Holmes fic: Greater Purpose 2/?
Title: Greater Purpose 2/?
Rating: R overall, R for this part
Characters: Holmes, Blackwood, Watson, OFC
Wordcount: 1,592 this part; ~20,000 overall
Summary: Blackwood discovers a way to use Holmes' uniqueness to his own advantage.
Warning: rape/non-con
A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Set in a Blackwood wins senario, Blackwood forces Holmes to carry his child.
I should note that, while I do research, anything in my fics should be taken with a grain of salt as I often tweak things for plot purposes.
This also fills my hc_bingo square for "forced to participate in illegal/hurtful activity".
Part 1
Holmes was bundled into a bare, windowless room with a tub in the center. Three of his guards left, one staying to stand in front of the door, which was locked from the outside. In the flickering of the torches on the walls, he could see the tub was steaming, then a tall, robed woman stepped out of the shadows. "Welcome, honored guest," she said.
The robe over her widow's dress identified her as a member of Blackwood's Order, and he warily kept his distance as she approached him. "I am not a guest when I am held against my will."
She smiled, an expression that might have been pleasant in any other circumstance. "True enough. But a time will come when you are given the opportunity to leave and you will choose to stay."
"I very much doubt that."
She tilted her head, still smiling. "We shall see. For now, surely you would like a bath? I can see it has been some time since you have had the opportunity." Her hair shone silver in the torchlight and was neatly tucked into a knot.
His measuring gaze moved from her to the water. Thinking of the drowning death of Blackwood's father, Sir Thomas, he took a slight step backward.
The aged woman--possibly a nurse, but definitely associated with a medical-type profession in some capacity--laughed heartily. "Do not worry, Mr. Holmes, it is quite safe." She rolled up the sleeve of her dress and immersed her forearm, looking at him. "Henry does not wish to bring your life to an end, I assure you. I have known him since I assisted in his birth, and he confides in me. Now come, the water grows cold."
He weighed his options, then slowly unbuttoned and removed his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt, his back to the guard at the door and his eyes upon the woman--the nurse. He pulled off his shoes and socks, then hesitated, his hands on his belt as he threw an uncertain glance over his shoulder.
She tittered. "Shy, are we? Very well, just a moment." She removed her robe and stood between him and the guard, holding up the robe and averting her eyes. She didn't move until Holmes had settled himself in the water.
Even as he was enjoying the feel of warm water on his grimy skin, she was pouring a pitcher of water over his head and soaping up his hair with soothing, massaging fingers. Though his mind rebelled against being touched by one so close to Blackwood and being treated like a child, the pleasure of her expert touch overrode any objections and he submitted willingly. It wasn't the first time his enjoyment of physical pleasure had led him to make unwise choices--Irene was proof enough of that--but he reasoned that this woman was bound by her loyalty to Blackwood, so there was no harm in having his scalp massaged. Or his neck. Or his shoulders.
Then her hand cupped his chin and tilted his head back; the other hand painted soap lather over the lower portion of his face. He shied away when she produced a razor, and she chuckled indulgently. "Just relax, dear. I'll have you sorted before you know it."
She was very good, he had to admit it, wielding the razor like a practised barber. She finished quickly and then was rinsing the soap from his hair and scrubbing his back instead. As she worked, she murmured under her breath, and he stiffened, suspicious. "It's just part of the ritual," she assured him, urging him to lean forward a bit more.
"Ritual?"
"To prepare you for what is to come."
"And that is?"
"Pleasure," she said simply. "You shall see."
She let him finish washing himself, then led him from the tub and insisted upon drying him as he stood awkwardly trying to cover himself. "One would think you had never been to the Turkish baths," she teased, then stood before him and eyed him appraisingly. She ran a finger down his cheek and nodded to herself. "Yes, you'll do nicely. It's a shame we couldn't wait until your eye finished healing, but you're fairly attractive even so."
Holmes fidgeted, but remained rooted in place. Something about this woman warned him not to try anything or he would be sorry. She handed him her robe, saying, "Wear this for now; you will be given different clothes soon."
The guard exchanged a series of knocks with someone outside, then the door opened, and she led Holmes--tailed by the guard--to another, similar room, this time with a cushioned bench instead of a tub. Just as before they were locked in, and a different, younger woman stepped forward to urge him to lie down. A series of lotions and oils were applied and massaged into every inch of his skin. This woman did not speak, directing him to move with light touches rather than words.
It was easy to relax under the delicate hands skillfully kneading every bit of tension from his frame, and he very nearly dozed. Then she had him turn over; it was not so easy to relax when she was working her way down his front, and instead he felt himself begin to react to the caresses. He flushed, and the nurse appeared by his head. "It is a natural reaction, do not fight it," she said, her soft hand stroking his forehead.
His self-consciousness made this difficult, but he could see the logic. He shifted his thoughts to speculation on the nature of the ritual he would be forced to undergo; there was minimal available data, so he had to abandon this endeavor.
Holmes was brought back to his surroundings when the nurse spoke his name and directed him to rise. The other woman had somehow left without him noticing. He felt more than a little wobbly as he stood beside the bench and wondered what had been in those lotions. She handed him a pair of silk trousers, then waited while he shakily put them on and tied the drawstring. Then came a velvet robe much like the one she again wore; when she began to lead him from the room, he was very nearly overcome by the sensations of the fine fabrics against his sensitised skin.
The next room was also small but luxuriously furnished with a velvet chaise lounge, several overstuffed armchairs, a thick rug, and a pair of small, dark wood tables, one heavy-laden with plates of small cakes and other bite-sized foods, the other bearing a pitcher and glasses. The pitcher's sides were beaded with condensation, for the room was warm despite the absence of a fireplace or stove.
"It will be a little while before you are called for. Eat if you are hungry, drink if you are thirsty, or just rest."
Holmes chose rest, as he still felt quite shaky, and he sank onto the chaise. Leaning back, he blinked up at the ceiling and idly wondered why his brain refused to process anything but the fabrics against his skin, the warmth of the room, the slow throb of his half-erect cock. He palmed it through his trousers, the silk sliding deliciously over him.
His hand was halted by a soft touch. "Allow me." She drew the trousers down and cradled him, squeezing and pulling, then fondling his sac. When he was nearly fully erect, her hand shifted so the heel of her hand stimulated his sac while her fingers explored the opening behind it. They slipped in easily, the passage slick with arousal, and Holmes clutched the chaise as she simultaneously fingered and stroked him.
Then she was pulling his trousers back up and he whimpered in protest. "The rest will come soon," she promised, patting his stomach and rising. She poured a wine-red liquid from the pitcher into a glass and offered it to him. He did not take it, and merely stared at her uncomprehendingly. She sipped from the glass and then held it out toward him again. "It is a cordial. You will feel better for it."
He accepted it dazedly and drank without really being aware of doing so. It felt like something washed over him, leaving his senses as keen as under cocaine, focused on touch and feel and taste, and it was nearly too much. Then his glass was full again and he drank eagerly.
He was pulled to his feet and he nearly fainted from the influx of so many sensations at once.
His perceptions after that were blurred, every touch burning like fire on his skin, words and faces passing him by as if in a deep fog. He remembered a large room, people, a bed, and being stripped of his clothing and led to the bed.
Blackwood. He stood beside the bed and spoke, and everyone listened. The words did not mean anything to Holmes at the time, and he did not remember them afterward.
Then he was being touched and stroked and breached and filled, and all he wanted was more.
He was brought to climax and felt a warm rush inside him, and he was satisfied.
More hands upon him, caressing him, drawing symbols across his chest and belly. When those touches were finished, he was gently stroked back to arousal and was again breached and filled.
This time after the warm rush came a different solid weight, filling him even as he felt the other person draw away. His awareness faded away as well.
Continued here
Rating: R overall, R for this part
Characters: Holmes, Blackwood, Watson, OFC
Wordcount: 1,592 this part; ~20,000 overall
Summary: Blackwood discovers a way to use Holmes' uniqueness to his own advantage.
Warning: rape/non-con
A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Set in a Blackwood wins senario, Blackwood forces Holmes to carry his child.
I should note that, while I do research, anything in my fics should be taken with a grain of salt as I often tweak things for plot purposes.
This also fills my hc_bingo square for "forced to participate in illegal/hurtful activity".
Part 1
Holmes was bundled into a bare, windowless room with a tub in the center. Three of his guards left, one staying to stand in front of the door, which was locked from the outside. In the flickering of the torches on the walls, he could see the tub was steaming, then a tall, robed woman stepped out of the shadows. "Welcome, honored guest," she said.
The robe over her widow's dress identified her as a member of Blackwood's Order, and he warily kept his distance as she approached him. "I am not a guest when I am held against my will."
She smiled, an expression that might have been pleasant in any other circumstance. "True enough. But a time will come when you are given the opportunity to leave and you will choose to stay."
"I very much doubt that."
She tilted her head, still smiling. "We shall see. For now, surely you would like a bath? I can see it has been some time since you have had the opportunity." Her hair shone silver in the torchlight and was neatly tucked into a knot.
His measuring gaze moved from her to the water. Thinking of the drowning death of Blackwood's father, Sir Thomas, he took a slight step backward.
The aged woman--possibly a nurse, but definitely associated with a medical-type profession in some capacity--laughed heartily. "Do not worry, Mr. Holmes, it is quite safe." She rolled up the sleeve of her dress and immersed her forearm, looking at him. "Henry does not wish to bring your life to an end, I assure you. I have known him since I assisted in his birth, and he confides in me. Now come, the water grows cold."
He weighed his options, then slowly unbuttoned and removed his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt, his back to the guard at the door and his eyes upon the woman--the nurse. He pulled off his shoes and socks, then hesitated, his hands on his belt as he threw an uncertain glance over his shoulder.
She tittered. "Shy, are we? Very well, just a moment." She removed her robe and stood between him and the guard, holding up the robe and averting her eyes. She didn't move until Holmes had settled himself in the water.
Even as he was enjoying the feel of warm water on his grimy skin, she was pouring a pitcher of water over his head and soaping up his hair with soothing, massaging fingers. Though his mind rebelled against being touched by one so close to Blackwood and being treated like a child, the pleasure of her expert touch overrode any objections and he submitted willingly. It wasn't the first time his enjoyment of physical pleasure had led him to make unwise choices--Irene was proof enough of that--but he reasoned that this woman was bound by her loyalty to Blackwood, so there was no harm in having his scalp massaged. Or his neck. Or his shoulders.
Then her hand cupped his chin and tilted his head back; the other hand painted soap lather over the lower portion of his face. He shied away when she produced a razor, and she chuckled indulgently. "Just relax, dear. I'll have you sorted before you know it."
She was very good, he had to admit it, wielding the razor like a practised barber. She finished quickly and then was rinsing the soap from his hair and scrubbing his back instead. As she worked, she murmured under her breath, and he stiffened, suspicious. "It's just part of the ritual," she assured him, urging him to lean forward a bit more.
"Ritual?"
"To prepare you for what is to come."
"And that is?"
"Pleasure," she said simply. "You shall see."
She let him finish washing himself, then led him from the tub and insisted upon drying him as he stood awkwardly trying to cover himself. "One would think you had never been to the Turkish baths," she teased, then stood before him and eyed him appraisingly. She ran a finger down his cheek and nodded to herself. "Yes, you'll do nicely. It's a shame we couldn't wait until your eye finished healing, but you're fairly attractive even so."
Holmes fidgeted, but remained rooted in place. Something about this woman warned him not to try anything or he would be sorry. She handed him her robe, saying, "Wear this for now; you will be given different clothes soon."
The guard exchanged a series of knocks with someone outside, then the door opened, and she led Holmes--tailed by the guard--to another, similar room, this time with a cushioned bench instead of a tub. Just as before they were locked in, and a different, younger woman stepped forward to urge him to lie down. A series of lotions and oils were applied and massaged into every inch of his skin. This woman did not speak, directing him to move with light touches rather than words.
It was easy to relax under the delicate hands skillfully kneading every bit of tension from his frame, and he very nearly dozed. Then she had him turn over; it was not so easy to relax when she was working her way down his front, and instead he felt himself begin to react to the caresses. He flushed, and the nurse appeared by his head. "It is a natural reaction, do not fight it," she said, her soft hand stroking his forehead.
His self-consciousness made this difficult, but he could see the logic. He shifted his thoughts to speculation on the nature of the ritual he would be forced to undergo; there was minimal available data, so he had to abandon this endeavor.
Holmes was brought back to his surroundings when the nurse spoke his name and directed him to rise. The other woman had somehow left without him noticing. He felt more than a little wobbly as he stood beside the bench and wondered what had been in those lotions. She handed him a pair of silk trousers, then waited while he shakily put them on and tied the drawstring. Then came a velvet robe much like the one she again wore; when she began to lead him from the room, he was very nearly overcome by the sensations of the fine fabrics against his sensitised skin.
The next room was also small but luxuriously furnished with a velvet chaise lounge, several overstuffed armchairs, a thick rug, and a pair of small, dark wood tables, one heavy-laden with plates of small cakes and other bite-sized foods, the other bearing a pitcher and glasses. The pitcher's sides were beaded with condensation, for the room was warm despite the absence of a fireplace or stove.
"It will be a little while before you are called for. Eat if you are hungry, drink if you are thirsty, or just rest."
Holmes chose rest, as he still felt quite shaky, and he sank onto the chaise. Leaning back, he blinked up at the ceiling and idly wondered why his brain refused to process anything but the fabrics against his skin, the warmth of the room, the slow throb of his half-erect cock. He palmed it through his trousers, the silk sliding deliciously over him.
His hand was halted by a soft touch. "Allow me." She drew the trousers down and cradled him, squeezing and pulling, then fondling his sac. When he was nearly fully erect, her hand shifted so the heel of her hand stimulated his sac while her fingers explored the opening behind it. They slipped in easily, the passage slick with arousal, and Holmes clutched the chaise as she simultaneously fingered and stroked him.
Then she was pulling his trousers back up and he whimpered in protest. "The rest will come soon," she promised, patting his stomach and rising. She poured a wine-red liquid from the pitcher into a glass and offered it to him. He did not take it, and merely stared at her uncomprehendingly. She sipped from the glass and then held it out toward him again. "It is a cordial. You will feel better for it."
He accepted it dazedly and drank without really being aware of doing so. It felt like something washed over him, leaving his senses as keen as under cocaine, focused on touch and feel and taste, and it was nearly too much. Then his glass was full again and he drank eagerly.
He was pulled to his feet and he nearly fainted from the influx of so many sensations at once.
His perceptions after that were blurred, every touch burning like fire on his skin, words and faces passing him by as if in a deep fog. He remembered a large room, people, a bed, and being stripped of his clothing and led to the bed.
Blackwood. He stood beside the bed and spoke, and everyone listened. The words did not mean anything to Holmes at the time, and he did not remember them afterward.
Then he was being touched and stroked and breached and filled, and all he wanted was more.
He was brought to climax and felt a warm rush inside him, and he was satisfied.
More hands upon him, caressing him, drawing symbols across his chest and belly. When those touches were finished, he was gently stroked back to arousal and was again breached and filled.
This time after the warm rush came a different solid weight, filling him even as he felt the other person draw away. His awareness faded away as well.
Continued here