“Yeah?” He asks, taking the offered print, “Who are they then?”
“Doctor and Mrs Watson, 1889.”
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,174
Summary: “Lovely female shapes are terrible complicators of the difficulties and dangers of this earthly life, especially for their owners” - George du Maurier - Watson is in difficulty, and Holmes is a danger to decency.
Warnings: Cross dressing, and one very naked man.
Disclaimer: I didn't make them up, but I don’t think I’ve been any crueller to them than any ‘reputable’ pastiche writer.
“Madam, I beg you. Be still.”
My hand tightens on your shoulder and with a rather unladylike snort you sit back and cross your legs. You force your gloved hands to lie still in your lap but I can feel the thundering rush of your pulse against the side of my thumb and the impatient ripple of your trapezius under my fingertips. The rhythm of your satin slipper tapping against the floor is so comfortingly you that I have to smile and it is at that moment that we are blinded by the blue white heat of the flash.
The photographer hands me a numbered docket and a calling card, but I know that I will never call for the print.
***
It’s getting late, Doctor Watson, you say softly with your hand on my arm and your lips to my ear, past time decent folk were home in bed.
Indeed, I murmur, while the rich, inviting tone of your voice brings a blush to my cheeks, although I no longer harbour any illusion about us being decent folk.
You laugh huskily and the blush spreads down my neck. To cover my discomfort I take a hurried gulp from my glass but the champagne only serves to heat me further. You take the glass from my hand, draining it swiftly and handing it off to a maid. When you turn back to me, your painted lips are slick and shining and it is suddenly very urgent that we should be alone.
Decent is such a subjective term, you muse quietly while we wait for a cab. For example, you continue, placing a hand on my shirt just below my collar, it is decent for me to touch you, here, like this, and my heart jumps under your hand. The butterfly movement of your hands against the edge of my collar is a vivid reminder of a dozen other breathless moments that have come and gone just before you reach for my shirt buttons. My breath catches in my throat.
But the effect that it has on you is certainly indecent, you whisper, proving your words with a discreet brush of one satin clad thumb against the front of my trousers. I swallow a groan.
The clatter of hooves announces the arrival of our cab and by the time the driver leaps to the stones in front of us my coat is closed and buttoned and you are once more standing quietly by my side. Dutifully, I hold out my hand to help you into the cab but with a raised eyebrow and an appraising look at my wounded leg you shake your head and fold yourself gracefully through the door. My own passage is less than graceful and I am thankful for your steadying hand as I tumble onto the bench beside you.
You put a hand on my thigh and lean across me to pull the shade. As you pull back your fingers skate the seam along my inner thigh and in retaliation I unbutton your jacket, tracing the rigid lines of your corset through the soft silk of your gown. I bring my lips to the pale smooth flesh above your neckline and the wet drag of my tongue over your collarbones causes you to shift awkwardly on the narrow seat, heavy skirts rustling. The swollen evidence of your desire makes an obscene bulge in the flowing fabric and when I grasp it the cloth slides against your skin and your hips thrust helplessly up into my touch.
The hand on my thigh has reached my flies and is stroking gently, thumb and forefinger holding the wool tight against the thick outline of my cock. Undo those buttons, I hiss softly, or there will be no exiting this cab decently.
The satin of your gloves is warm when you draw me out, and the subtle nap is cool on the upstroke; brushing gently under the rim of my head. Your twisting downstroke is scorching friction and when I feel the firm press of your other hand against my sac I bite my lip to keep from crying out. Your breath is hot on my face and it tickles my ear a moment before you bite neatly down on the lobe, sending shivers down my spine.
Sweat gathers between my scapulae, soaking my shirt beneath my coat. My hips rock gently into your sliding fist and the curving fingers that have slipped beneath me, pressing and pushing. The blunted burn of the wool as it slides against by bare skin is only a teasing precursor to what awaits me and a frustrated whimper escapes my lips.
I am certain, you murmur against my ear, that we are both of us bound for Hell no matter how decently we exit this carriage. If you have no objections to causing a little scandal, Doctor, I believe I can offer an expedient solution to your… problem, you purr, sucking my earlobe between your lips to punctuate your meaning.
If I objected to scandal, I gasp, then I would have soon chosen another flatmate. Not to mention another-
My words are lost in a deep groan when you slip to the floor in a sleek rustle of silk and take me in your mouth. I close my eyes against the intensity of the sensation and when I open them I am greeted with the singular sight of my flushed cock disappearing between your scarlet lips.
Your tongue is wet and slick and velvety pressure against my sensitive flesh but the paint is sticky and when you pull back to circle the head your lips peel away slowly. It’s too much.
With a panted warning my climax is on me and with a quick bob of your dark head you are swallowing, your throat working over my tip.
The cab slows to a halt just as you return to the bench, but by the time the door swings no evidence remains of our tryst except for my high colour and your smudged lip paint. The driver gives me a knowing wink when I pass him the coin for our fair and tips his hat to you as he leaps back into his seat.
Our ascent to the sitting room is marked by the delicate click of your heels on the boards and the swish of your skirts. It only occurs to me as we reach the landing to consider what sort of impression we are making on those sleeping below stairs, but then you are pressing me into the door and I don’t care about anything other than your weight on my wrists and the smell of you; perfume, sweat, and desire.
Your kiss is a mere brush of lips; a whisper of hot breath and the taste of tobacco and paint before you are gone again, dropping suddenly to your knees to unlace my boots. When I am standing barefoot on the boards you rise again and this time the kiss is real; slow and voluptuous and tender. Your cock presses against my hip and when I roll my body against yours you moan and your kiss becomes a clumsy battle of tongue and teeth, licking sucking biting along the line of my jaw while your fingers fumble with the buttons of my waistcoat.
I pull impatiently at the front of your jacket and the tiny buttons scatter with a sound like breaking glass. Your bemused expression disappears when I lower my head to the soft curving juncture of neck and shoulder, framed invitingly by green silk.
My jaded body has already begun to stir again by the time my trousers and drawers drop to the floor and the weeping head of my cock leaves a dark trail of moisture across your skirt. I am blushing when I look up, but the naked hunger in your eyes and the pink curl of your tongue wetting your bottom lip is enough to burn away the last of my shame and I pull you tight against me, rutting roughly into the soft folds of fabric. With a twist of your hips our bodies are aligned, our shafts sliding together and every catch of the damp weave between us is breathtaking.
Your head falls heavily onto my shoulder, the loose ends of your wig tickling my skin as your breath comes fast and hitching in my ear. The hard edge of your stays rubs against my hip with each thrust and your fingers where they grip my thighs are trembling. Your words, when they come, are broken and almost inaudible.
I can’t… I want… and the rest is lost in a ragged gasp but I know your need because it is mine as well - it has been since you touched me outside the ballroom.
I take your hand and lead you to your own bedroom. When we reach the edge of the narrow bedstead you turn and drop your head, offering me access to the row of sparkling buttons that follow the bow of your spine. Reflexively, I bring my hands to the first fastening but then a fit of mischief takes me; I push you onto the bed as you are, slippers and gown and all.
You settle back against the pillows, pull your skirts up take hold of your ruddy cock; stroking slowly as you watch me prepare myself quickly and roughly with one foot on the edge of the mattress and my fingers working frantically between my own legs. Your other hand grasps my calf and I can feel your fingers flex and tighten with each stroke.
You draw in a deep shuddering breath when I straddle you and my knees slip against your spread out skirts as I lower myself down too fast, biting my tongue against the burn of stretched muscle. Your eyes are closed tight and your head thrown back and the light sneaking around the curtain shows me only your long white throat and the blue glimmer of your hair, distant in the dimness. I lean down to taste that pale skin and all of a sudden you are slipping against the swollen spot inside me and I am crying out, teeth bared against your Adam’s apple as my hips grind down.
Your mouth falls open; a perfectly round ‘o’ outlined in smeared ruby. I feel the stuttering throb of your climax and a moment later I follow when your hand tightens convulsively upon my over sensitised shaft. This second moment of glory rips me in two; leaves me spent and gasping and boneless for long moments, unable to move or speak. You gather me against the unfamiliar contours of your chest and let the familiar pattern of your slowing heartbeat restore me to reality.
Later, when the gown lies discarded on the floor and you are sitting cross legged beside me, smoking a cigarette with your own naked lips you ask me
Is it so important, Watson, that other people think you decent? Can it not be enough that those who know you well know you to be a good man, and a kind and honest one? I confess, you say thoughtfully, blowing a lazy smoke ring to the ceiling, to knowing little of decency myself, but it seems to me only another type of charade, and not a terribly interesting one at that.
Perhaps, I remark slowly, it is well that you should then play your own role, and I mine. And occasionally we shall meet on the same stage.
I would fain rather meet you in your dressing room, old friend, you growl, stubbing out your cigarette and pulling me in for another kiss.
***
“What’s that one, love?” She leans over his shoulder to get a better look at the faded print.
“I dunno. Probably another boring git and his missus.” He says dismissively, his eyes flicking over the stiffly posed couple “want another look before I pack it up?”
She looks at the photograph thoughtfully. The woman’s nose is too long and her jaw too broad and masculine to be beautiful but her eyes are wide and clear, with a mischievous tilt completely unlike the serene vacuousness of typical Victorian portraits. She is slouched against the chair and her long legs are crossed from the hip, slim pale ankles showing above her shoes.
The man has one of those ridiculous square moustaches and his shoulders are painfully straight but he is smiling down at the woman fondly and his eyes are soft and kind. His hand rests on her shoulder, a fraction too close to her neck for decency and she thinks perhaps a man would need to be bold to love a woman like that one.
She turns the image over, searching for an inscription - the auction house won’t take it without a date. “Here we are, love,” she says, handing it back to him “they’ve got names; they can go to the sale.”
“Yeah?” He asks, taking the offered print, “Who are they then?”
“Doctor and Mrs Watson, 1889.”