![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blue_soaringMy brain is still all over the place. I have about a dozen WIPs, which is bizarre and strange, and my unsettled work schedule is making it close to impossible for me to sink into a POV and write. So I am slightly stressed! \o/ Really minor c'mon Blue it's not a big deal stressed.
Have a remix! My first ever official-ish one, even. My smush is showing. :D
The Effects of Proximity: The Sleight of Hand Remix
Sherlock Holmes. Holmes/Watson. NC-17. ~1500 words. Asexuality. Remix of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lace_fic's The Effects of Proximity.
"His permission to take such liberties has been granted a hundred thousand times over, what Watson believes his body is saying should not contradict it.
*
The Effects of Proximity: The Sleight of Hand Remix
Watson's nerves are sly in their betrayal. They whisper his secrets in the trembling of claret in his glass, the scatter fall of cigarette ashes. His smiles are genuine and tender in the way of torn skin: pulled back, exposed, the rawness beneath laid bare. It's grotesquely beautiful and Holmes cannot look away. Will not, for to do so would be to miss the next sweet tale Watson's teeth tell.
The evening meal is done and the innkeeper's lad has some small measure of talent with the battered violin he clutches, though markedly less with composition. The melody is simple and imperfect, its jagged notes so fitting a mirror to the grate of his and Watson's crooked edges that he wonders if perhaps the hand of God is not in it after all.
He sets his elbows to the table and leans forward to say, "I would dance with you," as if it's another secret that needs telling.
"And have us thrown out on our ears," slips smoothly from the corner of Watson's lips, but his true response is in the quick mouthful of wine that follows. He's an incurable romantic in more than his prose, and he never seems to know what to make of Holmes's habit of deriding one while shamelessly encouraging the other.
"Alas, we must retire," Holmes declares, standing and snuffing his cigarette. "Your playing was quite tolerable."
"Thank you, sir," the lad says, and bobs a hasty bow as Holmes sweeps by prodding Watson to the fore with his pilfered stick.
On the stairs and well out of earshot, his eyes lit with suspicion, Watson says, "That was overgenerous indeed."
"At times I despair of you," Holmes replies.
*
Remarkably this small Derbyshire inn has a single equally small wash closet shared amongst the guests. Holmes makes use of the pitcher and basin provided in the cramped square of space at the foot of their bed to hurry things along as Watson takes himself off down the hall.
Fastidiously efficient Watson is unusually slow about his toilet. The passing minutes serve only to speed Holmes's pulse and the wrapped bricks near his feet do little to banish the chill settling into the place of his wayward bedmate. He moves his legs as if he were swiftly cycling through the park in an effort to eke out a fraction more warmth. The homespun cotton sheets are irregularly rough on his bare skin.
"That creaking can be heard all down the hall," Watson announces, shuffling sideways as he tries to occupy the same bit of floorspace the door must pass in order to close.
"If only it would prompt our hosts to be more generous with their bricks." Content to lose his hard-earned warmth for the promise of sharing in Watson's, Holmes flings back the heavy covers. "Hurry now."
His request goes unheeded as Watson discovers that he hasn't bothered with a nightshirt. There is a predictable flushing of Watson's neck, a visible stirring of his cock that Holmes regards with rapt interest. His own lies softly against his thigh, and that is where Watson's gaze hooks.
"Are you certain?" Watson asks.
"Quite so."
Rechecking the lock, Watson slips the key free and drops it into his breast pocket, then tugs his nightshirt off and folds it carefully over the foot of the bed. He stands all too briefly in the guttering candlelight, the twisted muscles of his thigh and the starburst scars patterning his shoulder vanishing beneath the blankets he tugs up around their necks, so Holmes seeks them out by touch, glorying in their imperfection. Watson's body has been damaged by the world in a way his soul can never be, and while it has been no more kinder to Holmes, he bears his scars where no one's eyes can see. The symmetry is as sweet to him as the sugar left lingering in Watson's gentle kisses.
But Watson's hands do not wander, and he maintains a fraction of cursed distance between them until Holmes rolls to face the wall. Then and only then does he seek to fit their sharp angles together, his broad chest to Holmes's back, his knees in the crook of Holmes's, his cock thick and heavy in the juncture of Holmes's thighs. His breath trembles on the nape of Holmes's neck.
"And still you hesitate," Holmes murmurs, and Watson flinches despite the softness of it. "It is not so difficult a thing."
A hand touches Holmes's thigh, lingers there as courage gathers. Watson's forehead presses to his shoulder as a calloused palm warmly cups his listless cock. There is a momentary stirring, a slight thickening from the physical touch alone. Holmes breathes a weary sigh but his body remains lax, unresisting in Watson's arms. His permission to take such liberties has been granted a hundred thousand times over, what Watson believes his body is saying should not contradict it. This is no unequal exchange, no advantage is being taken, there is no need for reciprocation.
"There is always a want," Watson says, much like an apology, and thankfully moves his hand away to pull them closer together.
No words are left to explain the hard thump of Holmes's heart against his ribs. He craves this intimacy, revels in it, is blissfully content to witness the fascinating cycle of Watson's pleasure through the part he plays in bringing it. But he is as indifferent to his own sexual release as the sun to the flowers its light gives life. He is not made more or less by it. In the moments his muscles contract to force free his seed, what he feels most is resentment that it rules his body so completely he is for a time deprived of experiencing Watson's delight in it. It leaves so sour a taint on his tongue that he is compelled to demand from Watson a second or at times even third expending. Rarely can Watson manage such a feat, and so in fairness their couplings are most frequently limited to bringing him to what he terms that blinding edge.
Holmes parts his thighs and welcomes the push of Watson's cock between them. His enjoyment is found in the effort it takes to keep his body loose and the shortening of Watson's breath as he fucks against him. His pleasures are Watson's hands grasping him tightly, Watson's groans muffled in his hair, Watson's sweat and Watson's come slicking his skin. Watson's love is simultaneously perverse and pure; he defies nature in the push of his cock into Holmes's willing body.
Holmes's breath catches in his throat. "Let me ride you."
"No," Watson says, his fingers iron bands holding Holmes's hips still. "This is what I want," and once again his hand moves to Holmes's cock.
Holmes's stomach bottoms out quite unpleasantly. Tension threatens to spread like a disease, turn him to a rigid, inflexible thing even as he tries so desperately to bend to Watson's desires. The satisfaction found in his body's easy give against Watson's militant edges takes on a bitter tinge.
"I don't mean to force you," Watson grits out, clearly near his end. "Only to be able to touch you."
Watson's crackling plea evens his shallow breaths. Through his dread comes slow realisation, and with it a quiet curse that he even for a moment misunderstood Watson's intentions. To understand is forever what Watson seeks, in the great cases they solve and so too in this, and in that instant Holmes is witness to a blinding edge all his own. He allows Watson's hand to press more firmly to his cock, relishes the simple goalless grace to it, and when he senses the familiar quiver in Watson's belly, twists to catch the spill of a moan on his lips. He fans his fingers wide over Watson's before lacing their hands together and kisses his slack mouth until there is the small reawakening flutter of eyelashes against his cheek.
Air hisses between his teeth as Watson pulls free. The ache centred low in his belly seeps like water through sand to fill his hollow bones. He rolls closer to press a contented smile to the crook of Watson's neck before stretching out onto his back, his body curved to welcome the press of Watson against his side. It's slow in coming but when it does, it is not some meeting of halfway. His warmth draped over Holmes's chest is a blatant challenge to their Creator to strike him dead for giving so freely and so fully, and Holmes contents himself with the knowledge that should such an impossible thing occur, they will go to meet Him together.
*
End
Have a remix! My first ever official-ish one, even. My smush is showing. :D
The Effects of Proximity: The Sleight of Hand Remix
Sherlock Holmes. Holmes/Watson. NC-17. ~1500 words. Asexuality. Remix of
lace_fic's The Effects of Proximity."His permission to take such liberties has been granted a hundred thousand times over, what Watson believes his body is saying should not contradict it.
The Effects of Proximity: The Sleight of Hand Remix
Watson's nerves are sly in their betrayal. They whisper his secrets in the trembling of claret in his glass, the scatter fall of cigarette ashes. His smiles are genuine and tender in the way of torn skin: pulled back, exposed, the rawness beneath laid bare. It's grotesquely beautiful and Holmes cannot look away. Will not, for to do so would be to miss the next sweet tale Watson's teeth tell.
The evening meal is done and the innkeeper's lad has some small measure of talent with the battered violin he clutches, though markedly less with composition. The melody is simple and imperfect, its jagged notes so fitting a mirror to the grate of his and Watson's crooked edges that he wonders if perhaps the hand of God is not in it after all.
He sets his elbows to the table and leans forward to say, "I would dance with you," as if it's another secret that needs telling.
"And have us thrown out on our ears," slips smoothly from the corner of Watson's lips, but his true response is in the quick mouthful of wine that follows. He's an incurable romantic in more than his prose, and he never seems to know what to make of Holmes's habit of deriding one while shamelessly encouraging the other.
"Alas, we must retire," Holmes declares, standing and snuffing his cigarette. "Your playing was quite tolerable."
"Thank you, sir," the lad says, and bobs a hasty bow as Holmes sweeps by prodding Watson to the fore with his pilfered stick.
On the stairs and well out of earshot, his eyes lit with suspicion, Watson says, "That was overgenerous indeed."
"At times I despair of you," Holmes replies.
Remarkably this small Derbyshire inn has a single equally small wash closet shared amongst the guests. Holmes makes use of the pitcher and basin provided in the cramped square of space at the foot of their bed to hurry things along as Watson takes himself off down the hall.
Fastidiously efficient Watson is unusually slow about his toilet. The passing minutes serve only to speed Holmes's pulse and the wrapped bricks near his feet do little to banish the chill settling into the place of his wayward bedmate. He moves his legs as if he were swiftly cycling through the park in an effort to eke out a fraction more warmth. The homespun cotton sheets are irregularly rough on his bare skin.
"That creaking can be heard all down the hall," Watson announces, shuffling sideways as he tries to occupy the same bit of floorspace the door must pass in order to close.
"If only it would prompt our hosts to be more generous with their bricks." Content to lose his hard-earned warmth for the promise of sharing in Watson's, Holmes flings back the heavy covers. "Hurry now."
His request goes unheeded as Watson discovers that he hasn't bothered with a nightshirt. There is a predictable flushing of Watson's neck, a visible stirring of his cock that Holmes regards with rapt interest. His own lies softly against his thigh, and that is where Watson's gaze hooks.
"Are you certain?" Watson asks.
"Quite so."
Rechecking the lock, Watson slips the key free and drops it into his breast pocket, then tugs his nightshirt off and folds it carefully over the foot of the bed. He stands all too briefly in the guttering candlelight, the twisted muscles of his thigh and the starburst scars patterning his shoulder vanishing beneath the blankets he tugs up around their necks, so Holmes seeks them out by touch, glorying in their imperfection. Watson's body has been damaged by the world in a way his soul can never be, and while it has been no more kinder to Holmes, he bears his scars where no one's eyes can see. The symmetry is as sweet to him as the sugar left lingering in Watson's gentle kisses.
But Watson's hands do not wander, and he maintains a fraction of cursed distance between them until Holmes rolls to face the wall. Then and only then does he seek to fit their sharp angles together, his broad chest to Holmes's back, his knees in the crook of Holmes's, his cock thick and heavy in the juncture of Holmes's thighs. His breath trembles on the nape of Holmes's neck.
"And still you hesitate," Holmes murmurs, and Watson flinches despite the softness of it. "It is not so difficult a thing."
A hand touches Holmes's thigh, lingers there as courage gathers. Watson's forehead presses to his shoulder as a calloused palm warmly cups his listless cock. There is a momentary stirring, a slight thickening from the physical touch alone. Holmes breathes a weary sigh but his body remains lax, unresisting in Watson's arms. His permission to take such liberties has been granted a hundred thousand times over, what Watson believes his body is saying should not contradict it. This is no unequal exchange, no advantage is being taken, there is no need for reciprocation.
"There is always a want," Watson says, much like an apology, and thankfully moves his hand away to pull them closer together.
No words are left to explain the hard thump of Holmes's heart against his ribs. He craves this intimacy, revels in it, is blissfully content to witness the fascinating cycle of Watson's pleasure through the part he plays in bringing it. But he is as indifferent to his own sexual release as the sun to the flowers its light gives life. He is not made more or less by it. In the moments his muscles contract to force free his seed, what he feels most is resentment that it rules his body so completely he is for a time deprived of experiencing Watson's delight in it. It leaves so sour a taint on his tongue that he is compelled to demand from Watson a second or at times even third expending. Rarely can Watson manage such a feat, and so in fairness their couplings are most frequently limited to bringing him to what he terms that blinding edge.
Holmes parts his thighs and welcomes the push of Watson's cock between them. His enjoyment is found in the effort it takes to keep his body loose and the shortening of Watson's breath as he fucks against him. His pleasures are Watson's hands grasping him tightly, Watson's groans muffled in his hair, Watson's sweat and Watson's come slicking his skin. Watson's love is simultaneously perverse and pure; he defies nature in the push of his cock into Holmes's willing body.
Holmes's breath catches in his throat. "Let me ride you."
"No," Watson says, his fingers iron bands holding Holmes's hips still. "This is what I want," and once again his hand moves to Holmes's cock.
Holmes's stomach bottoms out quite unpleasantly. Tension threatens to spread like a disease, turn him to a rigid, inflexible thing even as he tries so desperately to bend to Watson's desires. The satisfaction found in his body's easy give against Watson's militant edges takes on a bitter tinge.
"I don't mean to force you," Watson grits out, clearly near his end. "Only to be able to touch you."
Watson's crackling plea evens his shallow breaths. Through his dread comes slow realisation, and with it a quiet curse that he even for a moment misunderstood Watson's intentions. To understand is forever what Watson seeks, in the great cases they solve and so too in this, and in that instant Holmes is witness to a blinding edge all his own. He allows Watson's hand to press more firmly to his cock, relishes the simple goalless grace to it, and when he senses the familiar quiver in Watson's belly, twists to catch the spill of a moan on his lips. He fans his fingers wide over Watson's before lacing their hands together and kisses his slack mouth until there is the small reawakening flutter of eyelashes against his cheek.
Air hisses between his teeth as Watson pulls free. The ache centred low in his belly seeps like water through sand to fill his hollow bones. He rolls closer to press a contented smile to the crook of Watson's neck before stretching out onto his back, his body curved to welcome the press of Watson against his side. It's slow in coming but when it does, it is not some meeting of halfway. His warmth draped over Holmes's chest is a blatant challenge to their Creator to strike him dead for giving so freely and so fully, and Holmes contents himself with the knowledge that should such an impossible thing occur, they will go to meet Him together.
End
