| FIC: "Instrument of Choice" (H/W, NC-17) |
[Nov. 10th, 2004|06:33 pm] |
| [ | weather |
| |  groggy | ] |
| [ | whistle |
| | Chim-Chim-Cheree - Dick Van Dyke | ] |
Title: Instrument of Choice
Author: Penumbra (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) pen_and_umbra)
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: H/W
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I'm not ACD. Top hats make me think of naughty things.
Feedback: Commentary, feedback, and constructive criticism are heartily welcomed.
Notes: To un-block my writer's block from hell, I plonked down this PWP. Hopefully not too many anachronisms linger. First posted into the holmesslash Yahoo! group.
Instrument of Choice
by Penumbra (c) 2004
It is a November evening of rain and misery and so Holmes plays mournful Bach that is andante even through the allegro. I have given up on my reading hours ago, content to listen to his venting of odd moods. The sound of rain and the crackle of the fire are drowned under the strokes of his bow, slow and hypnotising.
Watching him like this, as I often do, I am mesmerised by the line of his leonine neck and by his hands that apply that deft, skilled touch to everything he does. Everything...and everyone. The thought and its sensuous implications prompt me to shift in my chair and adjust myself as discreetly as I can.
Holmes' frock coat lay abandoned on the settee and his boots are drying by the fire, so he stands in shirt-sleeves and bare-foot. Because he plays to the audience of our windows, I watch his back. He always holds himself erect with the bearing of marble gods, yet now he is swaying to the baroque cadence he conjures from his instrument. The brilliantine gleam of his hair brings to my mind wings of ravens and deadly potions of death; the collar around his throat is strangled by his cravat and underneath, there are crescent marks from my teeth.
"You should have told me."
His voice is like wet silk on my senses, clinging and constricting and luxurious. Now, even discreet adjustments cannot make me comfortable. "Told you what, Holmes?" I ask.
"That you can be so affected by music. I daresay I shall be taking you to more concerts in the future, Watson."
It dawns on me that I have not been discreet enough. "You do enjoy your petty tortures, do you not?"
He turns, his back to the window and his gleaming eyes on me. The smile gracing his lips is contemplative, smooth as his voice. "Naturally."
His hands and the largo they conjure from the violin take on suggestive flourishes as he approaches, finishing with a sharp jab of a note when he comes to stand before me. About him, the pleasant odour of tobacco mingles with his own ineffable scent and I find all probity and pure thoughts on music fleeing my mind.
"How do you plan on torturing me on this occasion, then?" I ask to distract myself from his nearness. I fail, spectacularly so. "Apart from forays into approximations of Bach, that is."
As if it were a divining rod for buttons, he drags the bow along the front seam of my trousers. I wonder at the modern miracle of electricity and his mastery of it, for the ghosting touch on my groin sires sparks in my eyes and along my prick.
"I assumed my music was to your tastes, Watson," he asks, as coquettish and wanton as ever. His eyes rake over me with the promise of languid cruelty. "Indeed, you have expressed no aversion to it."
"I enjoy whenever you play, and not just the violin."
"Follow me, and I shall play any instrument of your choosing," he replies, jabbing the violin back to the crook of his neck. I desire to kiss him there, at the taut edge of his tendon and the line of his collarbone, still hidden under black and white and now the violin. Music resembling Bach springs forth from his fingers as he meanders towards the bedroom. I grasp his waistcoat to follow, unbuttoning it as we dance the distance from my chair to his bed.
"Dishabille becomes you," I remark as he finally sets down the violin and disentangles my trembling fingers from his garments.
"I would rather prefer disrobing to be my art."
"It already is, deserving of its own muse," I reply, my voice suddenly thick as I watch his fingers make swift work of all his buttons. Indeed, his un-dressing is a display I shall never find myself patronising too often.
Once he is naked, my awareness of the fine wool of my trousers becomes painful at the sight of his bare chest; as my eyes follow the black trail of hair from his navel to glory, I entertain momentary doubt regarding the durability of my Saville Row seams. He makes inchoate words when I trace the shapes of his aureoles -- first with my fingers, then with my tongue, and finally with my nails. His nipples are the colour of our morning Darjeeling brew and as flavourful; his mouth, even more intoxicating when we finally kiss.
Once on the bed, I face him and touch his foot. He is the master of the tearing whisper, of the subtle innuendo and the sharp smile he very well knows to bring my blood to boil, and so he speaks of music and what it must do to me with fine, sesquipedalian erudition. These are intellectual pursuits of his, affectations designed to render me unto absolute slavery in his presence, yet it is the animus I know to be in him I desire to unleash. My arousal and intentions must show on my face, for he leans back with that private smile.
"When you affect that expression, Watson, I worry," he says. The low cadence of his voice brings my skin to gooseflesh.
"Indeed, you should."
When I take his foot in my hand, he still speaks in sentences; when my fingers press into his instep, he falters at the third syllable of 'sybarite.' Yet in this battle of our wills, he persists with words and sentences that grow increasingly disjointed as I apply the stubble on my chin and the brush of my moustache to his foot. At last, my tongue across the arch of his foot ends his loquaciousness, and when I draw two of his toes into my mouth and suck with abandon, he surrenders himself to the sensation: animal sounds come from his throat.
I watch him along his long, elegant shin as he writhes on the bed, his head pressed into the pillow as I tongue his toes; his violin rests on the other pillow, now forgotten. The sensitivity of his feet is, I should say, a strange fetish of his, yet not wholly unexpected -- he is, above all, an odd sensualist. His prick, I note with absolute delight, is in agreement with the rest of his tormented, lithe body.
I kiss every locus of nerves between his toes and along the bony protrusion of his ankle, down the coarse hair of his calf and thigh. At the back of his knee, I can feel the hammering beat of his heart, and I spend several generous moments sucking and biting the skin over the pulse point. My hands trace the curves of his muscles as they shift under my touch, to the sharp point of his pelvis and back up the other leg, all the while carefully avoiding the beckoning, tantalising heat of his prick -- even with the temptation it presents, trembling at his every breath, clear and viscous moisture gathering at its rosy tip.
"My succubus," I whisper, his foot still in my hand. I am transfixed, aroused and distended beyond words.
He smiles, and his other foot comes to rest on my trouser buttons. Clever feet, he has, for they trace my aching length as if they were his fingers and lips aggregated. The leftover syllables he breathes come in the pace set by my nails on his instep and ankle.
"Should you persist," I groan, squirming under his foot, "I shan't be of much use later."
"Later is such a subjective concept, is it not?"
He puts emphasis on his question by prodding my glans with delicacy that prompts me to religious utterances. The deities possessing me fall silent in appreciation and awe as he unbuttons me with that same foot and I can finally feel the slide of his sole along my aching desire.
Suddenly impatient, I let go of his foot. Through a confusion of braces and cravats, of buttons and bed-sheets and vaseline, we find ourselves prone on the bed, his strong fingers in my hair as I mouth his prick and press two gleaming fingers into his opening. The sound he makes, deep in his chest as I swallow around his hardness, almost causes me to lose control of my own building passion.
"Come to me now," he whispers, and I can see the sparks his grinding teeth emit as my fingers brush over his prostate. "Now, please, before I-- Please, my Watson."
As I slide into him, his tightness grasps my prick and my feeble, enslaved soul. I find myself forgetting language, the concept of prudence, and all decency at the feel of him and at the sight that he presents as he lies underneath me. His eyes are slivers of obsidian stone above a mouth that is red and swollen and slack; his divine, subtle mind, I am certain, makes that face knowingly, for seeing him in this state is as close to religion as I have ever come.
It is difficult for me to maintain a slow pace, for the searing heat that surrounds me and the indecencies he whispers to me -- things of needs, methods of want, gods he does not believe in -- tempt me to attend to the desire coursing through my skin and pooling in my abdomen. It is a slow joining, this time, for it is the way he prefers it; I would prefer to lose myself in him, for I dream of driving him through the mattress and in the dream, he screams and fights and demands for more.
The skin of his throat tastes of cocaine and almonds when I, once more, mark it with my teeth. I resist the temptation to reduce our love to rutting; instead, I choose to enjoy the slow pooling of my blood in my groin. I look down upon him and it is a moment I wish one could preserve for all eternity, stoppered in a bottle of magic: the slow burn of his eyes, the iron column of his prick trapped between us, and the teasing forays of his fingers across my nipples that stoke my absolute want of him even truer.
From the distant parts of my consciousness that are not occupied at watching him and hearing his moans, there springs forth a determination to wait until his completion, lest I fail to watch him through it.
"Touch yourself," I gasp, my voice that of a desperate beast. "For me."
His hands, grasping the white sheet as if he were to take flight without that anchor, do not let go. "No," he breathes, a clear syllable amidst the music of his moans.
"It is quite, ah, imperative," I whisper through clenched teeth.
"No," he says, impertinent by habit rather than desire.
Yet, even at that denial, I dare not rush it, for Sherlock Holmes is not one for wild abandon -- not in intimacy, when in all other facets of his life chaos is the supreme method of his madness. So I obey his wish but unlike him, I am but human and it is torture for me when he makes these sounds and moves as he does, his velvet grip igniting every carnal inch of me that I have inside him.
"Please," I groan, defeated. "Oh, please, my dear Holmes."
His expression at my plea is a masterpiece in sensuality, a godless transport of need and dominance. It is also my undoing, for when he touches himself and in two strokes finds his completion, I follow his lead across the precipice, screaming out what I later conclude to be a confusion of his name and an incantation of love.
Glowing in the waning white light of my pleasure, blind but all other senses overwhelmed with Holmes, I am dimly aware as he manoeuvres us over. He is the stronger of us, the eternal and flawless, and so I savour the moment his weight comes upon me. His solid body presses me into the bed and I grasp him to me with all limbs, my flagging prick abandoning his warmth with regret.
Raised on his elbows, he sparks life to a match and a cigarette. I watch his deep, black eyes follow the trail of smoke through the air as he wonders at the patterns and picks up his violin. A violent exhalation of smoke catches my wandering attention and I frown as he presents me with the ruin of his bow.
"I shall have it repaired," I exclaim, contrite and genuinely upset even in my satiation.
"A Stradivarius! It shan't be inexpensive, Watson."
"A mountain of gold, a king's ransom -- I do not care."
He laughs, and the sound is sweet and devastating. My desire for him, renewed, courses through me as I watch his limber body settle onto the mattress next to me.
He plays the violin, bowless, with the same fingers that so cleverly danced across my skin moments before. I know he does it to incite me, as he does with all his little teases that invariably lead to spectacular sodomy and depletion of all sense and bodily fluid.
"You are in a rare mood," I remark, breathless at his power over me.
"Naturally, my dear Watson. You are, after all, my instrument of choice."
Smiling, I reach for him.
~Fin~
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