Re: In Want of a Legacy
anonymous
September 14 2011, 00:05:18 UTC
Watson had fought the rope tying him to his chair until his wrists were raw and bleeding. Holmes could never survive this, he knew. It was too much. Even though Holmes was not insulted easily, over lots of time and even more experience Watson had found out that if there was one thing that could depress Holmes, it was losing a battle. He had no idea how Holmes would handle finding out about Blackwood’s plan, but he knew that Sherlock must have some feelings buried somewhere, and something like this could absolutely not be buried. He also was sure that Holmes was asexual and a virgin, in which case this would be even more confusing and painful to his friend.
His anxious thoughts were interrupted by Blackwood looming over him. “I have positioned your chair so that you are not seen by our dear friend.” Watson winced; this couldn’t be good. “However, if he should hear your voice, or anything that might lead him to discover your presence, he will…suffer for it. Greatly.” Blackwood offered him a silky smile. “Also, if you fail to give my physicians proper instruction on how to enable Sherlock to bear a child, it will do him no good.” Blackwood’s eyes narrowed and he got face to face with Watson. “For every night that my doctor tells me he is not pregnant, I will rape him. And I will not be gentle, Dr. Watson.”
Watson dropped his defiant glare and nodded reluctantly. Hearing about the torture his friend was about to go through put a shard of ice through his heart. And the idea of watching it happen made him want to retch.
Finally, servants came through the doorway, dragging Sherlock, who was still fighting for all he was worth. Watson smiled, albeit a little sadly, as he looked at the black eyes, broken noses, and bloody lips he had gifted the servants with.
Blackwood looked down his nose at the small, sinewy man on his floor, who was returning a particularly deadly glare. He moved to stand up, but Blackwood pulled out the revolver he had taken from Watson.
Holmes gave a pitiful moan as he saw Watson’s revolver. He was dead.
It proved be a sufficient distraction for the servants to lift him on the bed and chain his wrists to the headboard.
Blackwood gestured for his servants to leave them. He got out his knife and slowly began tearing away Holmes’s clothes, who was trying stifle whimpers. He was able to fight when he thought there was chancce Watson was out there somewhere, but now he wanted nothing more than to die and leave this all behind.
He leaned in, so that his hot breath fell on the detective's tensed neck.
"I suppose I should explain."
He slipped off his prisoner's waistcoast and sleeves, stroking Sherlock's back.
"I told my people that this empire would endure for millenia. I meant it. But I want my sucessor to have my blood run through his veins. But that means I must share my seed with someone else, doesn't it? And it couldn't be just anyone, I'm sure you understand."
Every muscle in Holmes's body went stiff as Blackwood reached under him and unbuckled his belt, throwing it to the floor.
"You are- most seductive. The way you walk, the way you talk, it is no secret to me that you have desires of your own." Sherlock shook his head in denial, his cheeks reddening.
Watson ground his teeth. He tried not to think about the growing bulge he saw in Blackwood's trousers.
"I don't want a soft, feminine woman. Weak, emotional, no that would never do for a ruler. You, on the other hand-" he tugged Sherlock's trousers and braces off, and began stroking Holmes's buttocks. "I don't think you could feel if you tried." He laughed derisively. "You're strong, intelligent, perfect. A virgin. You, Sherlock, are going to have my son. "
He would normally have taken comfort in the fact that he was male, and it was technically impossible. But he knew that Blackwood was too prideful to say such a thing with being sure that it was actually going to happen. He must have found a brilliant surgeon to figure this out.
There was no escape, Sherlock knew. This was going to happen, and without Watson,there wasn't a person in the world who gave a damn. He shoved his face in the pillow.
Blackwood laughed again as he positioned his cock between Sherlock's buttocks. Watson saw Sherlock's knuckles go white.
3/? In Want of a Legacy
anonymous
September 17 2011, 04:37:58 UTC
Thanks everybody! I hope to update a little faster in the futuure! =D
With one harsh thrust, Blackwood entered Holmes. Holmes couldn’t help but try to clench and writhe away from such a violation, even though he knew it would just make the injuries and the pain worse.
It even worse than Holmes had thought. The pain was electric, it felt like fire shooting through his entire body. But even was worse the raw, intense feeling that was akin to pleasure. Holmes hated himself for it. He felt like filth. A rent boy.
Blackwood built up a hard and fast rhythm, slamming Sherlock’s head against the iron wrought bars that served as a headboard as he pumped. Watson closed his eyes, but that didn’t block out the sound of skin slapping skin, or of Sherlock’s nearly inaudible gasps of pain and fear. His friend bore it all so quietly.
Sherlock felt himself begin to bleed onto the black silk sheets. His skin felt hypersensitive. The sheets hurt and Blackwood’s hands felt like razors.
Sherlock’s cheeks became tinged with red both times Blackwood filled him with his warm seed, his shout of climax feeling like it was nearly crushing his ears.
Holmes’s ever calculating mind counted about twenty one minutes of being ravaged, but it was the longest twenty one minutes of his life. Finally Blackwood pulled out unceremoniously.
“You didn’t even come for me, darling,” Blackwood said with a sneer. “Don’t worry. I could tell how much you enjoyed it. You were a virgin and now you are mine.”
Watson watched his friend’s face carefully. It looked dazed and afraid and in pain but most of all incredibly mournful.
Blackwood began claiming Holmes’s muscular back with bite marks, moving up to the neck, and licking his ear, bringing out a horrified shudder from Holmes. Blackwood adjusted the chain so that he could roll Holmes over and straddled him. Now he bit just below his jawline, trailing his way down to his stomach, drawing blood each time. He elicited a small cry from Holmes when he bit a nipple, hard.
Since Blackwood’s first orgasm, Watson thought he saw Holmes acquire a glazed look. He hoped and prayed that his friend’s brilliant mind had taken somewhere else, anywhere else, even if it meant never coming back. “Look at me.” He slapped Sherlock’s face, the sound making a loud snap in the silent room. “You are mine,” he hissed. “You will have my son, and you will raise him and teach him to lead just as I have.”
Sherlock turned his head away again, studying the wall with wide eyes. After a few moments of contemplation, Blackwood forced his head back and made Sherlock open his lips to kiss him. Blackwood’s tongue intruded everywhere it could find in Sherlock’s mouth.
Holmes’s hands were clutching the sheets, Watson noticed. He had pressed his fingernails into his palm so hard that he had drawn blood.
Blackwood stood up and adjusted the clothing he hadn’t even bothered to take off. “I have work to do, Sherlock, as I’m sure you understand. Don’t concern yourself, I’ll back tonight.”
It was with no small relief that Sherlock felt the prick of a needle and floated once more into darkness.
Blackwood cut Watson’s bonds loose and instructed the servants to make sure Holmes couldn’t wake up until Watson was out of sight. As for Watson, he was to begin treatment.
4/? In Want of A Legacy
anonymous
September 18 2011, 21:24:39 UTC
Watson stood up warily as Blackwood exited the room. Approaching Holmes’s sleeping form, Watson ran a gentle hand through the ever unruly dark brown hair.
Truth be told, Watson was in love with a man who he knew wouldn’t, couldn’t ever love him back.
And he had just witnessed the rape of the person he loved the most in whole world. It was the most painful thing Watson had ever experienced. With impossibly gentle hands, Watson carefully cleaned each bite mark. The servants refused to give him bandages, so he could do nothing more.
They did, however, provide him with a needle and surgical thread. Dread filling his heart, he rolled his friend over to treat the injuries from the first of many rapes.
It was still bleeding heavily. Tears streamed down his face as he began stitching Sherlock’s bruised entrance.
After he was finished, he rummaged through his bag of tools, finding several prepared syringes. They were hormones. His friend would have a baby, and he would be making it possible. He felt sick.
It took no small amount of fortitude to push the syringes home.
He wished more than anything he could talk to Holmes.
The servants removed him to his personal bedroom, where he sat, not moving, his heart cleaving in two as he thought of what his broken friend was about to go through.
A routine began. Every night, Watson was awakened and moved to that hateful bedroom, where he would watch his friend silently endure all kinds of humiliation. He was forced to take Blackwood in his mouth, he was beaten and bruised everywhere.
Days added to weeks, and still no signs of pregnancy. Blackwood would come in yelling at Holmes from the very beginning. And then throwing his thinning body to floor, kicking him, whatever the hell he felt like doing, because he had ripped apart Holmes’s heart until he was helpless. He raped him against the wall, threw him over his desk, made him lie on the cold tile floor all night. Holmes’s body began to become pale and bony, littered with scars and fresh bruises.
And then Blackwood would sleep as Sherlock lay awake, whispering barely louder than a breath, “My God, Watson. I need you, I miss you. How could I have let this happen?”
It was killing Watson.
It was about a month later that Blackwood came angrier than ever at Holmes’s infertility. He had brought with him a cat o’ nine tails. Holmes let out a small, desperate keen.
His head hung on his shoulders as Blackwood called him his heartless whore, his useless bitch.
Holmes bore it as silently and stoically as ever.
After that single desperate sound Sherlock made though, Watson couldn’t exactly say the same thing.
In fact, Watson let himself do something very stupid.
“STOP!! Why not me?? Let me do it! Please, I’ll do anything. I could have your son. The treatment might work faster on me. PLEASE! STOP!” He screamed it at the top of his lungs. S herlock’s head snapped up, trying to swivel around to look behind him, realizing he had never seen the back wall of the room before. “…Watson?” His voice was deathly quiet and timid, almost afraid to let himself hope that Watson was alive.
Watson’s stomach churned as he realized what he’d done.
Blackwood kicked Holmes’s stomach with his boot, leaving him crumpled on the floor and addressed Watson. “I believed I warned you what would happen if you let our friend know of your presence. He would suffer.”
Re: 4/? In Want of A Legacy
anonymous
September 20 2011, 00:14:14 UTC
This is like EVERYTHING I wanted in a mpreg fic! Mpreg (obviously), angst, h/c (soon I hope), H/W (sooner I hope) and more! Can't wait for the next installment!
5/? In Want of A Legacy
anonymous
September 22 2011, 16:38:24 UTC
Before, the cat o' nine tails stayed on Holmes's back, but now Blackwood began to strike Holmes's face with the leather whip. Holmes turned his face from Watson so he didn't have to watch.
Watson shook his head violently. "No, please, I'm sorry, I'll do anything! Tell me what I can do!" Watson was screaming.
Blackwood just glared at him and knelt on Holmes's chest so that he couldn't breathe, evaluating the raw, bloody mess that was his face.
He rolled Holmes over and got out a long, slender pocket knife. Sherlock tensed and paled. Blackwood was not one to hesitate; he plunged the knife in Sherlock's entrance. Holmes so far had done an excellent job of not responding, but Blackwood was looking to make a point.
He twisted and shoved the knife in deeper, grabbing Holmes's member, hard.
And now it was his turn to scream. He could only imagine what his friend thought of him.
Blackwood kept prolonging, making the knife hit his prostrate repeatedly.
Holmes had never felt so much pain. Watson, the cuts on his back, his face, even Blackwood became absolutely nonexistent in his mind. All he could feel was the white hot pain. Holmes's voice was already giving out from a month of disuse.
Blackwood was quickly satisfied, wanting Holmes to recover in a timely manner, so they could go on with their...routine. He pulled out the knife and smirked at Watson. Holmes was deathly still, curled in on himself.
"He's all yours, doctor. I had hoped so much that you could give him an effective treatment earlier than this. I'll be back when he's recovered, I assure you."
After Blackwood sauntered out, Watson rushed to his friends's side, who was covered in blood. Watson knew that they were probably mostly superficial, but it was heartbreaking. He also did not know how the knife wounds would heal.
Holmes's shoulder covered most of his face. But Watson could see the beautifully bright brown eyes.
Holmes was weeping.
Watson never thought he'd see his friend cry. But as he moved to face him, Watson realized that a small smile was on Sherlock's dry lips.
"Holmes," he whispered softly. He gently put his hand on Holmes's shoulder, trying to look at him without overwhelming him. To his surprise, Holmes didn't shudder or snarl. He merely winced as he tried his best to sit up with Watson's help.
It took Watson a few moments to comprehend what Holmes was doing as he reached his arms towards Watson, but his eyes burned as he realized that he pulling his friend to an awkward embrace, burying his face into Watson's shoulder.
Watson couldn't resist entangling a hand in the detective's hair.
"I thought you were dead," he muttered hoarsely. "And it would have been my fault. I'm so sorry, Watson."
"You, apologizing to me?" Watson swallowed the lump in his throat; Sherlock needed to see strength, not weakness. "I never thought I'd see the day. But you did the right thing."
He could feel his friend already weakening. He tried as best he could to pick him up without touching his back. "Let's get you cleaned up."
His anxious thoughts were interrupted by Blackwood looming over him. “I have positioned your chair so that you are not seen by our dear friend.” Watson winced; this couldn’t be good. “However, if he should hear your voice, or anything that might lead him to discover your presence, he will…suffer for it. Greatly.” Blackwood offered him a silky smile. “Also, if you fail to give my physicians proper instruction on how to enable Sherlock to bear a child, it will do him no good.” Blackwood’s eyes narrowed and he got face to face with Watson. “For every night that my doctor tells me he is not pregnant, I will rape him. And I will not be gentle, Dr. Watson.”
Watson dropped his defiant glare and nodded reluctantly. Hearing about the torture his friend was about to go through put a shard of ice through his heart. And the idea of watching it happen made him want to retch.
Finally, servants came through the doorway, dragging Sherlock, who was still fighting for all he was worth. Watson smiled, albeit a little sadly, as he looked at the black eyes, broken noses, and bloody lips he had gifted the servants with.
Blackwood looked down his nose at the small, sinewy man on his floor, who was returning a particularly deadly glare. He moved to stand up, but Blackwood pulled out the revolver he had taken from Watson.
Holmes gave a pitiful moan as he saw Watson’s revolver. He was dead.
It proved be a sufficient distraction for the servants to lift him on the bed and chain his wrists to the headboard.
Blackwood gestured for his servants to leave them. He got out his knife and slowly began tearing away Holmes’s clothes, who was trying stifle whimpers. He was able to fight when he thought there was chancce Watson was out there somewhere, but now he wanted nothing more than to die and leave this all behind.
He leaned in, so that his hot breath fell on the detective's tensed neck.
"I suppose I should explain."
He slipped off his prisoner's waistcoast and sleeves, stroking Sherlock's back.
"I told my people that this empire would endure for millenia. I meant it. But I want my sucessor to have my blood run through his veins. But that means I must share my seed with someone else, doesn't it? And it couldn't be just anyone, I'm sure you understand."
Every muscle in Holmes's body went stiff as Blackwood reached under him and unbuckled his belt, throwing it to the floor.
"You are- most seductive. The way you walk, the way you talk, it is no secret to me that you have desires of your own." Sherlock shook his head in denial, his cheeks reddening.
Watson ground his teeth. He tried not to think about the growing bulge he saw in Blackwood's trousers.
"I don't want a soft, feminine woman. Weak, emotional, no that would never do for a ruler. You, on the other hand-" he tugged Sherlock's trousers and braces off, and began stroking Holmes's buttocks. "I don't think you could feel if you tried." He laughed derisively. "You're strong, intelligent, perfect. A virgin. You, Sherlock, are going to have my son. "
He would normally have taken comfort in the fact that he was male, and it was technically impossible. But he knew that Blackwood was too prideful to say such a thing with being sure that it was actually going to happen. He must have found a brilliant surgeon to figure this out.
There was no escape, Sherlock knew. This was going to happen, and without Watson,there wasn't a person in the world who gave a damn. He shoved his face in the pillow.
Blackwood laughed again as he positioned his cock between Sherlock's buttocks. Watson saw Sherlock's knuckles go white.
And thus it began.
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*cough*
and by that, I mean, I do very hope you continue, and update just as soon as inspiration strikes!
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With one harsh thrust, Blackwood entered Holmes. Holmes couldn’t help but try to clench and writhe away from such a violation, even though he knew it would just make the injuries and the pain worse.
It even worse than Holmes had thought. The pain was electric, it felt like fire shooting through his entire body. But even was worse the raw, intense feeling that was akin to pleasure. Holmes hated himself for it. He felt like filth. A rent boy.
Blackwood built up a hard and fast rhythm, slamming Sherlock’s head against the iron wrought bars that served as a headboard as he pumped.
Watson closed his eyes, but that didn’t block out the sound of skin slapping skin, or of Sherlock’s nearly inaudible gasps of pain and fear. His friend bore it all so quietly.
Sherlock felt himself begin to bleed onto the black silk sheets. His skin felt hypersensitive. The sheets hurt and Blackwood’s hands felt like razors.
Sherlock’s cheeks became tinged with red both times Blackwood filled him with his warm seed, his shout of climax feeling like it was nearly crushing his ears.
Holmes’s ever calculating mind counted about twenty one minutes of being ravaged, but it was the longest twenty one minutes of his life.
Finally Blackwood pulled out unceremoniously.
“You didn’t even come for me, darling,” Blackwood said with a sneer. “Don’t worry. I could tell how much you enjoyed it. You were a virgin and now you are mine.”
Watson watched his friend’s face carefully. It looked dazed and afraid and in pain but most of all incredibly mournful.
Blackwood began claiming Holmes’s muscular back with bite marks, moving up to the neck, and licking his ear, bringing out a horrified shudder from Holmes. Blackwood adjusted the chain so that he could roll Holmes over and straddled him. Now he bit just below his jawline, trailing his way down to his stomach, drawing blood each time. He elicited a small cry from Holmes when he bit a nipple, hard.
Since Blackwood’s first orgasm, Watson thought he saw Holmes acquire a glazed look. He hoped and prayed that his friend’s brilliant mind had taken somewhere else, anywhere else, even if it meant never coming back.
“Look at me.” He slapped Sherlock’s face, the sound making a loud snap in the silent room. “You are mine,” he hissed. “You will have my son, and you will raise him and teach him to lead just as I have.”
Sherlock turned his head away again, studying the wall with wide eyes. After a few moments of contemplation, Blackwood forced his head back and made Sherlock open his lips to kiss him. Blackwood’s tongue intruded everywhere it could find in Sherlock’s mouth.
Holmes’s hands were clutching the sheets, Watson noticed. He had pressed his fingernails into his palm so hard that he had drawn blood.
Blackwood stood up and adjusted the clothing he hadn’t even bothered to take off. “I have work to do, Sherlock, as I’m sure you understand. Don’t concern yourself, I’ll back tonight.”
It was with no small relief that Sherlock felt the prick of a needle and floated once more into darkness.
Blackwood cut Watson’s bonds loose and instructed the servants to make sure Holmes couldn’t wake up until Watson was out of sight. As for Watson, he was to begin treatment.
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I hope you'll continue it soon!
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Truth be told, Watson was in love with a man who he knew wouldn’t, couldn’t ever love him back.
And he had just witnessed the rape of the person he loved the most in whole world. It was the most painful thing Watson had ever experienced.
With impossibly gentle hands, Watson carefully cleaned each bite mark. The servants refused to give him bandages, so he could do nothing more.
They did, however, provide him with a needle and surgical thread. Dread filling his heart, he rolled his friend over to treat the injuries from the first of many rapes.
It was still bleeding heavily. Tears streamed down his face as he began stitching Sherlock’s bruised entrance.
After he was finished, he rummaged through his bag of tools, finding several prepared syringes. They were hormones. His friend would have a baby, and he would be making it possible. He felt sick.
It took no small amount of fortitude to push the syringes home.
He wished more than anything he could talk to Holmes.
The servants removed him to his personal bedroom, where he sat, not moving, his heart cleaving in two as he thought of what his broken friend was about to go through.
A routine began. Every night, Watson was awakened and moved to that hateful bedroom, where he would watch his friend silently endure all kinds of humiliation. He was forced to take Blackwood in his mouth, he was beaten and bruised everywhere.
Days added to weeks, and still no signs of pregnancy. Blackwood would come in yelling at Holmes from the very beginning. And then throwing his thinning body to floor, kicking him, whatever the hell he felt like doing, because he had ripped apart Holmes’s heart until he was helpless. He raped him against the wall, threw him over his desk, made him lie on the cold tile floor all night. Holmes’s body began to become pale and bony, littered with scars and fresh bruises.
And then Blackwood would sleep as Sherlock lay awake, whispering barely louder than a breath, “My God, Watson. I need you, I miss you. How could I have let this happen?”
It was killing Watson.
It was about a month later that Blackwood came angrier than ever at Holmes’s infertility. He had brought with him a cat o’ nine tails. Holmes let out a small, desperate keen.
His head hung on his shoulders as Blackwood called him his heartless whore, his useless bitch.
Holmes bore it as silently and stoically as ever.
After that single desperate sound Sherlock made though, Watson couldn’t exactly say the same thing.
In fact, Watson let himself do something very stupid.
“STOP!! Why not me?? Let me do it! Please, I’ll do anything. I could have your son. The treatment might work faster on me. PLEASE! STOP!” He screamed it at the top of his lungs.
S
herlock’s head snapped up, trying to swivel around to look behind him, realizing he had never seen the back wall of the room before.
“…Watson?” His voice was deathly quiet and timid, almost afraid to let
himself hope that Watson was alive.
Watson’s stomach churned as he realized what he’d done.
Blackwood kicked Holmes’s stomach with his boot, leaving him crumpled on the floor and addressed Watson. “I believed I warned you what would happen if you let our friend know of your presence. He would suffer.”
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RIGHT NOW.
I AM PAST THE POINT OF CARING FOR THE WELL BEING OF MY OVARIES.
THEY CAN COMBUST ALL THEY LIKE FROM THE GREATNESS OF THIS FIC.
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*camping out*
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Watson shook his head violently. "No, please, I'm sorry, I'll do anything! Tell me what I can do!" Watson was screaming.
Blackwood just glared at him and knelt on Holmes's chest so that he couldn't breathe, evaluating the raw, bloody mess that was his face.
He rolled Holmes over and got out a long, slender pocket knife. Sherlock tensed and paled. Blackwood was not one to hesitate; he plunged the knife in Sherlock's entrance. Holmes so far had done an excellent job of not responding, but Blackwood was looking to make a point.
He twisted and shoved the knife in deeper, grabbing Holmes's member, hard.
And now it was his turn to scream. He could only imagine what his friend thought of him.
Blackwood kept prolonging, making the knife hit his prostrate repeatedly.
Holmes had never felt so much pain. Watson, the cuts on his back, his face, even Blackwood became absolutely nonexistent in his mind. All he could feel was the white hot pain. Holmes's voice was already giving out from a month of disuse.
Blackwood was quickly satisfied, wanting Holmes to recover in a timely manner, so they could go on with their...routine. He pulled out the knife and smirked at Watson. Holmes was deathly still, curled in on himself.
"He's all yours, doctor. I had hoped so much that you could give him an effective treatment earlier than this. I'll be back when he's recovered, I assure you."
After Blackwood sauntered out, Watson rushed to his friends's side, who was covered in blood. Watson knew that they were probably mostly superficial, but it was heartbreaking. He also did not know how the knife wounds would heal.
Holmes's shoulder covered most of his face. But Watson could see the beautifully bright brown eyes.
Holmes was weeping.
Watson never thought he'd see his friend cry. But as he moved to face him, Watson realized that a small smile was on Sherlock's dry lips.
"Holmes," he whispered softly. He gently put his hand on Holmes's shoulder, trying to look at him without overwhelming him. To his surprise, Holmes didn't shudder or snarl. He merely winced as he tried his best to sit up with Watson's help.
It took Watson a few moments to comprehend what Holmes was doing as he reached his arms towards Watson, but his eyes burned as he realized that he pulling his friend to an awkward embrace, burying his face into Watson's shoulder.
Watson couldn't resist entangling a hand in the detective's hair.
"I thought you were dead," he muttered hoarsely. "And it would have been my fault. I'm so sorry, Watson."
"You, apologizing to me?" Watson swallowed the lump in his throat; Sherlock needed to see strength, not weakness. "I never thought I'd see the day. But you did the right thing."
He could feel his friend already weakening. He tried as best he could to pick him up without touching his back. "Let's get you cleaned up."
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